Thursday, September 29, 2011


Oh, I'm at the computer: I'm at the computer, thinking about bed. But I can't go back to bed yet, because I have a feldenkrais appointment. Feldenkrais makes me feel better than bed anyway. But, I have to get there: a mile walk, which sounds exhausting but okay too because at least at the other end I get to lie down on the feldenkrais table and drift away, and then once we’re done maybe I'll feel better. For a few minutes, on my walk home, until I get to the point where I'm too exhausted but I'm still walking, and then at home either I'll feel better or worse, or better, and then worse, or better and then worse and then better, and then I'll probably be back at the computer, thinking about bed but not in the same way because then it will actually be at the end of the day, or close to it anyway, although these days the whole day just feels like the end of the day or the end of the world or just the end.

Speaking of exhaustion, the doctor wants to talk to me about the heavy metal test results, but I don't want to come in until the second test comes back from the lab, because otherwise it's just two appointments for no reason. Did I mention talking to my mother the other day? I'm sure I did, but I didn’t want to talk about it. When was it when she offered to pay for the doctor again? A few months ago – she didn't want me to worry, that's what she said. I don't need her money to pay for the doctor, but it does help. Except then there she was on the phone, all stressed out because of one bill. One bill for an hour appointment, and a vitamin D shot. Actually it was a half-hour appointment, and a vitamin D shot, and maybe I was there for 40 minutes, but definitely not more, so they shouldn’t have billed me for more than 45 minutes at the most, but I didn't tell my mother that. It's always the same story with her – she offers something, takes it back. Still, I want her to offer, want her to follow through, so then I keep getting caught in the same place.

After I got off the phone with her the other day, I started thinking maybe I should just stop taking any of her offer, if it always leads to the same place where she gets all frantic about nothing. Gets all frantic and starts saying the same stupid things, like she wants me to talk to some relative who's a doctor – or no, that was the original offer, a while back, and I even said yes, but then I did mention that, since he would be taking a detailed medical history, I would talk about being sexually abused, I just wanted her to know that and then she didn't want me to talk to that doctor any more.

This time, she wants my doctor to talk to this doctor, as if already learned. I say. I've already tried the conventional pharmaceutical route, I mean I took those anti-parasite medication and everything has gotten worse. What is this random conventional medical doctor going to offer. He's not random, my mother says. No, I say, I'm not interested. Here you are getting stressed out about paying for the doctor, and then you're offering to pay for something that doesn't even make sense. At least the stock market is up, she says. And then it will be down and then it will be up and then it will be down – you can't tie your emotions to the stock market.

My mother changes the subject, I can always rely on her for that. She read a review of Justin Torres's book in the New York Times. It was awful, she says. What do you mean? She reads me the headline – can you believe it, she says. You mean the way they write, I say – because it's all positive, and that’s the only thing that matters, a New York Times review can make someone's career – I mean his book has been reviewed everywhere, literally everywhere. It's awful, my mother says, and reads the beginning to me again. I've already read it – I'm fascinated by this tiny book filled with so much that matters that somehow has become a bestseller, reviewed in every big-name publication from the New York Times Book Review to the Washington Post to Forbes to the Onion. The whole machine is working for this queer book. The review my mother is reading sounds like all the reviews -- glowing, but not particularly insightful.

My mother says why didn’t the New York Times publish your review? Because I don't have those kind of connections. What does he have, this reviewer? I don't know, what does it say about him? He teaches writing at the New School in New York. Maybe that's what it is – he's a professor; he lives in New York; he knows someone at the New York Times. It's just awful, my mother says – maybe I wouldn’t think that if I hadn’t read your review, or gone to his reading.

It's just awful – does my mother really say that four times? She's annoyed at something, everything, I can't place it. Maybe we could bond over this, I mean if it wasn't just her way of changing the subject, her way of trying to connect after shutting me down, yes I'm that fragile – I'm already so distant from everything, everything except the way I feel in this chair like my head is gone and I can barely speak and I’ll never get up. Except I will. And then I will. And then I will. And I don't know if it's worth it.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

And then

I'm so tired today, I don't know what to do. I went on a walk, and it was awful – looking at pretty things, trying to make them make the happy. Then I got back in bed, got wired, got back up, ate more food scrolled down through Facebook status updates – that's when you know I'm really tired, when I’m reading Facebook, hoping it will give me energy. Should I get back in bed again? Is there any other option?

Back in bed: I don't understand how I can be so wired while, at the same time, my brain can’t function. Eventually I fall asleep anyway, wake up with a headache but at least I can imagine going to the reading I've scheduled for tonight, sort of. Oh, there's my jaw, pain. Outside: hot and dry. I hate this dryness. Four months more. And then? And then.

It's official – I'm in prepublication promotion mode for Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots?!

The book comes out in February (Valentine's Day is the official launch in San Francisco), so I'm planning the book tour for the West now – let me know if you want to bring me to your town or university – here's a tentative schedule:

Mid-January: New Mexico
Late-January: Los Angeles/Southern California
February: San Francisco Bay Area
March: the Northwest

And, of course, if you want to review the book when it comes out, let me know so I can put you on the review copies list.

Here's the promo info:

Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots?:
Flaming Challenges to Masculinity, Objectification, and the Desire to Conform
Edited by Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore
(AK Press, February 2012)

"These essays, alternately moving and sprightly, contemplative and outraged—display the power of presenting an alternative to the mainstream: a world of greater tolerance, acceptance, support, and creativity.”
Publishers Weekly

You may have thought you understood human nature before you read this book; after reading it you will be humbled by all you failed to grasp until now. America invented identity politics but here those identities have been multiplied and articulated as never before.
—Edmund White, author of A Boy’s Own Story

Gay culture has become the ultimate nightmare of consumerism, whether it's an endless quest for Absolut vodka, Diesel jeans, rainbow Hummers, pec implants, or Pottery Barn. As backrooms are shut down to make way for wedding vows, and gay sexual culture morphs into “straight-acting dudes hangin’ out,” what are the possibilities for a defiant faggotry that challenges the assimilationist norms of a corporate-cozy lifestyle?

"Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore's coruscating eye and clear head is what queers need if we are to survive as anything other than a tamed branch of consumer society, based on assimilation, repression, and despair. These essays come like a plunge into a forest pool of revitalizing joy, honesty, and common sense. Read them. Now. No—not tomorrow. Now!"
—Samuel R. Delany, author of Times Square Red, Times Square Blue

Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots challenges not just the violence of straight homophobia but the hypocrisy of mainstream gay norms that say the only way to stay safe is to act straight: get married, join the military, adopt kids! This anthology reinvokes the anger, flamboyance, and subversion once thriving in gay subcultures in order to create something dangerous and lovely: an exploration of the perils of assimilation; a call for accountability; a vision for change.

This book plumbs the most important question facing queers in the 21st century: how the hell did we go from forming a crucial part of the '60s “lib” rainbow, and from mastering, refining, and successfully deploying nonviolent resistance with ACT UP, only to end up creating for ourselves a world of martial and marital law every bit as sterile, constricting, and amoral as the world we once fled like the plague?
—Andy Bichlbaum of the Yes Men

These essays excavate masculinity, unearthing the complex and pervasive structures that police and construct it and exposing the beautiful resilience of its self-avowed refusers and failures. These pieces telescope between analysis of the structures of gendered racialization that produce body norms and the daily physical and emotional traumas and toils of surviving and resisting, providing complex and badly needed ways to imagine and reimagine faggotry.
—Dean Spade, author of Normal Life: Administrative Violence, Critical Trans Politics and the Limits of Law

Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots is a collection of essays that not only examine the intricacies of the current socio-political climate within the realm of the gay/queer/trans world, but also show how important it is for us to interface and aggressively seek to inform the world view of the culture at large. Thanks, Mattilda for the insights, intellectual rigor and the glittering ammunition with which to destroy and rebuild.
—Mx Justin Vivian Bond, singer, songwriter, and author of Tango: My Childhood, Backwards and in High Heels

And, the first few events organized so far:

Valentine's Day 2012 – Tuesday, February 14
6 pm sharp
(come early for heart-shaped refreshments)
San Francisco Main Library
1100 Larkin St
San Francisco, CA
with Jaime Cortez, Tommi Avicolli Mecca, Debanuj DasGupta, Booh Edouardo, Eric Stanley, Harris Kornstein, your lovely host Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore, and maybe even more tba

Olympia Timberland Library
Wednesday, March 7, 7:30 pm
313 8th Ave SE
Olympia, WA 98501
(360) 352-0595

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Another chance

It's funny – living in a familiar yet unfamiliar landscape, when the trees started to turn yellow I thought oh, not enough water, right? Oh, wait – remember: fall! That's right, fall. I do like fall, although it's gotten hotter again so it feels more like summer except for the fact that the nights get cooler fast.

That's right – I remember when I first arrived in Santa Fe, staying in that place near the Plaza, watching these tiny trees turn a bright yellow, such a gorgeous color and I wanted to take pictures of myself in front of that yellow but then the color wasn't as bright and pretty soon the leaves were on the ground. No, wait – I wanted to take pictures when the leaves were on the ground, but when they were still a bright yellow. I guess this year, I'll get another chance.

Monday, September 26, 2011

I don't even know

Let's start today with a rhyme: 12 hours in bed, better off – no, honey – not that rhyme. Let's start over: once there was a girl, who moved to the desert. This is what desperate people do: we move to the desert. Some of us, anyway.

Sometimes it helps: it has not helped me. That much we can say for sure. I mean helped in the literal, immediate way – the rest, who knows. But in the literal, immediate way – oh my, I feel worse. And worse.

Yesterday I took a chelating agent to test for heavy metal toxicity – it allegedly washes the metals out of your tissues and into your urine, so then I was studying my urine to see, as if there would be little glinting specks of mercury left over from childhood thermometers, fillings in my teeth, staring back at me through the acrid yellow. EDTA – that's the name of the chelating agent. It made be so dried out, that I couldn't possibly drink enough water, and then strangely I was pissing less, which made me a little worried like the chelating agent was stuck in my body, until it got back to normal, later on in the day, and then today when I woke up, spit something into the sink of course it was a dark red, blood again from all that dryness. All this dryness in the air – I love that two weeks we had when it would rain almost every day, but that probably won't happen again until next year.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Wait – did I tell you that I'm reading next Sunday, October 2, in Albuquerque?!

Here are the details:

Albuquerque Zine Fest presents
Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore
Sunday, October 2, 5 pm
Cellar Door Gifts and Gallery
147 Harvard SE
Albuquerque, NM
Suggested donation $5-$10. No one will be turned away for lack of funds. Books will be available for sale.

Oh my, it’s my first reading in New Mexico, can you believe it? Hope to see you there!

Oh – I'll be reading from So Many Ways to Sleep Badly – in case you want a reminder about the book, here you go…

"A gender-bending novel [that] unearths subjects still relatively untouched in popular culture... you're not going to be reading anything similar elsewhere."
--The Times (London)

“Like William S. Burroughs meets David Sedaris, offering a sort of surreal urban grit with poisoned-arrow that stings and sometimes reveals.” -- San Francisco Chronicle

“When I read the first chapter of the newest novel by San Francisco poster child for surviving-and-thriving gender/queer punks everywhere, I felt like I was being yelled at by an excited, manic friend who was pacing around a roach-infested kitchen, occasionally breaking into a runway walk while wearing hot pants made of burnt rainbow flags… The rapid-fire, honest glimpse into the post-gay ruins of San Francisco will likely break even the toughest punk heart.”
-- NOW Magazine (Toronto)

Mattilda Bernstein Sycamore’s exhilarating novel is about struggling to find hope in the ruins of everyday San Francisco -- battling roaches, Bikram Yoga, chronically bad sex, NPR, internet cruising, tweakers, the cops, $100 bills, chronic pain, the gay vote, vegan restaurants, and incest, with the help of air-raid sirens, herbal medicine, late-night epiphanies, sea lions, and sleeping pills. So Many Ways to Sleep Badly unveils a gender-bending queer world where nothing flows smoothly, except for those sudden moments when everything becomes lighter or brighter or easier to imagine.

Oh, in case you want one of those Facebook invite things, here you go…

Thursday, September 22, 2011


Today the air outside is incredibly fresh, so I have enough energy to walk down the second part of the alley, the part with more trees, and beautiful weeds growing everywhere. Last night I dreamed that I was swinging off bars and across uneasy boundaries in dance moves so fluid they became feeling and meaning and breathing and when I woke up, I thought yes, at least I'm dreaming of something that I can't do. I mean, I'm able to do it in the dream, and that’s dreaming, right? Then I'm watching the Democracy Now coverage from last night’s execution of Troy Davis. I didn't realize all the cheering when people thought that he had received a stay. It wasn't a stay but a reprieve, a reprieve that meant Clarence Thomas had a chance to approve the murder.

So incredible to watch Davis’s sister, Martina, struggling with cancer over the last 10 years and leading the fight to save his life. His life, which is now over. Supporters keep telling us that this murder will end the death penalty, and we can only hope.

Speaking of hope, so many leaders of the NAACP keep talking about God. Isn't it a secular organization? Maybe they changed the acronym to mean National Association for the Advancement of Christian People. But I can't believe Amy Goodman is hosting today's show, after her marathon coverage last night until midnight. Here she is in the studio again, struggling to keep back tears. One day these tears will build something, but I don't know when.

A view of my little garden, in case you're curious (this picture looks better rotated clockwise but for some reason blogger won't let me) …

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

The audacity

I don't know if I have anything coherent to say about the execution of Troy Anthony Davis, just some bleak impressions from watching the incredible coverage by Democracy Now, live on the scene in an area cordoned off by the cops, for six hours in a row! Really the coverage was phenomenal, and especially the way Amy Goodman allowed herself to become emotional – distraught, even – in a way that we rarely see when she's in the studio. It's possible that she didn't have a choice – did the cops even allow food and water on-site? I'm not sure. But still, the way she didn't back down, didn't try to smooth things over, really added to the somber immediacy of her coverage.

A few other notes: the prison in Georgia where they perform executions is called the Georgia Diagnostic and Classification Prison, can you believe the doublespeak? More doublespeak: the private companies charge of performing the execution are called Rainbow Medical Associates and CorrectHealth, Inc. Georgia State Senator Vincent Fort bravely called on hospital staff to go on a general strike or a sick-out to prevent the execution. When Davis was granted a reprieve, so that the Supreme Court could look over his case, guess who was the “Justice” in charge? None other than Clarence Thomas, the ultimate symbol of complicity in a system that wants you dead. Wanted Troy Davis dead. A legal lynching, said one of his lawyers.

Apparently Clarence Thomas even grew up in Georgia, not far from the prison where, in order to make sure that they can kill you, they put you on suicide watch ahead of time, then give you a physical to make sure you are fit enough to be executed, offer you a last meal before the drug cocktail ends your life. Now we live in a country where a black man in power can ensure the death of a black man without power. Troy Davis got to choose whether he wanted Ativan added to the three drugs in the cocktail. Troy Davis did not request Ativan.

I am Troy Davis. That's what the T-shirts said that protesters were wearing. We are all Troy Davis. That's what they were chanting. It's hard to say, because I'm aware of the privileges I have that he did not, the privileges that keep some of us alive while others are murdered in the name of God and country and “justice” and patriotism and some hideous thing Obama calls the audacity of hope. The audacity. The audacity. The audacity.

Still a car, but at least it looks better…

Friday, September 16, 2011

Is it time for bed yet?

Another homeopathic remedy that makes me exhausted, that's what I was looking for -- at least this one doesn't make me as sad, or does it? Sitting here at the computer screen, thinking of getting back into bed, but I already slept an hour later than usual, and it doesn't look like that helped. The air is incredibly fresh now, but that doesn't seem to help much either. I mean it helps for a few moments – a burst of energy, but then it's over. There's always a 1960s clunker around the corner spewing toxic pollution, or a fireplace ready to be blow soot through my face. The voice activation software isn’t working for some reason, let me say it again: is it time for bed yet?

Oh, my – Jessica Lawless' cat Sadie is, um, reading (?) That's Revolting!...

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Closing in

Waking up, I step outside into the cool, fresh fall air, yes this is what I want I mean what I was looking for when I moved here. So then I feel like I have energy, maybe today, maybe today I have energy. Lying in bed before I got up, everything felt dark, but now there is light pouring in, light on this cloudy, cool fall day, maybe today.

But then there's a meal, a meal which looks and smells quite good, tastes good too. I think, but as soon as I have a few bites everything is over. There’s the dark back again, what happened to that energy? I'll go on a walk anyway, yes a walk that lasts longer than usual, that's a good sign, through the second part of the alley that almost feels like walking through the woods or maybe not the woods but everything is growing and I love it. Back at home for more food, oh no, my eyes closing in.

Monday, September 12, 2011

Wow – a fantastic review of Why Are Faggots So Afraid of Faggots in Publishers Weekly, I'm kind of stunned…

It starts:

"A distinctive collection of essays by gay and transgender activists, performance artists, and scholars embraces the subversive aspects of queer identity and rails against its “sanitized, straight-friendly version.”

And, read the rest here

Saturday, September 10, 2011

Fierce -- Boston 1995, for Gabby...

That bitch is fierce.
What bitch?
Look around, bitch.
Are you calling me fierce?
Bitch, you are fierce.
No, bitch, you are fierce.
Don't call me fierce.
You are the fiercest bitch I've ever seen on the block.
No, bitch, you are the fiercest bitch I've seen on the block, and I know, bitch, because I get competitive on that block.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch I've ever seen at Dollar-a-Pound
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch who's ever shopped at Dollar-a-Pound.
That, bitch, is fierce.
But you, bitch, are the fiercest bitch who's ever shoplifted vitamins.
Bitch, you know I only borrow those vitamins.
You are the fiercest bitch on the T.
You are the fiercest bitch who ever took a cab instead of waiting for the T.
You are the fiercest bitch who ever waited for the T instead of taking that cab, even when I offered to pay.
You did not offer to pay, bitch.
Bitch, are you saying I'm fierce?
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch in Boston.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch on the East Coast.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch from here to Dallas.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch who ever left Dallas.
Bitch, why would I leave Dallas?
Too much competition.
Don't get fierce with me.
You are the fiercest bitch that ever walked from here to Tokyo and back.
You are the fiercest bitch that ever said fuck Tokyo, I can walk where I need to walk.
You are the fiercest bitch that ever said walk.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch in the Fens.
Are you saying my shoes look muddy?
Bitch, I'm the one that slipped and fell.
You, bitch, are the fiercest bitch on the planet.
On the planet?
Yes, bitch, the fiercest bitch on the planet!
You are the fiercest bitch on the dark side of the moon.
You are the fiercest bitch on Uranus.
Uranus, bitch – not Uranus!
Yes, bitch, the fiercest bitch on Uranus.
You are the fiercest bitch in the galaxy.
You, bitch, are fiercing me.
No, bitch, I am not fiercing you.
Yes, bitch, you are fiercing me.
Bitch, don't make me say fierce!
Yes, bitch, I can see it in your eyes.
Bitch, you can't even see my eyes – I'm wearing sunglasses.
And, bitch, those sunglasses are fierce.
No, bitch, your sunglasses are fierce.
Bitch, I'm not even wearing sunglasses.
I know, bitch – that's how fierce you are.

Thursday, September 08, 2011

That place between

There's the difference between the usual exhaustion, when I can stare into space for a while and hope to have enough energy to do something for a few minutes, and then maybe stare into space for a while. Or, call people on the phone, and hope that someone will answer. And then there's this exhaustion, when I can't do anything but stare into space and then after a little while I can't do anything but get into bed. Even though I know that naps always make me feel worse, sometimes there's no other choice.

At first it seems like the right choice, yes oh yes how could I have waited this long, but then I'm awake again and I feel exactly like when I used to do drugs, and I would wake up the next day unable to tell whether it was day or night, I mean I could look at the sky or the light, but it still didn't make any sense. So I’m lying down on the mat, doing feldenkrais, struck by an overwhelming sadness that feels so awful and insurmountable and familiar and desperate: is there anything good about my life? Trying to think of something, something good, but it all just feels broken. Tension in my face, tension and distance, tension and distance and then there is this: I remember what I used to do when I felt like this, right? Cocktails, of course, and then it was okay, until the next day. And the next day. And the next day.

Cocktails: that time between day and light, night and laughter and darkness and forgetting when everything leads somewhere, even if it's just towards tomorrow when it will be worse there’s still now in the place where I can sit still while flying, so hard to get there of course but now I'm in a different life, a different awful and familiar where I don't want cocktails no not cocktails but still this darkness in my head and I've missed the sunset. Oh, but here the sunset lasts so long, something I will always treasure about this place where yes it's dark, kind of, but still you can look up at the pink, yellow, orange, gray, white clouds and the light, so different if you look that way, night, or the other way, almost bright, and I even discover a street that I didn't notice before, right behind Whole Foods. Oh good this walk helped -- except that I get home and my jaw hurts so much, where is this headache coming from? And then I'm back in that same place except more pain, now it's later so I can get ready to get back in bed, again.

Wednesday, September 07, 2011


I'm trying not to get back in bed, yet. But why? I guess I'm waiting for the food to digest a little, the food I just ate, but why? So I can nourish myself, feel better – what a joke.

There were other questions I wanted to ask, but what were they? My eyes are closing while I'm writing, can I write while I dream? Dream while I write? Dream?

Last night: so much bloating, in bed. And then, my mind racing in all the directions I wouldn't be able to go once I woke up, I mean get out of bed for the new day, today.

I wonder if the doctor will remember to bring the test kits over, on her way home to her house five doors down. I think I just heard thunder. Yes, thunder. Maybe that will help. I mean I don't know what will help. I keep waiting for that moment when something gets better, anything – where is that moment?

A balloon: that's what the feldenkrais CD said to imagine, your breath moving in all directions. And then, later, in bed, my belly, a balloon: but not my breath, just pain.
Stuck. Everything, and my head, moving in all directions. My brain, I mean: 4:44 am on the clock, even though I've trained myself not to open my eyes somehow it's become comforting. Doesn't make me more wired, just aware. Or, sometimes more wired, but still, looking at the clock, hoping for relief. Enough time goes by and then it's time, for what? To get out of bed, so I can get back in bed, so I can get out of bed.

No, I need more than a moment of feeling better: when it's just a moment, it feels like delusion. I need something to get better, but first I need to get back in bed, now.

Tuesday, September 06, 2011


Today I'm stuffed with emotion – sadness, exhaustion, anxiety, all stuck in my body. An edginess that made me walk further, and that was nice, but then there's this feeling in my head. Like everything is squashed in, breaking out, squashed in again. One minute I’m sweating and the next minute I'm freezing – the only constant is this twisting headache in my temples, wrenching me inside. There’s my jaw too: tension. Can I let it go? I don't know.

Today: yes, another day. Same headache, but I didn't notice it until I read about yesterday. No, it's not as bad. But my jaw is. I'm ready to get back in bed, but instead it's almost time to get ready to go to therapy, which is generally more restful than bed anyway. I guess I'll be in bed soon enough – yesterday I felt ready to go to sleep at 8:30 pm – that's a bit early though, right? Remember when I couldn’t go to sleep before 3 AM? I mean, remember those 20 years? And now look at me -- I'm on the schedule that every healthcare practitioner always recommended, but was never possible until a year and a half ago or whenever it switched. All those healthcare practitioners: they always said this would be the thing, the thing that changed everything. I'm still waiting.

Sunday, September 04, 2011

A baby stroller

This is so weird: why do I study every guy walking by with a baby stroller, analyzing his facial expression and gestures as if maybe he's the one, the man of my dreams?! I don't even like babies (although I am concerned for their well-being, their eventual autonomy), and seriously, there are no fags with baby strollers in Santa Fe -- maybe it's just that there are so few people walking around in Santa Fe at all. But wait – here he is again, the one that stimulated this thought process, bouncing by with sensitive hair, gray T-shirt and khakis – maybe it's that bounce, that bounce in his legs like he's excited about something, this baby, this baby and me, right?

No, I don't want a baby – I want to be, be my baby! Maybe he will wheel me around in that stroller with all that sensitive masculinity and I'll never have to worry about anything else in the world, as they say, yes, the world but it won't be this one, anymore.

There are a lot of attractive straight couples here in my neighborhood, I mean if straight couples can be attractive, which I guess I'm saying they are, sometimes, at least when I'm walking around and there's no one I mean no one until wait, up ahead – an attractive straight couple! And I study the way the guy looks at me, just in case, which really doesn't make sense, except that where are the objects of my desire in this goddamn town? There aren't any gay couples in this demographic, 30-something and slightly trendy in their comfort, I mean there aren't really gay male couples here except people much older and anyway, if a gay couple walked by that I was attracted to, they probably wouldn't even respond to my hello, just some snotty look of studied disengagement I'm sure -- some of the straight couples actually look excited when I walk by.

Friday, September 02, 2011

The fog, again

Oh, the worst thing is this brain fog – I sit down to write something, and then suddenly it's gone, just like that: my brain, where is it? I mean, I can feel my head, ache, but help, get me out of the fog! Or help, get these thoughts out from the other side, the other side of what? Help – I can't remember!

Well, now that the parasites are gone, and with them my fragile fragile grasp on something like balance, was it really, really balance? I wish, but whatever it was, better than whatever is now, and now I have some glamorous dysbiotic flora to add to the picture – Citrobacter freundi, doesn't the lady sound lovely? Caused by – you guessed it – the medication! And, a little bit of splendid yeast growing in my intestines, but the good news is that I can treat both of these new friends with grapefruit seed extract, which doesn't seem to be affecting me in too much of a negative way. I don't think, except maybe this fog, help, the fog!

Okay, here's the headache from all this dangerous thinking, time to take a break I guess, a break from trying to make sense. Oh, but I didn't like what Wheels said: it hasn't been that long. That long since I talk before about medication that destroys people who don't have so many health problems already – five months? Five months of hell! But true, in the long run, five months is just five months, right? I just wish I felt like something, anything was getting better, I mean yes, my vitamin D has gone up since I've been taking the shots, that's what it says in my blood work, but really what I mean is that I just wish I felt like I was getting better, like something was getting better, I mean I wish I could feel, feel better, right, that's what I'm trying to say! But I'm pushing too hard, ouch this headache, I better go.

Thursday, September 01, 2011


Oh, no – I can't believe this pain, this pain in my gut, higher up today, in my stomach pressing up and out. So much pain that I can't stand up, and I can't lie down, and I can't sit. What can I do? Maybe I can lean over the sink.

I'm trying to chop vegetables, so that I can get back in bed. I just got out of bed, and now this pain. I don't know what to do about this pain. I don't know what's causing it. I don't know why it's still going on. I don't know why it's worse today.

I get back in bed. I get out of bed. I drink some miso soup. I get back in bed. I get back out of bed. I guess it's time to eat, will that help or hurt? I mean, I guess it always hurts in the long run, that's how it seems, but what about the next few minutes?

Okay, it helps. Something. Maybe: eating. I can still see the bloating, but it doesn't hurt as much. I'm going to the doctor today. I don't know if that will help or hurt. Oh, now my wrist hurts, right wrist, everything hurts my right wrist: reading, lying on the stretching mat, chopping vegetables, getting the mail out of the mailbox, holding a bag, holding this plate, this fork, yes I need to eat again.

Everything hurts my gut, and my wrists, my head and my heart and I want to get back in bed, but remember, I have a doctor’s appointment. Usually homeopathy doesn't hurt so much, but I think this time it really did make me much worse. First the remedy that made me dramatically more exhausted, sad in that way that means nothing can get through, I mean my head, I'm stuck. Need to get back in bed.

And then the remedy that made the bloating so much worse, I mean sure, sometimes there is a negative effect at first but not usually this obliteration. Obliteration doesn't help. I need to eat more, and I need to get back in bed, but I'm not going to, because I'm going to the doctor – I mean, I am going to eat more, but I'm not going to get back in bed because I need to leave in 45 minutes, at least if the doctor is running on time, which she almost never is – yesterday I called to see if she was running late and the receptionist said no, your appointment’s for tomorrow.

And right then I just felt like I couldn't possibly do anything ever again I was so drained, just like that, I mean I was already drained and then I thought maybe I was okay, at least I was getting ready to go to the doctor's appointment but then I didn't have the appointment because the receptionist scheduled it wrong. I was struggling for words; I couldn't find them. Made an appointment for a week later, a week later than I was expecting, but then I thought, no, I can't wait that long. So I called back and asked for the original time in the schedule, the wrong time but only a 24-hour wait, not a whole week. And then I canceled my feldenkrais appointment so I could go.

And now I'm going, or I will be going in 35 minutes or so, after I eat something and get dressed, get dressed and walk over there. Not that I think it's going to help me, but I need to keep trying anyway. I mean I feel way way worse than when I started to see this doctor, but it seems like the only option anyway, the only option for a doctor right now I mean. She is smart; she has a lot of information. I feel worse than when I started; she has that information too. Hopefully sometime there will be other information.