Nothing is different. And everything is different. I can't explain it. And I don't care to.
Many years ago, I had a friend/ lover, who kept a journal. Only she wasn't like me, beaten into shape by cops and psychoanalysis. She was immediate, like a storm, or a river. Her name was Brier.
Her journal didn't reflect. It lived.
It read something like this: Woke-up with Charlie in my bed. He tried to kill himself last night. Wrenched on bikes all morning. Met Scott E. for lunch. Had sex in the bathroom. Went to Urban Bar. Did Cocaine. Went home with Jorge. Fucked in his car because his partner was home.
I don't know how or why. But this journal reminds me of how everything is different.
I've started keeping a similar journal. Here are two excerpts:
I fell in love last week. And the week before that. And probably the week before that too. Some of these beloved have become good friends. Other's linger on the edge of my life, present and absent. One in particular feels like falling. So, I was going to ask her out. Again. And then it occurred to me that I don't actually care what happens. So, instead I decided to spend the morning invoking erotic magick, chaos. I did two ritual-art works:
evocation/ revocation 01
evocation/ revocation 02
I am so full of love and loss, I can't even begin to understand what to do with it. So I throw it out into the universe in blood, fire, and art. I can't wait to see what happens next.