5.11.19

Ashley—and so it begins! I’m feeling a little out of it, dissociated & I want to throw myself into my bed to sleep. Did some intense step writing then headed to the gym. Ate your favorite DIY salad, though it was on its last legs & it had to go tonight. I was at Rite Aid planning on buying wax strips and got lured to the powder section (inspired by your powder talk), trying to decide for 15 or so minutes. When I got to the register, I realized I didn’t have any money, or a card. The rain of shame. I quickly walked out.

I found my college journals in one long Word doc & scrolled through, highlighting some lines. It really shook me, got me teary. I was in so much pain, despair, and obsession from 2012-2013: the drugs, the weight, the skin, the boys. I couldn’t really muster the energy to keep a physical journal because it required a kind of patience & sitting I couldn’t show up for. I wish I could hug that 19-year-old and tell her it would turn out okay. Though there are pure moments of joy & ecstasy in those clipped writings, and much fun was had, it was all chemically-induced & there is a sadness tinged in it all. I really saw no way out.

She stripped down to nothing, and in so doing, became everything. Everything fingered, nothing quaint. Got on all fours and crawled.

I started writing that^ when I was changing in the locker room.

What do you prioritize when you’re writing? I’m married to fuckery, then rhythm & sound. Content comes secondary. I think attention to sound was instilled in me by my HS English teacher, Christine Schutt. She said to never aspire to be a writer.

***

5.11.19

Dear Marina,

Woke up spinning out over money. Called my mom yesterday. She asked me what are you painting/ what are you doing with your life/ why haven’t you updated your website/ what can I show my friends when I tell them my daughter is an artist… I decided to be honest and told her that I’m painting portraits of my friends’ genitals. She was pissed. She began why do you have to be like that/ why can’t you do something for me for once/ you are so selfish… and I hung up on her. “Selfish” is my trigger word.

It feels weird knowing that my parents stalk my art website as a way of seeing what I’m up to. It’s one thing to be naked in front of strangers… but to be naked in front of my parents…

Last night, I said to a friend, “your art style is what you can’t do,” referring to a painter whose inability to paint heads became his trademark style—little overworked chaotic x’ed out heads— his failure made his work profound.

Failure is as much a part of the human experience as genitals are to the human body.

Fail, fail, fail and still go on said Louis Bourgeois in her diary.

Called my sponsor this morning and she said it’s hard to be mom.

***

5.13.19

Dear Ash—

The necessity of self-mythology. If you won’t, who will?

Dreams of busking in the subway may soon come true.

***

5.13.19

Marina, I cannot bring myself to go to meetings.

I want to want to go to meetings, but I feel so much momentum and fervor and passion for art and reading and collaborating that I can’t tear myself away. I’ve always had a one-track mind.

A wiser version of me knows that it is just as important to go to meetings when I am happy and productive and inspired as when I am depressed and lonely and afraid.

In the movie Downtown 81, Basquiat says: There is guilt and there is action.

My action for today is to prioritize painting and my friends and to pray for the willingness to get my butt to a meeting on Wednesday. Guilt is a totally useless emotion, says Louise Hay.

Just when I think I’ve got the next 24 hours figured out, life pulls the rug out from under me and I’m flattened like a worm under a stiff heel and I realize that the only thing that ever matters in the end is what I’ve done to help another human being.

I need all the help I can get.

My studio (photo cred: Guzman)

5.14.19

Marina,

My housemate is practicing the drums.

It sounds like he is practicing in my room.

The walls are thin. I can’t think.

Maya Angelou says, “Never complain. Complaining lets a brute know there’s a victim in the neighborhood.” I am a corny quote machine.

Adding to my intentions list: “to kiss someone without reserve” and “unabashed PDA.”

God willing.

Have you masturbated today?

5.14.19

Dear Ash,

I masturbated last night & realized I hadn’t showered in two days. It grossed me out. My hygiene hasn’t been so great. It was nice that the self-love wasn’t accompanied by porn or my vibrator the size of my torso. In a stand-up routine, I heard porn is a creative vampire. That was sobering & believable, certainly. Something in me dies, each time.

I’m writing this blog post due tomorrow & reminding myself DONE IS BETTER THAN PERFECT. My inner Didion wants to make puzzles out of sentences & wrap them in some gold & this is not the time, nor do I have the energy.

My skin has gotten me down. I take too many selfies. Some days I add to my “Skin” photo album on my phone. I’m debating whether to cancel a free 10-minute facial--I feel I will almost certainly be sold some things & simultaneously shamed. The new New Yorker just arrived. This subscription was a gift from Jesse. A part of me is almost always looking for him on the train. I was reading Just Kids sandwiched between two white men, also reading. Do I look interesting today? Do I look like I’m worth getting to know? I am at the last few pages & want to read those in delicious solitude in bed, savor the lines, cry.

When was the last time you teared up?

I had some violent, bloody dreams. Woke up dull & drenched in tired, Ash. I had the equivalent of 6 shots of espresso yesterday (used the stovetop maker two times–each time is equivalent to 3 shots). I was tweaking; it was scary. It reminded me of Vyvance or some uppers, my lips were shaking & I had to reassure myself I was ok as I sat across from Jules. I lent her The Bell Jar.

Sometimes I look at someone on the train & I’m already having sex with them in my head.

I left a tray of cat toys outside my neighbor’s door with a note.

When I woke up in the ER at Bellevue in 2013, I discovered a bag of fried chicken by the stretcher. I knew I bought it in a blackout. I was more ashamed of that than the predicament I was in & kicked the bag under the stretcher.