The garbage truck would wake us at dawn during those days. The noise emanated from the window directly behind the cot we both slept on. It was a genuine California summer; days were spent at the beach, exploring swimming holes, drinking cheap beer. The day we met, we fucked. It was some natural progression from talking about menial things to telling each other we were in love.
I’m worried about scaring you off, but having given you I Love Dick, I’m thinking you might come to appreciate the artistry with which I move around a landscape. I’m thinking you might not write it off as patheticism, I’m thinking you might be the first person to notice how every part of my falling off from some third world is intentional. Sometimes I want to approach you as a project. I have this primal desire to be locked up in your room.
(chained)
That art piece where Abramovic is there and there’s a whole array of objects to use on her. I actually think you’d be really kind. You’d probably feed me, bathe me, let me watch the TV in increments. But I’d be chained up and you’d still say you love me, which would be a farse under those kinds of power conditions. But you’d be coming from a good place.
I wrote this poem about wanting to be set on fire—basically, it’s about Sati, the Indian widow burning practice. It’s archaic and custom. I told you about Sita going in the pyre—so the phenomenon comes from that. It’s true that I’m deranged and want to hurt myself and that I am a cutter. But these are also things that are part of my praxis. Does that make sense? I want you to know that.
None of this is going to be easy. I’m probably going to go berserk, and you’ll have to deal with it. But I’ll give you so much to think about. And I’ll make you feel good along the way.
California is this incredible place, and I maybe mean this in an Eve Babitz way. I mean it’s tragic, and it’s commercial, it’s plastic, it’s warm and limitless, it’s pathetic, it’s me. I mean my heart is still there. Does that make sense? All of this is so tragic. How am I supposed to love and leave, and love again? I never want to go to California with you. But then I also do, because I want to share it with you.
All of this is to say I’m starting my blog again.