/ DAY 48 /
Elohim is my alternate Fiona Apple. I don’t say that lightly. Fiona holds a sacred place in my cerebrum. I don’t claim anyone as my kindred soul-sister; but if I had a serotonin-powered spirit wolf, it’d be her. She’s mad. And I don’t think I’m mad. Or maybe I am. Let’s say I decide that on a coin-toss every other day. But one of my favorite quotes to ever come out of anyone’s mouth was Fiona talking about walking up and down a hill every day, hours on end, until her knees gave out. All so that she could walk out all of the unwaifish, wailing walls of emotion in her. She said it with such aloof bravado I was instantly enamoured. I don’t think she’s jonesing for a dopamine drip, I think it’s just how she–and I–work. It takes real commitment to search the ends of your patellas and look down on your ligaments for how they let you down when they forced your skinny legs to lay down and stop connecting all the thoughts that hurt you. And maybe this makes me statistically likely in any clinical trial to be mad, but I think that kind of passion is everything the world is missing.
I DIDN’T KNOW THAT I WAS SO CONVINCING
‘TILL I WAS BUYING INTO
WHAT MY BRAIN WAS SELLING
I’M SOLID IN MY BONES, JUST NEED SOME TUNING
I’VE GOTTA GET IT TOGETHER TO SAVE MY LIFE
I live my life with that credo as my fuckbuddy: to walk to the ends of any hectare of any hemisphere I’m on at the moment to seek out, shrug off the hurt. I’d walk from Azerbaijan to Angola if I didn’t think my heart’d give out. But I’ve hurried my head through huge distances and dug holes with my soles in places heart-ok humans don’t go. I want to rehab, so I isolated myself on an island for 96 days and spoke only 7 words. I walked streets from 1am-5am in seven different SE Asian mega-cities and hid out in the day. I crossed across land borders and no one but the biometrics I placed on record at immigration knew where I’d been, where I was going. But eventually your body gives out. Running really wreaks its havoc on my right leg, my quads say ‘quit and just quiet down your mind’ and my calves call out ‘i just can’t even’.
I’VE DRIFTED FARTHER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE
BUT I’LL COME BACK
IF AND WHEN THE MOMENT’S RIGHT
I like neuroses; and I think Elohim does too. It’s the sign of an expansive mind. A moving mind. A mind that hopes and a mind that makes waves. If only to slap yourself with them hard enough that you’ll wash up on some shore of serenity, silky sand and in the stares of someone who gives a semi-shit about you. Neuroses are convincing. They are Nietzsche naked in bed with Ryan Gosling saying ‘come here, sex pistol’ and then holding you hostage. Jokes on you. The sex pistol was your self-esteem standing on your skinny legs holding you at gunpoint while shouting at you to keep stripping until you’re down to your skivvies. You’ll give consent to these sexy/unsexy hopes at calming calamity; and you and your inner sex pistol will sprint across the surface of your neurons to search for the phonemes to smash together to say ‘stop’. Creativity comes out of that. So does exhaustion. And disassociation. And daring dreams.
And blacking out on metaphors too many times.