a painting I made (or am making, though I don’t think I want to continue with this one):
ACK came in the mail today:
The quality is surprisingly decent.
I also read (on Silliman’s blog) that 200 million americans want to publish a book. People complain that there is a lack of seriousness in self-publishing.
Perhaps that is true. But I am very serious about my unseriousness.
Been reading a lot of Doris (see above picture), which I purchased on a whim from Mayday Books. Makes me sad I missed out on the zine movement. I also got a Ken Dahl book (for Pony). He says that zines are now left for the amusement of sheltered bourgie somethings. Like me.
I have been thinking about phobias, exposure therapy, and art. I have trypophobia (of clusters of holes, and flesh bumps, or clusters in general. it’s hard to describe). Yayoi Kusawa has visions of polka dots taking over the world, overwhelming her, obliterating her. Sometimes I worry about the power of “art”, which comes from the ideology around it, and its ability to dilute, distort, and glorify terrible things. It can be very amoral. Beauty is. So I painted a cluster of flesh wounds in my painting for myself, so I am reminded that what I make is something terrible. I am curious about whether or not, if I keep doing it, it will lose its terrifying quality. I also wrote little prose things concerning this:
i looked in the mirror and discovered my taste buds. i thought that they looked abnormally large, though i have not seen another’s person’s taste buds for comparison. the more i scrutinized, the more they seemed like little flesh sacks stuck to my pink lingual muscle. clusters of pale flesh pustules like milky grains of rice sprouting all over the surface of it. i stuck my tongue in and out between my teeth. the long white buds were like insect eggs on a leaf. any moment now they could give birth. in the dream, i regarded these little egg sacks with utter neutrality. upon awakening, the image awoke with me. fear and disgust awoke with me. everything awoke and the things filled my world once again with meaning, and the pustules on my tongue begged to taste meaning in everything, in themselves. they tasted themselves and their white, worm existences. in one of Plath’s poems, one of the first consciousnesses that remembered me, a black gap discloses itself. / on the opposite lip / a small white soul is waving, a small white maggot. my limbs, also, have left me. / who has dismembered us? / the dark is melting. we touch like cripples. (Plath, Event)