intense, as augusts should be

(I heard venus was in retrograde, which makes everything make sense.)

It started slow and began with parties and kissing and sweet sweet visits and me falling asleep on my stoop. Then I ran out of lexapro and got the zaps and became preternaturally alert. I read a clarice lispector book that I hadn’t before and everything seemed right. I wrote on august 18 that I don’t know what I’m doing or how to get out. I don't know when the doors closed. what window can be unlocked or how. For now I sit here in the dark, counting the wrinkles on my wrist, debating whether or not to paint my nails. What exquisite a cell. 

The zaps kept me from sleeping, so I was occupied by torture.

I am heavy as a log. I toss when I sleep. My house quivers as I do. Occupying is such a depressing act, takes twice of me. I wish to fold the calendar like an accordion, count the wrinkles in time until I am in the right place. The right bathroom, smoking. 

I want my plants to die. My passport is gone. I have lost all forms of ID. I can’t hold onto a thing. I am a disintegrating person. I can’t bathe because I am soluble.

I got called off that day and all was well. I continued: I like putting my life in the ladder’s hands, the ladder that leads up to the white roof I lay naked on. Facing God. Daring when I lean. He smites with freckles and raised dots on my skin filled with estrogen. I raise him one, with vapor in my mouth. Ink enters my bloodstream. I drool it out. It drips down my face. Kiss me while the world decays. Suck the ink from my fingerprints. Stop seeking my monstrous cacophony. I’m losing pens.

Lispector had entered my bloodstream.

19th: a rave in bushwick. We took the dj and his tour manager home. He looked at the sky and then back to the dime bag in his hand. He dug his credit card into it. Held it up to my nose. I sniffed. 

I loved this gesture. I was being spoon fed k. I laid in his lap. He rubbed my back the same way he did later when I was lying on my stomach. He traced a line from my shoulder down to my asshole and back and forth until he propped me up.

I had entered insomnia at this point. I wrote myself raw. My consciousness is this part of me that craves sleep but cannot have it. It wants no one solely but only their declaration of love. Lies anger it. Cowardice angers it. A lack of connection with one’s own being and the courage to face it angers it. I’m speaking specifically at this point: august 25. 

I've been really happy, incredibly satisfied with my life. Socially I feel fulfilled, professionally things are happening. I am, though, by nature, greedy. 

I have immense faith in life. I believe that I’m walking The path. today (8/27), while I walked to bedstuy to buy cheap books at 8am, given up on sleep, a man drove up to me and asked me to slam his trunk closed. with all my might I did. He said thanks, baby! and drove off. I felt irrefutably useful, almost saintly despite my deprivations. I thanked god and new york for that, for the bizarrely divine elation I felt in that instant. In that moment I felt like everything thereafter would transpire in my favor. I don’t know if this was due to how quick these actions unfolded or my insomnia-induced haze, but I still think about it. then beach; that’s down below.

September came and with it a vacation in jersey and planting blooming bombing. On the first we watched the moon rise red over the sea. It burned like we do. waves crashed down on top of us and heaved ruthlessly, pulled us in deeper than we can touch, tumbled over our heads. He threw himself into them and I ducked under. I feared for my life and he laughed with my panic and broke it to pieces. The waves were enormous—are.

Other forms of torture: Torture by Pleasure Moderated. Torture by Fantasy. Torture by what one knows could be, and wanting the, real. Torture by being unable or unwilling to sieze.

Back home, september 8: w and I laid out pâté and goat cheese and bread and f's tomato salad while the bunny convulsed. I lost my treasured necklace. I dreamt of my teeth falling out. I feel as though no artisan could keep up with the rate at which I crumble. The thing that wove us so immaculately together has lost its elasticity and now refuses to bend. And I refuse to plead—my knees are already bruised. I'm choosing to let go, to let lost teeth lie.

I dreamt that a disaster was forecast to hit the earth. And it did. Death wasn’t immediate, at least for most. It produced a tingling sensation that signaled pending dissolution. One scrambled to find those whom they loved to spend their last moments and die with. Free houses were advertised with the purchase of a car because the housing market had crashed alongside the comet or nuclear bomb or whatever ambiguous disaster heralded the end. I had sex with strangers and looked for 1 and considered buying a house: An investment in hope, I thought. If we survived, we could live there.