i’m fairly confident that i’m having a cluster headache:
“Cluster headache is probably the worst pain that humans experience. I know that’s quite a strong remark to make, but if you ask a cluster headache patient if they’ve had a worse experience, they’ll universally say they haven’t. Women with cluster headaches will tell you that an attack is worse than giving birth. So you can imagine that these people give birth without anesthetic once or twice a day, for six, eight, or ten weeks at a time, and then have a break. It’s just awful.” – Dr. Peter Goadsby, Professor of Clinical Neurology at University College London.
thank you, Dr. Goadsby. you have the name of a frumpy Hogwarts teacher, but you seem well informed and sincere.
i feel like the white guy in the middle. he gets it.
belkis ayon manso: lithograph
thanks to the lovely Rita Harbie for making my day
i would hang up a ratty Welcome Back sign whenever he traveled on school trips, or sometimes with friends when he got older. it had a quilted American flag on it. i was still maladjusted to the move. and i would hang it up high, with an assortment of plush animals and beanie babies sitting placidly beneath it, posed invitingly but otherwise expressionless. i never knew if he really noticed it or not, he was usually tired and distracted when he got to his room, but i did it every time anyway.
you outdid yourself as usual, my greatest hero.
someone punch me in the throat so i don’t have to peel myself from these sweaty covers and tackle the lineup of tasks that were ascribed to me for the day.
tasks. ew. so important the day they’re due and so pathetic.
this is how i feel right about now.
james abbott mcneill whistler: nocturne in black and gold: the falling rocket
at some point the face stops being a face, once it’s been looked at for long enough, and is known to contort, and produce sounds and slight smells. even a taste, if licked. habituation will dull the senses and the skin of your upper lip will have waning appeal. also, a round trout mouth with a black velvet hollow and a skin-pink cinema curtain frame. composed in a ruched fashion. shallow streams of vapor hit my cheek in a sweet moist sine curve that keeps you alive.
it would behoove me to fix my fucking camera so as to document my fucking work. but i am an easily distracted woman with much on her mind.
in the meantime—19th century myspace pics (the hyperbolized-pucker-paired-with-peace-sign-and-possibly-even-a-raised-left-eyebrow pose was not used until more recent times.)
and other biological whoopsies
what an unpleasant scene!
a foot, nails mostly intact, advancing forward by curling its toes!
i have much to say, many thoughts, perhaps not suitable to be combined in one post. i would normally space them out. but. delirious with fatigue and elated, for now, i think i just might.
i was wondering today why it is that the second we give up the standard defenses we revert to complete buffoonery. by we i mean i. it goes so well. SO well. i am nonchalant and beautiful and wise. yet the second i internalize my approval of someone, or one/several of their feats/features, a bumbling imbecile hijacks my motor system and makes me do dumb stuff. and say dumb stuff. fumbling around in attempted subtlety to find a behavioral balance between sufficiently amorous and acting all like, yea, what’evs. the result is a violent and abrupt oscillation between the two.
“did i ever tell you, you have beautiful skin?”
fuck. a wan smile. i creeped him out.
ok, ok. next time he speaks, SLAP the motherfucker. yea. who’s creepy now, bitch.
oh shit… that was hard. is he really mad? i should go tug on his sleeve… smile up in feigned innocence…
and this is around the point where, notwithstanding possible forgiveness on the man’s part, it all goes to shit. i guise my embarrassment in more playful insults. i become a nuisance. i’ve managed to avoid this pattern though, as of late. thus far the bumbling imbecile is dormant. not to say i don’t get retarded sometimes; when forced to watch him flit his irresistibly dopey wings at other flowers, i’m never quite sure how to behave. i pretend to find it funny, usually, but i always end up busying myself by biting the shit out of my cuticles. which now lay in bloody hardened shambles around my fingernails. generally though, i don’t have to find a balance because he provides it. and i’m glad.
nicola samori is the SHIT. obscuring the face=no recognition of the self=loss of personal identity. hot damn.