Again, the fucking stupidity of what people expect.

Why why why why why do I have to live in this fucking archetypal bullshit world created by other people with expectations ON ME to fill?

Love is NOT LIMITED. It's easy, and useful, and pleasant, and wonderful to love more than one person. Intimately. Why goddammit am I expected to fall into this man/woman marriage baby bullshit thing people do?

Everyone wants me to themselves. I have no choice, if I want to be with someone, then to fall into this stupid fucking thing that kills every cell of my being.

I don't want to do it anymore! I'll just be fucking alone. Small mind bullshit!

I've started kicking ass hard.

Working out, RPT, I feel like superman most days.

Quit smoking, quit drinking.

Just gym, and classes (5 of them!), and Therapeutic Drumming Instructor Training, and GRA, and meditation, and journaling, and repeat.

Badass.

Mikey

If you want to talk ever, here: jensoignier@gmail.com

Peace, safe travels.
Jen

Trouble.

 I think you start into trouble when you switch from years of wanting to watch music album vs live, to live. I want to see them now, look in their faces. See.

But what do my eyes know truly. Only projections of myself.
What am I looking for?

Something alive, some integration of art and sorrow and intellectualism that created something that came from an emotional human.

Seems impossible, most days. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k0t0EW6z8a0


I just want this life. And this one: 8 1/2. And this one: Sula. And this one: Mine. Me. Mine.

I thought 8 1/2 was based on Jungian and Freudian psychoanalysis. I was right. I wrote a thesis on it, then forgot it.

Who cares.

I could disappear today and be fine with that.

Facebook, detox.

The strangest thing about the first couple days off of Facebook is wanting to post on Facebook about what it's like to be off of Facebook.

Ridiculous, but true.

My life for the past year and a half has been complex, insane, sane, simple, and trying.

My intention to live life in a different way than I have been starts with detoxing from the internet. I've set up my life this past year and a half in such a way that all I've been involved in is work, grad school, and lying in my bed. I've become spiritually sedentary. I've lost connection to nature, to time..to the simple act of being with myself without some interference or distraction. This has to change.

I deleted Facebook today, and won't go back. Next week I leave Georgia for Louisiana, and I will spend my two-three weeks there engaging with the world in a way I once knew.

My plans are to run at Audubon Park; to go to the sculpture garden; to explore the city with new it eyes; to revisit old friendships in person; to create some things. I will be on the internet as little as possible.

I have to detox and reset my way of being in the world before I start the next year and a half of my time in Georgia. And after that most likely will come a Ph.D; it's vital that I learn (relearn) a different way of existence.

Facebook for me became increasingly a place full of disconnection, where people presented themselves in facades. Even when we were being authentic, by the very nature of communication there it becomes a paradox. Authenticity does not live in a vacuum outside of an authentic relationship with someone/something else. There must be real communication to foster it and for it to exist. There is no such thing as authenticity on Facebook because a container for such communication can never be created. A person is not communicating there with any type of full human experience. It's impossible to be a humanist and exist in such a space.

That's all for now. It feels good to write again in such a container.

Jen

Are you my daddy?

It's so easy to feel so ridiculous. So childish. To go from feeling completely controlled for over a year, even when you were falling apart, to completely ridiculous.

Addiction is about wanting to lose control. To be swept away. That's why AA is focused on teaching people how to control their lives. Until you learn that, you'll always be chasing some impossible high. People don't want to learn that shit. They want the "swept away" to last forever. Why doesn't life work that fucking way. What a gip.

My addiction.

For me it's "Are you my daddy?"

I need to feel worthy. I need my dad to walk into my house and to see my art and to read my writings, to let me put on Bon Iver on my Klispch speakers (did you notice daddy I bought your favorite speakers?) and to say, "Damn Jen. You have it going on. You GOT IT. You are worthy."

I'm constantly looking for my fucking daddy. When will it end. When will it fucking end.

Instead I want to forget. I want the object of my transference to walk into my room with burning fucking eyes and to put out his strong, brown, middle-aged finger and swirl it around my eyelid. I want him to ask me, "Is this what you need?" and run his rough hands from my shoulders to down my arms, and hold my hands. And then I realize that's not what I want at all. Now he's holding my hands. Now he's asking me if this is what I need. Yes, yes it is. No, no it isn't. I need to be swept away, right? No, no I need my fucking dead dad to hold my hands and ask me what I need. Are you my father? Are you my fucking father??? Please be my father, if only for a few minutes..goddamn, can't you give me that?

I feel so ridiculous.

God damn Bukowski.

God damn Larry Schor.

God damn transference.

God damn dead daddy.

Fuck

It is what it is, always.

Posted here and attached (Same thing):

I never clearly understood the Id, Superego and Ego till today. Now I can’t stop thinking of all the people, and how I recognize all of this at play. I think about Bukowski, and how he seems to be at ease with his Id, and closer to it, yet the moments of special connection are found in the tiny bursts of shadow that live closer to his Superego. Larry said it’s not a continuum, and I understand that, but what’s fascinating to me is the shadow continuum that occurs as a result of the conflict between the two. I think about myself. I lived so close to my Id and Superego for such a long time. Now I’m closer to the in between. Shame is a good lesson, in that it’s almost never quite real or tangible, yet it teaches us about where we may be unbalanced. It reminds us of our scars. If we can keep that in mind, and recognize that it isn’t as large as it feels, but instead a teacher, maybe we can embrace it and not let it overpower us. This is a new lesson for me.

I don’t know how to do this on such an academic scale. This theory (all the theory we talk about) becomes so fucking important to me. It becomes so personal, almost instantly. I can’t sit here and say, “On page 22,…etc”, although I appreciate it and think it’s a lovely process when that occurs with others. Maybe I can do it tomorrow, or ten minutes from now. Now I’m somewhere else, somewhere between the halls of my childhood and the reality of my now. It’s full of Dire Straits and Abita root(beer) and chunks of rocks at the bottom of my brain breaking apart my façade: true and fake silver plates on my shelf….I’m trying to let them fall, and break on the rocks, and fall apart and not fall apart simultaneously. Does that make sense? I’m trying not to listen to Mazzy Star. I’m listening to Boytoy’s “Blazed” instead. I’m dreaming about being touched in circular movements on my eyelids. It feels good, sexual in a way, parental comforting in another, and worthy. I feel worthy in my dreams. The rift between what I wish for and what’s my reality becomes too wide at times for me. I feel the old pull, yet the old fix doesn’t work. It never truly did. It just prolonged the feeling of want, need…the feeling was the addiction. I’m practicing abstinence. It’s so hard not to hit the streets running from myself. I’m trying to do some work here. 

“There’s a difference between being judgmental and making judgments.”

I do not have an excellent history of making judgments. I could sit with this one for ages. I think I’m slowly getting better though. I see myself now in a way I didn’t before, and get that doing too much is a form of prison also. How important is freedom? We need first to be free before we can judge anything. I’m trying not to be a prisoner to my life scripts and habits and morality and differences. I can’t help you make the right decisions if I can’t judge anything with a free mind. What a struggle this is.

“We live in a time now where intimacy is repressed more than sexuality.”

How often do I give the invitation, only to have the game played instead.  I want to scream sometimes, “Hey! Do you see what’s happening here? I’m offering you something different…WAKE UP! Let’s do something different! Let’s be intimate with each other. It’s ok to be imperfect.” I’m guilty. How often do I turn away from the moment because it’s easier to play the game. Intimacy means being real. It means doing the work to not play the game, to not be lazy. Yeah. How often do I turn away from it because it’s easier for the person and I see that and I love them too much to make them aware of a painful past. Is it selfish? Maybe. Maybe it’s about love over intimacy. Maybe that gift is intimate also.

“This is a psychology of conflict. This is a psychology of ambivalence. This is a psychology of loss.”

What is lost, what’s the cost? What do we get to keep? How can I hold the ambivalence of my experience and accept that it’s the truth and there is nothing I can do beyond becoming blind to change that? How do I accept the suffering and pain of that? How do I simultaneously experience the joy? Now that I’m gaining the tools of understanding the conflict, how does that change my understanding of the experience of me and those around me? How can I use this to chip away at that rock of pain, to putty up with my hands some understanding and relief? I’m so grateful for the tools. Jesus. It seems overwhelming to even begin without them.

I want to give my ego a little medal and say, “Godspeed”. If it weren’t for you I’d be in big trouble.

“How would you live your life if it were up to you?”

Much like I am, with a few changes. It’s hard on nights like this. I remember what it was like to get swept up in something. That doesn’t happen anymore. Somewhere along the way I became too conscious. I’m mourning the loss of that tonight. Maybe what I want sometimes is to be swept up forever, because that feeling is so grand. It’s the swirling of a finger on an eyelid by a mentor that becomes a worshiping. It’s the dance of a dream. It’s wish-fulfillment. It’s worthiness.

Bukowski says,

“it will never

let go

with the women

you live with

or wherever you

go, supermarkets,

bazaars, hang-glider

meets, it will

find you, maul you,

piss over you, let

you know

about it

again.

and there will be

 nobody

you can talk to

 about it.

I hope that isn’t true. I hope we can talk to each other. 

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  Posted just now

  
  

  
  

  I sped read the rest of War All The Time by Bukowski after I wrote this and turned off my light and tried to sleep.

  I couldn't breathe because I kept writing, writing like him in my mind, and I had the thought that I will never breathe

  until I have a typewriter to type the thoughts that make me gasp this night.

  
  

  I suddenly hated him.

  I found a lighter, and Fiona is asleep so I couldn't ask her for a cigarette. 

  
  I've quit (but we never really quit)

  So I went outside with War All The Time and a lighter I still had and I smoked three buds I found in the ashtray

  and I hated him

  so I tried to burn the book

  but it wouldn't burn, 

  I was suddenly mad at the chemicals, and thought that some time ago books were made of PAPER

  and could BURN 

  and I was mad at the world I live in where I can't even get a book made of paper anymore that burns like a book should.

  So I burned the tips, the corners that I had folded.

  They had been folded before; it was a used book I bought.

  And I remember at the beginning of this night, thinking

  "Why would anyone get rid of this book?"

  Some reader somewhere folded the same pages as me

  and I couldn't understand.

  Now I understand why

  Because

  
  

  Sometimes I just want to live in a small white house

  and love not too much

  and feel not too much.

  
  

  I burned the folded edges for me and for

  the reader

  who did her own burning

  when she 

  sold the book to the bookstore

  when she had 

  her 

  own moment of

  wanting a little white house

  
  

  where we don't feel too much

  love too much

  where we don't

  
  

  too much

  
  

  
  

  I won't sleep tonight.