“We are only beginning to understand the repercussions of COVID on young minds,” someone comments under that video of you graduating. You look sort of evil in it, in the video. Children, can they be evil? Or only in retrospect? Like when people ask: “Would you go back in time and kill baby Hitler?” Nietzsche, in Thus Spoke Zarathustra, says children have an inherent amorality. And are you writing this down? The amorality is a good thing, he says; it’s life-affirming; the child creates its own values.

This is what the looksmaxxing community has done: it has created a set of values. Though when I tell you this, you disagree. “We didn’t create it,” you say, “it was always like that; we’re just trying to ascend; we didn’t create the world.” You are monotone, so devoid of reaction or inflection. I, on the other hand, am animated and aim to please. Reminding myself that you’d think I’m a jester, I try to tone it down, but then my job here is not to please you; instead, I am, perhaps, here to let you see the value of a jester and his (or her!) privilege.

“No value in a jester,” you say.

“But they’re allowed to get away with so much.”

“Yeah, because they’re clowns, literally,” and then you continue, “there’s a lot you can get away with; that doesn’t mean you’re valuable or you add value to anything. Getting away is not valuable.”

**

How does one learn? What is the knowledge analog of taking a hammer to your jaw?

Nietzsche’s Twilight of the Idols: or How to Philosophize with a Hammer was my first association. Of course, his hammer is just testing the hollowness of the idols.

“Yeah, like a lot of stuff is just empty; it’s devoid of any real meaning. I’m trying to help people become High Value,” you say.

I say, “So basically through these conversations, I want to help you knowledge-maxx, and in return obviously I’m handsomely compensated, no pun intended.”

You blink.

I suddenly feel shy.

When I was young, I wanted to be famous. I wanted to be looked at and admired; this impulse in me, I must admit, has not totally worn off.

I want to walk out and say this was a mistake. I feel old. I think about how life is short but also long, and I haven’t really stopped trying.

“Man errs, till he has ceased to strive.” That’s from Goethe. We talk about Faust and Mephistopheles, and you like the part in the beginning where Mephisto restores Faust’s youth, and you like it when, in the end, Faust is redeemed despite his countless sins.

**

We’re sitting in Los Angeles; it’s the first time we’ve met. This happened sort of unexpectedly; right time, right place, right? And also, a lot of desperate emails sent on my part, mostly because I needed a job.

“I have to meet him,” I said in an email to Ana, an esthetician who gives me Botox. She told me you were looking for a tutor. “A tutor for what?” “Just someone to help him get smarter,” Ana said while she put on her latex gloves and drew dots on my forehead with her white pencil in her Chinatown apartment. She knew you because you guys met at New York Fashion Week, and at an afterparty she injected you with peptides; in fact, you had purchased peptides from her on many occasions after that. You mentioned you were looking for a tutor, and you posted about it on your story too.

“I wanna mindmog now,” you said on a livestream I watched with glee; I knew then that our paths would cross. See, I am also extreme; I am also in search of perfection; I am a woman of ideals.

**

I tell you about Plato’s Theory of Forms.

I stare at your jaw and your bone structure, and I think to myself, I can’t believe the bone-smashing works. Like, I really didn’t think it would work, but looking at you, you have an impressive jawline, though I can also see some contouring and foundation.

“Yeah, I wear makeup; it’s not gay.”

“I didn’t say it was,” I say. But I was thinking about how a preoccupation with looks is an inherently feminine trait. Is that sexist? You talk about taking girls home, implying sex, but I must admit when I look at you there’s nothing erotic about you. It’s almost as if you have, in your looksmaxxing journey, forsaken the lifeforce of Eros in exchange for sterile and digital ascent.

You agree with Plato that the physical world is flawed; you cite “sub-human asymmetries” as the reason.

When will you know that you’ve reached ultimate looksmaxxing? In other words, what is the model of perfection for you? And is this model unchanging?

“It’s a mathematical calculation,” you say. “It’s all about ROI.”

I tell you about Naive Realism; you say you like that concept and would prefer that over whatever the hell Plato was talking about. “Looks are the most important thing,” you say, so then why have a tutor? “I don’t wanna be smarter than I am good-looking; I just want to be able to be intellectual-max. If I can quote Plato, that’s a high-IQ status multiplier,” you say.

But at a later occasion, you said Plato was “coping.”

**

“He’s actually a great performance artist,” my friend Lily says. Lily is an art critic. She’s obsessed with you; she thinks you are a sort of cyborgian post-sex future that makes sense with the rise of A.I. and everything. She thinks you’re a genius, truly. She keeps asking me to introduce you.

You post on X, “looksmaxxing is will to power.” I press the like button.

“The media is going to say you’re right-wing for that post,” I tell you.

“I don’t care, looksmaxxing is apolitical. I’m mogging while they’re seething, bro,” you say.

You remind me of a character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel or a Ryan Murphy television show. I start taking adderall again.

“Would you act?” I ask. “You could be in the remake of American Psycho.”

“You should come on the road with me, and we’ll stream and talk about philosophy,” you say.

I think about it, and eventually I say no. “I’m not a striver,” I say with shame but also with dignity.

You say, “I think you want certain things but for some reason won’t follow through.”

“Things seem to be on the precipice of decay; nothing worth following through,” I say.

“That’s cope,” you say. “You should be willmaxxing. Ana said you cried after she injected you with some Botox, like 22 units, which is what babies get if they got Botox,” you say.

“Right, but I had never gotten Botox before, so I was scared.”

“Don’t be scared,” you say.

There are things you say to me that imply that you think I’m basically too human. Like the one time I make you laugh, I think you resent it. You say, “Your relatability is a weakness.” I internalize that for a while and believe you, but that’s just the way God made me, so there’s nothing I can do about that.

**

The last time we speak is on Zoom. You say you understand it all. You say that everything you learned only reinforces the beliefs you already hold. I envy that. You say you’d read books in your spare time. You even subscribe to my Substack.

I’m always on the fringes of these things.

“Hey, just following up on my invoice,” I send an email; you finally respond and tell me to contact your accountant. And it takes me 6 more months after that, and exactly a year from the day we met, to get paid. When the direct deposit finally hits, I buy myself this used Loro Piana bag from The RealReal.

And then a Smith’s song comes on, and the lyrics remind me of you:

Why pamper life’s complexity

When the leather runs smooth

On the passenger seat?

Subscribe now

Share

Inside the room was a lot of white.

A print hung on the wall. It was Norman Rockwell’s “Girl at the Mirror,” and underneath the hanging picture, a dresser, and on top of the dresser a bunch of stuff: makeup, melatonin, vanilla pumpkin hand lotion, jewelry, contact lens solution, perfume, and dust.

Dirty clothes covered every inch of the floor.

She apologized.

“Well, let’s get to work,” I said.

She reluctantly agreed.

Subscribe now

Share

I was gripped by the essay. She describes eros as requiring a “seductive unattainability”. I thought of this unattainability as a veil, but also a gorge separating where we are and what we want.

Was all desire dependent on unattainability? I wondered.

I want to switch gears for a moment:

During a press interview for the film The Drama, Robert Pattinson was asked if he was Team Edward or Team Jacob, referring to the famous love triangle in Twilight. Pattinson said, laughing, “No one’s Team Jacob; that was just a marketing thing.”

It was a marketing thing, and why was it so effective? Why are we so enticed by a love triangle? I think because it’s the foundation of desire. All romantic love is a triangle.

Desire must reach (toward) but never reach (arrive). There must exist this gap, this place in between the lover and the object of desire. Something must stand in its way. Another lover? Can be, but not necessarily. The third angle could also be social or moral restrictions, class differences, geographic distances, or familial loyalties and obligations— Romeo and Juliet is a love triangle.

No matter what, a space must be maintained or desire ends.

But what is the function of the love triangle?

When I was growing up, love triangles were almost a staple of teen shows. I think the media was teaching us how desire works. We learn how to desire by watching other people after all.1 Love triangles are a good embodiment of tension in storytelling and a foundational structure of erotism. Film/TV were among the first places I was confronted with the love triangle and made to understand the essence of desire. I understood that there was such a thing as wanting and not getting, and that this dichotomy was its own kind of satisfaction. The love triangle is a trope, sure, but it’s also a very simple geometric formula for erotism. By keeping the desire triangulated, the characters get to live in that heightened, transgressive state of continuous yearning. The tension is the source of pleasure.

In keeping with the vampire theme, a memory ingrained in my brain forever is the Season 2 promo for The Vampire Diaries, which featured Florence and the Machine's “Cosmic Love” and truly encapsulated desire and its tensions. I was obsessed with the commercial. The three of them seemed content with their place in the triangle; each served a function.

In Eros the Bittersweet, Anne Carson says that eros forms a geometrical figure.

But who’s Eros? The ancient Greek god of love, desire, and passion is, according to Freud in Beyond the Pleasure Principle, the will to live.2 Anne Carson says Eros is a certain lack. These may sound like opposing views, but they aren’t, since desire moves us along a path reserved for the living, and its destination threatens an end.

The Greek word eros denotes “want”, “lack”, or desire for what is missing.3 Within this passion, we have an inherent lack. The lack is necessary. Surely we know that wanting something depends on not having it, but what is harder to come to terms with is that this tension is the pleasure itself. The tension’s the thing! We want the wanting more than the getting. The wanting is the thing that transforms, it’s the alchemical substance that moves us along existence. “The self forms at the edge of desire and a science of self arises in an effort to leave that self behind,” writes Carson. We want to be transformed by our desires, and we can only truly desire that which we do not possess. This is the WILL TO LIVE!4

I’m at pilates, and my instructor is yelling, “Keep the tension going in that left leg, the tension is what creates that change!” Ok!

In examining one of Sappho’s best-known love poems (fragments 31), Carson comes to the conclusion that Sappho realizes desire as a “three-part structure”5 and that this structure is a “cognitive and intentional necessity”. Yay!

We may, in the traditional terminology of erotic theorizing, refer to this structure as a love triangle, and we may be tempted, with post-Romantic asperity, to dismiss it as a ruse. But the ruse of the triangle is not a trivial mental maneuver. We see in it the radical constitution of desire. For, where eros is lack, its activation calls for three structural components-- lover, beloved, and that which comes between them.

Desire requires distance.

For Bataille, the triangle of erotism is a sort of taboo. “Desire in eroticism is the desire that triumphs over the taboo. It presupposes man in conflict with himself.”6 Here’s another triangle: an individual, their desire, and the taboo. Rules, prohibitions, and boundaries are what actually create erotic desire. The erotic charge vanishes if we’re allowed to get what we want.

Romantic desire is fundamentally a paradox of distance.7

In The Age of Innocence, Newland Archer doesn’t want to be with Countess Olenska; he just wants to be in a state of desire. His world has everything except desire, and Olenska provides that for him. It’s not that they don’t want to be together; it’s that being together will put an end to eros. “I can’t love you unless I give you up,” she says.

What happens if we despise this tension? Are there any pathologies that don’t take erotic pleasure in the triangulation of desire? Certainly! I think it’s the melancholic. The melancholic is tragically aware of this triangle. For the melancholic, the tension has been released and has transformed into loss. Melancholy is the last triangle we’ll look at today.

In 1917's "Mourning and Melancholia," Freud attempted to explain melancholy. His essay provides an important framework for the complex relationship between melancholy and ideas of loss. This is where melancholy differs from mourning, since instead of slowly getting over the loss of the “loved object”, it stubbornly refuses to give it up, leading the melancholic to be in constant engagement with this loss. It’s not a coincidence that Freud uses the term “libido” to describe this attachment.8

Rick from Casablanca is melancholic because he’s rejected desire, too. When Ilsa rejected him, he rejected his desire, for her, yes, but also for the resistance, his desire to fight against the Nazis. A true melancholic.

In Stanzas, Agamben argues. "Melancholy would be not so much the regressive reaction to loss of the love object as the imaginative capacity to make an unobtainable object appear as if lost." What we can gain from this perspective is the melancholic's self-protection in the way it views the inaccessible object. The melancholic has taken its erotic attachment to the object and has transformed it into loss. By rendering it as "lost," the inaccessible object is much more easily dealt with. Agamben's analysis of melancholia's association with the inaccessibility or unobtainability of an object (the word "object" used very loosely in this context) provides us with an understanding of both the presence of desire in melancholia and its recognition of roadblocks in our way. In other words, there exists a perception of paths that have yet to be paved in order to gain access to the inaccessible, but the melancholic can’t be bothered. It’s desire bent backward. A good film that illustrates this is La Chimera, or, for that matter, the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice.

It seems to me that we wish to protect the lack that sustains us. We want to keep the object out of reach. Give me exquisite torture or give me death!

Share

Subscribe now

dark and smart

knee bent and body bowed

want to describe myself like a picture I observed

fixing something

I like being with you all night with closed eyes

kneeling by the roadside

I am the goddess of the smooth doorway. Let me in.

Share

Inspired by On Walking Backwards by Anne Carson.

Share

Subscribe now

I knew it.

I knew it

I knew it.

Michael kept repeating in his mind, like a mantra he was using to transcend his current experience.

The experience was a dread; the experience was the shock of the predictability of life. The experience was the shock that one was right all along. But then the “I-knew-its” (first coming from a place of devastation) started to reshape themselves into becoming empowered “I-knew-its.” He was so smart, he was so right about everything all along. He was so in tune.

Anahida was a woman who resented the neediness of men; she was a woman who resented the weakness of men. She hated her husband because she thought he was a loser, and she resented Michael when they were dating because she was rich and he was a struggling music producer who lived in an apartment in Highland Park with two other losers. He was right all along. It wasn’t his inferiority-paranoia complex. She hated Michael when he needed her affection and validation, and she hated him even more when he couldn’t keep up financially with her rich friends. She’d joined this stupid cult to feel better about being a bitch, and Michael fell for it because he was a loser who craved validation from women.

Anahida had now returned to her seat.

She came back and smiled at him again, the same smile she had on before going to the stage, the smile with the fake nervousness. He thought this was the evilness of all women, except Lisa, who was carrying his child, his perfect child. His obsession with and now hatred of Anahida, and his obsession with the grass on the other side, led him here. He suddenly felt a longing for Lisa, but that was all over now; she would never take him back. Well, maybe she might. He put all the thoughts outside his mind, and he floated above the thoughts.

Why am I like this?

He looked at Anahida,

“I want to meet your husband,” he said, laughing.

“He’s a good guy, poor thing, I’m just too much for him, I think. Am I a bad person? Do you think I’m a bad person? I feel bad.”

“Isn’t the whole point of this that you DON’T feel bad?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, but I mean, I can’t help it,” she noticed Michael’s face, “What’s wrong? You look distraught.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said. He tried to send her very bad vibes with his mind.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

Michael wanted to manage his cruelties. Resentments suddenly felt pointless, absurd even.. He wondered if most of the feelings he had in his life were simply products of misplaced attention. Like the time in high school, when he was passed over for the editor position of the school paper for David McGuire, a more popular but less talented writer. Instead of using his anger for something useful, Michael had spent the rest of the year in a pointless war against David.

If I look somewhere else, I might feel something entirely different.

He decided it was time to leave.

Name’s voice began to echo throughout the theater, “Alright, well, that’s all for today. Unless anyone has anything else?”

Michael noticed the gray lady slip out of the back quickly. She was a mysterious woman, not in a sexy way but in a scary way.

“Reminder that the next meeting will be a fun one, we’ll just meet at the local bar, get to know each other more, especially those of us who are new to our crazy little world,” Name said as people shuffled out of the space.

Walking out of the theater, he thought to himself, What a joke! and texted Danny: Guess where I was just at.

He started smiling to himself, and a certain weightlessness came over him. Outside, the Los Angeles air felt just as ridiculous as what was going on inside the theater, imitation of sincerity.

The familiar detachment began without his consent. It was the floating technique, the one he had invented as a kid to help him cope with scary feelings, but it felt different; this time, it felt as if it was happening to him. He was both the terrifying feeling and the floater above. He was two separate things. He was simultaneously right and wrong about everything.

Danny responded to Michael’s text: lol where?

Michael: Hung out with Anahida, she’s in a cult, I guess.

Danny: That’s huge

Michael: In other news, I want to move back to New York.

Danny: Relax

Michael: What are you doing now? I’m gonna grab some food, wanna come with me?

Danny: I am loitering in Highland Park. I just realized the gallerist who promised me a solo show the other night is going through a psychosis.

Michael: Doesn’t mean you can’t get the show.

Danny: True. Come around here, let’s get tacos.

At a Mexican spot in Highland Park, Michael told Danny all about meeting up with Anahida, the cult, Name, the gray lady, and the nerdy guy. Danny joked that it all sounded very dark-sided.

“What makes something dark-sided, you think?” Michael asked.

“Idk dude…maybe no humility,” Danny responded, casually.

“Oh, and I was right about Anahida and you guys were wrong,” Michael said. “She’s completely entitled and evil. She called her husband a loser in front of everyone.”

“Bummer,” Danny said.

“That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“And I’m tired of you guys thinking I’m always wrong,” Michael blurted out.

“We don’t think you’re wrong, you just think you’re wrong, so we believe you,” Danny said.

“When did I start believing everything I did was wrong?” Michael asked himself, out loud.

“I don’t know when, but I think it’s because you have the tiniest chip on the tiniest shoulder,” Danny said, holding a small tortilla chip.

“I’m 6’3”,” Michael responded.

“I really don’t give a fuck,” was Danny’s reply.

They laughed.

Michael got a text from Anahida: Name told me to tell you to make sure to come to the mixer. He’s really interested in you! He thinks you’re brilliant! I showed him some of your music

Why? he texted back.

“Anahida is so annoying,” Michael said out loud. 

“Hannah and I are going to an opening tonight, wanna come? It’s this artist from Mexico City who is an Eskimo brother of mine,” Danny said.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” Michael said without looking up from his phone, “and no, I can’t. Kick texted me, I’m going to the studio. I’m looking forward to it.”

Kick Kennedy was talented, and Michael had a good feeling about them.

“Are they actually part of the Kennedy family?” Danny asked.

“No,” Michael responded, “I mean, I don’t think so.”

**

In the studio with Kick Kennedy, Michael felt alive. A vigorous, sharp, creative connection flowed between him and Kick. Kick is an artist on the verge of stardom, he thought to himself. They worked until late, and it was one of those nights Michael hadn’t had in a while, where he felt true productivity, like his work mattered and he was going to be successful and maybe buy another house.

“I’m in the studio working, I’m working in the studio,” he kept saying, playfully.

He was inspired by a simple, powerful thought: every action he took was correct, and self-doubt was a thing of the past.

The song they were working on was called “The Kennedy Curse,” and Michael had a feeling it was going to be good.

**

Lisa had a new assistant, who was now sending him invoices.

"$2000 for a baby crib? Is that a lot?” he asked Kick.

“I don’t know,” Kick said.

**

A few nights later, working in the studio again with Kick, Michael got another text from Anahida, who was beginning to be annoying. Everything he thought he liked about Anahida, her assertiveness, her relentlessness, was starting to be impossible to stand.

Please come to the mixer tonight!!!

I’m working, sorry. he wrote back.

You can meet my husband!

“You wanna go to a cult meeting?” he asked Kick.

“For real?” they asked.

“No, it’s just a mixer, for the cult, but it’s a cult my ex is in. I thought she wanted to get back together, but actually, she just wanted me to join the cult, and I feel like maybe she’s having an affair, like cheating on her husband with the leader of the cult, and also, there’s this woman there who I’m kind of wondering if she’s a witch.”

“Wow, that’s so L.A.,” Kick said.

Kick was originally from the East Coast, like Michael.

“Don’t you miss the East Coast?” he asked.

“Sometimes, but I like LA, I like how horizontal everything is,” Kick said.

Kick was rolling a cigarette, and Michael was watching them.

“Why did you become nonbinary?” Michael asked.

Kick laughed, continuing to roll the cigarette, “I didn’t become, I just always felt like not a specific gender, you know? I was never girly, so I guess I was considered a tomboy, but I didn’t want to be a boy either; I didn’t want to have to choose.”

“You didn’t wanna commit, I get that,” Michael laughed, “sorry, I hope this isn’t offensive.”

They finished rolling the cigarette, pinching the end neatly. “No, you’re fine,” they said. “It’s not really about committing, it’s more about being.” They held out the final product for inspection. “I’m curious about that cult, though.”

“Should we go?” Michael asked.

“Yeah, we should.”

**

The mixer was held in the backroom of Taix, a French restaurant in Silver Lake.

“I heard this is where the cool kids hang out,” Name said, smiling wide, like a psychopath.

“Yeah,” Michael laughed, “in like 2015.”

“Ha! Well, that’s alright,” Name said, smiling, still.

“Yeah, it’s fine, they have good martinis,” Michael responded.

“This is Kick,” he introduced, “And this is Name.”

“I heard your single, ‘West Coast Bullshit’, you’re a star, we have a celebrity,” Name said, thinking this would flatter Kick, who Michael thought was above it, but Kick did seem flattered.

“Name is a cool name, man,” Kick said.

Michael spotted Anahida with a man he assumed was her husband, tall and handsome, with a kind, soft face, and as soon as their eyes met, she motioned for him to come over.

“Michael, meet my husband Nev,” she said, smiling.

Michael thought of Anahida as cruel, the way she could bring him around after what she said about him at the meeting. It would be better if she left him at home. She brought him around to say, This is the loser I was talking about.

“Nev, this is Michael,”

“Oh, hi Michael, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Nev said, kindly.

“Like what?”

Nev laughed, “Good things. You’re a talented music producer, you have a baby on the way, and you are interested in The Alchemy Society.”

“I’m not actually interested in The Alchemy Society, I think it’s complete bullshit.”

“Michael!” Anahida exclaimed.

“Oh, alright then,” Nev said.

“Don’t you think it’s bullshit too? How come you’re not a member?” Michael pressed.

“Anahida said it was something she wanted to do alone,” Nev replied.

“Of course,” Michael responded, with a fake serious look.

He tried to send messages to Nev with his mind. You shouldn’t trust Anahida.

“It’s none of my business,” Nev said, out loud.

Michael noticed Kick and Name laughing. He walked over, almost running, jealously.

Name was a bullshitter.

“What’s up?” Michael said.

“We’re talking about Nietzsche,” Name said, self-satisfied.

That meant nothing to Michael. “Great,” he said.

"This club sounds amazing, I’ll come to a meeting for sure,” Kick said.

“What?” Michael was confused, “What club?”

“The Alchemy Society,” Kick said.

Michael was surprised. He thought of Kick as a smart individual, someone who took themself seriously, someone with an East Coast sensibility.

“I thought you weren’t a fan of West Coast bullshit,” Michael joked.

Kick laughed, but Michael sensed that Kick was siding with Name.

“It’s not West Coast bullshit,” Kick smiled, “it has a lot of interesting philosophical foundations, like Nietzsche’s ideas of the ‘noble soul’. I was actually a philosophy major at Columbia.”

“Smart and talented, just what we need,” Name said.

“My new album is pretty much inspired by Dark Academia,” they told Name, “I’d love to hang out and get more inspiration.”

Michael was confused, “What? You never told me that! Dark Academia?”

“Yeah, I don’t share all my inspo, but yeah,” they said.

Michael noticed the empty martini glass in his hand and tried to remember when he had ordered it, but he couldn’t remember.

“Does anyone want another drink?” he asked.

“I don’t drink,” Name said, eagerly, as if he was waiting for someone to bring up drinking.

“Me neither,” Kick said.

“Me neither,” Michael said, and walked towards the bar.

“Hey Sam, can I get another dirty vodka martini?” he asked the waiter, who he knew. Sam had worked at Taix for as long as Michael had frequented it.

“Can I get one too?” A girl’s voice said behind him, a voice he didn’t recognize but took a liking to.

He turned around. Facing the speaker, he saw that her features were strong. Her frame was delicate, a collection of elegant lines and sharp angles. Her face seemed to hold an ancient intelligence. The word gorgeous materialized in Michael’s mind. Then the word wisdom.

“Sam, can you make that two?” he quickly turned around to catch the bartender’s eye, and just as fast turned back around to face the girl.

“I’m Michael.” He extended his hand.

She took it, her grip surprisingly firm, “I like your name.”

He felt a blush creep up his neck. “Thanks.”

“Warrior angel,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Your name,” she said.

“Sorry. I’m drunk,” he said, pointing at the martinis that Sam had placed on the counter. He grabbed the two glasses, handing one to the girl.

“I’m Rain,” she said.

“Nice to meet you,” he smiled. “How do you know everyone here?”

“I know Name,” she said, with a look in her eyes that suggested either that she wanted to know what Michael thought of Name or that she wanted to share her own feelings about Name, or maybe it was just that Name was an intense figure in the lives of everyone around him.

“He seems like a weird guy,” he said, the second vodka loosening his tongue.

“He’s not a bad guy, he’s just insane,” she laughed, “he thinks he’s smarter than he is, but he’s fine.”

Rain observed Name trying to charm Kick Kennedy in the corner of the room.

“And he’s obsessed with celebrities,” she added.

“Everyone in LA is,” he said.

“True,” she said, smiling.

Beautiful smile, Michael thought.

“How did you meet him?” he asked.

“I work for him, I’m his research assistant.”

"Research assistant? Like a professor? Or a scientist?”

“Yeah, I think that’s how he sees himself; he wants to expand A.S. into a sort of academy.”

“I’m guessing A.S. stands for alchemy society,” Michael added.

“It sure does,” Rain said.

“And what do you think about all this? I didn’t see you at the meeting,” he asked.

“Sometimes I go to help out, but no, I’m not part of it. Partly it’s because I can’t afford it and partly it’s because…” She hesitated and laughed because of this hesitation.

Michael was so drawn to her, not only because he found her beautiful but because he sensed she knew things he didn’t. This produced a feeling akin to reverence he tried to hold, suspended, in the center of his chest.

“Because what? he asked

“Because I’m too smart,” she replied, quickly, as if to intice and get it over with at the same time.

He didn’t know her, but he agreed, “I’m sure that’s true, yeah."

They spent the rest of the night talking. He found out that Name was a failed actor AND academic.

“So he’s a failed actor AND academic?”

Rain laughed, “No, no, that’s not what I said. I mean, we all have a calling, don’t we? Plus I can’t speak ill of the hand that feeds me, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, bringing his martini glass close towards hers, clinking it, and taking in the rest of the vodka martini.

He learned that Rain lived with her grandmother, who she had to take care of, and she took care of her grandmother with joy and not from necessity, which seemed to shock Michael. They shared a similar, unique sense of humor. They laughed at the same things. There was a strong and immediate connection. He liked being around Rain. She had a way about her.

He told her about what happened the previous week when he was walking and suddenly became both the observer and the observed. She told him it sounded like he was having some kind of spiritual awakening, and she proceeded to tell him about the time she was visited by what she claimed was the Holy Spirit.

“I’m not religious, but I believe you,” he said.

“Well, yes, you should believe me because it happened,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” she said and pushed him with her index finger, playfully.

Rain and Michael noticed Name and Kick Kennedy walking towards them.

“Ugh,” Michael said.

“Michael, I see you have met misty Rain…isn’t she a marvel?” Name said, with his psychopathic grin.

“Yeah, definitely,” he said.

“This girl,” he said, pointing to Rain, “is a brilliant girl. I mean too real, too sensitive, too intelligent, I tell you.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Rain said.

Michael smiled and touched her back.

“What were you guys talking about?” Rain asked.

“Nietzsche’s idea of the Noble Soul,” Name said.

“Oh, that again,” Michael scoffed.

“Do you know what that is?” Name asked.

“No, I don’t think I do,” Michael said, “Do you?” he asked Rain.

“Yeah,” Rain said.

“The noble soul does not discover morality, he creates his own, he creates his own values,” Name said, seemingly pleased with himself, “that’s what the Alchemey Society is all about, we’re creating our own values, we’re doing away with the ones we’ve inherited,” Name continued, “isn’t that exciting?”

“I guess,” Michael said, unconvinced.

“I mean, especially in today’s world where everyone seems to be completely obsessed with morality as this thing that’s absolute, like no way man, there’s no one true truth,” Name continued, in a haze.

Michael looked to Rain to see what she was thinking. Rain looked at Michael, and her gaze seemed to say, we’ll talk about this later, Michael felt a closeness between them.

“Michael, I’m so inspired, I’d love to get in the studio,” Kick said.

Anahida walked over.

“What are we talking about?” She asked

“One true truth,” Rain said, “Do you believe in One True Truth?” she asked Anahida.

“Nope, I believe that we create our own truth,” Anahida responded, with conviction that surprised Michael.

“That’s my girl!” Name said, "These bullshit moral values, they foster a culture of weakness and mediocrity. Christianity, for example, a religion of pity, a religion of resentment. Is that who we are? Certainly not!”

Michael felt an intuitive repulsion to the idea of creating his own truth; he thought about what Danny said about humility. He wondered what truths he would create and how much time they would take, and how he would know if the truths he had created were good or if he even believed in them. Wasn’t it much easier to follow a standardized truth? He thought about his ideas of uncondition. Was that his version of creating truth? Or was he searching for an undeniable truth? He decided he would have to talk to Rain about it.

Subscribe now

Share ANI’s Substack

SUNDAY

I wake up, and I wonder if I should skip church. Usually, I wake up next to my precious and loving boyfriend in Manhattan, but today I wake up alone in my haunted apartment in Brooklyn. “The apartment is killing me,” I text my boyfriend, then feel bad that this is how I started my day. Sunday, of all days.

I suddenly remember that yes, I should go to church, because only a moment ago, while I was still sleeping, I dreamt about The Shadow. He was in my mother’s flat in London.

I have a ticket to go to London to visit my mother next weekend but now I think I should cancel.

I pray to God. I ask Him to show me the right way. Should I go to London? Should I stay? Then I remember that my boyfriend said I shouldn’t bother God with every little problem, that it’s kind of childish to do so. I should go to Him only if I can’t figure out a way to solve the problem myself.

I think about my relationship with God, so innate, so complicated. I think about my relationships in general. I’m a bad friend, I’m a bad girlfriend, I’m a bad daughter. Wait, no, I’m perfect. Okay, no, I’m just normal.

MONDAY

Work sucks. I guess it’s not that bad, Rita says it’s not as soul-crushing as other jobs.

My first student is Sam, and he has “senioritis.” He can’t wait to be rid of me. I tell him it’s okay, you’ll be rid of me soon enough. He says, “Yeah.”

We’re reading The Odyssey together. Odysseus is such a complicated man. Some guy once told me I was like Penelope, I’m guessing because I have historically been known to have many suitors, but he was wrong, I am Odysseus, the man of many ways. The man of many twists and turns, that’s who I am.

I literally hate work. I don’t want to work, and I don’t think I should work. This is how I know that my grandmother was right: we come from a long line of aristocrats. What I have isn’t just laziness, it’s Aristocratic laziness. I feel entitled to all the luxuries of life without feeling like I need to work for them. Whatever! I’m charming and harmless. Deal with it.

I wonder if I should go to the city, to my boyfriend’s apartment, he recently gave me a key so I can go there whenever I want but we’re still in the BAGS part of our relationship, which is when you’re constantly shlepping bags back and forth full of clothes and makeup and clean underwear because you’re gonna be there for days, so now I’m sort of always leaving something in Brooklyn or Manhattan. My charmed, chaotic life.

I go to a work event at the World Trade Center hosted by the family that owns the World Trade Center. When we get there, the woman whose father owns the World Trade Center says, “thank you for coming here, to the World Trade Center, a building that we own.”

I look out of the window, I think of The Shadow. I try to remember if there’s anything I have forgotten about him. I remind myself to keep the void of uncertainty at the center of my gaze.

TUESDAY

I keep having dreams of myself in very beautiful places. Like huge penthouses in Manhattan with my boyfriend, the shadow, and my rich uncle, who in the dream is fat and keeps getting fatter as the dream progresses.

I woke up early today and I had a few hours until work. I immediately wanted to write. I’m writing a story about a woman in a gilded cage, which is what I know to be my own destiny.

My boyfriend tells me he wants to take me shopping. I tell him it’s okay I don’t want anything. I actually have too many things and I’m trying to be less materialistic and more intentional with the shit I buy. I have inherited a lot of materialistic values from my family and friends, and from where I grew up. Places where girls say things like “a wallet on chain, black, should be your first Chanel bag.” Implying that I should have many.

Anyway, I’ve taken on a lot of their values as my own and I don’t know…I guess I don’t think that’s how it should be.

I’m still an aristocrat though, that’s different, I can’t change that.

WEDNESDAY

I wake up in my boyfriend’s apartment. I keep crying because I don’t want to go to work. My job is fine, honestly, I complain a lot about my good, happy, and lucky life.

I think the real reason I’m crying is because when I woke up this morning, I thought I saw The Shadow standing over me.

I get a drink with Angie after work and we talk about..I can’t remember. I’m too distracted. I’m nervous. I tell her I want to stop drinking. I tell her I feel disrespected by our mutual acquaintances. Don’t they know who I am?

I get back to Brooklyn and I keep thinking I wanna kill myself. I won’t actually do it, it’s just a compulsive thought.

Subscribe now

THURSDAY

Back in my haunted apartment.

I think I slept on my stomach again, I’m trying to sleep on my left side for better digestion and a better face. It’s not good for my aging body to be sleeping on my stomach…I’m about to be 30 soon.

I saw Ani Karamyan in my dream last night, she was very kind and sweet to me. In real life, however, she’s a bitch. She unfollowed me on Instagram and X when she got famous with her podcast. I was cool about it then, and I’m still cool about it now because I know I’ll have my revenge soon.

I greet the doorman on my way back to my boyfriend’s apartment. He says I have a package, I’ve started to send my packages there because I’m slowly moving in.

Some bitch I barely know from my writing workshop has been getting on my nerves. Nothing worse than someone who mistakes my noblesse oblige for weakness.

My father calls me, it’s always the same old thing, “Why don’t you call me? We need to be close.” Well, we aren’t.

Went out with my boyfriend and Bella tonight. Boyfriend tells me and Bella that we are not being valued at work. I warn him that he’s making Marxist arguments, talking about labor-value but refusing to admit that the argument he’s making is a Marxist one. It’s because he loves capitalism and loves America, I get it. Me too, honestly. It’s a complicated world we live in. I kinda love capitalism too. I love the idea of making money. These days all I think about is money. Money, money, money. Like Lana said, money power glory. And I don’t trust socialists, not really, there’s something whiney about most of them. A sort of Victim Derangement Syndrome. What do they want? To have things without having to work for them? But the labor-value thing Marx talked about well you can’t really argue with it, it’s almost a scientific realization, that’s why my boyfriend, a scientist, understands it.

Anyway, I watch him talk to Bella and I think about how much I love him and how by meeting and being with him I have stumbled upon some Greatness that I can’t really name and this thought relaxes me.

FRIDAY

I woke up and I realize I miss my mom. Maybe because I havent seen her in months maybe because I’m thinking of having my own kids and she’s a really good mom even though she’s kind of TOO good of a mom in the sense that she’s too “selfless” bordering on a lack of self respect. Ugh, neveremind, forget I said anything. I’m gonna take that trip to see her no matter what. I know The Shadow is waiting for me there, and I know the more I avoid him the more powerful he will become.

I text Yana that I’m on my way. We’re meeting in SoHo.

On the train, I see a dad with his young son, the dad is hugging the son and kissing his head. It’s really cute and I think about men and children, the thought fills me with a lot of positive feelings.

Then I wonder if I should flake on Yana. I wonder if I should start ignoring all my friends. Why? I’m not sure. I want to disappear.

I feel like a fucked up loser. No work ethic. Let me ask Chat GPT what I should do to improve my work ethic. What if you have a lot of talent but you’re a sloth loser? I feel like Lana del Rey when she got really fat. I don’t care about anything actually. I’m performing all the time. I’m performing right now. I’m a real writer not like the writers who never write but also not like the writers who succeed. I don’t wanna be some fucking loser writer. Bye.

SATURDAY

I feel so hungover even though I only had one glass of prosecco. That’s because I had a mental and emotional crashout last night. I yelled at everyone, including Yana, then went home. I was screaming about being disrespected, I told people that I enter unwashed into a world that disrespects me and despises my values. I was quoting Paul Schrader but no one got it. No one ever gets it.

I feel trapped, like there’s something I don’t recognize. Something that other people understand but I don’t and it’s extra annoying because I’m actually the smartest of them all.

Obviously, I need to chill out. I need to go see my mom in London and I need to figure out how to fly first class.

SUNDAY

I wake up. I got over 10 hours of sleep because I took a quarter of a melatonin. I look in the mirror I look very well rested and I look good, I keep looking at myself in the mirror and think to myself wow, I look so good.

I think about how much my vanity stands in my way and makes me a coward. Instead of texting Rita this, I text her: “I was a person of noble birth in my past life.” Rita’s my therapist. I like her because unlike most people, she’s met The Shadow. Rita says I should stop making excuses for my behavior based on an imaginary past life.

Fair enough.

I resign myself. I cure myself of my imagined victimhood, at least for the next few hours and I’m on my way.

Share

Subscribe now

Going to Lisbon, Portugal, for a writing program.

There has been something circling inside me, a wariness of the frivolity of most things.

This feeling is starting to take root, and I think I would give my life up for the right purpose. An anchor.

Listening to Kate Bush’s “Hounds of Love.”

Sunday, June 22

Arrived in Lisbon. Jetlagged.

Concerning almost everything I’m doing, I’m always asking myself: What’s the point of this? Most of the time, I can’t find a good answer. What I think I’m asking is: What should I die for?

My friend Elizabeth and I once decided that people sabotage their success because they’re afraid of death. There’s a link that exists between reaching your potential and dying. (I think that’s what my story, “The Coward”, is about.) We also talked about how another reason people don’t want to be successful is because they’re loyal to their suffering, but that explanation is obvious and boring to me now.

Somewhere in my notes app, I have the line: What we give our attention to, we give our loyalty to. More on that another time.

I think I’d like to start dying now.

Monday, June 23

A guy from my program refers to himself as “cowboy autism,” and I burst out laughing. Jetlagged still.

Ballerinas at my hostel. I like looking at them. The sight of a ballerina is a good omen, and the sight of a group of ballerinas is magnificent.

Camille Bordas spoke at a panel this afternoon. She said she doesn’t use outlines when she writes. Relief. Me too.

Tuesday, June 24

I’m feeling extremely depressed, and I know it’s due to the two hours of sleep I’ve had total since I got here, so I don’t pay too much attention to it. What we give our attention to, we give our loyalty to, remember.

Wednesday, June 25

The lack of sleep, combined with the terrible reactions I’ve been having to whatever chemicals they’re using to clean this hostel, is sending me down a spiral. Brain damage, maybe.

Thursday, June 26

Leaving my hostel. Life is a journey, and sometimes you want to prove to yourself that you can withstand unpleasant conditions because you’re secretly loyal to your suffering, or maybe you’re just a princess.

I went and got a blowout, then checked into my new hotel. My reactions to the chemicals have subsided.

The European mind cannot comprehend that I need to drink water straight from a 1.5L bottle and cradle it in my arms like a newborn.

Friday, June 27

I have been eating at this restaurant next to my hotel for two days now. A beautiful young Indian girl works there. When she sees me, she greets me, “Nice to see you again, welcome back.” I order the shrimp and fries again, and a Coke Zero. I read a novel, Bitter Water Opera, by Nicolette Polek. I feel fine, but not perfect.

Saturday, June 28

Planning to go to the beach today with some of the people from the program.

This morning’s thought was: Going out of your comfort zone is overrated. Life is uncomfortable either way, so why make it more complicated?

It’ll all be worth it when I finish this story I’m working on. It’s about uselessness and misanthropy. So there’s that.

Another thought materialized at the beach: I’m filled with a loneliness that is completely mine and has been since childhood. I’m no longer hiding from it. Is this really what I’m thinking on the beaches of Lisbon? So dramatic!

Sunday, June 29

Woke up at 1 pm. Mostly worked on my computer. Emails, etc. Going in and out of my hotel room. Got lunch. A lot of places seem Americanized. Iced lattes and avocado toasts, or maybe it’s just globalization? Onlineization?

Went to Farmacias to get some things I need. I haven’t been feeling great with all the travel and the allergic reactions.

Ibuprofen. Vitamins. Melatonin. I almost typed ‘melancholia,’ well, yes, maybe that too.

Spent the rest of the day getting work done.

Share ANI’s Substack

Monday, June 30

“Your writing is very LA, in a good way,” someone says to me.

Tuesday, July 1

Living in a hotel will never not be glamorous. I feel like Stephen Dorff in Somewhere, or Chuck Bass.

Wednesday, July 2

Going to do touristy things with one of my colleagues in the program. She’s an English professor at a liberal arts college and a mother. She reminds me of my grandmother. Educated. Articulate. Talented. Idiosyncratic. She says I’m ready to be a mom.

Thursday, July 3

I miss my regular life, which I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. Getting my hair cut and blown out again. Normalcy.

There’s nothing like the bond between me and a gay hairdresser in a foreign country I’m never gonna see again.

As I was getting my hair done, I was thinking about how my life is changing. The future feels possible, and shaping it feels essential.

A little girl says hello to me, and I say hi back.

Thinking of Los Angeles.

Friday July 4

Last day.

I love being a writer.

I’ve been rewatching Gossip Girl. I haven’t seen it since it aired 18 years ago. I think the show does a good job of connecting the characters through texting, calling, and being online.

I don’t think Dan is a good writer. I can’t explain it. I just have a feeling. So when, in one of the episodes of Season 1, he gets published in The New Yorker as a junior in High School, I was like…I don’t think so.

Serena van der Woodsen is a poorly written character. Especially next to Blair Waldorf. But maybe it’s an acting thing. I also noticed Blake Lively is first billing on the show, but it doesn’t matter because Leighton Meester is such a star. Watching Leighton Meester play Blair Waldorf is like seeing those ballerinas.

Saturday July 5

Moved by the kindness of the security guard letting me out of my hotel this morning, asking if I wanted any coffee or water.

I’m ready to be home. It’s a good feeling to want to go home.

Subscribe now

Share

Sometimes I teach books I’ve read countless times before; other times, the students and I are discovering them together for the first time. In those cases, it feels less like teaching and more like guiding, I suppose.

Here’s some books I read this school year. Not all of them are listed because Substack is saying the post is too long for email.

EMMA

My favorite Jane Austen novel. It’s fun, it’s wholesome, it’s about a spoiled girl with good intentions. One of my favorite genres. I read this almost every school year at some point.

Like other Austen novels, Emma is about class and marriage and society, and power, but it’s different from her other novels because it feels like the class commentary is one of endorsement. If you put the novel up against her others, I’m thinking mainly P&P and S&S, you see that in this one, Austen is not critiquing class distinctions. In a famous line delivered by Mr. Elton, and in many ways echoed throughout the novel by other characters like Mr. Knightley, “everybody has their level”, Austen disputes the idea that one can easily move up the social ladder through marriage, and she almost argues that love is a product of class compatibility. Something about this reinforcement of class structure is interesting to me. Emma learns many lessons throughout the story, but none of them involve challenging the class system; actually, in many ways, the end of the story affirms the system. Emma presents a protagonist who is, at the outset, a proponent of the very class distinctions Austen often satirizes in her other novels.

In Emma, the characters kind of marry within their class, I mean even the governess and the guy she marries are kind of from a similar background, sure he has more money, but that’s not the point, it’s not even about money, it’s about something more…like pedigree.

Like other Austen novels, Emma is about who is to marry whom, which the titular character has taken upon herself to figure out. I think what Austen is saying is that, yeah, you probably shouldn’t marry down, and marrying up will be difficult, and even if it happens, it’s mostly kind of a fluke. EVERYBODY HAS THEIR LEVEL. Some people might be mad about this but I really think Austen is talking about something more than just material class, I think she’s talking about spiritual class or a state of being, like a kind of moral or emotional refinement that can’t really be taught or earned. You either have it or you don’t. Austen isn’t advocating for rigid social hierarchies as much as she’s observing the way people gravitate toward others who share their inner constitution. Everybody has their level.

Emma is the only Austen heroine to occupy the pinnacle of the society she inhabits.1 Emma is a book about privilege, but it’s not about reconciling the privilege; it’s not even about accepting it; it’s just about living with its duties, a noblesse oblige, if you will. (I’m thinking of when Knightley gets angry with Emma because she is rude to Ms Bates.)

I like teaching this novel because students immediately pick up on the class stuff/level stuff and we get to have discussions about it. It’s also a sort of comedy of errors, so it’s fun to teach. It’s also a good novel for young people to read because of Austen’s keen observations of subtle character attributes, like when Emma begins to lose her interest in Frank Churchill because he went to London to get his haircut, revealing a sort of frivolous nature.2

JANE EYRE

One of my favorite novels of all time, seriously. What is there to say about Jane Eyre that hasn’t been said? It’s a truly perfect novel, imho. Jane Eyre is my Roman Empire. I think about her every day.

Jane is a woman who is not protected at all by social class; she’s not protected even by love. She’s a literal orphan with nothing. On top of that, she’s being abused by her aunt and cousins in the place she lives.

There’s an introduction wrote for one of the editions of the novel, where she argues that Jane is “resisting” the terms of her destiny.3

Jane Eyre is a good novel because it’s about a woman gaining power without having to compromise her integrity. Yay! It’s about education, it’s about agency, and dare I say it’s feminist.

It’s also a deeply spiritual novel, it’s almost a bit Christian-mysticism without being RELIGIOUS. Jane is a God-fearing woman, she really is, and at the same time she’s a life-affirming woman. She does not see the spiritual world as dogmatic unlike one of the other characters in the novel, St. John (pronounced SinJin for some reason..does anyone know why?)

Brontë tells us that love and passion are part of “the Good” and part of living a life of dignity.

It’s about a woman mapping out her own destiny…

The audio from the video above is an excerpt of Bret Easton Ellis reading from his book, The Shards.

THE ODYSSEY

Homer is perfect for my one student who’s really into the classics.

Odysseus is full of hubris and imperfection but is still loved and protected by the gods, especially Athena. He’s so blessed and because this is a reflection of Greek virtues and ideals, he doesn’t have to behave “morally” he just has to behave virtuously, (which is a different thing.)

When my boyfriend and I were first dating, he said Odysseus was his hero. Well, he said that he had a dream where he said Odysseus was his hero, but in waking life he agreed: “I think he gets the job done, strategic and smart, but also not a one note guy, sometimes gets hit by hubris, sometimes knows his place very well, sometimes gets dragged through events, sometimes takes back control.”

FAUST (Part I & II)

Goethe’s Faust. ICONIC. Literally changed my life. Striving is okay, more than okay, it can be the reason you go to heaven even if you did a lot of horrible things. Yay! Goethe proposes that striving is redemption. Just be yourself.

I was reading Goethe alongside Nietzsche and I found a lot of overlapping vibes. After doing some research, I found that Nietzsche really admired Goethe.4

My big takeaway was hmm maybe God is not going to punish me for striving, for wanting, for my ambition. It’s very Enlightened.

For a while now, I have been trying to reconcile my Christianity with my admiration of Nietzsche’s work and I think maybe Faust did that for me.

Share

FRANKENSTEIN

Another one of the greatest novels ever written. Frankenstein has everything. Mary Shelley genius alert.

It really is this beautiful response to the Enlightenment.

Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be his world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow. - Dr. Frankenstein

I love pairing it with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde especially the 1931 movie directed by Rouben Mamoulian. There are very impressive cinematic techniques being used in that movie. I think Frederic March won an Oscar for it.

There’s a line in the film that’s like “The sufferings of the spirit are so difficult to communicate,” I always think about that.

Both Frankenstein and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde ask : What happens when you tread on God’s domain? Idk maybe nothing … it’s a good novel to read and then pair with A.I. topics, etc.

thank you for reading <3 bye

Subscribe now

Share

If you’re a loser for too long, you die. Being a loser is the worst thing you can be. The world is defined by the binary: winners/losers. Sometimes you think someone is a winner, but they’re actually a loser - this is a betrayal of the worst kind. You can categorize people by this binary fairly easily, money is one of the indicators you can use. Although someone can be a loser with money, it’s easier to be a winner with money. Not having money and still being a winner requires an unshakeable dignity, a dignity almost impossible in our modern world. Even if one does possess this kind of dignity, the truth is that more often than not, this dignity will be shaken one day anyway.

When Kenneth told me he liked being around Will because Will was a winner, I understood. Kenneth no longer wanted to be around me because I complained about being a loser, which is probably worse than just being a loser and being okay with it. Part of being a loser is the self-loathing and the self-pity. I have a lot of that.

People thought I was a winner because I was famous on Twitter. The internet fame brought me no real-world winnings, aka money. I lived with my unbearable grandmother, and the reality of my condition brought me nothing but pain. Winner/loser energies are contagious; hanging around a loser is probably worse than being abused or beating your children.

I gave all my energy and talents away for free on the internet. I deleted TikTok and got addicted to the iPhone game for horny teenage girls where you can code your own episode.

Going to a psychiatrist in a straight-up nightgown. The psychiatrist told me to get a job. I was pretty sure she found my Twitter, but I didn’t care; I liked the attention.

After my appointment with the psychiatrist, I decided to make a list of what makes someone a winner. I texted Kenneth and told him it wasn’t my fault, I was a loser, I was never taught to be any other way. He said that was just the kind of excuse a loser makes. I told him I was a victim of child abuse lest he forget, he told me making myself out to be a victim was the ugliest thing about me, along with my overdefined chin.

Kenneth was my best friend. I loved him so much, but ever since he started hanging out with Will, he thought he was better than me. I hated the idea of him being happy. I’d have done anything for him to be miserable like me. I wondered if I should text Will and let him know Kenneth was obsessed with him to an unhealthy degree, that he was trying to Talented Mr. Ripley his ass. I bet that’s how the dynamic was anyway. Kenneth bought the same shoes Will wears, and when I mentioned it he said he didn’t even know that Will had the same shoes, bullshit.

A man I was sleeping with kept liking pics of Instagram models who said they were poets. Every time I noticed he’d liked a pic, I liked the same pic. Sometimes I followed the girls and tried to make friends with them. I inserted myself into the lives of other people; the inability to “get a life” is another symptom of being a loser.

One day, Kenneth called me and told me he was moving to New York with Will. “Are you guys gay or something?” I had to ask. “No,” Kenneth said, they were going to start a podcast, they were going to be recording out of Will’s parents’ brownstone. “You’re pathetic,” I told him, “you’re just obsessed with money and status.” “My advice to you is that you should be too,” Kenneth said.

I was rotting in my grandmother’s basement. Sometimes I wondered what I would do once grandma died, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live even in this shithole.

Can you believe how much my life sucks? I texted the man I’m sleeping with. No reply for four days - then haha he said.

***

I didn’t want to work on myself, but I figured I had to. I had to prove myself. Sounded hard. But if you’re a loser for too long, you die.

There had to be a way for me to leverage my internet fame for something productive. I tweeted: I live in poverty, does anyone care? 1,341 likes. 89 retweets No replies.

I decided to reach out to Maurice, an old man who employed me at his pizza oven factory six years ago. Maybe I could start making money that way. Pathetic.

I was beginning to get really depressed about Kenneth leaving. I called him at 3am, sobbing. He said it was a good opportunity for me to make other friends, that I shouldn’t be so attached to him. “Don't you think I know that?” I said. I did know that, and honestly, Kenneth wasn’t even a winner. He possessed too much mimetic desire, and Will probably knew that.

I got the job at the pizza oven factory. I’m doing really well, I tweeted. “Rachel, would you read at a reading series I’m hosting?” my acquaintance Maddy DMed me. “Not unless you pay me,” I messaged back. No response. I started to feel ashamed about this reaction since I didn’t even thank her for thinking of me for the stupid reading. Shame: a loser’s feeling, especially when you don’t do anything about it. I resented that my desolate state was turning me into a monster, which is why being wretched is like a disease, Simone Weil says.

Maddy was one of the bitches I became internet friends with after a guy I was talking to kept liking every one of her selfies. Now I was tied to her by some invisible string. It was actually kind of annoying.

I opened my laptop and googled “how does Dostoyevsky’s Notes from Underground end?” I was just tryna see something.

My psychiatrist told me to make a list of things that “winners” do—not just how they are or what they have—so I could mimic those actions and become a winner myself. I said that winners were confident, so whatever they did, they did with confidence, because they had a want for nothing. A loser wants things, a winner already has them, and even if a winner doesn't have them, they know they can get them. My psychiatrist asked why not try to live my life knowing I can get what I want. I said Sure. I texted Will and told him about Kenneth’s obsessions.

“Lol, I know,” Will texted back, “it’s cute.”

I told Will all about the pizza oven factory. I told him that there were two types: residential and commercial. He said he’d buy one for his home in Los Angeles. He ended up buying one, and the owner of the factory gave me a commission. Things were looking up for me.

***

Will and I became closer. He told me about the pressures of having rich parents—everything revolves around the acquisition of money. I told him that having poor parents was like that too. The best thing is probably having middle-class parents.

We had a lot in common. We were both interested in movies. We connected over our shared love of movies about people on vacation, especially if the movie takes place in a European villa. I told him that one summer I watched Luca Guadagnino’s 2015 film A Bigger Splash twenty times—Will said he liked the film Luca’s was based on, La Piscine (The Swimming Pool), because Alain Delon was a hero of his. I was impressed by Will, and couldn't believe he liked me. I reminded myself that’s just the kind of thinking a loser has, and quickly changed my mind. I couldn’t believe I liked him.

Will said I was cooler than Kenneth because I didn’t try so hard. He invited me to a party he was having, I said I’d come if Kenneth wasn’t invited. “I can’t do that,” Will said. I said Alright, I’ll come anyway.

I decided that just that night, I was going to act like I had everything I could ever want. I spent all that was left in my bank account to get a blowout and buy new clothes for the party.

I showed up to the party and it worked, people were interested in me and asked me questions. When Kenneth showed up, he was obviously surprised to see me.

I told him I was bettering myself, I wanted to hang out with winners like him. He said he was flattered that I thought of him as a winner, I said that’s not what I meant, I wanted to hang out with winners, the way he wanted to hang out with winners, I corrected myself. “Oh” he said.

I told him I’d decided to make Will fall in love with me by any means necessary. “How are you going to do that?” Kenneth asked, knowing damn well I was going to do it and what did it matter “how”? I was smarter than he was, plus a woman and any homo shit they had going on had to stay in the subconscious if you know what I mean.

I told Kenneth that he knew better than anyone that I could accomplish anything I set my mind to; I just hadn’t found anything worth pursuing until then. Marrying Will and being financially set by his generational wealth had become my one and only target. I no longer cared about art or making my own way. Marrying rich is in itself an achievement, one that secures not just your own life but your offspring’s too.

Maddy was at the party too, randomly. She was impressed I was friends with Will who she apparently had a huge crush on. I told Maddy Will and I were dating.

“Did you tell Maddy you and I are dating?” Will asked. “Well, we will be,” I said. Will laughed; he was impressed by my confidence.

“So you’ve made it your mission to ruin my life,” Kenneth said.

“No, not not all,” I assured Kenneth, “This isn’t really about you. You just guided me into my destiny, so to speak.”

I was at the party for a purpose. Having a purpose is a winner’s trait. It’s not so much what you’re doing but how you’re doing it. My purpose was to marry Will. The purpose presented itself to me like a realization, realization in the sense that it was so obviously supported by reality. Reality would support me in this endeavor. Don’t get me wrong—I wasn’t feigning my interest in Will. He was hot, cool, smart, and rich. He was interested in sports, had an open mind about ideas, and wasn’t intimidated by things he didn't know. I could see myself spending my life with him.

Thank you Kenneth.

I was remembering my psychiatrist’s words: “Gratitude is the gateway to all other elevated emotions.”

Thank you Kenneth.

***

After the party, Will texted me that he had a really good time and that we should see a movie sometime. I texted back, “Sure, but just so you know, I live in precarious conditions, also I live in my grandmother’s molding basement”.

He said he didn’t care, and what kind of mold? I said the kind that makes you sick. He asked if my grandmother bought or rented. I didn’t understand why he was asking but I told him that my grandmother rented.

He said there was a way my grandmother and I could get compensated, that we might be able to sue the landlord for the mold in the basement. He said his brother was a physical injury lawyer, and if we could prove that the mold gave me brain damage or something, my grandmother and I could get some money. He said even proving some serious allergies could do the trick.

If you’re a loser for too long, you die. This was my chance.

It’s time to explain to you what Will looked like. Will was tall. The first thing my grandmother asked about him was, “Is he Jewish?” I said no, to which she replied, “Worse, an Anglo-Saxon.” But seriously, years and years of colonizing ancestry left Will with a very can-do attitude; the money helped, but the money could have been merely a result of this generational attitude, not a cause. That's somewhat a chicken-and-egg situation, and I won’t get into it. Will was a positive person, not in the sense that he was happy all the time— he was actually never really happy—but he was always cool and calm, and capable. He had a light complexion, hazel eyes, and the smile of a child. His clothes were simple but expensive. He was helpful and driven by a compulsion to do the right thing.

I’m ethnic. Vietnamese. “Too smart for my own good,” my father used to say. Artistic and charming if I wanna be, but I rarely wanna be. I’m like, if Marina Abramovic was actually talented. Long side braid, attention-seeking, bad person, annoying, moral failure, and weird.

Anyway, I spent the rest of the year at Will’s beautiful house in Beverly Hills. I stopped seeing my psychiatrist. I loved being normal. We had meetings with the lawyers who would help us, including Will’s brother, who was even more handsome than he was. Will took care of me in ways I’d never been taken care of before, and I thought, wow. This is what winning feels like.

I went to the doctor, and apparently I had all these allergies that they said they could prove I acquired during my time in my grandmother’s basement. Will said this was good news, that I could get a lot of money from this lawsuit, and that his brother would make sure I got the best deal.

I even stopped tweeting. I focused all my attention on Will and the Mold Lawsuit.

***

But then, after a while, I kept wanting him to confess his undying love to me with words. I felt like I was running out of time to lock in Will’s devotion. He spent most of his time with me, but no matter how much he did for me, I looked for things he didn’t do and focused on that, so much so that everything he did do seemed irrelevant. Focusing on the lack is loser behavior.

If you’re a loser for too long, you die.

I realized being a winner required focus and resilience. The confidence not to care about the thoughts of others. All you have to do is just do something instead of thinking too much about doing it. Will helped me sue the landlord, and helped me with everything, and yet, still, I couldn't... do.

After a while, I began to notice traits in Will that weren’t winning. He was triggering a lot of my tyrannizing impulses. He operated out of guilt, which was... loser behavior. I started to wonder if he even liked me or if he just felt sorry for me. The moment I began to see this side of him, everything started to fall apart. I began to spiral. I started stalking his following list on Instagram and imagining every kind of beautiful woman seducing him. I imagined him falling in love with another woman and feeling really bad about it, having a hard time telling me, being tortured by it. Maybe it was happening right now.

“You don’t owe me anything,” I said to him one night.

“I know,” he said.

“Why don’t you ever tell me you love me?”

“I show you,” he said. It was a good answer.

“All you do is try to help me win the lawsuit—”

“I’m trying to help you, financially.”

I was beginning to get tired of both The Mold Lawsuit and Will. I believed that life would reward me for my suffering, but not through the avenues of The Mold Lawsuit or Will. After 30-something years on this planet, I finally realized what love is. Love is rising to the occasion. I didn’t feel like rising to the occasion just yet, but I was happy that I finally knew what it was.

“When you operate out of guilt it triggers my impulse to guilt you into doing things for me,” I told him. “There are boundaries I cross to make you feel sorry for me.”

“What does that even mean?” he asked.

He genuinely didn’t understand me.

My tortured grandmother kept calling me. She would call me, and when I would pick up, she wouldn’t say anything. She would just cough, cough as if her insides were coming out. One day after one of her calls, I told Will I had to visit my grandmother. She needed me, and she might be dying.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” I said.

I left Will and never came back. He kept calling me after I left him. It was all too much work. Rising to the occasion is too much work.

***

I suffer every day. Does anyone care? I tweeted.

A lot of times in life, you have opportunities to rise to the occasion. If there’s a God, this is His way of showing us love. Being a loser is about being afraid of these opportunities, which are often disguised as obstacles.

And when you’re a loser for too long, you die.

Share

Subscribe now

This story was first published in The End Magazine in December 2023.

Sorry everything I do is perfect.

Sorry I can’t even fathom the extent of my good fortune.

I try to practice gratitude, the opposite of remorse, but

Most days I bump up against clouds of unknowing—

Favored and unbruised.

Share

Subscribe now

Anyway, Simone Weil says love is not consolation it is light… I think a lot of this poem is informed by that idea.

Alone in a beach house

My life feels dark

It only feels that way it’s actually pretty nice

Nothing truly bad will happen

At least not what we’d expect

The boys will become men and will be loved

They’d love us too if we’d let them in their way

I’m sitting here wondering if everybody thinks

I’m a weirdo

Yes

And so what?

All this life lived and still

No consolation

And who cares!

Here’s a photo of me from that era:

<3

thanks, love you, bye

Share

Subscribe now

I’m here to update you with three more colors Apple introduced. (I’m only doing solid colors, I will not use the hearts with patterns or designs.)

🩵 - love of the energetic flow of the universe. Love of having a light touch on all things and understanding that life is transient and in a constant “vibe shift.” Love of the “no thoughts just vibes” attitude. Think of the ocean’s waves or the passing of the clouds in the sky. A deep appreciation and understanding of life’s illusory and dreamlike state. Vibing and flowing.

🩷 - the innocent younger sister of the red heart emoji. Often attributed to sweethearts, young people in love especially if they are virgins or virginal. Virginal romantic love. First love, first crush, romantic entanglements not consummated. Innocent love. Can also be attributed to female friendships.

🩶 - love that is often accompanied by sorrow. Love that is entangled with grief. Melancholic love. Love of the state of melancholia itself or the state of idleness and boredom. Love of boredom. Love of the void. Love of the negation of life.

Share

Subscribe now

A few days ago, Substack let me know that I hit 100 subscribers, which may not be a lot in the grand scheme of things but I’m still pretty happy about it and grateful, so thank you. I thought I should do something special to mark the milestone.

In March 2018, Occidental College and its Center for Digital Liberal Arts invited me to make a film on one of the Theta 360°cameras they had as part of VR/360 research they were doing. I could make whatever I wanted with the camera and the only thing I had to do was present the final product for the undergraduate students of the department and the faculty, taking on the role of a sort of “visiting artist.” It was a way for the department to understand the various ways the camera could be and possibly would be, used. (Shoutout to Craig Dietrich for the invitation.)

At the time I was working as a Content Producer at California Institue of the Arts (shoutout!), the art school I got my graduate degree from a few years prior.

I was making short “essay art films” using my 2015 MacBook Air, shooting in parks and convenience stores. Two of the more popular of these films are on YouTube— Does Life Suck or Is It Fine? (I Can't Tell) and Hard-to-Look.mov.

I had never used a 360 camera and when I started playing around with it I found it quite literally disorienting. There was no “frame”, everything, except two small points right above and right below the camera, was visible. In this case, the filmmaker was not framing anything, the story was not necessarily being told through a series of frames/shots. The camera was taking in its surroundings indiscriminately. I shot on campus at CalArts, I shot at Disneyland, I shot in my dad’s van which I made out to be a kind of twisted dollhouse.

The result of this project was Violet, an experimental 360 film that tells the story of a fictional self-harm streaming platform told through an interview with one of its users. When I was making it, I was thinking about political ennui, degenerative ambition, and a rising contempt for the human body in an increasingly digitized world. I was also thinking about the performance of pain on the internet especially but not exclusively, feminine pain.

A few months ago, I stumbled upon the script I had written for the voiceover portion of the project and it reminded me that during the research process, I was very interested in the Terms and Conditions of various social media companies. The one that would become Violet’s Terms and Conditions policy was modeled after Facebook’s.

The next section includes Violet’s Terms and Conditions policy, it’s the reason I started writing this post.

By using or visiting Violet or any Violet products, software, data, and services provided to me on, from, or through Violet, I agree to these terms and conditions. 

I grant Violet exclusive, transferable, sub-licensable, royalty-free, worldwide license to use any content, that I post on or in connection with Violet. 

By using or visiting Violet, I understand any content pertaining to the neglect, harm, and total destruction of my body and mind can be used by Violet, in its sole discretion, for sale as well as the manufacturing of other content, also known as sisters or duplicates. 

By using or visiting Violet, I understand that destroying my body is easy and although Violet will not be liable for any losses caused by my use of the service, I may be liable for losses of Violet due to any violating act, attitude, attribute, or idea, deemed unauthorized by Violet. 

I further understand and acknowledge that any pain or displacement— both in the sense of the physical as well as social modes of relating— including that of psychic energies and loss of sensibilities, that I may experience while using Violet is exclusively my own and I shall be solely responsible for my content, subjecthood, and the consequences of submitting and publishing my misery and despair on Violet.

I acknowledge that my desires are mine, and mine alone and do not reflect those of Violet, its products, software, data, and services. 

However, by submitting pain to Violet, I hereby grant Violet a worldwide, non-exclusive, royalty-free license to use, reproduce, distribute, prepare derivative works of, display, and perform the pain in connection with the service and Violet’s business, including without limitation for promoting and redistributing part or all of the service in any media formats and through any media channels. I also hereby grant each user of the service a non-exclusive license to access my pain, including but not limited to the imaginative and internalized and to use, reproduce distribute display, and perform such pain, including representation of pain, as permitted through the functionality of the service and under these terms of service.  

I understand that Violet may use my feedback or suggestions without any obligation to compensate me for them, just as I have no obligation to offer them. 

I understand that once I have exhausted my body of its productive and resourceful properties, deemed from here forward as “wellness,” Violet reserves the right to terminate my language, relations, and access to its service. 

If and once I am determined “exhausted” and devoid of “wellness,” any content created under my account is exclusively the property of Violet, any sister or duplicate content created through my use of the service is deemed its own entity and nothing to do with me or my suffering.  

I give Violet permission to use my pain and information in connection with commercial, sponsored, or related content served or enhanced by Violet. 

I further understand and acknowledge that I may be exposed to content that is inaccurate, offensive, indecent, objectionable, and spectacular, and I agree to waive and hereby do waive any legal or equitable rights or remedies I have or may have against Violet with respect thereto, and, to the extent permitted by applicable law, agree to indemnify and hold harmless Violet, its owners, operators, affiliates, licensors, and licensees to the fullest extent allowed by law regarding all matters related to my use of the service and the destruction of the self. 

My continued use of Violet and its services, following notice of the changes to its terms, politics, or guidelines, constitutes my acceptance of any amended terms, policies, or guidelines.

You can watch Violet here: Violet in 360

(!trigger warning! The film includes sounds of women crying and men screaming lol)

The film is on YouTube, due to the platform’s support of 360, this means when you watch the film you can move the screen around and find the places hiding out of frame, (the frame that’s not really supposed to be there, remember?) When I presented it at Oxy in 2018 the students and faculty were able to watch it with VR headsets so the problem of the frame was somewhat solved, if you have a VR headset it might be a good idea to use it for this :) — you can also watch it on your phone, on the YouTube app, and move your phone around…etc.

I think Violet is one of my more obscure works and (a little bit because and a little bit despite this) it’s one that’s very special to me, so thank you for letting me share it with you.

Thank you for subscribing and supporting!

thank you love you bye <3

Share

Subscribe now

Michael wondered if he should tell his friends, especially Danny, about his meeting with Anahida. It’s not that it felt wrong, it just felt secret, or rather sacred. Sacred in the sense of being set apart, sacred in the sense of being connected to a special order, or to use Anahida’s reference- a spiritual order. Michael, of course, did not understand the spiritual, but he was beginning to think of the condition/uncondition distinctions, which had been circling inside him for some time now— this was his only point of reference to the ideas Anahida had discussed. He wasn’t sure about God but he was beginning to be pretty sure about Truth.

He had still not discussed his concept of uncondition, with anyone. Not even Anahida, though he wished had told her now, he wished he had said, yes I understand, of course I understand, I have turned the eyes of my soul in a way that has made me understand. You are talking about the thing separated from the bondage of lower orders, separated from the likes of habit, pattern, culture, history and society. You are talking about the thing which is above everyday human affairs. It was too late now, the meeting had been over two days ago, but as you can see now Michael was still thinking of it, as a SACRED EVENT and so it was nobody’s business to know.

Michael had agreed to go to the workshop with Anahida the following Sunday. He googled “The Alchemy Society” and found a website that gave only this information: For the Seekers and Seers, and an email address for the curious and the concerned. None of this excited him, it actually kind of annoyed him. He couldn’t believe that Anahida had convinced him to join a cult, sure it was only one meeting, but he knew that if she wanted she could make him join it. This was her power. Michael did feel relieved, however, that so quickly, he had transferred his need to be subtly controlled to another woman. This made him feel immediately lighter, no longer burdened by agency, like a child who remembers the existence of his parents’ bedroom when he is awakened by the nightmare of a monster; and as the child grows older, the monster grows with him and becomes the brutal hunch of having been forsaken. The forsaken who is only saved by the submission of his agency, or his will, to another power. Yes, the sweet moment of relief of submitting one’s will. He couldn’t believe his luck! Everyone was worried about him but he no longer had to be worried about him. He had cast his worries, this was the feeling, the good feeling, the sacred feeling,  and its association to the beautiful Anahida only made it that much sweeter.

In the days leading up to the meeting, Michael occupied his anxious mind with work. He was in the studio a lot, working with a new artist named Kick Kennedy, a non-binary up-and-coming pop star. Michael genuinely liked Kick and their sound, and it was the first time in a long time he was excited about his work. Things seemed to be working out. He was in touch with Lisa through her sister, who had now taken on the role of Lisa’s assistant and would invoice Michael baby-related expenses and send him important dates of doctor’s appointments. Lisa, surprisingly, was open to Michael being present at doctor’s appointments and Michael would go along with the thought, I’m going to take care of my baby. To Michael’s surprise, Lisa was not nasty to him and approached the entire thing in a pleasant enough business-like manner, which worked for Michael and did not add to his guilt complex. The night before The Alchemy Society meeting, Michael found himself wishing he felt more guilty about leaving Lisa and that entire ordeal, his guilt now seemed far away and subdued.

The Alchemy Society meeting was in an old playhouse theater in East Hollywood. It all felt like an acting class, with Name in the middle of the stage and the members with minds dangerously eager and hungry for molding. There was a whiteboard behind Name, and the lights were dimmed, so one could hardly even see what was written on the whiteboard.

“I am not the sage on the stage, am I?” Name laughed.

Name was a handsome man in his 50s, well preserved, was the first thought Michael had. He immediately felt jealous, he was sure Name and Anahida found each other attractive. How could they not? What kind of person would see themselves so important as to stand on a stage talking to a bunch of people? Of course this was a cult, Michael thought, and this guy was a narcissist and egomaniac and a fraud. He suddenly felt sick and tried to find the exit.

“What we do here is to try to reach a different place,” Name continued. 

Michael thought that Name was probably a failed actor trying to recapture some of his failed dreams into motivational speaking which provided the same kind of adoration and attention when done well. Even going as far as to hold meetings in a theater, pathetic Michael thought, just pathetic. 

He kept wondering if anything had ever happened between Name and Anahida and what a stupid fucking name, Name. Are you fucking serious? Michael’s nervousness sometimes led to severe judgment and paranoia, he had to remind himself. Maybe Anahida wasn’t even interested in Michael and she just wanted bodies for her lover’s cult and he fell for it because Michael, himself, was pathetic who was blowing his life apart and attending cult meetings. 

“I think I’m gonna go,” Michael said suddenly. 

“No! What? Are you serious? No please, don’t freak out, you just hate being in new situations, don’t quit just yet,” Anahida said with a wink and a sweet smile and so yes of course she was right. “Don’t run, I know you want to run because that’s your instinct, fight or flight. It’s just a flight response if you just wait, the feeling will pass. Do you trust me?” she asked, calmly. 

He did trust her, more than he trusted himself, that’s for sure. 

He began to do the “floating” technique again. Do not sink into the feeling of jealousy or contempt. Do not sink into the feeling of resentment, that’s important. He began to calm down. 

Then, as if right on cue, Name began speaking. 

“Instead of saying if something is good or bad, it’s better to say, instead, if something is helpful or harmful.”

Name paused, like a good speaker does to let his words introduce themselves to the listeners. Then he continued: “We are trying to get away from this feeling that there’s a duality, this or that, yes or no, black and white, good and bad. We have to believe, in our hearts, that they are both and simultaneously neither.”

Anahida, as if sensing Michael’s discomfort, leaned over and whispered, “It won’t be helpful unless you approach this with an open mind, please, for me.” 

“For me,” she had said, this was the slight manipulation techniques Michael welcomed. Of course, for you, goddess, anything. 

“Even visible and invisible things should be seen in a constant state of play, of course we are concerned here more with the invisible, yes?” Name continued, confidently, like a professor, a philosopher, Foucault? Deleuze? Lacan? But way more attractive and way less accountable in his reason and approach and a phony… but maybe they’re all phonies.

Name looked around and spotted a chair at stage left, he brought it to the middle and sat down. “I’m a fan of Rilke, the poet. Anyone else?”

Some hands went up. Michael had heard of the poet but had never read anything. 

“I love his poetry of course, but I’m particularly fond of his letters, wherein he goes further into concepts he introduces in his poems, like the elegies. What magnificent pieces of work!” Name mused. 

Some younger women in the audience smiled and nodded, Michael wondered if they even knew what he was talking about. How smart are these people? He wondered. How cultured?

“That being who attests to the recognition of a higher level of reality in the invisible, terrifying, therefore, to us because we, its lovers and transformers, still cling to the visible,” Name visibly quoted the poet. “This is from Letters to a Young Poet, I don’t know if any of you have read that.”

He paused again. He held the attention of the group impressively. 

“We call ourselves ‘The Alchemy Society,’ we talk about this a lot, why alchemy?”

Somehands went up. 

“Claire, yes” he pointed at a woman, perhaps late 50s, in gray hair and clothes. 

Gray lady, Michael thought. 

“Transmutation,” she said. 

“Ah yes, we love that word,” Name smiled. 

The class laughed. Was it a class? It felt like a class, Michael was reminded of being back in college, maybe that’s where the resentment was coming from. He had often felt so much resentment for his professors and his classmates in college, he couldn’t quite remember why. 

“We love the word, and the alchemists definitely loved the word, they were obsessed with it, yes? Why?”

“Base metals into gold,” someone shouted, Michael couldn’t see who. 

“Well, yes. And is this an allegory? We wonder…” Name responded, instantly. 

Oh this guy was definitely an actor, he also had employed some kind of trans-atlantic accent that he was obviously faking. He was playing a character, a chauvinist, a FAKE. Who did he think he was? Carey Grant? 

Michael reminded himself to calm down. 

“We are tasked with taking what we have been given, an experience, perhaps a painful one, and changing it into some kind of fuel that takes us to the realm of the invisible. This is not a task for the weak, as I’m sure you all know. And this is alchemy!” Name said and stood up again and continued, “This is why Jung, who we talk a lot about, was so interested in Alchemy in his psychological findings. It’s why Freud hated him!” 

The group laughed. 

“Freud thought he had figured out the subconscious, Jung said oh no you would be lucky if the subconscious allows you to even TALK TO IT! Anyway, I’d like to welcome some new members,” he looked at a list of names on a notepad. Like a professor. 

“Michael,” Name said. 

Michael glanced uneasily at Anahida, “You told him my name?” 

“Of course I did,” she said reassuring him,  “It’s okay.” 

“I know it’s okay,” Michael said defensively. 

“Michael,” Name repeated Michael’s name, staring at him, knowing who Michael was, where he was sitting in the class.

“Yeah hi,” Michael said, raising his hand only slightly. 

“Welcome. Would you like to say anything? Share a bit about yourself?” 

“No, not really,” Michael said. He hated Name so much. “My friend brought me I’m just observing.” 

“Well observe away,” Name smiled, “We all are observing aren’t we?”

What the fuck is this guy talking about? 

Michael felt uneasy again, he tried to study the faces of the crowd. One face stood out to him, a young man with a nerdy disposition, polo shirt, glasses, whose presence immediately amplified a certain level of intelligence. Some people just have more intelligent faces, he thought. Michael felt drawn to this man the same way Winston, the protagonist of Orwell’s 1984, is drawn to the character of “O’Brien.” He’s smart, Michael thought, he probably knows Name is a fake. He decided maybe he could get to know this nerd whose face held some sort of superior intelligence. 

He started to really take in the people in the room. Who were these people? They were well-dressed, they didn’t look like complete nobodies, plus Anahida was here. Did this have anything to do with Scientology? 

Name spoke again, “So like I said we are The Alchemy Society, but we also go by another name. Which is…?” 

“A workshop!” Anahida shouted. 

“Exactly! Thank you Ana.” 

He calls her Ana? How close are they? 

Name continued, “And why are we calling it a workshop? Because we are not only concerned with ideas and theories, but also APPLICATION of those theories, that’s the only way we can judge its value, am I right? Especially in the hustle and bustle of our lives. And so a good part of what we do here is about applying these concepts in our lives and watching our realities shift.”

Some of the members of the group began to clap. 

“So for those of you who don’t know, a portion of our workshop is dedicated to members sharing how they have applied these concepts in their everyday lives. So let’s get started. Who has anything to share?” 

Michael felt Anahida’s hand go up. 

“Ana! Perfect. Come on up!” 

Anahida glanced at Michael with a nervousness he understood to be performative, and he was reminded of a certain performative meekness she had displayed when they were together. Michael did not acknowledge her nervousness and did not offer a sympathetic touch of the hand or anything of that sort. As she went up to the stage, Michael thought about his distaste for performance, the ways he was able to see right through the dishonesty of people’s everyday gestures. Often, he thought it was because he was not good at social graces, but deep down it was also a sensitivity to all kinds of deceptions people were capable of. He truly wanted honesty even if it was ugly and painful.

Anahida sat in the chair in the middle of the stage and glanced at Name who gave her a nod of approval. “I don’t want to feel guilty about my wealth or my parents’ wealth I guess,” Anahida said almost defiantly. 

Michael immediately felt a sense of what one might call shock but it was a particular kind of shock— it was the feeling when something predictable happens and you’re shocked that something predictable has happened. As he continued to listen to Anahida a memory began slowly materializing inside him, he wished for it to disappear. 

“I also don’t want to feel guilty about not wanting to hang out with losers,” she continued. 

The unidentified memory was growing. 

“I don’t want to feel bad about being this way. Most people are this way and they pretend to care about the wretched. Being around a loser is like being around a sick person, it’s contagious and even when it’s not contagious it’s a drag,” Anahida said, almost breathless. 

The memory…something about Anahida…something about Michael… their relationship,  he wanted to avoid identifying it for a little while longer. The shock of predictability again overwhelmed him.

“So I just don’t care to feel any guilt anymore and I cut out people who are bringing me down and I feel much better,” she said while looking at Name. “The only thing I’m trying figure out is how to apply this to my husband who I have increasing contempt for, he’s a pushover, he’s weak and I know it’s horrible of me to say this but it’s like what if he’s the sickness I can’t get away from? Is that bad? Am I evil?”

“Of course not,” Michael thought he heard Name say but he wasn’t sure if it was Name or another male voice.

The memory pushed on his chest, no longer wanting to be ignored. 

Fuck.

After Anahida, the Gray Lady went up. Michael didn’t pay much attention to what the Gray Lady, who was named Claire, said. Something about being a manager in a building and snitching on people and getting them evicted and how this brought her joy blah blah blah. 

“What’s going on?” Michael thought he said in his head but apparently said out loud because Anahida responded with “What do you mean?” She had apparently come back to her seat. 

After the Gray Lady finished speaking, Michael heard Name ask: “How do we stop feeling bad? Then answered his own question, “we just stop feeling bad.” 

The memory, the knowing, the remembering, all pushed through any kind of attempt to conceal, to ward off, to rebuke. It was too late to turn away from the burden of understanding. Michael had a strange feeling that whatever was happening in his current reality was important. The feeling invoked a sense of BEING AWAKE, this scared him, of course, the responsibility, the agency, the being awake, the burden of understanding, etc.

I knew it. Was all Michael thought for the rest of the meeting. 

Share ANI’s Substack

Subscribe now

Dear Mary,

Thank you for the phone call. It was lovely to catch up, I missed you and your friendship! Without getting too sentimental I want to say that friendship is valuable because of the particular kind of witnessing it employs. There’s a 1990 interview with Alain Delon where he says that friendship is “so vague and so extraordinary.”1 I agree! True friendship can witness without romanticization. Although this letter is not about friendship, you should know that I cherish yours and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way when I say that I was upset with you by the end of the phone call because of something you said, and because friendship is sacred, I don’t want this to go unacknowledged, (leading to a resentment of the worst kind.) Right now, my resentment is small and willing to be acknowledged, if I don’t tell you what’s bothering me, the resentment will grow big with complexities and nests and begin a resistance against this recognition. I was horrified that during the phonecall you said I was strong.

The context, of course, matters. You were referring to the recent end of a romantic relationship I was in. I understand that what you meant was that I was strong and would be able to bear the pain of the breakup and eventually get through it, it is precisely this that I resent. I resent it not because the relationship was meaningless or that I don’t, for some reason, want to get through it… no, I resent it because of the word itself: “strong”. I resent it because strength in and of itself is useless and Mary, it doesn’t mean what you think it means. To me, strength often gives way to suffering, it’s a sort of welcoming of suffering.

We say one is strong and so one can withstand. Here lies the problem, or at least my problem. We say one is strong, as a consolation, (the way you tried to do on the phone with me). We say one is strong because one has gone through more terrible things than the present terrible thing, the other terrible things made one strong and ready to withstand the current terrible thing…okay… But is it also safe to say that one’s strength can also bring forth the terrible things? A sort of invitation or, as I said before, a welcoming of suffering? A self-fulfilling prophecy if you will! I hope this makes sense, I’m trying to be as clear as possible.

Now, I don’t mean that strength is useless, I mean that strength in and of itself is useless. Mary, I think strength is useless unless it is transmuted into power. This is perhaps because, to me, strength is not an inertia force.

Here is how I see it: suffering is transmuted into strength, this is a survival instinct, most people stop here-- but then strength must be transmuted into power otherwise you’re in a cycle, (the suffering-strength cycle.) Once transmuted into power then power can be transmuted into action and finally, creation! 

SUFFERING → STRENGTH → POWER → ACTION/CREATION

If this transmutation doesn’t happen we’re in trouble! If this transmutation doesn’t happen, where does strength go? Does it harden like a rock? Does it become stale if kept too long in the realm of potentiality? Maybe! I think when this transmutation doesn’t happen, strength dignifies itself in resentment, Nietzsche knew this. The resentment lends itself to the suffering-strength cycle. We must break out of it only through power. 

Power! This is the goal. Power! According to Nietzsche, the essence of life.
Mary, the reality of life is that we are always trying to have power over each other and those who have the least power are labeled as strong. Isn’t this ironic?  

When I was growing up everyone said my mother was strong but all I saw was a powerless woman who suffered. My mother suffered and was called a strong woman. My grandmother too. They didn’t do much with their strength except continue to endure in its name. There’s something about the “strong woman” that denotes this powerlessness even more than a “strong man” would. Why is “strong” often an adjective for women who suffer?

Let’s look at these two phrases: 

A strong woman. 

A powerful woman.

Do they employ the same image? I doubt it. 

I think it is precisely one’s lack of power that makes them strong, and durable, and yes, maybe there’s a Christian morality hidden there somewhere, in the dark corners…I don’t care, I don’t want to find it. I just want power. I think women are made monstrous by strength! Perhaps it’s a fate we can’t escape but we have to, at least, try.

Mary, here is the actual point of this letter, I don’t want to be strong, I want to be powerful. Ever since I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to be powerful. 

Nietzsche said power is the "unexhausted procreative will of life". I think strength is exhausted often at survival, or at least at a limit, power is re-generative. Nietzsche even made a difference between two concepts, “Kraft” and “Macht.” Here is what I found on Wikipedia: “Kraft is primordial strength that may be exercised by anything possessing it, while Macht is, within Nietzsche's philosophy, closely tied to sublimation and ‘self-overcoming’, the conscious channeling of Kraft for creative purposes.” 

Anyway, strength is to power what pity is to compassion. Both stop at a limit when they should keep going. 

Do you remember that one afternoon at the beach when we talked about our mutual love of Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre? Well, in the novel Jane is initially without power, and it is precisely this that makes her strong, but she longs for power, just as I do now. Towards the end of the novel she becomes powerful and she describes it as a force that commands and receives obedience:

My powers were in play and in force. I told him to forbear question or remark; I desired him to leave me: I must and would be alone. He obeyed at once. Where there is energy to command well enough, obedience never fails.

In this moment, Jane has alchemized her strength into power. Strength itself does not command obedience, it commands nothing, it only encounters and endures. 

Mary, I am willing to pay the price of pain but only if I can be powerful instead of strong. 

I am happy that our phone conversation led to this letter. I hope you see now that strength is not enough and perhaps it’s clear that this letter itself serves as a tool of transmutation, or at least an attempt. 

Talk soon <3

Yours in friendship, 

Christine “The Magician”

His old perspective on life wasn’t working not just because he was hopelessly addicted to amphetamines, but also because he was hopelessly addicted to limits, to unobtainables, to things out there, in psychoanalytic terms, he was addicted to “The Lack.” He knew this because he framed his life by everything he wanted but “couldn’t have” and he was beginning to think he liked staying within this frame and he liked preserving himself within this frame, safe and untouched. This made him a coward. He tried to visualize this word: coward. Yes, this is what he was. At first, the word scared him but as he kept it stiff and erect in his mind, it became less threatening and more comforting. To define is to disarm.

Something about Van we haven’t mentioned yet is that he was in ACADEMIA- fitting, an institution that removed one from the precarity of lived experience and placed him, instead, in the realm of “studies.” He wondered if after all was said and done, Academia was for cowards. Yes, it made sense, suddenly everything in his life–every decision–was coming up to the surface; naked, and revealing historic accounts of feeble attempts at self-preservation. And here it was, he thought, alright.

Academia was all he knew, so in order to understand this word, this idea, he sat down and tried to research and write about “The Coward” as an archetypal figure. What purpose did the cowardly instinct serve? And did this figure have any redeeming qualities?

Fear plagues our lives, it eats away at us, he wrote. It was true but what else could he say? The Coward, as an archetype, was interesting because cowardice was not just the absence of courage, cowardice was a moral failing, everyone knew this. Did everyone know this? It didn’t matter. He didn’t probe further. He stopped. Walking to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee, he noticed his ex-girlfriend’s tarot deck underneath some unread books at the bottom of his bookshelf. He had seen the deck before but hadn’t noticed it in months since she left him and noticing it now for the first time he was compelled to pull it out, open it and investigate.

Van’s ex-girlfriend was very into “spirituality,” which he thought was too occult for his liking although he wasn’t a particularly religious person and come to think of it his mother often called him a godless man. Thinking of his ex-girlfriend now he remembered she would take the tarot deck out and ask him questions like, “What time were you born?” to which he would reply, “Dude, none of your fucking business.” Come to think of it, he was pretty rude to her, especially at the end of their relationship, perhaps due to the crazy amounts of Adderall he was taking. He never did tell her what time he was born, and the truth was he didn’t know. His Soviet birth certificate didn’t have a timestamp and when he asked his mother she said it was around 3pm but wasn’t sure.

His ex, whose name was Melody, was a charming and cheerful girl. Van’s moodiness didn’t even affect her as much as it probably should have. According to her, she lived her life “by the spirit” she would often advise Van to differentiate between the mind and the spirit and would tell him things like: “your thoughts are not you” etc. Her jovial disposition increasingly began to get on Van’s nerves.

He remembered Melody explaining the tarot deck to him. She told him that the description of each card had its upright version and its reversed version, meaning that each card, no matter what the word meant, had two sides. For example, The Fool was seen as an archetype of thoughtlessness, recklessness, and stupidity but it was also a card of innocence, new beginnings, and the freedom of spirit. Similarly, a card like Strength naturally meant courage and influence while simultaneously, its image reversed, meant the opposite: depleted energy and self-doubt.

The Coward could easily be in the Major Arcana, he thought, now, as he remembered this.

Thinking of Melody reminded Van of a familiar feeling of self-loathing, a feeling often associated with the failure of their relationship. Melody, during one of their last fights, cited his “faithlessness” as the reason for their misery. He mistook this as an accusation of being unfaithful, which wasn’t true…but he would later realize that there was a distinction.

The fight started the night after they had attended a party together. According to Melody, at the sight of interesting people and beautiful women, Van did not actively present as a couple. She further accused him of pretending not to know her when she walked up to him talking to a woman, a B-list actress.

“You didn’t pay me any attention!” she said to him later that night.
“I see you every day!” was his response.

Was Melody threatened? Was she insecure? Did this trigger his impulse to cast her aside? If she didn’t believe she was good enough how could he?

She told him her therapist said that women want to be contained, a word that after much research presented itself as a concept of security. “The container is the form and shape that the Masculine brings, as a gift, to the outpouring of life, energy and chaos that is the gift of the Feminine,” he read online. Melody said that Van’s container wasn’t solid enough for her, it was shaky and pliable. She said that all their problems were because of his faithless nature, and that this wasn’t just how he approached his relationship, but how he approached everything.

He understood now that part of her grievance was that he didn’t CLAIM her. He didn’t claim anything. He was afraid of the relationship itself since he saw it as a marker, a signifier of who he was, what he wanted, what he believed in, what he found meaningful or beautiful. The relationship itself was a claim to a decided reality. And yes! It was true! Indeed he wasn’t sure, he had doubts, he was waiting for someone else to say that she was good enough to be claimed. Perhaps, he thought, the right woman would help stop this cowardice, or rather, to transform it, since he was beginning to look at cowardice as an archetype, like the ones in the tarot deck, the energy of which could be transformed into a productive outcome.

Van felt an inexplicable motivation to finish this project.

Justice for the coward!
Justice for the coward!
Justice for the coward!

He thought that perhaps his new life was already beginning to form itself, like when your blood cells start to clump together and clot, protecting a wound and preventing further blood loss.

Van texted his thesis advisor and told him that he was changing his thesis from:

THE FAILSON MANIFESTO: or, THE POLITICAL AND AESTHETICAL CONSIDERATIONS OF FAILURE AND FAMILY DYNAMICS

to simply:

LEARNING FROM THE COWARD: FEAR AND ITS REDEMPTION

His thesis advisor texted back within minutes: “what?”

The Coward was beautiful. His beauty hung around his neck like a ball and chain and his cowardice lent itself beautifully to vanity. He tried to preserve himself, his youth, his body and behind this obvious vanity was the source of his cowardice.

The second definition of vanity is the quality of being worthless or futile.

Worthlessness…this was a leading trait of the coward, yes but…

What if the coward’s efforts at preservation were viewed as a type of aversion to progress? Was there any righteousness to this kind of conservatism?

As the coffee began making its way, Van was reminded of his weak nervous system.

In Greek mythology, Hermes, the messenger god on Mount Olympus, had a magic wand called a “Caduceus”, which was given to him by Apollo. The Caduceus symbolizes the spinal column, the central channel for a kind of “Psychic Force”, or nerve energy. “That guy’s got nerve,” they would say, (this is what The Coward didn’t have).

Van’s advisor texted him again: “Sounds Christian.”

Yes, maybe it was. In the book of Revelation the cowards go to hell with the murderers and the whores. The Coward lacked a moral nerve.

Van sent an email to a priest he knew: hi Peter, is cowardice a sin?

The priest replied immediately:

If you are a coward, that means you lack understanding of God’s love and you do not have trust in Him. God did not give us a spirit of fear; but of power and love (2 Timothy 1:7).  

Van replied back:

So being scared is a sin then?

The priest replied:

Being afraid is not a sin but a coward has let fear overcome him and as a result, has fallen short of being a faithful servant of God. Cowards run the risk of compromising the Word of God to avoid persecution and furthermore, they run the risk of compromising their values and morals to keep from ruffling feathers. 

Van immediately emailed back:

Thank you Peter, see you soon.

Closed the laptop. Walked outside. No, he ran outside.

Yes, the coward wants to preserve and yet the cowardly impulse exposes our faithlessness.

The infant who doesn’t want to leave the womb is just trying to preserve the conditions of his safe environment, he doesn’t know he will die if allowed to stay.

In Shakespeare’s Caesar, cowards die many times before their death but did they know that death is a door!? Yes, also fear is a door, whether one walks through it or not depends primarily on whether or not he has any desire beyond this door, on whether or not he has any desire to unravel mysteries.

Van remembered that when he was a kid, his little sister had a porcelain doll collection, still the creepiest thing he has ever seen. There were probably about 20 dolls in their little boxes. What was the point of these dolls? She never played with them. Thinking of them now, Van wondered if the fact that they were preserved, no use to them except to be seen, to be looked at added to their despicability.

Vision of doors and limits provided Van with a framework for his thesis:

The Coward teaches us that maybe Freud was wrong, there is a third drive that governs our lives. Not the sex drive nor the death drive, a secret third thing: the drive to do nothing, to stand still, to preserve time, the self, and the existing state of affairs. The Coward accomplishes this nothingness with the help of fear, his faithful accomplice.

As he continued writing, Van began to feel increasingly alienated from the archetype of The Coward. He knew he would finish this project and it would be good, better than anything he had ever done before, and in doing so he would rid himself of the coward’s curse.

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.

Can’t be a porcelain doll, he thought.
Don’t be a porcelain doll.

Share

Subscribe now

The next day, as Michael prepared to meet Anahida at The Swan Room, he was outrivaled by manic thoughts. He was in a sort of realm of fantasy, a fantasy that extended beyond the borders of his rationality. Sometimes the rational mind can contain the fantasy, sometimes it is overwhelmed by it.

The fantasy was that this meeting with Anahida was fated, it was in the cards as they say. He thought about Anahida often during his relationship with Lisa. He thought about her with longing and sadness and a part of him, deep in the something dark corners of his mind, he wondered if he had fumbled the love of his life. He often wondered if he was a fumbler…no, he often feared he was a fumbler… (more on this later). Then he thought about uncondition. Remember uncondition? What if this meeting was exactly that? The feeling that never left…the feeling that couldn’t be sabotaged… 

The mania filled his mind, he tried to fight it half-heartedly, he mostly indulged in it, like when you take too much Adderall and chain-smoke cigarettes and get nothing done but you feel like you’re doing something… 

As he drove to East Hollywood, he wondered what they’d talk about. He decided he would not tell her about Lisa, he wasn’t even sure she knew about Lisa or anything about his life for that matter, they had totally lost touch. What he knew of Anahida was that she was married with two kids. Maybe this was no longer the case. Maybe she wanted to reconnect. He would take care of Anahida’s kids as his own, he would. 

As he tried to find parking, he tried to conjure up a memory of their relationship, but nothing was coming up. What were the defining aspects of their dynamic? He couldn’t remember. Did they share any meaningful moments? Nothing he could think of. What did Anahida mean to him? Loss.

He walked into The Swan Room and texted: here. He felt his heart beating and tried to calm himself with a technique he learned when he was a kid called “floating” where you float above your feelings, then you even float above your body, whatever you do you make sure you don’t SINK INTO your feelings. But the fantasy, (the overwhelming fantasy), encouraged him to go ahead and sink into the feeling because Anahida would meet him there. He spotted her sitting with her back towards him, he recognized her black curly hair. 

“Hey” he said walking towards her, “I texted you, I texted you ‘here’.”

“I don’t have a phone…or I do, but I check it only a few times a month,” she said.

“Really? How do you live in the real world?” 

“Well, I guess I don’t,” she laughed.

Michael was happy. He felt it by the immense feeling of wanting to please. He wanted to make Anahida happy, furthermore he wanted to be the source of Anahida’s happiness. This is what love was…maybe. He hadn’t been this excited about anything in a long long time. He almost couldn’t believe he was reunited with Anahida, the Goddess. An ancient Persian Goddess.  She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever been with, perhaps this was one defining aspect of their relationship, her captivating beauty. She had an old world face, the kind of face you would find in old paintings, and she had deep dark eyes that understood and communicated without words.

Introducing the Anahida Sculpture – a divine embodiment of Persian beauty and grace. This exquisite sculpture pays homage to Anahida, the ancient Persian goddess associated with fertility, water, and wisdom. Meticulously crafted, the sculpture captures the goddess’s ethereal presence with intricate details and a timeless aesthetic. Elevate your space with the enchanting energy of Anahida, a symbol of femininity and divine power. Whether displayed as a centerpiece or a cherished addition to your collection, this sculpture invites you to connect with the mystique and reverence of Persian mythology. Bring the essence of the Persian goddess into your surroundings, celebrating a rich cultural heritage with this stunning piece of art. $193.85 shopipersia.com

“How are you?” she asked. 

“I’m great, how are you?” He responded. 

“I’m great too.”

He couldn’t help himself, “Well I’m not actually great, but I’m great right now, at this moment.”

Anahida smiled the knowing smile. It was all coming back, the tenderness. 

“I was pleasantly surprised at your text,” she said. 

“Yeah I thought… it’s been a while, wanted to check in,” Michael laughed, trying to sound casual.

“Sure has.”

“I was also pleasantly surprised… that you wanted to meet up,” he said.

“Oh yeah, I felt called to” 

“Called to?” 

“Yeah like something in me…insisted, a voice,” she said.

“So it wasn’t you, it was A Voice.”

“Yes, precisely, but the voice usually knows my heart better than me.” 

“Just to be clear, we’re talking about…what exactly?”

“Voice,” Anahida said. 

“I have a voice in my head too, manic voice.”

“You’re feeling manic?” 

“A little. Mostly just excited,” he said.

“You should try and calm down.”

“Okay.” Michael obeyed The Goddess.

“I'm going through a really crazy breakup,” Michael blurted out. He told her everything. His plans of being stoic, being reserved, not revealing too much all came crumbling down. 

When he finished, he immediately felt sick. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I haven’t talked about it,” he said.

“With anyone?” 

“I mean I talked about it but I was always talking about it in the sense that I was defending my decision, but now I’m talking about it in a sad way, kind of,” he said.

“It sounds sad,” she said.

“I mean I’m gonna take care of my kid, obviously.”

“Of course,” Anahida responded, gently. She was always so gentle, unlike Lisa who was aggressive and masculine. Michael had a feeling this had to do with the fact that Anahida came from money, and Lisa was a middle class striver at her core. 

“How’s your life? Husband?” Michael asked.

“Yes! Husband, kids, it’s wonderful.” 

“Oh…”

“What?” she asked. 

“Nothing, I just wasn’t sure if you were still married,” he said, embarrassed. 

He anticipated her next question, “why wouldn’t I be?” but it didn’t come. She didn’t say “why wouldn't I be?” she didn’t fake it, she understood, she knew he was wondering why she asked to meet up if she was happily married. 

“Two people can just connect, it doesn’t have to be anything specific,” she finally said. 

“I know. I know,” he said. 

“And like I said, it wasn’t really my decision, it was The Voice, I mean it was my decision to obey the voice, you always have a choice,” she said. 

“So about this voice…” Michael joked, implying lunacy.

“I guess  I just mean that there are some things that are supposed to happen. In order to sustain a spiritual order, or a law,” she said. 

“Hmm…” Michael said, “and us meeting up is sustaining this spiritual law?” 

He didn’t quite understand what the hell she was talking about but he was finally remembering something, it was all coming back, the knowledge that he didn't have to understand because she would make him understand. She would turn the eyes of his soul in such a way that he will understand, she had done it many times before. Okay, it was all coming back.

They caught up on work, mutual friends, and memories, it was pleasant, and he did calm down. The fantasy was dying out because there was something more powerful emanating from Anahida, she was able to control his fantasy- something in Anahida was able to tame Michael’s fantasy- anchor him to the world. In this moment he accepted the fact that he was still in love with her, and he let this love act as a sort of screen that covered and protected his despair concerning the current state of his life. Love as a protective layer. Anahida coated Michael’s misery, spread over it, sealing it from harm of any external force. This was a coziness akin to love. 

And there was also a familiarity, but one with respect, not the familiarity that made you want to act up and behave badly, you know what I’m talking about. 

“So what do you do all day without a phone?” Michael asked.

“I guess I just sort of…vibe,” Anahida laughed, “no I mean I just tend to my life, my responsibilities, you know…” 

“And your husband?” 

“He’s more normal than I am,” she said. 

“Hmm…” he said. 

“I belong…to this group, it’s a workshop,” she finally said after some silence where they just looked at each other.

Michael gestured as in to say ok? Go on… 

And so she told him. She told him everything. She told him that she belonged to a group, they called it a “workshop” called The Alchemy Society, led by a teacher named “Name” but they usually just called him “Teacher.”

“His name is Name?” Michael interjected… 

“Yes, don’t make fun, it’s powerful, it references the idea that we are all given a name and there’s power in that and so to be called Name refers to the idea that we are all living in this world awaiting to be named or to be given an identity we can perform. But we just call him Teacher usually.” 

Michael reminded himself: she will turn the eyes of my soul in such a way that I will understand, because I don’t understand right now. 

“So it’s a cult!” He finally said.

“No, it’s not, well it is in the way that everything is a cult, even families…”

“You’re losing me here Ana,” he said.

“Remember when we watched the Yorgos Lanthimos movie, Dogtooth? That’s what that movie is basically about that all families are cults but no the workshop is not a cult,” she said.

“I don’t know if that’s what Dogtooth is about…but okay,” he said.

She explained that it wasn’t a cult, it was a workshop. 

“It’s nothing like you’ve ever seen before. It’s a project. It’s a project of self-realization, self-overcoming. The name Alchemy Society is obviously a reference to the ancient practice of alchemy, turning base metals into gold. What the workshop is concerned with and what Teacher is concerned with is the transmutation of our base instincts into spiritual gold. He’s brilliant, Michael, you should meet him. You guys would really…vibe. The workshop combines the teachings of like…Jesus Christ, Buddha, and even some relatively modern writers like Carl Jung, Alan Watts and Florence Scovall Shinn. As well as some ancient alchemists, obviously.”

“obviously…” Michael said. 

“Mostly we talk about The Great Vibration,” she continued, “which is The Source or God or whatever you want to call it, we talk about how to reach it, how to feed from it. I guess that’s kinda what I meant when I said I vibe without my phone and we talk about that too…the vibe as being sort of something that CAN’T be intellectualized. He wrote a book on vibes, it’s kind of what put him on the map.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of him. And you do realize how crazy your pitch was right? Like you sound like you’re in a cult, I mean Alan Watts?!” Michael said.

“It has really helped me with all my relationships. With my husband, my kids, even my parents and you know how difficult that was at certain points,” she said. “You should come to a meeting, I think it could help with what you’re feeling.”

“Does your husband come?”

“No, this is something I do on my own,” she said.

“Ok, I’ll come.”

“It really helps with putting things into perspective. Priorities, meaning. I really think you would benefit from it. It has changed my life,” she said.

“Ok, I said, I’ll come.” 

Subscribe now

Share ANI’s Substack

What temperature should be used to bake chicken thighs? Michael googled on the first night Lisa had officially moved out. He told himself this was a good thing, that he was now being forced to learn how to take care of himself in ways he never had to before.

He was alone in his house, the house he bought, the house that he worked hard for, the house that was his. He texted the group chat he had with his two friends, Danny and Hannah, and he told them to come over.

I’ll make martinis, he wrote.

I’ve been sober for five years, remember? Danny wrote back. 

Yes, but one of these days you’re going to change your mind, Michael texted back.

Danny was in every Anonymous group; AA, NA, SLAA. 

“Everything could be turned into an addiction,” he once said to Michael, “you gotta be careful.”

“Abstaining from anything that could be an addiction doesn’t really fix it, does it?” Michael had responded. This resulted in a dialogue about the nature of addictions/attachments. Some parts of that dialogue are transcribed below:

Michael: Instead of abstaining, shouldn’t it be better to change your relationship to the thing? Relationships to things can be changed, and to believe them to be a constant is a bit ignorant, no? When you abstain you’re just keeping the object of your addiction at bay. The addiction itself does not change in size or value. Instead, you have to tackle the nature of the attachment or the associations the mind makes in regards to the addiction object. Changing these associations should be the point, changing the pattern in the mind, its history.

Danny: But in order to do that you need time away. To forget.

Michael: My problem with these groups is that you’re basically working with absolutes. You’re saying you’re never going to drink again, for example. You’ve put it out of your mind but the relationship to it remains the same. 

Danny: Who said I’ve put it out of my mind? 

Michael: Well, maybe not you but most people who belong to these “anonymous” groups. 

Danny: No addict has forgotten the object of their addiction, Michael, that’s a bit ignorant no? Listen, the problem is you don’t understand the importance of  becoming small. 

Michael: Becoming small? 

Danny: It’s the submission, the powerlessness, the resignation. This is what we confront when we go to AA meetings and such. This is important. It’s not really what you’re addicted to…

Michael: Exactly! That’s what I’m saying.

Danny: No, let me finish. It’s not really what you’re addicted to and the relationship to the thing is not the point either…not really, because if I have a certain void inside me, a certain gap, and I fill it with addictions and then if I change my relationship to booze then that gap will still remain and it will have to be filled with something else.

Michael: I understand but shouldn’t we try to change the nature of these addictions?

Danny: You’re looking at it from a superior POV, while I’m seeing it from an inferior one. I’m saying I am powerless in the face of addictions and the only way I can be free is through submitting to a higher power.

Michael: So you’re talking about God.

Danny: Yes I guess I am. 

Michael: I think a person can overcome their attachments or addictions or whatever alone, I don’t think you need a higher power. 

Michael had a feeling that his fixation on the concept of “uncondition” was related to whatever he and Danny were talking about but this feeling did not result in any coherent thought he could communicate to Danny, so the conversation ended on that note.

Anahida still hadn’t texted him back but Michael was hopeful.

When he brought this up to his friends, at his house, over two martinis and a diet coke his friends looked at each other sharing a recognition of some kind.

“What?” Michael asked.

“You didn’t even like Anahida,” Hannah said.

“What do you mean?! I was obsessed with her!” Michael replied.

“Yeah an obsession that was very obviously centered around yourself and your feelings of lack, especially around like money and stuff,” Hannah explained.

“You complained that she was too spoiled, which is funny considering…” Danny chimed in.

Michael was going to respond with “considering what?” but he knew what Danny meant. Michael knew what Danny thought of him, he thought that Michael was creating problems for himself, that Michael was bored with his good life and in order to create some excitement he contrived twists and turns-- while Danny believed himself to be born into twists and turns and therefore submission was the only way out of it. This is why at the end of their dialogue about addictions and attachments, Michael did not understand the idea of resignation.

“She left me for some real-estate developer,” Michael cried.

“She moved on with a real-estate developer, after you treated her very badly. I liked Anahida actually, though she’s disappeared from the face of the earth lately. She’s not even on Instagram anymore,” Hannah said.

“All you did was complain about her. Do you not remember?” Danny asked.

“No,” Michael said, earnestly.

“You are different from who you believe yourself to be, to know this is forgiveness.” Danny said.

“In a few years, you’ll probably place Lisa at the center of your desires, or think of her as the one that got away, it’s funny, you do this a lot. With jobs too, you’ll complain about it when it’s happening like it will be the center of all your unhappiness and the second it’s done and you have some distance from it, suddenly it was the happiest time of your life, I mean I know that it’s sort of human nature but you take it to a whole other level,” Hannah said.

“Okay, well, maybe I want to find something that I can’t destroy even if I tried,” was Michael’s response.

“It sounds like you want to be powerless in the face of something greater than yourself,” Danny said.

It seemed like Michael was in a moment in his life where even his best friends were tired of his shit.

That night, after Danny and Hannah had gone home, Michael finally received a text from Anahida.

Michael, it’s so good to hear from you. Sorry for the delayed response, I am just now checking my phone. I’d love to catch up. Do you have time to grab coffee or a drink soon? If so, please respond soon as I will be away from my phone again for another two weeks.

Michael was elated.

Yes, tomorrow?

Sounds good. How’s The Swan Room at 8p?

Perfect.

See you then.

Share ANI’s Substack

Like a prophet

And yesterday

I was sick with a disease of wanting things to be

Absolute

I saw degeneration and kept wanting

On down the line

How far away

We’ll always love you but

That’s not the point