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I have a fair number of phobias. Four is a fair number. Phobias and fears are different—I fear snapping turtles, for example… but if I encountered a snapping turtle face to face I’d certainly manage to deal with it. Fears are common and plentiful and generally faceable. A phobia, however, is a label I’ll only give to something that I believe could overpower my will to live. Something so frightening and awful that I’d rather choose death myself than die facing it.

My phobias are as follows:

• Amusement park rides in the dark/after hours. Major bonus points for animatronics.

• Mechanics or large objects submerged in water.

• Wax figures and other life-sized, life-like objects.

• Needles in a medical sense. Tattoos don’t count, I’ve found.

I’m in New Orleans caring for my aunt post-surgery. The two of us are seated in a small room over some paperwork. The nurse across from us is speaking so quickly we can’t catch one bit of what she’s saying. She gestures to a pile of tubes and vials and says she’s going to take some of my aunt’s blood. My leg starts bouncing on its own at this news. My throat contracts in the way it does when I’m about to laugh. I start smiling ear to ear, which is strange because inside I feel nothing but soul stopping fear and despair. My legs feel numb and tickly and I’m wiggling in my seat. I suck in my cheeks and make fish lips. My body language is strange and contradictory, but I can’t help it. Something inside of me is trying to leap out.

The needle is dangerously close to being stuck. Tying a blue rubber band around the arm, the nurse politely asks me if I’d prefer to step out for this part. I open my mouth to accept her invitation in a hm, might as well! sort of way that instead comes out strangled. YES. YES! HELP ME! A hand on my lower back escorts me out, and I apologize. I inform her that I am actually a very good caretaker, and this is not reflective of my character. She says she’s seen worse.

Phobias invoke a primal response that you’re allowed to explain away. This is what I tell myself as she shuts the door behind me. Being exposed to the phobia feels somewhat like possession. Whether it be a hand leading you out the door or multiple hands pinning you down—it’s like an exorcism in the name of logic. Once the trigger is gone, everything is right again. So, every time I get blood work, I warn them. Hey guys, I’m going to writhe and scream and lose control of my body. Heed my warning!!!!! They say they’ve seen worse, always. And then when I writhe, scream, and lose control of my body, it’s a shock. I dry my eyes and assure them that they’ve done an amazing job and that I didn’t even really feel it! Which is almost always true! It’s not about the pain. It’s never been about the pain. It’s about anything and everything else about it. The needle is evil and I can feel its evil aura.

The phobia spreads like a forest fire once it’s been activated. Everything attached to and around the needle will take on its evil, malicious properties. All medical equipment becomes a trigger in and of itself. The sound of it, the sight of it, the sterility of it. I feel woozy being close to it. The same feeling I get when I’m driving over a bridge or standing next to something dead. My legs feel tickly and detached from my body. Every nerve stands on end.

I feel childish and stupid in the waiting room. My feet don’t quite reach the floor, and all of a sudden I feel weird in what I’m wearing. I feel like a screenager because there’s nothing better to do than be on my phone and honestly, it feels like I’m offending everybody else by not being on my phone because when I’m not, we’re more likely to make eye contact, and nobody wants that. I’m scrunching my nose because I don’t understand what the nurses are doing or what I’m supposed to do. I can’t keep my legs still and I want them near my chest. I pull them onto the couch. My shoes are on the fabric and a passing nurse gives them a sad look and I put them down.

I’ve had this relationship to needles for as long as I can remember. It’s always been the same—once a needle is present, I’m inconsolable. It’s like I can feel the evil energy rays radiating off the little cart it’s on. A few years back the clinic surprised me with a special little room with a special chair. It used to be metal, bright red, nailed into the wall. I used that chair only once before it was replaced with a brand new blue one. Here is me a few years back on my third or so visit featuring the chair. This was my last appointment before being permanently transferred to the hospital for blood work.

Somehow I feel less girlish in the highchair than I do being escorted out to the waiting room. Being escorted out feels shameful, like a failure, though I haven’t failed at anything. I feel the need to explain the phobia, whereas in the highchair I am already explained for. The highchair feels necessary and validates the wild animal sensations I’m experiencing. I feel like a caged beast, and somehow that makes it better? Like a celebrity in a security-flanked, black-windowed limousine. Dramatic, but necessary.

The little girl needle phobia follows me everywhere I go—only different. I feel like everyone can see my girlishness on me. Like every time I walk into a cafe the barista’s thinking, ‘Fuck, this is going to be a really awkward interaction.’ Hospitals in particular make me feel this way. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing and no right mind to think about it. I can’t seem to speak correctly, and I keep ending up in the corners of rooms, fingers shaking as I stare down at the phone I’m doing nothing on. I don’t cross my legs; instead, I let them dangle in front of me. I bite my nails. I feel moody. I feel perceived as moody. In my wildest dreams I’m sharing a laugh with the receptionist and feeling confident in my signature. In my wildest dreams I’m grown up.

But I don’t blame myself. Not really. Being in a medical environment is like being a flower in the hands of a gorilla. The lighting is lethal, the people are tired and grumpy, it smells weird and chemical. There’s a poster on the wall listing the different kinds of shit and what they might indicate. The doctor is telling me that my prolonged health concern is probably due to prolonged screentime before bed. Then I’m held down and stabbed repeatedly in my dominant arm until I’m crying.

My childhood idea of hell was that stupid little game where kids would poke each other with mechanical pencils and pretend they were needles. I became hostile and unfun to be around when these games were played. I’d spot the pencil in my periphery and panic. It was funny for everyone but me. Nudging their hand away, I’d do a little ssttstopppp that actually meant fucking stop!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I hate you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I’m reminded of this game in the recovery-room bathroom. Two CNAs are teaching me how to dress wounds and drain tubes. I tell them I’m not queasy because I’m not. I’m just primally afraid. I’m afraid to be there in the first place. They ask me how I’m feeling, and I assure them I’m fine save for a fear of needles. We all laugh. What they don’t know is that I’m actually afraid of them, too. Afraid of my fear, afraid of the expectations. Afraid of being witnessed when I feel so small.

It makes me think that maybe this isn’t a needle phobia, per se, but rather a phobia of being on the receiving end of the needle. Of fear being injected into me.

I wonder if I could draw my own blood… I joke about it being impossible, but secretly I bet I could. I bet if they stuck me in the dark, silently and gently enough, I wouldn’t writhe or cry. It’d just be me and the needle, and I’d understand. Like a little love affair. Maybe if I got really good at it they’d give me special access. I could stroll in and they’d recognize me and give me the keys to my special room. I’d turn off the lights and phone a friend, and we’d talk about anything, and I’d hiss a little at the tip penetrating my skin. I’d bandage myself and pour the blood into its little thingy and hand it over to the front desk. Send this to the labs!

Because with needles it’s always been WAIT WAIT WAIT! And never STOP STOP STOP! It’s always been a plea to Just—let me be ready! —Let me be prepared! So they wait. They wait patiently and soothe me with their gloved hands up and down my back. They ask me if I’m ready, and I’m still not ready. I’m still not there. And though I’ll never blame it on myself, I’m left with the feeling that I’ll never be good enough, never be old enough, never be prepared enough. I’ll never hurdle this.

I feel all of this—and then it’s all done. I feel the sun on my skin. I swaddle myself in a blanket and kiss each of my knuckles. I sip hot chocolate and tell myself how good of a job I’ve done. I give myself the rest of the day off and cry when I remove the band-aid. I sleep in warm, clean sheets and put my phone on silent because I deserve it after the treacherous day I’ve been forced to endure. My arm aches a bit, and I soothe it with little touches of my fingers. I’m very brave.

This is how it always goes. Maybe how it’ll always go? Maybe till I’m 100?

xoxoxoxoxoxoxxoooxoxxox

perfect woman

I’m at an art center to sit nude for hours in front of some artists, a gig that I booked months ago. I’ve never done anything like this before. I’m really here to challenge my comfortability with public nudity. I wrote an article about it here, and now I’m running a series of experiments on myself. I arrive and slip into an all-gender restroom that smells like a generator room and has no visible light switch. I change into my robe in the dark. It’s floor-length, gold, and silk, and I’m completely naked underneath. I use my phone’s flash to assess myself in the mirror. My reflection and I share an intimate moment in the dark. Inside I am nervous, but my eyes bore into me, leveled and brave.

I exit the restroom and try my hardest to remain invisible until I want to be seen. I’m reminded of the recurring dream: I’m naked at school! I’d get throughout high school. My leg keeps slipping out the front of the robe, and I feel wrong being in a hallway. I enter a room that looks like it’s waiting for someone, and a bearded man greets me in the doorway. He asks me if I’m Olive, and I tell him that I am. He invites me in and tells me I’m right on time.

Of course everybody looks up at me when I enter. I’m their model, after all. I’m briefly reminded of that meme: ants when you lift up a rock, which makes me smile, but I knock it off immediately because the last thing I’m trying to do is laugh in everyone’s face right off the bat. I’m feeling shy, but I’m understanding that cowardice won’t help me grow here. The best move is to take up space. I want to blossom. I locate a small platform in the center of the room with a fancy chair on it. I claim my throne, cross my legs, lean forward, and loudly announce to everybody that I’m not sure what I’m doing, so I’d really appreciate it if they could pose me into something ideal for us all. The bearded man is like, “Actually, this looks good.” Everyone nods their heads in unison.

They recommend that I choose a point in the room to stare at. I scan my surroundings and land on a statue of Venus in the far right corner. After a few moments of minor corrections and a comfortability test, the room falls silent, and I take this as my cue to get naked. The robe pools around my hips, and I assume a pose. All of my concerns arise within me: what if I shit myself right here right now? What if I need to cough and I can’t hold it in? What if I get a full-body itch? I distract myself with Venus; I’m glad she’s just as naked as I am.

My flesh is aware of its exposure. I feel prickly. The artists—twenty, give or take—are arranged in a semi-circle around me. Venus, being so far away, gives me a clear view of half the circle. I’ve noticed a wide array of ages. Two men sit directly before me; one looks to be about eighty and the other anywhere from nineteen to twenty-five. I make accidental eye contact with the latter every fifteen minutes, and every time it becomes more and more unsettling for us both. I glue my eyes to Venus. I stare at her until I’m certain I can see her marble chest rising and falling. I telepathically ask her to wink at me. I do this in twenty-five-minute increments between five-minute breaks.

The first few break times are spent hastily putting my robe back on, sipping water, applying chapstick, and giving my eyes a break from real, uninterrupted life as it should be by scrolling Instagram. I speak to nobody, and nobody speaks to me. I feel like a mysterious maiden. By the fourth break I’m leaned back, naked in my chair, picking crust off my nipple piercings as everyone else talks amongst each other and does touch-ups on their sketches. By the fifth, I do a slow circle and take a look at what everyone’s completed thus far. Some of the drawings are the most beautiful I’ve ever seen. I’m obsessed with the different renditions of my body—the size of my boobs varies like Flynn Rider’s nose in his wanted posters. The women depict me more accurately in this regard.

Everyone tells me that I’m doing really well, which I assume translates to you sit so still. Judging by the nature of the job, I’m sure that they’re used to older models. Minors aren’t hired for this stuff, of course, but I’m consistently mistaken for fifteen, and I can tell in their eyes that they’re desperately trying not to make the same mistake. The men of the group look at me with apologies in their eyes. Nobody includes my piercings save for the young guy I keep making eye contact with.

By the final session I’ve forgotten my nervousness. I leave feeling like a brand-new woman.

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i dyed my hair back to my natural color and it saved my life
i celebrated my birth
i conquered a calendar
i cried
i laid on the floor and on the ground
i showered in candlelight
i posed naked for 20 canvases
i blossomed
i came face to face with my uterin lining
i kissed nervously
i looked clapped some days and striking others, spectacular always
i was wrapped in warmth
i experienced euphoria
i went in disguise
i was the best there is at anything

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The other day I left detailed prints of my vagina in blood on white hotel sheets. Oopsie! It was very impressive of me. There were (or maybe are—I wonder if they ever managed to get them out) five perfect prints, with minimal smearing, implying that, lying on my stomach, I managed to press my profusely bleeding vagina hard and still enough against the sheet to leave a print outlining every nook and cranny of that thing five separate times.

I feel no shame. If anything, I feel proud. I’d just ended my period that morning, and because my body is so loyal to me—it knew I’d be getting head—my uterus paused its shed before we called it a night. The prints had dried completely by morning. I didn’t tip room service. I’m sorry. Please. I was in a sort of post-hookup state that leaves you buzzy and rightfully irresponsible. I felt no regret, no anxiety or pressing urge to apologize to anybody. I scanned the stains using the Files app on my phone, which is what you’ve just seen above. Nothing deserved my immediate attention, let alone my immediate concern. There was too much on my mind for that.

This isn’t even about the prints. I didn’t give a crap about the prints. My friends did, thought it was funny, and pitied me for it. I, too, thought it was funny and pitied me for it. This essay isn’t about the blood prints, but I thought I’d mention them first and foremost on account of my being too embarrassed to title this essay accurately.

Anyways, fucking your ex is strictly forbidden and simultaneously somewhat necessary. Everybody knows this.

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I keep pretending that I’m going to eat fruit while out. Kinda like how I pretend I’m going to read a book whilst getting tattooed. And then when hunger arises inside me I purchase something more fitting for the moment. What’s more fitting for the moment means something more immediately appealing. A chocolate granola bar, maybe. I’m not sure why I do this because I really do like fruit. My favorite fruit is banana, my second favorite is apple. I like pineapple, too. I carry my favorites with me in plastic baggies and tupperware. I think it gives me an air of clean mystery. I think it gives off the impression that I am very disciplined and put together.

Once to thrice a year I find a rotting fruit in the bottom of my purse, most often a clementine in a plastic baggy. I carry huge purses that my friends like to call mom bags and I let them get all the way full before doing a deep clean. I carry tons of things—crumpled papers, oodles and oodles of bobby pins, headscarves, tank tops in case I sleep over somewhere, books, etc. Everything is piled into one big pocket.

Bags, plural, is being used very loosely here because I don’t shuffle through bags. I don’t change my purse to match my outfit or anything like that. I’d love to, I just can’t with the amount of shit that I keep in that thing. I only switch out my purse when it gets too dirty. I empty it, then I shake it upside down over the trash can. Sometimes, if it’s been a while, the bottom will get all stained and it’ll seep through to the outside, visible to the public eye. When that happens I throw it in the wash. And if that doesn’t solve the problem the tote becomes a work tote which is similar to a sleep shirt. A lot of my totes have met this fate. My current bag is a sparkly faux-leather material which avoids this problem entirely.

There is currently a banana loose in this purse that will rot if I don’t eat it soon. Tomorrow is the day. Tomorrow I will eat the banana. It’s perfectly ripe and loose, rolling around with all my things. Everything in there smells slightly of banana. It’s like……fine. I think I’ll eat it. But this is what I think every time. I tell myself I’m gonna eat that, and then I do not. Once the fake deadline I’ve set for myself has surpassed the fruit leaves my mind completely. I won’t discover it again until it is far, far too late. Weeks too late. The next time I see this banana it’ll be shriveled and cursed. I’ll be doing the walk of shame from bag hook to garbage can.

Ego blown to smithereens, the shellshocked journey from purse to garbage can is performed with the nonchalance of one tossing out an old receipt. Speaking about this publicly is like admitting to friends that you’re a bedwetter. It only happens like once a year. It only happens when I dream about pissing.

Believe it or not this fruit thing is a less pressing matter compared to other rottage in my life. I have a tendency to let things sit. My inability to start and let alone complete tasks has led to the development of a strict and structured routine that creates the illusion of put-togetherness where it does not actually exist at all. I wake up at 7 and jump in place 30 or so times. From there I stretch, move my body a bit, and get straight on the treadmill in whatever I slept in. Often this means I’m running completely nude save for socks and sneakers. The sweat that accumulates on my body gives me no other choice but to shower, naturally transitioning me into clean, day clothes. After all of this I’m hungry so I make breakfast. Once this is all done I’ll usually want to brush my teeth. If I skip any of the first three steps there’s a 75% chance that the remainder of the day will be completely and utterly fruitless. (haha.) I’ll rot away in pajamas with unwashed teeth and achy, stiff muscles.

It’s a problem of priority more than it is depression. My priorities are handled by something inside me that clearly isn’t and doesn’t involve my logical brain whatsoever. I am aware of a task, I am aware that the task must be tackled, I am aware that a task may take as little as five seconds. I know this, and yet this knowledge fails to prevent my monkey brain from ignoring it all. This routine of mine, as much as it is enjoyable, feels a lot like whipping a racehorse. I am both the horse and the jockey.

It’s midnight and I’m recovering from the horror of finding a black, rotted banana in my purse. I fished it out and carried it through the dark in my underwear and tried not to imagine it as anything else other than what it was. I thought to myself, you’re gonna look down and it’s gonna be a fresh rat corpse. I flung it into the kitchen garbage and sprint-launched back into bed as if the banana were a slimy, murderous monster chasing me.

Tomorrow I’m seeing someone—I’m horrified that in some other dimension I haven’t removed the banana and it’s waiting to be found at the worst possible moment. Something gets lost in my bag… I empty the contents… the banana falls out. Being caught having not done something is one of the strangest forms of humiliation. It’s not that I’ve done something bad, it’s that I’ve let something accumulate. I’ve been… what? Lazy? Bummy?

Both of these accusations are earth shattering. My dark and secret fear is that they are earth shatteringly accurate.

Put most kindly I am very clearly confused. Not at what I’m supposed to do, but at how I’m supposed to keep up with it all. As a child my jealousy was aimed not at popularity or social status but cleanliness and put-togetherness. It felt (and still feels) like these put-together people were operating on a higher level of awareness than I. That for them having ironed, lint-rolled clothing, shaped nails, an organized bag, a clean phone case, whatever it was and is, all at once all the time, was done with ease due to some built-in programming that I did not have access to. I worried about the practical things: Where do I fall on the bog witch to fantasy princess spectrum? Is my recklessness youthful and charming or is it indicative of a psychological malfunction?

One thing I’ve never done is blame it on some fault of my own. Because surely that cannot be the case! I am deeply in love with myself and protect my quality of life above everything else. I’ve always stood firm in the belief that I am deserving of all good things. I dedicate myself to this belief. I live by this belief. I think incredibly highly of myself. I think I’m perfect. Sometimes I think I’m obnoxiously perfect. I pour into myself and expect the best. On the other side of this coin is my tendency to rot and spoil. The two sides are very similar. They intermingle. I ask myself, why are you so, so, so irresponsible?! I ask myself, why are you so, so, so beautiful?! I ask myself, what on earth is going on!?!?!?

It is all so confusing and dramatic. Besides the shame that settles in after a day of doom scrolling or finding a rotten banana in my bag, I don’t really care. I believe I have bigger fish to fry. I believe there are other factors at play. I believe many things about it. I believe many things about myself.

I wonder if I will ever kick these habits. Unfortunately no amount of learning will drive them away. No matter how many times the rotten fruit leaks in my palm on its way to the trash, I continue. My stopping will be due to an internal change… maybe second puberty? Maybe my 30’s? Maybe my children? I wonder if I will continue on for the rest of my life. I wonder if my room will be clean when I die. If my nails will be shaped. I wonder if I’ll have brushed my teeth. I wonder if anyone would care but me.

I’d like to ignore all the stuff about how geniuses have bad hand writing and how Albert Einstein had crazy hair. These comparisons are like blank printer paper to me. I’d like to dodge the label “messy girl” and instead just be a girl who’s messy. I’d like for my aesthetic and perception to be based on what matters rather than what’s shocking enough to be latched onto. There are many opinions about my habits. They vary in connotation but are all solid enough to wash the rest of me out. There is a great, brick wall between myself and these opinions. The wall stretches 1000 yards tall and wide and was established 1000 years ago. It has survived 1000 storms and 1000 floods and 1000 men.

To be very admirably honest with you I cannot tell whether this essay is a result of shame or of pride. However I am the only one who gets to decide that, and so I will tell you now that it is born of a secret third thing: humility. I am neither ashamed nor proud of my messy (and often straight up filthy) habits, I am simply accepting them as they are and moving on. Life moves and so I shall move with it. Doing this feels a lot like how I imagine it’d feel to play the Electro Who-Cardio Floox. See here. Overcomplicated and confusing for everyone involved.

Tonight I have removed the fruit from my purse but only for the sake of preserving human connection uninterrupted.

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— closing notes / mood board at the bottom of page :-)

Every weekend for the past year I’ve been shut up in this sound booth pressing buttons in the dark. When I press buttons I make noises happen. There is no passion behind what I do. I am always wondering what I have passion for.

I like carving out spaces. I like my bed made and comfort waiting for me after hardship. I like time well spent and a satisfactory feeling when the sun sets. I like sleeping on a full belly. I do not care much for theater. I do not care for the crew I work with, nor do I care about the building I work in.

I’m supposed to but I don’t. I keep saying I’m going to get done with it all but I don’t. I’m always waiting for the turn of the seasons. I always feel like something’s waiting for me there, like a sudden pull towards art or some kind of overnight success. I like feeling like myself—and that is feeling enjoyment.

On weekdays I feel like myself. I dress well, I go out. I buy myself a block of dark chocolate and a hefty magazine. I light candles and bathe and rub my shaved legs in my freshly cleaned sheets. I take walks in the night and I call people on the phone. When I cry on weekdays it's never detrimental because everything is very romantic. Sometimes, I feel like a performer. Like I’m in a costume carrying around props.

On weekends I’m in the sound booth. I wear black and I sit, swallowed in the darkness waiting, fingers hovering over buttons. I eat snacks that only fill me halfway. People come in and out. I’ve worked here a little over a year, now, and I’m ready to move on but I know I will not. Especially now that Julia is here. Julia actually enjoys being in here which makes me feel really bad about myself. Julia actually believes it when people tell us that we’re the ones running the show. She’s the only person I see outside of work.

Sometimes we share the weekdays. She comes to my apartment for long talks in the day and I go to hers for events in the night. I run my fingertips through the silk dresses that hang in her closet while she picks her hair out as big as it can be.

On Friday nights she brings me to fancy house parties that I don’t know exist until she’s taken me there. She says she knows lots of people. She wears vintage wedding dresses and she’s managed to hoard so many and wear them so casually that they’ve become her thing. She gets her nails done with charms on every finger and she wears bangles up to her elbows. She doesn’t like pregaming so we just drink when we get there. She keeps a digital camera but somehow always ends up getting candids of herself instead of others. I wonder if I am the one taking them. She sings and dances and she’s the kind of singer and dancer that makes others want to join her.

I am always thinking. I am doing this now, back in Julia’s apartment. She is telling me about something that’s going on next week. She’s taking off her bracelets and they’re clattering into her porcelain cat shaped ring dish. The orange lamps are on and they’re making us both look better than we really do. She’s told me not to go back home because she thinks I’m drunker than I really am. I’ve listened, and now I’m in one of her silk nightgowns. I’m wondering about tomorrow. I wonder if we will get ready together, leave her apartment and show up together. I decide that we’ll have to, if I’m sleeping here.

When she climbs into bed I feel wooden. She’s in a nightgown, too. She falls asleep almost instantly. I am like a slab of concrete beside her. Being here feels so inappropriate it is as if my very presence is leaving debris in the bed. I slide out from under the covers without an idea of where I’m going or what I’m doing. The floor is shiny in the low lamp light. I think about morning, both of us puffy and ugly from sleep, rubbing the crust from our eyes and ignoring our hangovers. Sipping water with our dry lips. I think about what she's like without me in here, all alone in her bed.

Except it’s the weekend tomorrow and nothing is romantic anymore. I know I’m more than sober enough to Uber home. I order an Uber. Suddenly I feel like a crazed ape raving about its cage. I want to rip off my nightgown and scale the brick exterior like Count Dracula. I want to shake Julia awake and throw her off the balcony. I want to tear apart her home and smash things against the walls. I want to exit my skeleton and fly away.

So I’m grabbing my purse and, heart ricocheting off my insides, I slip out her bedroom door.

I do not see light for many hours. Friday nights start at sundown and call times get earlier and earlier. A stick of incense is burning on the main console when I enter. I put on my headset. My head aches worse. Everything is dusty, always, and carpenter ants eat away at the attic floor overhead. I hear socked footsteps above. I hear the hushed voices of the people who do the spotlights. They work up there. Dust falls into my hair and eyeballs. I spot Julia’s abandoned shoes next to her chair.

Quiet on set; theater lights dim. In the silence I hear Julia’s palms grip the metal ladder. She’s descending. Her socks appear first—striped and dirty from touching the attic floor. I spin around in my chair and act busy with my buttons. I am in love with her. I forget my headache.

She’s in her chair beside me and she’s putting on her headset. The curtains are drawn and she’s starting the music. Sometimes, in the later stages of a production, doing five or six run-throughs a day, we start cueing sounds with our toes instead of our fingers, laughing behind our hands. There are always periods of intense focus, scenes of intensity and action that require all fingers on board: A knock at the door, a creaking floor board, a shattering glass, a distant scream, an owl hoo-hooing. Then long periods of nothing. Writing each other notes in the margins of our cue sheets, unwrapping granola bars as quietly as we can.

Right now there is nothing. And we are leaned back in our chairs. And she has scooched hers very close to mine and our legs are touching through their black pants. She is very close to my ear when she asks me, were you sick? I shake my head no. My hair catches on her lipgloss. She does nothing but breathe for a moment. Then she asks me the obvious question as to whether or not I got home safely. I nod yes. I turn my head and we’re facing each other. I can barely see her in the darkness. I wish she were in one of her dresses. I wish she were telling me something I could latch onto. There is nowhere to go. She leans toward me.

My life seems very fragile and puny and I’m feeling as though very soon dark chocolate and magazines will no longer fulfill me the way they used to. I feel like I’m being forced into something I very much want. She presses the side of her face against the side of mine and inhales, and when she exhales it’s cold. Like she’s exhaling through nervous lips, not relaxed ones. Then she kisses me there and it’s warm again. Her tongue swirls down my neck so far I’m imagining what would’ve happened if I hadn’t left the night before. She’s at my collarbones.

I’m feeling things I’ve seen so many times and never felt. Her lotioned arms, her hair, the nape of her neck. I’m pressed against my seat and she’s swallowed me more wholly than any darkness ever could. She jerks suddenly, like she wants to move her hands somewhere else, and then we separate. I cannot find air to breathe. Her fingers drift across the sound console. She cues the music for the second number.

Her fingers find the sides of my face and she kisses my mouth this time. I smile at her. I want to leave the sound booth. I look at her face instead. I can somewhat see her now. Her protruding cheekbones. Her thin eyebrows. Her lips, always colored. Clumpy eyelashes. She always looks as though she’s been crying. Maybe she always has been. I do not know her well enough to confirm. Her hair is big and coily and soft. Round, brown eyes. She mouths my name against my forehead. She tells me I’m so beautiful.

I do not know what I look like.

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closing notes —

This was an experiment. I wanted to see how I’d go about writing an unnamed narrator that doesn’t speak. I had no plan or vision. I stole the characters from an unfinished screenplay that I scrapped. I wrote it all in one sitting.

The narrator doesn’t have much going for her. She has no idea what she wants and no idea what she’s passionate about. She wants something to happen to her but she doesn’t seek anything out. That isn’t resolved by the end.

Julia is also an interesting character. The narrator states that they don’t know Julia well. The narrator leaves Julia’s house in the night and instead of taking that as a sign that they may be uncomfortable, Julia comes onto them anyways. There’s no discussion between them. It’s all very unreliable. Has the narrator spoken to Julia in-between scenes? There is no mention of them actually speaking—only Julia speaking to the narrator. Maybe the narrator is mute? There is no evidence against it.

But then you reread and you feel like their love is incredibly mutual and that it’s obvious. The writing is also very scattered and we are never in one place for that long of a time. It feels very rushed and hazy.

All up to interpretation. :-)

Lesbians, I’ve concluded, cannot be sluts.

I know this because I identify as both a lesbian and a slut. I wear both titles proudly, and yet I am only recognized as one. It seems that in acknowledging my sexual orientation and identity, those who witness me are incapable of attaching me to anything else inherently sexual. In some spaces, people are unable to recognize me as a being capable of engaging in sexual activity at all.

The lexical definition of “slut” varies. Merriam Webster describes a slut as a person (woman) who has sex with multiple different people. Cambridge agrees but clarifies that the slut must lack emotional and romantic involvement with her partners. Wikipedia claims that a slut can be characterized by her loose sexual morals.

an English-language term for a person, usually a woman, who is sexually promiscuous or considered to have loose sexual morals. Predominately used as an insult, sexual slur, or offensive term.

Now, a slut is a lot more nuanced than what any of this has given her credit for. Sluttiness appears in many forms. A slut is that girl you hate who’s been dating the same guy for seven years. A slut is your friend who’s just flirted with the barista at the cafe counter. And sometimes more maliciously, a slut is that woman wearing a low-cut shirt. A slut is that girl in high school who had her nudes leaked. So, if slut is commonly used in these scenarios, slut is a subjective term that shifts in meaning depending on whose mouth it’s in. “You’re a slut” is nicer in your best friend’s mouth than it is in that of the man standing behind you in line.

This is why I like to refer to myself as slutty. I think it’s something very nice. Slutty is a better version of hot. A cropped shirt is very good if it’s cropped enough to be slutty, and feeling particularly sluttish next to another woman confirms that my outfit was a good move. Choosing to wear a certain outfit before seeing a certain someone is slutty. Shamelessly flirting is slutty. And it’s all so fun; I wouldn’t mind being called a slut.

Except I am never referred to as a slut. The catch is that no matter how well you meet the standards for “slut,” and no matter who’s mouth slut is coming out of, slut is and always has been a word used in relation to a man. Slut is only there when a man is there, even if a man is not involved. Even if a man is not physically present.

I ran a series of experiments on my two, straight, female coworkers. The results were interesting. I found that no matter how I dressed, spoke, or shared about my sex life, it was impossible for them to view me as a sexual being. Let alone a slut. No matter how early I clocked out to see a girl, no matter how often I shared their sexual sentiments and experiences, they never applied any of it to my character. Even when I upped the ante and went as far as I possibly could, I was still pure and pristine in their books. And I think it’d make more sense if everyone else got the same treatment, but that was not the case.

There was a third one, another girl in our age range with a boyfriend, and I constantly overheard conversations about how annoying she was. A variation of the word slut was always thrown in there, right before or after a “but I love her.” She’d leave early and hop into her boyfriend’s car, or she’d greet him when he came in to pay her a visit. She was hardworking and kind and beautiful. She shared nothing about her sex life with any of us. And yet she was the slut, not I.

They constantly questioned the sex I was having. How does it work? What do you do? How does it feel? And I’d tell. In a white shirt without a bra, I’d tell. In shorts that rode halfway up my ass, I’d tell. I was the sluttiest out of all of us. It was like my lesbianism could cancel out everything inherently sexual about me. I could have sex with someone in the workplace restroom, and these women wouldn’t bat an eye. I wouldn’t be a slut; I’d just be crazy. They’d say, How do you even do these things?! You’re so crazy.

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There’s no jealousy or comparison. What even are lesbian relationships anyway? Is it like kissing and fucking your best friend? I mean, do lesbians even do romance? Can they? Do they know how? If a man is not present, the word “slut” does not cross the straight woman’s mind. It doesn’t even cross her radar. Lesbians cannot be sluts. Of course not.

And so, It’s not a matter of disbelief regarding my sexuality, but a lack of threat. There is zero possibility of their boyfriends wanting me. God, no. The sex I’m having is entirely separate and detached from the sex that they’re having. They’re not even sure how my sex works. And they don’t need to know. Because the sex that I’m having is secured within a small, lesbian bubble far away from anything they’d ever have to worry about.

Being vulnerable about your sex life in conversation with a straight woman is like being a celebrity. You expect to be met with skepticism and instead you’re met with intense admiration. She cannot believe that you’re sexually satisfied without a man being in the picture, but she’s unaware that she’s in disbelief at all. She can tell that there’s something very beautiful about what She’s experiencing but she cannot figure out what.

She concurs that the beauty she’s recognizing is due to your free-spirited nature and she praises you for that, not understanding that she is the one experiencing freedom. The lesbian does not perceive their sex life as free—they perceive it as natural. The straight woman, on the other hand, is experiencing a world-rocking absence of judgement. Her usual inner monologue: Are they the slut or am I the slut? Am I a slut for having this conversation in the first place? Should I be doing this with my boyfriend? Have I shared too much? Is completely missing from the interaction. She is not judging the lesbian, and she is certain that the lesbian is not judging her.

The free-spirited nature of the lesbian is simply the nature in which they conduct themself and their life, only deemed as “free” because the straight woman cannot ignore or brush past the absence of man. She cannot fathom what it must be like to live outside of that box. But this isn’t anything new or profound.

I don’t walk around worrying about how my character or sexual morals are being perceived. I wish this were the case for all women, but it is most certainly not. I’ve been called all kinds of things in public. Men have muttered derogatory sexual comments at me as they’ve passed, all because of my bra or lack thereof. Some have been more direct—telling me, holier-than-thou, that I need to put a bra on. Others inform me straight up that they think I’m disgusting.

When a woman looks or behaves in a slutty manner, the backlash is often phrased in a “what have you done” sort of way. What you’re doing is gross. How could you do this to your body? You are _____. You can’t ______.

Often, I feel that making my lesbianism known would diffuse the situation. Maybe informing the plaintiff that I am a lesbian would make it clear that this is all a big misunderstanding!

What’s funny about it all is that I only feel like a slut when I’m around other queer people. Because in queer spaces, sluttiness has nothing to do with my sexual morals and everything to do with my personality. What I choose to wear and how I decide to act is a reflection of how I wish to show up in the world and be perceived in it. I’m a slut in the spaces I’d like to be a slut in, in all the best ways, and that is truly all that matters.

Maybe my slut-status in the eyes of straight women would change if I fit into their beauty standards and leaned in to their lifestyles, subsequently posing a threat to them and their own self worth.

It’s for this reason that I do not feel objectified or victimized when straight women show interest in my sex life and habits. They are curious for good reason. They relate their own sex lives and status directly back to those whom it concerns (men, other straight women,) and never to their own benefit and experience.

In their eyes, I am a rare, glittering unicorn.

Opening note |

This piece is about OCD. A short story written at sixteen during a particularly rough patch handling my intrusive thoughts, especially the sexual ones. I remember where I was when I wrote it, in a sunbeam on the carpet of the living room, and I remember how proud I felt when it was finished.

It was really important at this time for me to experience my shame through a stranger’s lens. The main character means nothing to me. I wrote myself onto a boy, which I’d never done previously, with a life story unrelated to my own.

I’m not ashamed anymore, so I’m sharing this here.

When I was thirteen, my mother dragged me to an audition for some one-time job narrating a Mickey Mouse holiday special in hopes of bringing in a little bit of spending money. My mom wasn’t a junkie; she was exploiting me. She was single, manically depressed for as long as I could remember, and a shopping addict. But I assume now that it was, in fact, for non-prescribed psychedelics.

This was around the time that she’d entered that horrid motherly phase, an episode caused by her excessive guilt, I think. I was an only child, fatherless, and too compliant to do anything disruptive enough to demand her attention. So she spent most of her time either out or locked in her bedroom busy not giving a fuck about me.

Anyways, of course it wasn’t my idea to be at this stupid audition, and I didn’t want to be there. We were seated in a long, plain room, not unlike a waiting room but not white or sterile either. I was humiliated when I noticed that every other kid was half my age at best, holding their mother’s hands appropriately.

My mother must’ve noticed this too because just then she slid her smooth, clammy hand under mine. I didn’t move my hand. In my stomach arose a terrible, sick sexual arousal from my still, heavy hand over hers. Solid enough to become aware of the fasciculations and pulse in my wrist, deep and rapid. Our skins, now matching in texture, would fuse together, and upon my frozen horror, she would clamber onto my legs and rock her hips over and over, joining us at the groin, the hips, the midriff, the neck. A twitching ball of flesh and blood.

I felt suddenly very sick, so I stood up and went towards the door across the room, where I guess I’d assumed a bathroom would be. The door had actually been a back entrance? An exit?

I was on cement in the chill winter air, under the shade of a tiny awning and a red dumpster. The parking lot before me was salted but mostly empty. The moisture on my palm was crisp in the cold atmosphere. A distant bird screamed. I thought of Mickey Mouse and fingerless gloves. I unzipped my pants to pee. I thought of using our sticky, shared sweat to fuck into my fist.

I can’t remember if I did or if I did not. I didn’t get the part.

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In the last few months or so, I’ve thought a lot about nudism. And even more so naturism, an attitude favoring harmony with nature and respect for the environment, into which that practice (nudism) is integrated. here

I’m in love with being naked. I feel most beautiful without clothing on, and I spend most of my time alone nude. If not completely, close to it. This was also true for me in childhood. I had sensory issues like most, but only with things like skinny jeans and sock seams. Being naked was a choice I made out of enjoyment, not necessity.

Nudity removes all expectations and preconceived beliefs about my body and replaces them with the one, timeless truth that nothing is good or bad. There is no inherent beauty, no inherent worthiness, and yet everything in the world is inherently beautiful and worthy. Everything exists, and that is all. This way of thinking was especially vital for me in the later stages of eating disorder recovery, when the priority was mindfulness and general awareness of the self. Getting to know my body and accepting how I felt about it without having to change anything.

The more time I spend nude, the more pointless clothing seems. And as clothing loses its meaning, everything else fills it in. Everything you interact with takes on a new property. The guitar hums against the bare skin of your stomach. The glow of the orange lamp warms your wrist. The seat of the chair warms and merges with your flesh. A hug becomes a full body experience. Like viewing your favorite film in wide screen after a lifetime of full screen.

I grew up atheist and later discovered agnosticism, and now I identify with the umbrella term “spiritual” and in terms of practice fall neatly into the agnostic paganism category—a practice that participates in rituals, worship, and reveres nature without a firm, literal belief in deities. The bulk of my spiritual study surrounds Ancient Greece, a culture and time famous for practicing nudity, even if only contextually.

What occupies my interest most nowadays is the dawn of the human race. I return to these early homosapiens during my cycle, at the thought of childbirth, when shaving, when bathing, but especially and most often when I’m naked. And it’s from this fixation that I’ve grown fascinated with the idea of clothing and that wearing it is mandatory. How ridiculous it all feels to me.

This has all led me to feel very confused towards the notion that modesty brings one closer to God. I cannot understand how that could be possible considering humans began naked and remained naked for a long, long time and that we are the only animals that cover up in this way. While I grew up outside of the church and am lucky enough to have never been subjected to religious purity culture, I still find this belief system everywhere: that modesty is appropriate, polite, and simply more normal. This, of course, is true in spaces like the workplace and children’s areas.

I engage in partial nudity quite often. I love sheer clothing and tight-fitting tops. I have my nipples pierced for this very purpose. I feel most beautiful this way—not because I require my body to be seen in order to feel confident, but because I simply love the feeling of being naked. I feel most myself. Somewhat recently, nudity has taken on a new, sexual role in my spiritual practice. Not only do I understand my body and feel more in tune with my body, but I’m deeply in love with it. I’m in love with the colour and texture of my skin, the shadows and highlights that appear when I move. I want to feel this all the time, even in the clothing that I wear.

Nudity isn’t sexual all the time (that’s the point of this article), but sometimes it is, and it’s wonderful. Nudes have been huge for me. I take many, but my favourites are the ones I really work on. Taking nudes feels like making art. I experiment with strange, editorial poses, different lighting, and sometimes entire outfits that I manipulate for the pictures. I feel incredible in every single one I take and am always devastated that I can’t post them on Instagram! Sometimes I forget how strange that would be.

I’ve started to scratch this itch in small, safe ways. I’m posing nude for an art society in August. I’m planning nude photoshoots with friends. I’m being a little more vulnerable with what I post on social media.

I’m noticing that the knowledge of my obsession with nudity has led me to be unreasonably modest online. I’m loosening up a bit, reminding myself of what’s actually taboo and what’s just a little bit slutty.

I think all the time about incorporating my love for nudity and the human anatomy into my career. Creating a community of people, hosting spiritual naturist retreats, maybe even doing some kind of sex work. Maybe I’ll become a spiritual coach and teach people how to tune into their physicality.

There’s fear around having an interest and love for nudity. I fear that my passion will be interpreted as, “Come on, everybody, let’s all take off our clothes!!!” in the worst, most perverted way possible. I fear that enjoying and encouraging nudity will stand out so much that eventually my art and main purpose will fade into the background.

For now it’s just a growing interest and personal practice. It’s healing and private, and I’ve enjoyed it very much that way. Laying naked beneath the trees in my back yard and taking pictures of myself bathing. Simply observing the curves and lines of my body, feeling the rough and soft parts of the skin.

I’d like to soak up my body forever. Being alive is the greatest blessing, and I’d rather sow to my flesh for the rest of my life than waste all the time I have with it working towards my spiritual salvation.

written by a cancer moon.

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I like to think i’m something else even if it’s just in potential or likeness. At the end of it all I’m left with a mass I can’t even begin to describe and without description I suffer and struggle to even care.

As a child I indulged in a cannibalistic fantasy in which I severed all my fingers with my teeth and chewed their meat and crunched their bone and I don’t think she’s ever again felt so connected

What is anything made of? Once, someone told me they didn’t believe in atoms and I mocked them for that. Now I feel a part of the game. And anyways it’s all been kicked up into the air and it walks the earth as if it’s any different and it lives and dies ignorant

I’m dust and I gather in the places that I blow. Shapes take on such striking detail, so solid and so there in this stardust existence my body is the only thing I know to be truth. It’s not selfish of me to say so

Laying in the grass till every word of English becomes a made up animal sound and everything foreign to human speak is the only mattering thing left just as it was before

A short, unlived experience because we know what lives and what doesn’t on account of organs and breath

Even stone blows away

But the wide, blown pupils make us forget all this

Dust Bunny Existence

written by a cancer moon :-)

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Yesterday morning in the midst of a particularly vulnerable entry, I wrote in my diary: I’m dipping my toe into a pool that stretches far and wide and is all, all mine.

Then I wrote:

Sometimes you step into something you want to do, such as mothering a Substack blog, for instance, and you’re overwhelmed by how many people have had the exact same idea. But here, now, I’m in this empty, echoing cavern, and this space is entirely mine.

The body is like a cavern. It goes deep, deep, deep. Deep into the homes of those who’ve been hidden. Some are hidden because you pushed them down into the deep. Perhaps they are there due to shame or fear. Some of them come from the past, whispering their sadness into your ear. Some are the future versions of you, waiting for the right moment to spring forward.

The body is like a warground. Urges and energies try to surface to express themselves, and they’re throttled and buried deep deep deep down again. There are tears. Angry confessions. Rash decisions. An absence of peace.

We resist change, and yet we are forever changing beings!!! Always changing needs, changing wants, changing preferences, changing boundaries, changing morals, changing behaviors, changing patterns, and changing routines.

We fight and then wonder why we’re so winded. We ignore our urges and wonder why we’re so restless.

So, there is no permanent way to step into yourself. There’s no retirement home. No final destination. There is, however, an opportunity to walk hand-in-hand. To embrace and merge with this higher self and conquer what comes next together.

This is done by embodying the mindset of the highest self. We must allow them to speak their needs and wants freely. They are the version of you who’s already done everything you’re afraid to do. They have everything that you’re afraid to have. They’ve already done the work—they’ve mined and dug up all of what you’ve buried—and they’re a personification of what lies down there.

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Mining does not have to be a slow process. It doesn’t have to be meditative. It can be fast and impulsive. It’s always an intention. Not always a practice.

Mining is the word I’d like to use because it’s the only one that makes sense.

Mining. . . Not only the act of digging but also the act of searching. Armed with tools and light, deep in the heart of stone… Usually with the intention of finding something precious… always with the intention to find the core. To find what’s deep, deep, deep. To find what glitters in the dark. To discover just how deep it can go.

Like a miner uncovering a mineral deposit, we must dig further into our dreams and desires. Drive through the hard stone blockages. Find just how much there is.

Do I want to be an elementary school teacher? Or do I want to be a daycare instructor? Or do I want to own the daycare? Or do I want to run my own Monday-Friday slow-learning daycare centered on nature-based learning?

Just like the dirt up at the surface, the concept of becoming an elementary school teacher is forgotten and unimportant compared to what’s just been uncovered.

Within the pages of my diary and the contents of my mind I discovered something beautiful. I dug and dug through a desire till I fell through the rubble into a shimmering blue pool deep in a stalactite cave. Untouched and secret. Nobody there. Nothing there. Sirens there, maybe… ancient founders and keepers... but they do not know me, and I do not know them.

The water is warm and clear. The ceilings are echoey and far away, and you’re afraid that the stalactites will crumble and collapse, but they never do. This place welcomes you. Reap its blessings! All of it is yours!

Maybe it looks different for you. Maybe your desires lie in the tall grasses of a secluded field, protected by mountains. You may, instead, find yourself ruffling through bushes and flowerbeds searching for the tree of enchantment. Maybe you’ll find yourself shifting through the mist atop a cumulonimbus cloud.

Each and every desire has a hot, beating core. A treasure spot. This core terrifies us; other times it enlightens us. It’s always overwhelming—whether overwhelmed by joy or despair—and it begs to see the light of day. It’s been down there for a very long time.

Reaching into these depths is a hand outstretched towards the parts of yourself that ache for freedom.

When the mind doesn’t know, the body knows. And in many cases, the mind doesn’t know. All the versions of yourself, shunned and locked away in the deep, deep depths – they know. They know all the secret passageways. They know all of what lies for you in that sparkling, blue pool. They know you better than you know you.

The nastiness within is what we truly sympathise with. The most rotten spaces are the most genuine. The neglected and ignored hold the most purpose. Remembering is not a requirement when your body feels and holds them for you. There’s a pool inside there somewhere…

In the eerie, dingy, wise ancient caves, there is a pool of water nothing has ever touched.

written by a cancer moon

enter . . . . ✉︎ ↓

⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

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　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

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　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　*　　⠀.

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7/6

Today I’m embracing the void. By today I mean that I’m doing some deep cleaning. Today is for action. I know that embracing the void will be a long, long, long, long process, though. Unfortunately it’s also one of the most important processes for me to go through and I’ll have to do some heavy-hitting work.

Some things hit harder for others. Some people find that saying no is what they need. Usually that’s the case for people who tend to say yes yes yes! to everything that comes their way. Saying no is basically their key to success.

In my case it’s clearing space and setting boundaries. This is probably super common for people who have executive dysfunction. I try to ignore the amount of stuff I own knowing full well that it takes up energetic space and getting rid of it would do amazing things for my mental health.

There is an unimaginable amount of shit I could go through. It’s for this reason that today is going to be spent on my closet only! Going through old stuff like notebooks and random papers. I’m essentially just doing a deep clean of my bedroom.

If I wanted to go reeeaaalllllyyyy deep and clean out everything it would probably take weeks of hard work. I have a lot of shit to get done.

To name a few:

• 5+ Instagram accounts I’ve been meaning to delete for storage

• thousands of unopened emails

• I’m not sure how many active subscriptions I have and need to check on that

• Don’t remember the dates of my upcoming apts + haven’t checked + they’re coming up

• I’ve used up all my phone storage and need to delete like a thousand-something pics

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I feel best in these times. Most like myself. I feel deeply and entirely connected to the core of my being. Like I’m the twisted posterchild of inner peace. Utmost health and routine makes me feel ill and separated.

There’s nothing wrong with the desire for fun and thrill until you decide that you’re striving for your best and most authentic life. All of a sudden there’s an expectation to also desire a life of full sobriety and settling down with a life-partner.

The way this makes me feel is similar to how Christian doctrine makes me feel. I talk about this often. There’s this expectation that the salvation of your soul should take highest priority—even over your physical body and human urges. That our short life should be spent looking forward to what comes after.

I think it comes down to the desire for collective belief within communities. Or some kind of title. In religion, practice, gender identity, sexual preference, age range.

It plagues me even in my personal plans and projects. Branding bothers me—the fear that what I do and what I make is too scattered and inconsistent. Not having a curated vibe. The fear of not being individuated, and simultaneously being afraid of individuality.

We don’t get to choose whether or not we’re beautiful or important or worthy. It’s not our decision. It’s not our decision whether anyone else is beautiful, important, or worthy. We don’t get to put those labels on people. We don’t get to name what’s good and what’s bad.

We can choose what we feel and what we follow. We can recognize what feels good in our bodies, what lifts us up and brings us joy.

The image on the center of my vision board says “be yourself so the people looking for you can find you.” And then the question is who even am I? How do I find out? What’s authentic to me? What do I want? Whatever you want to want.

It’s all within the body. It’s whatever feels good. Maybe that’s hooking up with someone. Maybe that’s having a cigarette. Maybe that’s not doing 45 minutes on the stair master at 6am 5 days a week.

Your body knows you.

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written by a cancer moon

enter . . . . ✉︎ ↓

⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　　　　　　　　　.　　　ﾟ .　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　✦ 　　　　　,　　　　　　　.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　.

.　　　　　　　　　　　　　. 　　✦⠀　   　　　,　　　　　　　　　*

　　　　　⠀　　　　⠀　　,

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀.　　　　　 　　⠀　　　⠀.　

　　˚　　　⠀　⠀  　　,　　　　　　.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　　　*⠀　　⠀  　　　　　⠀✦⠀　

　　　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　.

　　　　.　　　　.　　　⠀

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　　　˚　　　　　　　　ﾟ　　　　　.

　.⠀　　⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀‍⠀,

　　　*　　⠀.

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　　　　*　　　　　　　　　　　

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6/29

The period pain is endless and yet I persevere. I’ve been thinking about moving away from the word “period”—and honestly just learning more about my cycle in general. Building my diet around it, taking time off during it, etc.

Today, while my painkillers were kicking in, I put on The Neverending Story. I’ve watched this movie so many times. I wanted to challenge myself to watch a movie I’ve seen before without multitasking. In some ways it felt like I was watching the movie for the first time all over again.

So many themes about the inner self, the inner child, the higher self. I’ve always recognized so much power in the southern oracle and what it represents. Self trust, the knowing of the self, higher knowledge, all of that. There are three pieces of the southern oracle.

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|| A collection of poetry written over seven nights. One poem written per-night, minutes to even seconds before sleep. Stream of consciousness writing—unedited during & after.

I awoke

It was neither conscious nor human, it was spiraling forever

there were women and there was music, a melody, warm blood inside

a flower peels open and something beautiful and full of life is shaken from its petals and we will never see it because we do not know it exists

yet

it is very similar to the red cheeks of a skirted, drunken, dancing woman and the eye of her later descendant glowing in the camera flash

she’s playing Egyptian music for her cat and seeing if it remembers

and spiraling forever and ever and ever

heavy in my chest

limbs can be heavy and they can tire, my soul is above this

whiteness clouding behind my eyelids and there’s a world there, faces, not people; mouths, not words

a child’s swinging sneakers

a conversation I should not have heard yet is mine as much as it is theirs

this is not the world but it sounds like it is, it looks like it is

It looks like it is to everyone but me.

the sky is churning and making a dark noise that suggests I close my eyes, is this the world?

They’re so much the same to me

sometimes my mind turns very childish and letters are like blocks and blocks are stacked into words

I’m good at this

I am not good at clocks but I’m good at keeping time

Always the feeling never the order of things

The moon tells me secrets, whispers of how well this will do me when it’s time

I believe there is a time

Something about glowing

I believe there is a time and I believe it is glowing, I believe my honed ability to exercise my humanity earns me something more

Like the sun and the moon it is glowing

Like my miraculously beating heart it is glowing

each night im jolted awake by the absurdity of my situation

I feel noises before I hear them, I hear feelings before I feel them

The moon is my recent anchor

I am already familiar with her. She’ll let me in.

And yet she looks down on me as if I am something and somebody that is out of her control. I see her gaze before I feel it. I never feel it.

I see and feel her milky light on my skin and I’m told the love in it before I ever consider it

Always outside my bedroom window and the back window of my mothers car all those years ago

The moon looks ahead and I stare in wonder, wondering when she’ll look down at me.

Maybe she would burn like the sun if she ever met my gaze.

Favorite sounds, a belt being undone or keys going into the ignition

Some things go straight to my body, my ears tingle

I am not tired but this skin is. My eyelids are very dark now and my legs are very soft

I hold it all under my flesh and above the muscle, I move it around with my fingers

I ponder how much my fingertips have touched.

the glowing green light on the dvd player in my periphery, my eyes roll into my head and ask me again for sleep

Am I made up of two separate beings

No, I am both my soul and my flesh.

I am it all

While my mind is away my body will scratch and assess itself and feel the breeze from the open window

Then my body unravels from its blanket cocoon

Something finally comes to me through a movement, through a stretch

A small gap in my shoulderblade or a release somewhere tight

Some things must not be held onto so tightly

There is one star outside my night’s window

I am stardust.

There was once a movie about two stupid men—two stupid men finding a caveman. He wears basketball shorts and makes stupid friends.

They are all stardust, too.

The camera was, too.

There are many things that bring my stardust joy

Like the small green light on my dvd player. The orange glow of the lampshade. The sensations inside my own body.

This is life

Am I speaking life into the world or am I speaking life into myself?

Isn’t it the same?

I do not decide what is alive and what is dead. god does not either.

how could we ever understand! and yet I still somewhat believe that I can.

running in circles proving to nothing and to silence that I understand that I do not understand and that I understand—Speaking to colors and concepts

True intelligence does not exist and has never

Searching for it in love, in light, in happiness, in success like a baggie of drugs

over and over I understand that I do not understand and that I understand that I do not

Be aware between your eyebrows and become nothing.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about everything. It’s like I can’t stop thinking. I actually don’t think I can stop. It’s not like it’s happening—it is happening. I'm not sure why I bring that up, but it feels relevant. Because it’s honestly unpleasant. It can be empowering and enrichening, but it can also be loud. It seems impossible for me to enter a meditative state.

It only gets worse the more I’m on social media. And I don’t mean having a social media account that I post on. I mean BEING on the media. Knowing what’s going on. I’m afraid that it’s directly feeding into my worst fears and nightmares. My mind is like an echo chamber of my own thoughts and everyone else’s thoughts. It’s like my own voice has intertwined with everyone else’s voice. Like I’m in a hivemind.

I want to know myself so well and deeply that I’ll remember my soul in my next life. And a way in which I practice knowing myself is through simple awareness. Being aware of my thought patterns, my mannerisms, what kind of people and things I gravitate towards, and stuff like that. I often bring this practice into how I consume content. I observe what I like, what I don’t like, what I laugh at and what I cry at.

Anyways, I’m finding that I agree with everything I see. Everything I think is cool, everything that other people think is cool, I agree with. Obviously, this has boundaries—it’s more so just fashion and hobbies and lifestyle. A girl shows me the view from her penthouse and I nod my head. How successful! How well-off! A girl shows me the view from her horse’s back as she rides through an open field. How natural! How beautiful! And then I’m sad I can’t have both.

So I try to figure out what I want. Penthouse or farmhouse? Penthouse? Farmhouse? And It usually goes something like this. I choose one, and then I get anxious that I’ll never experience the other. So I try to find a way to do both. And then I feel too weird making such an intricate life plan that I quit and stop thinking about it entirely. But the cycle repeats with everything else. I just agree and agree and agree.

I’m good at making real life decisions. I’m good at knowing who I am and what I like. So for a long time I felt really crazy that social media did this to me. And then some time passed and I realized that most people feel this way and they just kinda push past it because that’s “just what social media is invented to do to people.”

I guess it’s just gotten really bad! And it’s not even because I’m feeling insecure about my body or I’m doubting my success or anything like that. It’s because I genuinely don’t know whether my thoughts and ideas are my own or if I’m just echoing what I’ve seen from other people who’ve formatted their own thoughts and ideas into quick, digestible content that’s meant to stick with you. I’m afraid that it’s dusty up there in my brain.

Today I watched The Neverending Story—a film I’ve seen many, many times. I watched it all without multitasking. I watched it with a very active and tuned-in mind. There’s a scene where the hero must stand before something called the magic mirror gate. Whoever looks into the gate sees their true nature. I guess I’m just not confident in what I might see. I’m always worried that my intelligence is not my own intelligence.

I thought about who I’d be if I were a blank slate. Who would I be if I were Frankenstein’s monster? I do not know anything… I am still learning everything… and knowing my own psyche and my own thought patterns and mannerisms, how would I grow into a fully-fledged person with biases and personal style? What would I look like?

Today I’m wearing an outfit that I’ve fantasized about wearing for some time. I’ve decided not to wear it over and over because I know it’s kind of ugly. Actually, no. It’s not that I know it’s ugly, it’s that I know that this is what I would truly wear if I were alone and no one would perceive me. In other words, It’s from a vulnerable and authentic place. My soul?

I haven’t been hiding myself from the world; I’ve been making myself easier to digest. And the problem is that I don’t even really know what’s mine anymore. I’ve been slowly removing the masks and It’s so hard. There are so many. I’ve learned to cover myself up in so many ways. I actually do feel like Frankenstein’s monster. I’m learning how I want to talk, how I want to look.

And the worst part is—apparently everyone feels this way too. Apparently everyone is also just putting halves of themselves out there and keeping the rest behind closed doors.

I wonder what I’d be like with no Pinterest. Blissfully unaware? Not unaware of what other people think, but unaware of the own voice in my head that would otherwise be going hey, will other people like that? HEY! DO YOU EVEN LIKE IT!? Unaware that the voice even exists. I’d live based entirely on my own heart’s desire. I’d try on different necklaces and spend minutes with each, examining my own thoughts and feelings and deciding whether or not my body fucks with them. I’d always look my best because I’d always feel my best.

I could start now and begin moving towards this state of being. I think I already have. There’s a lot I still have to give up before I can get there. There’s still a lot I have to find out about myself. I might just have to go cold turkey and not consume any shortform content for some time. And while I’m without that stimulation I’ll find other things to fill the void.

I’ve recently come to some new conclusions about myself, and I’ll list them for you here.

Some things that I like

• I like stuff that’s made badly. I like being able to see the greenscreen in old and low budget movies, for example.

• I like when things are at an angle. I don’t like when things are laid out straight. Not even when Wes Anderson does it. I understand the appeal, but I like it to be more effortless.

• I like nonfiction, but I don’t like writing that’s hard to understand. If I’m reading something for knowledge, I want to spend my time digesting the knowledge. Not the words.

• I like and value imperfection. I think bad writing is great. I like things made by people who aren’t professionals. I like one-take-wonders. I like student films.

• I like long rides and activities that require me to sit and wait and do my own thing. Like waiting rooms, trains, planes, and amusement park lines.

Some things that I don’t like:

• I don’t like fancy terms for things. I worked in a restaurant for over five years and rolled my eyes every time they yelled “86!!!!!!” There’s no point.

• I don’t like itineraries. Having a strict plan and schedule stresses me out. Whenever I follow an itinerary I feel like I’m being suffocated. Let me do what I want.

• I don’t like beating around the bush. A conversation that never seems to get to the point. People who can’t be direct about how they feel. A friendship that only ever scratches the surface.

• I don’t like naps. They make me feel itchy and sick and weird and disoriented and awful when I wake up. Also my face gets all dry and I’m thirsty and I feel like I can’t do anything else for the rest of the day so I just suffer.

written by a cancer moon

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enter . . . . ✉︎ ↓

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Luteal phase to start out the week. Well, it’s actually my follicular phase but I’m not really sure anymore. I’m going to call it my luteal phase because that’s what it feels like and this is my diary.

I propped up my phone between the wall and my brother’s empty suitcase. I retook it twice before I felt satisfied. Because I’m irritable and I can do anything I please.

Does anyone else remember those bucket filling lessons we had in elementary school? I vividly remember that lesson. I’ve always clung so tightly to visuals and physical representations of feelings and concepts.

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There’s a very big expectation to be making money. Expectations—not only from your peers—but from that apartment you’re paying for. The food you’re going to buy. The gas tank of the car you drive.

I quit my job a few weeks back and I’ve been idly looking at something new. Scrolling Indeed before I go to sleep. Ever since I quit my job, the concept of working again has been earth shattering. I can’t believe I’m being expected to work eight hour shifts or more. This is my life!

I cried real tears thinking about my morning run being rescheduled, my breakfast being rushed, my bed being left unmade, all to get paid a barely livable wage.

It’s not embarrassing to be unemployed. It happens! It is embarrassing, however, to be so distressed over being employed.

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I tell people—you know, I work really hard. I work every day. I’ve seen a lot of momentum lately, actually. It’s going so well!

And then they ask me what I do. What’s your work?

I write. I make art. And oh my god!!! It’s so embarrassing. It’s embarrassing to call it ‘work.’ It’s like I’m a week or so pregnant and I’m not quite showing yet but I’m rolling up my shirt anyway. I’m so proud and nobody can see what I’m proud of yet.

Someday, this will be my life. This will be my income. This will pay for that apartment I’m living in, that food I’m going to buy, the gas tank of that car I’ll drive. But this is still just a little tiny sprout. Still just a little fetus.

I don’t hate the start-up process because It’s hard. The process is actually a really beautiful thing if you let it be. I’m figuring it all out, putting the pieces together, building a community, and meeting people whom I love and admire. The truly hard part about it all is that the public eye is a requirement.

My start-up company—my stumbling, floundering, infant start-up company—is completely available to the public. It’s like I’m dreaming I’m naked, or like I’m inside a glass cube at the MET performing some kind of strange performance piece that I know will be torn up by the public.

This is me. Except instead of sleeping I’m posting on my Instagram with my fingers and typing this article with my toes.

Embarrassment is a layered concept. I experience no physical symptoms of embarrassment when it comes to what I do online. I don’t go red or hot or twiddle my thumbs because everything is in my control. I can delete people’s words just as easily as I can delete them. I’m not overwhelmed. So I guess it’s more of a shame.

It’s how I imagine Sisyphus must feel as all of Tartarus watches him roll the rock up the hill for the foreverenth time. Just so humiliating. Just so exposed.

There’s so much that crosses my mind. Do people think I’m super chronically online because of how much I post and write? AM I chronically online? It’s the embarrassment of being perceived without witnessing it. It’s the embarrassment of growing and fluctuating and feeling in front of people and showing it to them willingly. Maybe it’s that I’m doing it all willingly. Maybe it’s that.

And authenticity, vulnerability, something I praise as being the most important thing in the world, is the hardest. When something is still growing there’s space for change. That flexibility is tempting. I wonder whether I should brand myself more intentionally.

Every time I wonder, I decide against it. Branding myself would somehow be more embarrassing. Not before the public, but before myself. It would be a betrayal. I would be a fake. I would be a poser and nobody would know it but for me.

And so, I continue my walk of shame. I continue to grow; I let people see it. It is embarrassing. It is exciting. It is so, so special. I’m ok with starting out. I think that sometimes, we hate what we are and we just have to be ok with that.

written by a cancer moon :-)

enter . . . . ✉︎ ↓

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A friend reached out to me and asked about the method at which I approach life. I sent her a few voice recordings and everything I said felt silly. All my friends have been approaching me with congratulations for my journey on the internet. I appreciate it, but it also makes me feel very strange.

My journey on the internet is for me. I’m doing it all, saying it all, writing it all… for me. Because I don’t know myself. I don’t know who I am deep down. I don’t know the difference between my heart and my mind. I’m learning through authenticity. Vulnerability.

Authenticity, for me, has very little to do with finding a community. Which is strange, because that’s what I keep telling people. I’m being vulnerable on the internet because I want community. That’s true, but it’s actually all about me. I want to know me. I want to know what me wants to be. I want to meet myself where I am right now. I don’t want to find her somewhere down the road.

And I want to carry that through my life. As I experience this feeling, I realize that it may very well be the meaning of it all. I want to experience my body. I want to be in it all the time in everything that I do. I want to know myself through and through. I’m doing facial tissue massages in front of my bathroom mirror four times a week. I’m feeling the structure of my skull. I’m pulling up diagrams of the muscles beneath my flesh and then looking back at my reflection. I’m trying to see through my skin. When I rub my finger against my cheekbone, I can feel what’s inside. I want to be even closer. I want to surgically remove a square of my skin and lovingly pet the insides of myself.

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As you can imagine, it was gutting. I was bitter. Once, when I was a child, my dad told me that “not all things last forever.” I remember squeezing my bunny that night, imagining with cold fear the scenario of someday losing her. I imagined her being set on fire, dropped off the side of a cliff.

And then it actually happened. I was seventeen and I lost her on vacation 30 hours away from my home by drive.

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Anyways, impermanence is strange. It’s strange to think that something so beloved can be gone so quickly. I’ve toyed around with the concept in other areas of my life. I find it interesting that antiques can be painted over or altered, and that after decades of existence they can be changed in an instant.

I bought these 1940’s silk bedsheets from an antique spot near my house for $70. They have a blood stain now. I was having sex and one of us got a nose bleed and it got all over them. Now I’ll probably never be able to sell them, which is fine because I never actually planned to. I see the stain all the time. They were pristine, 1940’s sheets before that. Now they’re going to have a blood stain till they’re gone for good.

An object being altered is like a memory being tattooed. I’ll never forget that moment for as long as I own those sheets, and even after I own them. That moment is forever immortalized. Impermanence is not always bad. It’s not nearly always bad.

I do feel kind of guilty. I feel selfish for taking such an old and beautiful object into my hands and ruining it. But at the same time, I think it’s beautiful. I bought the sheets—sheets that I assume were once slept in and admired, and I use them. They’re one of my proudest belongings. They’re absolutely beautiful. And they’re mine now.

I feel this way about a headscarf I bought in the Bahamas. I got lost and wandered out of Nassau. I found this little vintage/secondhand shop and went in and dug in a box labeled “scarves” and found it. I wear it every day after my shower to wrap up my conditioned hair. It smells sweet like my hair products.

When my grampy died I moved to Florida to stay with my grammy as she healed. I brought that scarf along and it got trapped in my purse zipper so badly that when we got the zipper unstuck it tore a huge hole in the scarf. I remember being really disappointed. Once again, it was about destroying such a beautiful object.

But I’ll never forget that moment. I see that hole every day. I line the scarf up with my head so that I can get as much coverage as possible to avoid the hole. Maybe, when my hair grows, I’ll put my ponytail through the hole. Maybe I’ll use it as a hair-tie. I find that I love explaining little mishaps like this.

I remember this debate that went around online about the “eclectic grandpa” aesthetic. Everyone tried to replicate it but nobody could get it right. Everyone else was pissed because they were trying to explain that you can’t just make it. You spend years collecting and using and wearing. Things fade and tear. You wear them again and again. Your style changes, and your clothes come along with it anyhow.

Impermanence reminds me of how precious memory is. That when you commit to having something, you commit to watching it change. That you can appreciate and honor change and carry every previous version along with you. That every previous version of something makes the current version that much more beautiful. Why is it so painful for us to see things change? Do I really want things to stay the same forever? Why does it feel like I’ve lost something when it’s right there in front of me?

I don’t feel this way about people. It’s only inanimate physical objects. People and relationships are guaranteed to change, we know this. We’ve known it from the start. It’s no shock. We celebrate birthday parties and milestones. But physical objects are usually desired because of how they look. For what they can do for us right now.

Impermanence is a quality. A state of being. Can impermanence be a feeling? If it were, it would be something close to nostalgia. The only person I’ve ever felt the ache of impermanence for is my baby sister. I imagine this is how parents feel about their children, and how pet owners feel about their pets. I celebrate and mourn her every milestone. I want her to be little forever, and I long to see her grow. It’s difficult.

Impermanence is different in relation to people. It’s not fear and guilt, it’s longing and bittersweetness. It’s love. It’s something that we can process. Impermanence in relation to objects can hurt. It can feel like a personal stab when things change. It’s painful.

I’m learning how to be more aware. Self aware, to be specific, but aware in all ways. I made a youtube video about that. I said that being unaware is confusing and shocking, like a flash flood. In a surprise flash flood, things are taken from us. Our expectations for the future, things we get to see every day, etc. When a flash flood is expected, when we are aware it’s coming, we pack things up. We protect ourselves.

When people change, we know it’s coming. When objects change, things we want to see and have forever and ever, we are surprised. Something is taken from us. Something has been ruined.

Impermanence can be alchemized. I think of it often when I doubt. I sit in the moment, remember that everything is changing, everything is moving. I remember that in a year I’ll miss now. I always think I won’t but I always do.

I think it’s nice to be inconvenienced in this way.

written by a cancer moon :-)