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04 December 2015 @ 04:06 pm
(so is it raining in your bedroom?)  
i don't know.

the streets are rife with violence but it's no match for people's minds.

i don't know. i don't want to talk about it, but then i do. i try to write about something else, but it always works its way back around. written in from the side, from above, from below, from somewhere in between. always from somewhere in between. usually, at least. i don't know how to ask for what i want or what i want or how i want it. what do i want? probably to want something. that seems likely.

ideas for the iron pentacle sex altar:

  • fun factory layaspot, 2005 model (red)
  • rape kit*
  • sister's hospital tags from my nephew's delivery
  • frogs mutated by my hbc altered urine*
  • letters from ben
  • letters from not ben
  • lyric essay about sexual initiations completed in 2014, currently being read by a loved venue, problem being that i submitted it impulsively and am not actually sure that unleashing it on humanity is any kind of good idea, *sob* (but seriously, folks! what a fantastic analog for sexuality in my life!)
  • cowrie shell(s)
  • neruda-related
  • [blue lotus stamens (sold as curio only)]
  • 'black rose,' black phoenix alchemy lab
  • spent cannabis*
  • dead butterflies
  • [every starved afternoon mss]
  • blindfold
  • temptress, dark muse
  • beat, bowery electric
  • ....maybe i'll just put kaja up there
  • [untitled assemblage piece from 2009] (new pictures needed)
  • yab-yum statue
  • asst. [sundry], candles, ink, pornish, oils herbs rocks teeth and bones

  • *not technically in author's possession (probably for the best)

    i am full of lies. biopsies will not occur until 12/22 because doctor's admin person, who is still my hero, no sore feelings, forgot to plug me into monday's schedule. it's fine, means monday i can sleep the sleep of the recovering intensive-goer.

    time to pack.