Читать книгу Everything Fails - T Van Santana - Страница 3

So I’m me. That’s when you say, "Hi me! Nice to meet you!" Or something like that.

Sometimes it’s awesome to be me, sometimes it sucks hard. I work my ass off and believe in what I do. Spent the better part of life trying to accomplish what I think’s important, living with a sundry of split notions. Masculine and feminine. Mind and body. Inside and outside. I’m seeing more and more how these distinctions are unreal by looking closer at what is real. And I’m moving on.

With the weather being like it is, I dunno how I get a fuckin’ thing done. These storms keep rolling in, destroying my head. I hurt pretty much all the time. You’d think by now this wouldn’t happen. But it does.

I work in the secrets trade. The word for people who do what I do is secretist. Try it on. Get comfy. I provide a discreet service, at a cost. It happens in a time and place of elegant appointment. That’s all I’ll say for now. Don’t wanna spoil your dinner. These days, I’m happy with work. I don’t know if I’m getting better at what I do or caring less. I suppose I care about what I do, but less about everything else. I’m relaxing into it. Loosening up.

Was thinking today about how Bubble controls your fucking life. If you die—and there seem to be an awful lot of folks dying out there—Bubble maintains your presence, even if your family wants it gone. That’s so fucked up.

Speaking of family, my sister just Bubbled that some asshole harassed her on the tube yesterday. She laid him out. Good for her. I keep meaning to blow her a Bubble, but I’m forever outta time. Gone from sittin’ around every waking minute wondering how I’ll ever do anything with my life to wondering when in fuck I’ll have time to do nothing again. Sucks.

I was born to run, but I’ve become a creature of routine, drawn into ephemera. Some of the mystery of life is lost—not just in the mystical sense, though that, too, but in the unknowns of everyday. Lost to a greater acceptance of a diversity of outcomes. Lost to habits. Habits, which while beneficial, are predictable and consistent.

When I was young, I was in a band. Somehow that’s still a part of me, even though it doesn’t show like it did. Nothing makes people swoon like being in a band. I guess I’m trying to make you swoon a little.

I spent my adolescence depressed to the point of suicide. Spent the better part of my twenties having panic attacks. Found my calling while falling. Spent the better part of my life searching for perfect love, finding very imperfect love many times over, and trying to keep it. A few times I did, you know, for a time, hold onto it. Even after I found lasting love, I spent the next few years trying to disentangle myself from my imperfections. That’s a long fucking while dancing with nostalgic ghosts, dreaming acetylcholine angels on beautiful dopaminergic wings flying to the gates of heaven, only to cross the celestial threshold back to the hollow feelings of waking life.

I like clothes. I never have the money to get the designers I like, but I have a good eye and find decent pieces for what I can afford. I catch people looking. I’m never quite as polished as I want, nor as authentic as I want to be in my look.

Authenticity was my mission, though it’s become one of those words that muddies each time I say it. So now it’s more a guiding light than a standard, a line I follow when I’m snow-blind and stinging in the nose.

I paint. I write. I’m very sexual and often don’t know what to do with that.

I dunno what else to tell you. That’s me.