the problem has become a composite of other problems

shooting at queen and peter smoke dawg coming home,

the streets are dead it’s a long weekend saturday and there is

nobody around

cabs won’t stop for us

just driving past

do we fi t the description and we’re unaware?

we just watched sicario 2, it made me feel nothing. i eat pizza

3-4 times a week still, such a shame. i did have avocado toast this

morning so i guess that’s good.

i need to put a lot of things up on craigslist. i need to empty my

house out.

i’m sweating, it’s hot and i’m kinda hungry but i can’t eat it’s too

hot.

what was i thinking about?

oh yeah, i know, i need to get off instagram. i’ve seen enough fi tness

inspiration for a lifetime i’d imagine. i’m not going to get any

skinnier at this point.

i think i want to have sex, maybe i’m tired. or depressed. probably

hungry.

sometimes, when i am completely alone - i lay down on the couch

and stare at the wall - there are some notes there, but they’ve been

there for so long that they’ve lost their meaning. they once meant

some-thing, i’m sure. now they are just decoration. 8x11 inkjet

printed mounted on clipboard decoration. i think about pulling

them down and then i think of the annoyance of having to replace

them with something else. i lay down on the couch, which is sticky,

it is summer, it’s 90degreesfarenheit whatever that means, i don’t

touch my phone - i don’t read a book either. i just think about the

work i could do. i should do. maybe something good would happen.

i need to be better with my time, i think. i do this for an hour. i do

not do the things i said i would do.

we do the demo for your reno. a hand reaches out of the truck window,

waves at a man bicycling on the sidewalk. i have tremendous

contempt for them both. more for the man on the bike, though. he

should know better. bikes go on the street, riding with traffi c. god,

i hate him. i lazily drop my cigarette on the sidewalk, noticing how

dirty my black and gold nike airmax 95 are - as if it suddenly happened,

and it isn’t the product of wearing them to work every day

for the past two weeks. i see my refl ection in the glass door as i’m

unlocking it, noticing now that it’s not just my shoes but instead

everything i’m wearing. i hate my outfi t. grey sweater, grey paint,

black hat, black shoes, june 6th i forgot to pay rent fuck what was i

talking about? i’m scatterbrained, i’m not going to get anything of

value done today. i tether my iphone 8 to the bluetooth speaks and

listen to the new oneohtrix point never record as i sweep. the connection

is unrelia-ble, maybe it’s the record actually he can be quite

glitchy. no, it’s probably the massive amount of cracks in the phone

due to constantly being dropped. hm. i place the iphone marginally

closer to the speakers and sit in the front window. i crack open this

new book, a phaidon collection of avant-garde magazine design of

the 20th century - but i can’t focus on it. i stare out the window,

thinking - “hey, maybe i should have a cof-fee, but maybe i have

prostate cancer. i should be a vegetarian.” two teenagers knock on

the glass, pointing to their ontario liberal party voting pamphlets

and i wave them away. the construction truck drives by again, going

the other way. 1-844-ren-0-rdy.

“people seem cynical, you know, about the refugees -”

“migrants.”

“that’s the attitude i’m talking about. private libraries and you’re

talking about millions -”

“publicity wise, it’s been a catastrophe.”

“the problem has become a composite of other problems.”

“completely new journalistic pleasures.”

“photographing death on a cell phone.”

“a total lack of identity.”

“satire that works.”

“both ways.”

“the last straw is always drenched in poetics.”

“can we live this way?”

congratulations

your new work is really great, yeah, it really shines. it’s like you

write how you speak and it’s really refreshing. you’re something

else. do you know michelle? is that how i know you? she’s the best,

isn’t she? she makes great work. i’m obsessed with it. i’m open

about my love for her work. but your work, i mean, wow. wow. you

should quit your day job and focus on your work. it’s so cool. i can

tell you’re focused on your craft. i should tell you, we all love the

work. i would love to sit down and have coff ee and show you some

work. can i tell you a secret? it’s amazing stuff . i’m very likely to say

no, but i have to give you a resounding yes. if you’re not too busy,

can we talk about this more? we are all so proud of you. tell me

more about your work.

i want to be cool, but nobody likes that - you know? you can’t fake

it. i can’t help but be cool. like, collected. people have said that to

me before. it always goes really well.

a review of the chicken parmesan sandwich i just ate:

disappointed i tried to cut it in four. left me with one soggy bread

piece with no chicken. i thought it would make it easier for me.

otherwise very tasty.

i have been reading information on how to quit smoking. perhaps

this comes after reading murakami’s “the running novelist.”

“quitting smoking was also like a symbolic gesture of farewell to

the life i used to lead,” he says, and i think - yeah, let’s start new.

let’s do something else. i have done well with the slow death of

other vices and pleasures, although i am far too snuggly and would

rather stay in bed an extra 15 minutes - why not quit smoking, too?

i realize i have to go across the street and pick up some things for

the bar. i will probably want a smoke. i’m doomed.

i had considered falsifying records since i was about fi fteen.

records of what?

whatever. transcripts. for school. i was learning photoshop.

reworking things in your favor?

yeah, minimal work - to where if there was any discrepancies it

wouldn’t be blatantly obvious.

who would guess a kid had the know-how to do such a thing?

in the early 2000’s, nobody.

retrieving information that says what?

“invisiline braces.”

“laser scar removal treatment.”

“and what else left to fi x?”

“medicine as fantasy.”

“clearly, as advertised.”

i only clean the house well if i’m viciously angry or considering

suicide.

he comes home after four hours of arranging djs and eighty minutes

of actually playing music. despite fl aw-less track selections and

transitions, he was not well received. the cat jumps into the fl ight

case where they usb turntables live six days a week. she

stretches out, reconsiders, and returns with an empty catnip mouse.

“ah, you’re such a good hunter, my little six year old cat!” her

assumed birthday was seventeen days ago.

we are sitting on the couch, eating dairy-free ice cream, watching

a torrented rip of transparent season three. i cringe watching this

particular sex scene. it makes me anxious enough to have to leave

the room, so i smoke a cigarette in the bathroom. i scan pages of

paul goodman’s “growing up absurd,” not fi nding anything

particularly interesting.

a long stretch of empty beach, except for a direct sunlight span of

twelve people gathered about six feet apart. forty pages pass, and

most people have left. it is monday, now noon, and maybe that’s

why nobody is here. it is so sunny and lovely and absolutely mine.

i put on a podcast on a recently refurbished iphone 7, despite it’s

lessened touch sensitivity. a text gets typed and promptly deleted.

“we should get tipsy and try some rougher sex, maybe.” nah. now

thinking of the choker necklace that was purchased at the boutique

sex shop, the one that signifi es “submissive” when worn. she would

love this, the ungreying on skin in the sun. perhaps she’ll come

later this week. now thinking of getting in the water, despite not

being able to swim. there is a 12x18 sign stating that the water is

currently unsafe to swim in, due to a high concentration of bacteria.

the bacteria in question is not clear, but a beach water quality

hotline number is listed. two women, appearing somewhere in their

20s, splash about with a soccer ball, some fi fteen feet to the right of

the sign. they might not have seen it. i don’t say anything to them.

“food and sex - both are intrinsic for existence.”

“and reproduction.”

i fi nd myself tired, perhaps drained from the sun or from fourteen

hours of sleep the previous night. sleep debt payback. i sit, reading

but not focused, as the sun refl ects off a gold hoop earring belonging

to a bather. my sunburnt legs shiver, although being generally

unconvinced of it being cold. goosebumps can indicate anything,

really. i should buy a pair of linen pants. perhaps khakis.

i sit on a wobbly bench made of hockey sticks, legs tight together.

my phone is about to die, and i have fi nished reading my book, so i

focus on the words on the sticks. bauer. easton. sherwood. advanced

carbon layering. jaromir jagr.

i didn’t stop talking, whether fully out loud or murmuring under

my breath. deja-vu. the phrase “safe word” drawn on a left hand,

long fi ngers trail sunlight peeking through the east facing window,

partially blocked by a stack of french novels. books i own despite

not being able to read french.

late june, the sex boats line the edge of the nude beach.

“sexuality is boring.”

“it’s just a body.”

“it’s not the body i’m upset about, it’s the brain.”

“i used to love the idea of a bare bottom, peeking slightly above the

water line. now, i’m just annoyed by the brazenness.”

“oh stop, let them be young.”

“i can’t match other’s empathy. i’m far too insincere.”

“after all, they eventually have to return to their normal clothes.”

this morning, i wake up at 10:30am, feel it’s too early, go back to

sleep until 11:30am, get up, smoke one cigarette on the couch,

brush my teeth and wipe my mouth on the closest towel, try to

check my email but my iphone’s touchscreen isn’t responding properly

(again), get back into bed on the opposite side, and hold my

partner’s head into my collarbone. later, we go get spanakopita.

self care, depression, substance abuse, anxiety, and the internet.

the year might have been something like 2014, i can’t remember.

2014 sounds about right. my partner in both business and a

slowly failing relationship had been refused entry back into

america, rendering the “new life” an “old life” while we tried to

make plans for a “new new life.” we decided upon montreal. it was

november, maybe december. october, even. we had rented an air bnb

for a month, then two, then three. i was still working in

fashion, but the jobs were infrequent. we were, on paper,

unemployed. i spent a lot of time on the internet, however

increasingly selective of my usage - deleting facebook, instagram,

my main email, my website. instead, i focused on research. i had

spent uncountable hours, usually on both an ipad and netbook,

cycling between 4chan, abovetopsecret, godlikeproductions - fringe

internet. a lot of porn. i’m not sure if i was masturbating, even. i

think i was just curiously watching. now that i think of it, i doubt i

really had a place to hide and jerk off in this studio loft.

i f5’d all day, night. laying on the couch, in bed. this is probably my

fi rst wave interaction with memes, how-ever soft and innocuous

they were at the time.

i was depressed, unsure of the future, and broke. growing up poor

always made me aware of the pleasures of, i don’t know, eating - so

i was extra aware of what was going on. i was receiving licensing

payments every few days, which went to things like pasta, endives,

1.35 small cans of blue ribbon. i probably made it seem like things

were better than they were. “aren’t you craving fettucini again? i just

can’t get enough.”

categorizations:

guilty pleasues

writing

sometimes i ask myself, do i really want to write or do i just want to

tell people i write? constantly working on something secret,

something epic - something never to be seen?

reading

food

sex

sleep

hygine

quality of life

it’s about the phrase “quality of life.”

starting drinking

quitting drinking

doing drugs

quitting drugs

self-medicating

antidepressants and boner pills

the internet

quitting the internet

meditation

“how much do you depend on the co-operation or support of

others?”

2:30am, a wednesday in june. the meditation app with it’s “gratitude”

playlist softly humming in my ear, closing the bar. the phone

is jammed in between my hat and my head, soft rustling noises feel

like they might subdue this panic. panic about nothing.

i often fi nd myself question my stability in work. it’s a grown up

issue. living paycheck to paycheck. trying to save money but somehow

being unable to. perpetually behind. if not beind, then living

somehow far be-yond my daily means. i haven’t yet reconcilled

with the idea that i’m not as rich as the $40 a glass natural wine in

my hand might suggest. i imagine a man of moderate to heigher

wealth taking his partner aside, “i can off er you a better life.” he

assumes this is how it happens. he also wonders what it means,

thinking this way. focusing back on the meditation tone, i close my

eyes and count $100 in fi ve dollar bills.

hedonic treadmill

how is today still going? it’s still going.

maybe am tired also i wonder what is

happen at home, maybe cat is lying on

the couch or in the bed. i had an idea of

how to make the house nicer and GOD

how do people make more more more

money again and again i spend way too

much money, i can’t buy those nike’s i

was thinking about. i need to think. do you

think it’s luck or what that you know you have

no warts or anything on your body, you’re lucky.

i’m hungry. you show me a photograph of a

penis while pasta boils. everybody sits and

is fairly quiet, someone praises the wine. why

have i thought it being so good to know wine.

like, what a cool party trick. what can i say i

can do that is useful? i can’t build a shelf. swans

swans swans. swans sing songs all night long.

in the event of the apocalypse, the three things

i desire are lambrusco, masturbation, and suicide.

you just have to submit, for a little bit. take your shackles

off and submit to the time off . i’m the same way, though.

i feel guilty about the work i’m not doing. a vicious cycle

of anxiety. you gotta spend some time. i know this upsets

you. the whole, well, conditional love. it’s whatever. it’s

whenever i decide. it’s something else. trust me.

god, i don’t want to write anymore.

maybe i’ll buy a pair of 10deep jeans.