"Ghost movies turn my crank. They can’t make em scary enough for me." I bend to lace up my hi-top sneakers. "So if you’re saying you’ve got something spooky, you oughta know I’m tough to please."
Hollywood’s new favorite trans character is a dude named Gauntlet. He’s played by a cis actress and he wears a tuxedo and his catchphrase is “ALL..I CARE ABOUT..IS BASEBALL.”
I think I have kind of decided to write a novel aka book though I’ve never written a novel aka book but maybe I finish it and it’s not a novel. 13+ years of trying to do everything visually and abstaining from things that do not have major visual components was kind of a bad call. This means I will have to confront hard things about writing I have otherwise been great at avoiding forever and feeling upset at how much better I would be by now if I had been doing them constantly, but I could honestly say the same about literally anything else in my life. I have this horror movie thing I have been thinking about for about six years and which was at various stages supposed to be a video, a video game, a comic. The characters were mostly all hollow teenage ciphers who existed to fuck each other and to die. I didn’t actually know how to deal with that part because I didn’t let anyone fuck me when I was a teenager, but this is why we use our imaginations. Also I was thinking about Buffy the Vampire Slayer and how I wanted to write a show like that when I was 17 and as far as I got was a vignette about a girl beating a jellyfish thing to death on the beach with a baseball bat and masturbating behind a big rock afterward and this was my self-insertion character. I started feeling weird about writing that and I quit. It’s totally impossible to imagine that whatever I make of all this now would be more than scraps of scenes stitched together with semi autobio, tangent-heavy narration and its ultimate fate might be as an ebook sold through my Web Shop but whatever, it’s 2014 already.
A number of long distance friendships that were extremely important to me have turned out to be Schwarzenegger sound board pranks. Please understand you are still in my heart and my thoughts but if your voice sounds even slightly like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s I am going to need some time and distance right now.
This incredible DVD is a “triple threat” - it includes a movie, a commentary, AND a theatrical trailer.
You and Hargraves watch from the shore as the ship sails towards the horizon and at last disappears. Hargraves speaks: “so long to the gold rush of SD DVD and the briefest moment when experimental, esoteric, and queer cinemas were shockingly available on home video. I see now a future where we build from scratch in a landscape of EST and VOD portals owned by the largest media corporations and internet service providers in the world, each with a vested interest in policing the content they permit on their servers. We moreover attempt somehow to muster enthusiasm for the relicensing and transcoding of 20th century film obscura as this past recedes further into memory, replaced by a present which is dominated by products of the monolithic film and television industries and simply lacks exhibition space required for an inquisitive and human film culture to once more take root; they bought or bulldozed all the big screens and the thumbnail galleries floating in streaming app interfaces are effectively devolving expectations for web-connected small screens back to ‘flipping through what’s on cable.’ It’s likely that space can be made for filmmakers and video artists producing content for the web on a budget close to $zero but archives of the past may be DVD rips on servers run by aging hobbyists where no one gets paid, regardless of what they told you about the Long Tail fifteen years ago, and these, even then, are at risk for bandwidth throttling or plain denial of service by your ISP.” Hargraves hoists damp canvas sacks and trudges back towards the tree line.
It is June 1st.
You have not constructed a shelter.
You have 18 food.
You have 40 water.
My denim is damp from sweating through the hike down from the hotel. I’m going to the convenience store or the drug store to buy chips and diet coke. The streets are empty. I step around a sidewalk chalked red with devil signs. The convenience store is closed from devils and attacks, the door is splattered with blood. I go to the drug store. The drug store is open. There are more things to look at in the drug store than I intended to buy. I remember in high school hanging in stores with idiot friends making fun of the things on the shelves, hoping someone cared what we were thinking. It is now impossible to imagine a conflict significant enough between my internal values and those here displayed to even merit a comment. That is: my voice could never rise to their level. I live in the shadows of giants who are people with their shit together enough to get married to each other and care about jobs where they approve new gradients for thin cardboard packaging. I wonder what being straight would be like. I picture myself a billionaire. I picture what being cis and straight would be and I see a city skyline from an opulent hotel balcony. It’s the Seattle skyline from the book Virtual Light because I wasted my brains being a dumbass nerd instead of learning anything helpful. I’m drinking out of a two liter on the hike back up the mountain. I think: I wish I was a gay and lesbian in the 1990s. I think no, idiot, you wish you were a beautiful, fictional gay and lesbian in a movie from the 1990s. I think: I wish I had done more gay things with my body in the 1990s. The road turns off into dirt and everything is covered with kudzu. I think: I should write garbage and show it to people until showing it to people no longer feels significant and I can just exist. I hate editing. I hate curation. I need creating to be a testament that I am not being slowly erased. I live in an abandoned hotel in my home state, it’s shitty and extremely haunted but the haunting has kept up its condition. I barricade myself in my room. It’s freezing despite summer, thank god. I think about things in the walls, detached hands in the walls hovering, scraping, waiting to phase through and strangle me. No, that’s from Zelda. At any rate, the building begins to softly howl. My shirt clings to my breasts, finally cold enough to be annoying. I wear a quilt instead. I get out a legal pad and sketch up ideas for a story. “Gay and transgender bodies and people who have them and are fucking but are bored doing it.” I feel fortunate that boredom/fucking is a viable fictional subgenre but can only channel it inauthentically while I, more accurately, experience frustrated sadness during sex. I wonder if I could learn to like porn again. I think of a body I used to know pretty well that was slim and shaved and slightly muscular and I want to beat him up and fuck him but I know he’d never have let me, or anybody else for that matter. Something emits metallic vibrations in the hall. I used to kill demons with my crew when we were kids and all of us were closeted and couldn’t even fuck each other when we were soaked with devil blood and cum from Hell and demon pheromones. We feigned straight relationships or else staved off inquiries about our absence of straight relationships and treaded water while our three second windows to feel slightly at home in the world closed. I hope they’re also fags or dykes or fags and dykes by now, for what it’s worth, and I hope getting there has meant a lot to them. I hope it got better. The noise in the hall gets worse and I go out and get into a fight. Youtube “Silent Hill gameplay” to see what that looks like. Now I’ll have to stay up all night or until things die down. I have to learn to make identities as weird as whatever mine is seem as cool as cis queer identities seemed to 1990s me. It won’t do anyone any good. I’m a terrible artist and an OK ghost killer. I’m stress eating. I finish the entire bag of chips and I’ve moved on to canned vegetables out of the can. If I kill demons freelance I still won’t have health insurance and I’ll die from whatever in 5 minutes.