quietly messing about with video tools while exploring the depths of how Star Wars has ruined / greatly enriched my life. if you know, you know.
a processed and layered and trashed scene from Lost River by Ryan Gosling featuring Ben Mendelsohn (and Christina Hendricks!) paired with F**kin’ Problems by A$AP Rocky- as the good lord intended. (you so very are welcome.)
under the pixel trash you can see Mr. Once-a-dancer-always-a-dancer, Mads Mikkelsen killing it in Druk by Thomas Vinterberg paired with a dance challenge version of Bitch Better Have My Money by Rihanna (may Mads always be Riri’s bitch) and ambient techno layers resulting in this sloppy drunken travesty.
voice: a Ewan McGregor sound clip stolen from his reading of The Little Matchstick Girl. (this is the line in the story that guts me most every time.)
This is an AI generated image of a green snake in a willow tree that I mangled into this horrible composition.
My health and my mental condition continue to be on the up- markedly so.
We are in the month of April in the year 2025 (I had to check to make sure) and I- I think I am finally a person- I might have finally achieved personhood again- I think.
This has to do with having improved energy levels and physical ability- not something sociopolitical, like my legal status has been changed in some way… I mean, yeah, I still am second class- low class, but I’m an actual person. I barely qualify according to the American standards of personhood these days, but so far so good on that front…🙄😬🫤
With the combination of persistence, time, and a few supplements (was it the astaxanthin that did it?), my body figured out how to person much better than it has been personing in years.
That is good news.
In other good news, my Human has invited me to come along to a sort of residency he’s got in Lexington, VA at the end of this month. I have that change of environment to look forward to.
It’s not like my heart has been set on going to the the north of the South, but I will be surrounded by woodlands for my birthday. I have sorely missed being in the woods… as I have sorely missed being a person.
Every word- every elaborate concept in the English language- can be modified by and reduced to ‘FUCK.’
I like that very much about English.
However-
What kind of blog post would this be if I just- want you all to fuck right off into the fucking outer darkness of fucking fuck you fucking useless roostersuckers– for example?
I wish I could just skip over this writing business and transmit my anxiety-depression-rage-frustration- and occasional awe and elation straight into the souls of others.
Because I think I am a shit writer- my product is shit- and I am, worst of all, a shit salesman.
All this shit is only worth burying because it is too embarrassing.
I am a damned, embarrassing animal, chock-full of self-loathing. I should not exist.
There is some good news.
During March I’ve made more progress in my health journey!
It is slow going building my strength back up, and even slower going with flexibility, but I have noticed subtle improvements. It’s happening.
There is an ever present spine injury I have to keep working around. So no, it doesn’t feel very nice at all when I move. I have to take the sadomasochistic approach. As always. No fetish equipment required!
I keep thinking I should post more videos of myself attempting to be a mover once again. And then I overthink the hell out of it and I don’t. What would be the point?
You cannot see how I feel inside my body when I move. Certainly you cannot feel it yourself. Things that feel monumental (even catastrophic) to my musculature- to my very skeleton, look like nothing special at all on the outside.
I don’t know how to effectively share in the horror and amazement- and mostly horror- of being trapped inside this body I wear. It is frustrating.
Perhaps I need to make and give myself the award of most frustrated animal.
I have started going to a gym in that has an indoor swimming pool.
This is an interesting development in my life as- heh-
I don’t swim.
At all.
I was never much exposed to water culture as a youth. The few times I was in water, I was not instructed on the basics of swimming. Perhaps it was as if I was supposed to just figure out how to operate my body in the water- by osmosis, or something. It certainly didn’t seem to matter to anyone else if I acquired the skill or not.
So, I never got accustomed to being in water.
After my illness, just being in water is a lot for me now: I cramp at the drop of a hat, I deal with unusual muscle weakness / twitching, my back pain can be spectacular fun to work around, and I am easily overwhelmed by the sensory input of… everything.
When there is a lot of people in the pool the overwhelm happens even faster. It is more akin to being at a nightclub than one would first imagine. If I had to put my head in the water I would certainly have a panic attack, like particular rhythms at high volumes certainly drive me to panic. Or rage.
I am relearning how to own being a freak in public again. I mean, I’m this thing walking laps in a pool, stretching my miserable body while these dolphin people glide and splash by me.
Oh- how inexorably small I have become since the universe graced me with six years of repeated hamstring cutting- Oh-
I am grateful the experience is helping me build up my physical and mental fortitude again, the elusiveness of the swimming part notwithstanding.
Also, the pool is space insulated from the news out of the increasingly third-world, mind-blowingly hypocritical cesspool that is the United States of America.
All countries have their issues but… damn son, damn… this one is so jacked from all the mental gymnastics it does. It thinks getting gold for it’s little flag waving uneven bars ≠ routine is a good thing.
Egh, I wish I could say more meaningful things right out on social media.
I wish I did not have such problems with social interactions so that I could engage in conversations and appropriate debates more easily.
I know that I am not very good at having a VOICE, however, even without one- I exist.
And by my existence, I hold as some kind of (unfortunately flimsy) barrier against the racist, fascist, authoritarian, pseudo-theocratic, rampant capitalistic, dick-ville being… *coff* erected.
But… I spend most of my energy on trying to stay alive and heal. I don’t don’t have the extra amounts of oomph needed to effectively deal with… large scale shitshows.
Last month ended with me in passive suicidal ideations for a few days.
I could not write about that. Not while spiraling into it, or coming back out of it. I just yelled at the universe to pay artists! Let artists live!
I want to feel like I am worth more than the little birds brought down into the dark mines or the roses planted near the grapevines.
That imagery has nothing to do with pools. I don’t care.
This ending doesn’t wrap things up- in a nice, fluffy towel. I don’t care.
