We all know our fine lines. We can’t wash them away, and they only deepen with age. Some are more fluid than others, and we’re always most fluid with ourselves, but all lines have a watershed moment, a stack that leads to an infamous last straw, and I want to know: when is the last time my back was broken?

Recovery is real and rebuilding is important, but they’re just fancy words for change. Recovering and continuing is agreeing to adapt, and adaptations mend through metamorphosis. Is it mending if it becomes unrecognizable? If the previous iteration is buried deep beneath? Sunken? Paramount to recovery is choosing to fix or ruin. Fight or flee. Modification no matter the philosophy. Complexity does not mean a lack of values.

Why did I think I could steal from you? Maybe I didn’t think. Maybe I mistook your kindness for unconditional love, and maybe there was no love there at all. Not even the conditional kind. The kind that expects a call on its birthday. The love that claws like a corvid searching for food in the snow. Remembering that love cannot be stolen and kindness is quite conditional, I’ll ask again. Why did you think you could steal from me?

As the boat rocked, I claimed my own victimhood. The pain will subside, but for a while I’ll be tossed like I did to you, you do to me, and storms do each day to the sea. Wind and waves make prey of us. Arching up in a swell, the craft leans sharply for the starboard and my life cascades through the cabin as a beautiful, broken collection. Never do I doubt the swell will fall and rock us back portside. Never do I worry we’ll sink, although we could, and never do I abandon my ship. Angelina will sway, and the seas will calm. Inundation is inevitable but temporary and the sea follows a rhythm. I’ll claim that too.

At the end of the day, thieves ought to walk the plank. “You don’t steal from me and get away with it” argues the man who’s stolen so much from so many so successfully. Maybe on dry land I’ll be someone new. Maybe these are my adaptations, and I’ll continue them all my life.

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“You’ll make more.” He’s right. Like kisses, creativity, and every little moment, I am going to get more, make more, love more, take more, feel more, share more, cry more, and beam more. My mantra, “You should be here with me, living our life,” echoes out quite often, but I love you despite it. Thank you for giving my life meaning and scarcity: a beacon of grace and a complete mystery. Coins I pocket, flip, spend, and savor all my life. I love you. Happy Birthday.

Brat summer, bratwurst summer, and boat summer. 24, 25, and 26. Three of these left if I’m lucky and I’ll be sucking the meat off the bones. Breathing it out (breaths of fire), and living my life as it’s meant to be lived: crucial and rare. I usually get what I want, and I’d save you if you wanted saving. Instead I’ll pet the caged dog on my way back to the city. I understand. I’m unique. But why? Don’t you want to suck the meat off the bones?

I have never had more agency. I’ve never been more willing to surrender. I’ve never lived on a boat before, but I feel the wave sweeping me up, gently, quickly, and I see myself willed into my own dreams. Ripe, ugly, and beautiful, the kelp is ready to be harvested and dried, and a seafaring vessel is bound for a new shore. Is it paradise? Talk to me in an hour…

A moment like this is rare. A moment like this dissipates suddenly, slowly in the night like smoke. A moment is only made of all the moments preceding it, and that’s how I know this moment is real. And hey – it could be Rebecca Black’s “My Moment” but I am content with that. For the first time in a long time, I do not fear failure, embarrassment, or doughy crust. I only fear not jumping. Not barking or making, and not finding an option out of this idea. My fear is falling off the mountain before meeting the horizon and that’s something I’d never do. I’m ready to let myself go.

This year, I’ll send a Christmas card for the first time on my own. On my own. It has a nice feeling to it. And then I’ll survive this year. I’ll thrive in it.

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A level is had by everyone and a level is almost always chosen while under duress. A level is an illusion in all its forms and we can form the illusions we please. I’m always stretching my legs to span multiple stairs and missing the needed step entirely. Look for me sliding down a rock onto my ass. Where is the next level, and is it up or down? How many times have you fallen this year? How many were real?

Rise to the level is a much nicer phrase, but the value judgement a rise implies is agonizing. To rise, one is beneath then saved. One shrinks because one necessitated gain. I am not shrunken, yet I seek a rise. Do I want him to crawl across the floor, naked, to the bed? Licking my feet to make me feel good. How far up do I deserve to go? How far up does he lick? I decide.

I wonder if I’ll meet my moment. Time reveals. For now, I stoop. I beg. I ask the world to put me somewhere such that I may assess my height. I’ll claw for higher no matter where I’m put.

An employee of mine told me I was his favorite of the three supervisors he works with. I asked why and he thought for a moment. “[Redacted name] is always expecting too much of me,” he explained, “and [Redacted name] never gives me anything to do. But you…you get me.” He explained how I’d make sure he had tasks, but only expected what he could deliver. I saw his level, fluctuating, and I stooped to it. I do the same for myself.

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Musing is both more passive and more instrumental than creating. I’ve been a muse a lot in my life. How does Amber Rose feel right now? I doubt proud. I’m proud of you and me, but I’m not proud to be your muse. To give you the radical honesty I crave, I feel shame to be your muse and it’s shame I constructed, perfected, and welcome. I feel used. Each time I let you take me, I am jealous of the time you take and the art you make and the orgasm radiating through you while I simply watch. Is that why I can’t get it done? How important are they really?

A chilly, organized night turns oddly cold while driving down the Palisades Interstate Parkway (PIP from here on). It’s just darkness cascading into darkness. Deer never appear and the sun never rises, but it feels like both are swirling and inevitable. Something is around every bend. I feel that. Yet as I glance frantically between road and rear view mirror hoping for something, nothing appears. I never accept it, but it’s true. I’m going to go home, go to bed, go to work, and that’s it.

Are you allowed to feel used when you’re compensated? He warns you over and over and over again, so are you allowed to feel hurt? Actually, who the fuck cares if I’m allowed? Rules are made up until they aren’t and you can’t blame your failures on speeding tickets or school buses. If you fail, you failed. If you followed the rules, the rules exist. If you don’t create, you’re not an artist.

I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Never. And I’ve made a lot of art in Coney Island. I’ve made promises there. I’ve told lies, climbed poles, danced naked, chased the birds, and yet I’ve never made my own art in Coney Island. Or Fire Island. Or on the island of Manhattan. Ok, that last one was a lie, but it’s been quite a while and the ratio is still piss-poor. I say all this yet I keep musing. Even today, when I’ve made my life hard and satisfying, my world rough and crunchy, my tits two sizes bigger, and my mind beautiful, I lay in bed after dinner while my dreams lay across the room. I exhaust myself for you, yet rest for me. The gentle fall of the rain relaxes me. I stand in front of the camera and just smile. I used to be afraid at that and now it’s of that. Cut the shit my boy. What do you want to achieve?

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I don’t think it’s good to measure. We’ve been doing a lot of rock measuring to build our wall, and frankly I’m not sure how useful it has been. It gives a false confidence. “Oh this is thirty inches? It ought to fit,” but then it doesn’t. One big fact can’t prove anything about anyone. It can’t decide what will fit or what kind of person you’ll become. You decide who you are. The rock decides how snugly it will rest. You decide who I am (to you) and the state decides who you are (to it). Listen to none of them. Decide not to measure. Hurl the rock at the wall and see what happens. It might work or it might not but it’s a better idea, a better life, because it’s fluid, sticky, and truer to the disarray of our beautiful, ever-changing biosphere. I’m not going to measure my life. I’m not even going to try.

We’re feeling and our feelings are fluid and often undefinable. We’re being. We’re dreaming – a lot – and even in nightmares there is some joy. I don’t want to be cruel even if it’s deserved.

Today I started my fourth growth cycle, only the second using Reishi. I also learned that Reishi is invasive to the Hudson Valley meaning I am harboring a fugitive, a known killer, in my cabin. Surrounded by some of the most pristine forests in New York, I am building a bomb. And worst of all, I am building this bomb for pleasure. “Queer art” is a psyop. We do this shit because of the euphoria and dopamine it produces. Fishing is my passion. Trophy hunting for my birthday. I had the landscaper plant Japanese Barberry in the garden because its piss-yellow flowers are so beautiful, to me, in spring. Art is selfish and, unfortunately, data illustrates that I don’t give a fuck about native fauna.

But I do. None of this is true. My bomb is accidental (still unforgivable) and now I know to be extra careful, extra sterile, and extra quiet as I pour my chemicals. The next grow cycle, assuming I allow myself to have one, will be with native fungi. Even backwards progress is progress, but damn it’ll hurt to regress. Art doesn’t need to be protected if it’s violent, invasive, and persistent (goes double for “Queer art”). I hope I never stop, but I also hope the bomb doesn’t erupt.

We are asked to do a lot we normally wouldn’t like to do. We do it sometimes, but we really shouldn’t. Be a leader. Find moral clarity where you can. If you can’t, keep looking. Keep changing, and keep your values close and unequivocal. Shifting and growing stronger.

That’s meaning to me…maybe. Meaning isn’t in measuring…certain.

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Part of me wants to stay, but more of me needs to go. Love letters are not written to places but to people. I don’t need place, but I do need people. You have to hold onto those you love. Really tightly if you’re going to leave them. Really tightly, in your heart, if you’ve lost them. Last week I told you I loved to protect others, but I’ve realized protection is biased.

Growth is elusive and vulnerable. I already know I’ll miss long rides on dad’s squeaky bike. I’ll miss dancing in a crowded club where I always feel beautiful. I’ll miss hot showers soaking in the sweet, grounded smell of my mycelium. I’ll miss my people. The book I’m reading says cultivating mycelium is, “A means of exercising agency and intention,” and that’s what I need right now. To focus on my hands and what I can achieve.

To go somewhere new, it’s something I’m very comfortable with. Perhaps too comfortable, but that’s who I am.

Wilted, black smoke rose quickly from the building two blocks down, and I just watched. On the roof, a little high, and powerless to do anything. I couldn’t even bring myself to dial 911. So I put my headphones on and cried a little. Bystander. What a shitty feeling. Dangling my legs watching the real men fight the fire. I certainly want to fight. It’s a place I need to be comfortable.

If you’re not sure where you want to be, but you know aren’t where you want to be, where do you go? The world is beautiful and bigger than me. It’s certainly bigger than you. All day and night I wish. Sometimes I do. Sometimes it’s you. I love the city and I love leaving too.

I worry I’m too flagrant with my love. What if I run out? It’s a common theory too. One that is (probably) backed by data. Just trust me on that one… I’m not going to love anyone unless I really love them. You trust me? I do. You trust me. I trust you too.

The world ends every day, and this fact is liberating and suffocating and dizzying. I’m new every day, and maybe that’s why it’s hard to know me. Follow the data and follow your heart. Follow me into the woods and unfollow my instagram. Just kidding. I speak more there than here… or here than there? No one can even hear me there. Or here. “The music’s too loud and we’re all doing too much thinking.” No one can hear me anywhere. I couldn’t hear my doctor at the dentist today. Old ears. New tricks.

You can only know 100 people. Total. Once you hit 100 it’s a one in, one out policy. Never forget that. 100 is the max.

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As they tied me up with the rope I once so longed for, I took a long, deep, final breath in. You’d think becoming a villain might feel good, but it’s actually quite painful. And then you burn for your crimes. Maybe that’ll feel good.

I’ve never quit a job I loved before, but I no longer love my job so I guess that sentiment holds true. I love Jimmy, Jason, Angelica, Kirsten, Cooper, Barbara, Syd, Diego, Ben, Kyle, Carlos, Alex, Janine, James, Carli, Kelso, Lee, Cristian, Michael, Josie, and I could probably write this list for hours. I love giving too much love. I love pining and wishing and hoping and dreaming. I love protecting myself, but I love protecting others more.

I can do whatever I want. I am no one’s pet.

It is with a heavy heart and a clear head that I resign from my role as a Business Advisor for the New York Small Business Development Center network. I love my job, and I am incredibly proud of the work we do to empower people who are chasing their dreams and growing small businesses in our community. I am especially proud to have uplifted women, the queer community, Black-owned businesses, immigrants, Spanish-speakers, and countless other people who ordinarily, because of our country’s shameful history, cannot afford or access high-quality business education.

Unfortunately, I will not remain in an organization or work for an administration that can no longer provide representation or equitable services for marginalized people and those historically excluded from government programs.

If people do not see themselves represented as entrepreneurs, they will not become entrepreneurs. That is the President’s goal in coercing our organization, and the rest of the federal government, to adopt “amended marketing messaging” and stop promoting vital resources, like the LGBTQ+ Chamber of Commerce or Minority and Woman-Owned Certification programs. Donald Trump wants to restore patriarchy and white supremacy. The New York Small Business Development Center is part of a large system aiding and abetting him.

I fully understand the challenging power dynamic at play here and I have immense respect for my colleagues who will continue to do this important work. I’ve made a personal decision to exercise my own power, and take my time and talents to an organization that more directly aligns with my values. Diversity, equity, and inclusion programs aim to close the wage and gender gap, build generational wealth in historically disadvantaged communities, and uplift the most beautiful, deserving members of our society. I refuse to compromise that mission for it is my personal mission.

The gay boys gathered around and held my charred body close. They will wash me of my sins and they will protect me while I find the strength to protect them again. We’ll work together to protect everyone. Because we need that right now.

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I am trying to find intimacy that is not sexual, but New York really is full of phony, fake, dumb, boring, stupid, lazy, clout chasing, brain rotten, ugly, vile, evil participants to a system that kills more people and animals and beautiful beings than we could ever comprehend. I believe we are on a path to mutually assured destruction. I really believe that. Most people are content with that. Or paralyzed by it. Or powerless. Or piecing themselves together the best they can – sometimes ruining their lungs in the process.

So, where am I? Am I really going to spend my days coding and coddling myself? Will you save the world, R Studio? Hah!

My purpose is unknown to me, so when I said in that song that I was on firm ground I was lying. When I call myself an interdisciplinary artist, I am lying. When you called me a scientist, you lied. When 67 people die in an aircraft collision, someone is lying.

I wonder what hurts me the most: the lies I tell you or the lies I tell myself? Lies are funny. What if we make them true? Could we? Please?

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Eusexua is the goal, and you’re crazy for asking for it. Eusexua in the storm at the end of the world. Violence is everywhere. You and I feel bliss and think we deserve the feeling. Violence again. Eusexua is the goal and you’re crazy for taking it away. It’s crazy how one sided a relationship can be. Bombs put me through college. Violence keeps me safe. Love feels like hell.

I’ve been a bad bad boy. One who doesn’t deserve his toys. I’m late, I’m ungrateful, and I use weird, slanted truths to keep myself off the jury. See you in 2027 if we make it that far. I am going to hell if you ask the President. I smoke cigarettes and blast Lorde each week, so don’t feel special Donald. You’re an expensive whore while I’m a cheap one. Should we kiss? White men with offices in Manhattan. White men with rich daddies and too much ambition. White men in government jobs who want to change the world. You make me sick and I make me sick and sometimes the food at Abe’s Pagoda Bar makes you sick.

My art is in a show this week, and I’m soooooooooooo happy to spend all my time there pretending to care. And pretending not to care. And pretending there is any meaning anywhere. Pretending my monotonous life is a whirlwind of love and dreams and eusexua. Pretending is something I’ve always loved to do.

Pretend it’s justified to blow it all off. Pretend the result is worth the wait and pain. Pretend your boss is wrapped around your finger and pretend your job is good and worth doing even if it’s in service of a vile, evil man who pretends your insane. Pretend it’s all going to be ok. Pretend you’re happy. Pretend you forgive yourself and pretend to feel eusexua.

Write it on the blog. Pretend it’s insightful and true. Pretend people care and maybe they do.

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