for example, right now, i'm scrolling through the final final final interior of YOU DA ONE-- a book that makes me feel like i'm some alien luminary missiled -- and cataloging all the moments that will bring me shame over the next few years. when my list tops 17, i stop and go to the bathroom and try to cry.
lately on g-chat i'll write this to a friend: this book is disgusting. i'm disgusted with myself. lol./i feel like this thing is something i'll regret.
then i write a few notes in an essay i'm writing called "SHOCK VALOR, a defense"
later on facebook, i find and re-read this from Dodie Bellamy in the Paris Review "Self-criticism comes in during gaps where I lose my focus, or sometimes when I’m up in front of a room giving a reading and I’m unexpectedly mortified, and there’s nothing else to do but to continue reading with an air of confidence while thinking, How could you write such sick fucking stuff?"
then this from Etel Adnan in BOMB: " Writing is a very mysterious activity. When you write, you say things that would not have occurred to your mind otherwise."
people worry for me on the internet. * they worry about my writing. about my worrisome peformativity. tho, i worry about myself all the time. and why shouldn't we, the people living now, today, not worry for each other----
---------nevermind--- my real worry is that i'm doing this, writing, in the right way. and this right way is inevitably a little bit terrible, a little bit subject to glimpses or stretches of alienation during which all you think is who the fuck are you, everyone. all of us.
maybe writing is only for the dead. "the best thing about [writing]/is that it's over". in other words, right now, I want to create a permisibility in my own art that only death allows. which is why i suspect that this is probably true: "it's almost a fashion for women to be recognized late in life." (Adnan, again, in BOMB.) like, she's almost dead. let her do what she wants. she's "survived."
maybe "in shame" a glimpse of dead. the casual meet-cute with yourself. your disgusting self that maybe you wish to negate or erase. a reverse narcissus but not without its own glory or even joy.
*Elizabeth's thread warrants a deeper response than this. It has certainly been on my mind. With all of its complications, it's difficult to consider the hurt, discomfort, disappointment my work and performances create and my own ambivalence toward unsafe spaces. More on this hopefully soon-- if i'm brave enough.