January 2024 - 1

January 4, 2024

Even in New England I am the same. Sitting at a bar, writing in my diary. My own future – where this narrative will go – is impossible for me to predict. I have an ocean of impressions to get down. I know (have long known) this is creation, not only reflection and recollection; wordplay. Now, I have Brad Phillips' voice inside my head because (on O's recommendation) I read Essays & Fictions.

I felt such shame for being here. When did this hit me? The first night of my second trip out to sea. The shame came me because of my true, deep (but obvious) intention of coming here which was to be near N – chasing the ghost – who hasn't made any effort or shown want in contacting me (unless I reached out first) since Christmas.

Everything I choose to tell is a different me. Narrative is impossible to believe yet is our raft across life. But deeper and simpler than narrative is presence, which needs nothing and no one.

~

I don't know why I do this – this is my time, my life – but I feel better after I do. Like being out at sea for days. I can disappear in doing this, too. And each time I disappear, it is a separate life.

~

I'll just write what happened. The 23^rd I went on my first trip, a day trip on a trawler. I already forget the captain and crew, but I won't soon forget my trainer (another observer), Mi, a short prick (I didn't see this until after, until it was too late). The crew are hazy to me, except that the crewman made remarks on Mi's behavior, that 90% of what he was having me do I didn't need to. I was so exhausted after (18 hours) and had nowhere to stay or wash my gear so booked it to the nearest cheap inn. Why did I put myself through so much? I was ready to quit and now blew my paycheck on a room. And my back hurt. This absurd, low paying job wasn't worth injuring my back for.

The next morning I drove home to Maryland. And stayed until the 27^th. I made a horrible mistake of spending too much time at my mom's house. This time took so much from me, drained me to such an extent.

But none of this really matters and though this all was what occupied my mind, at the time, it's not what I care about. What I care about is the fracturing I have felt, in narrative. What I feel so sad about is that my dreams seem thwarted (because I let them). I still cling to memories of myself and my time with A, but only because I feel like it was my last grasp at beauty and youth, and he used me and discarded me, in my last youthful hour, and since then I've just... people have suffered far greater tragedies. I don't even have tragedies to suffer because I've been blessed/cursed with having nothing, no life. And what do I do? Go ever into myself. (I won't stop writing in here til I'm satisfied, which will never happen, can't happen, because there's infinity to say. The fracturing of self is also the peering into, opening up of, infinity. It just boggles the mind, how it all happened. Mostly, the ghost. The Ghost and the Nowhere could be the title of the story of my life. The truest story of my life – not of events but of all that has touched me, sometimes peripherally, sometimes in chambers of a depth I cannot access anymore, that was closest to my heart. And what was that? Visions of something I would love to do, run a hostel; unity in love. Those are it, really. My only two desires. But we are in this devouring world, and narrative, story, is our greatest shield. Roman Mikhailov addresses this in Отпуск в Октябре, through the concept of узоры, which are like symbols or trinkets or keys, bits, that allow one to participate in a narrative, to be in a stream, and are a protection from being devoured by the wilds, the inhuman, or functions as he called them [4/13/24 now I think they represent something else, the signs that tell you this is a film, a game, you're in a movie. Angel numbers, folds in the construct that the construct speaks to you through]. He and Brad Phillips are both relevant and address narrative, but from somewhat different angles. It just occurs to me that my devouring negative thoughts about spent beauty and youth are those same functions, those inhuman wilds, which devour me slowly, for, if I were involved fully in a stream (e.g. running a hostel, or had the balm of full love with a man (such an odd dream really), they wouldn't get in, they'd have no room to slip in.

But – whether I am in a stream or not, whether I execute this dream (which also is really a weapon & shield, a bag of gold to walk through the world with), doesn't matter. What matters is that I have expanded, deepened my understanding of how this all works. 

 

January 6, 2024

The highway drone.

The 24 hr Dunkin Donuts – a spot of light and respite in the middle of a busy highway or road, ever burning. There she gazes into the roar through a dark window, her shadow gazing upon the interminable roar from a still oasis.

How to have presence when I can summon anything?

Sigils Wishes

I write them

in ignorance

Earthly states – I summon them

Hunger fades – I fathom it

Pearly gates – I call bullshit

The layers of the body, dreams & wishes (in the cracks is where infests disease)

(that sliver is precious –

that free space –

the only freedom:

found in the

Nowhere

I have known of this place for as long as I have been telling tales of the world.

They will know me by my nightly deeds. I am virtually

the same everywhere I go!

What a gift. What a gift. To have

presence. A lifetime of meditation.

I used to be

afraid of breaking

narratives of growing ideas

and all I make that

January 8, 2024

Feel myself in a magic world. All is moving, all is going, all is playing out in my head and, to a degree, in the world outside. How magical that I ended up here, in New England.

Of course the place I end up on my first venture out is Harvard. To get film for my Holga at the Hunt's on Harvard Square. It's funny how much like Hogwarts Harvard is, and once you're here, it's evident that the original stock of people (New Englanders, old families) haven't gone anywhere. It's still mostly white, and not just white, not southerners, but the people who make this world cohesive – those who love New England as their home.

~

As I walk monumental feelings pass through me. You wanted to bring me into this game. He brought me out of the nowhere into this game. He wanted to participate in the game – a part of him did, his upper part, a wish in his soul that he consciously does not know. And so he called me here, unconsciously.

~

N is sentimental about New England.

It is clear to me that Harvard is a New England institution, and not an American, or international, institution. It is imbued with the magic of New England's intellectual lineage and I felt this buzzing magic around it – it is not the normal, pragmatic, realistic air of Boston University, an all-American or even Irish air. It is an elite air. It attracts, therefore, young wizards, young arhats, which perpetuates its magical life and continues to keep Boston a shining and clean city, one of the best cities in America. Boston could be the Violet City, with its network of harbors, access to the sea; it isn't bordered by mountains, but it does have highlands, cliffs, stone and rock abounding, and it extends to the forest. But mostly, because the Violet City is the stomping ground of the gods, who pass through there often.

Boston – the way I see it – exists in both realms, the magical and the “real”, or empirical world. It's the capital of New England, what remains – alive – of a once-great Northern Kingdom. LA is the capital of California, the center of its world. Florida? Not sure. Perhaps when you wipe out a nation's capital city, you wipe it out, and that's why the Kingdom of Central Florida, or Florida, no longer exists except as a relic, a memory, a population of “lunatics” (in Karolina, a part to add: the spiritual decimation of the Kingdom of Florida – its relics being only the crazies and those who have some stories or memories and generations of old passed on to them. Appear as lunatics under the sun – the truth is their highly particular ways have been decimated and there's nobody to understand them now, so to the empirical world they sound like lunatics.

~

There's a world that happens on the surface and then there's a silent world underneath that, in my mind; that world exists as long as I concentrate on it. N also understands this. He is the one who brought me to it. Now the vastness of his mind that I perceived makes more sense to me. It is my background, whatever transpires. (All he has to do is text me once every 10 days. He texted me asking if I got snow; I sent him all my photos of the snow. I would give him anything. I love to live this unrequited love, watch it slowly unfold; it's perfect for me. I love to be the lover, the pursuer, in a way; what I had kept from myself all these years was that I love this unrequited love, only I could not deal with it.

January 9, 2024

The northeast, New England, truly feels like a different country. It is full of tall, beautiful people, intelligent, intellectual, graceful women with long, straight or slightly wavy dirty blonde hair and angular, noble features, older women with glasses, shorter hair, who have book clubs, who hold the bastion of intellectual accomplishment and wealth., tall, dark-haired men, men who look like N. I would never have guessed at New England being one of the most interesting places I've been to. Another land in my own backyard. Winter is here and it's beautiful. According to my dad, there's a conspiracy theory that this used to be its own country, even that it and Russia used to be one country. The people certainly are beautiful in a similar way of being tall, lithe, and light colored but with somewhat golden, not pale, skin. More English than Irish in --, which very much feels to me like the bastion of something old. Ia could be from here, in looks and in spirit: calm, careful, measured, very high-level intellectual realm that approaches subjects like theater and passion from theory, the mind. From above, not from in.

I see now that I am not this. I'm something else: a welcome foreigner. This isn't my home (origin), but I could make it my home. I think I give off an air of being dark, even though my hair isn't very dark, but my eyebrows and eyelashes are, and I'm short. N, who is one of these people (just like in Lviv I saw so many men who looked like A), can find his lovely elfen bride from among his own kin; I am something else entirely, and in truth, for many reasons, I have no people or country. I think that's why I've always been obsessed with rag-tag crews in odd places.

(N has inspired an insane number of stories for me. Not just him – everyone I see here, and have seen since meeting him. But “he” is always, ever, the protagonist. My beloved failed wizard).

 

January 12, 2024

Impressions first, honesty after.

All I've been doing is writing, some reading. Writing in a frenzy, mostly in the cafe by my house, which is full of someone's collection of old books, many of them on Christianity, and philosophy, and the ancient world.

I think it proved the right move to be here. It's somewhere for me to be. Let me go back to --, which feels like the bastion of a secret true population of New England natives: they are all tall, thin, beautiful, statuesque, intellectual, the true white race. I understand their sense of superiority: it's deserved. They do produce superior things, are the most refined peoples. Their passions are tempered to, subordinate to, their intellect, but not forcefully; it's just their make-up. It's natural for them all to be scholars, to have perfect polite manners. Even their passion, athleticism, bro-y-ness, any emotionality, are relative to their fundamental rationality. They are magical, and in their homogeneity you can feel it, in their numbers and presence. I feel inferior, not 100% white.

How to show this quality of mind, which is entirely absent in Maryland, the mid-Atlantic, even PA (which as more a cast like B's, though B loved and would have fit in here), and is seen in the architecture and daily life patterns of the small towns; mostly, I think it's because New England has remained quietly independent and self-sustaining, while also leading the country and world through institutions that are fundamentally its (though that is being usurped).

Lovecraft's grave reads “I am Providence”. He's correct.

~

NE Winter set to Slavonic Dance by Dvorak.

~

Maybe I only feel like I'm in another world because I'm in N's mental/soul orbit, and he's that big, what's behind him is that big of a soul/mind.

The “other countryness” of New England comes alive most in the winter when its little towns and stone walls are covered in snow, when the Canada geese which are so suspiciously called Canada geese and extend into Canada and to me signify a unified land (in a time when, once, geography determined nation).

It is the beginning of a northern kingdom that I have glimpsed but once. I have said before, that arriving in Rhode Island felt like the beginning of the North. It feels distinct from Connecticut, and New York. They say it's “New England vibes” and that Upstate New York has them, but it's more than vibes here. It's something still living, through the people.

~

I think I understand now what the higher calling I've been called to is. It's to, not celibacy, which is the last thing I want to to, but to removal from the realm of earthy beauty, of flowered queens of earthly kingdoms, representatives of richness and legacy. This was the moment I felt that thin white flame when I was 23 or 24, that prevented me from moving to VA to be near D, and the same guide brought me here, and chained me to N, a man who will never pursue me.

I see beautiful queens all over here, New England. Like tall Russian women with long light brown hair they come waltzing in, winter princesses, in their long light brown hair, fanning green peacoats, and intellectual pedigrees, daughters of Northern royalty, and I cannot compete. I could dress up perhaps, but I don't have the energy to, at all. But mostly, it's a matter of pedigree. I am not standing on a solid, intellectual foundation; I feel myself to be dark and negating, bereft of such a mental legacy, of such spiritual refinement, because, like a third worlder, I will do what it takes. I will do anything for love. My spiritual pedigree is to take this horrible, shameful grain of survival and convert it into devotion. I'm like one who's just been baptized; they've been baptized for hundreds of years. They aren't consumed by jealousy over me; over anyone. They can see themselves in Carolyn Kennedy-Bessette and therefore see their rightful place as American royalty, identify with it. I never could, for I am not tall and graceful and picked by a Kennedy, a member of this natural aristocracy as can be seen in her face.

Maybe I make this an excuse for myself, but it's also true. I am too active in the world, not passive. And I am outside the memeplex, the things which egirls make their issues and aesthetic. I actually abhor devouring any of the prevailing aesthetic, being named and subdued by it, whether it be goth girls, vaping, BPD and self-diagnosis, sending nudes (half of them), boasting about their virginity and moral superiority (the other half). In truth, it's because I feel like I'm powerless when it comes to using my sexuality to dominate and seduce men. Or because the men I like like these types of troubled women, and I am stronger than I am troubled, and the men who like me are weak or intimidated. Aside from this I realized the higher calling to the world of beauty, or sublime beauty and agape, spiritual emotional love full of scenes and visions rather than the brute jamming of genitalia designed for robots that's boring and tasteless. It feels like, being here, at least what N was trying to do, or the purpose of having met him, even, was achieved. I give up on earthly marriage and love, on relationships, on family, on earthly laws, which necessarily encompass this.

What I forgot to write was – the crevasse, dissociation, Brad Phillips, transitioning – the state of forgetting myself every few moments, almost reaching a fugue state, and the self in all this; new place, new self, but it has to form, settle in; then it can speak. Then it can begin to parse information smoothly: on the Northern Kingdom, on Hyperborea. I went from being nowhere, in MD and the country, to entering this other country in New England, and my self, and my self's history, is still realigning. My new mouth, phrases, language, patterns, still developing.

January 13, 2024

I think New Englanders could be defined by practicality and high level reason without pragmatism and realism. Intellectual and aesthetic standards cannot be cut for the sake of practicality.