Plathological

Shortly

Apart from the fact that Elliot went down on me for half an hour, we went to the beach with provisions, strawberries and rum in a thermos among them. This all happened on Thursday. Rum, while sitting on a rock (pun here is too easy).

Yesterday was a show at 50/50 (Xavier), most of which I am still processing, in terms of intrapersonal significance. I mean: I was placated like a child, point-by-point, like out of some fucking manual, by a friend. But, other than countless, and I mean countless because I’ve actually lost count, spoken and unspoken irritations, I danced till there was no more to sweat and I started to harden all over. These past months have made me start living in my bones, instead of my body. Hard, can outlast anything--bones, you know. Fossils.

Am worried that I am not respected. As an artist. The textbook placation has been running through my mind all day. It was a base judgement and my first experience of being misread in a long time. Though: none of this is really my problem. None of this is my issue. I woke early. I read all day.

Elliot phoned today. After spouting names associated with economic theories and expounding on the theories themselves he asked me to come over for fruit, Carver, Bach and cream sherry. I either want to spend all night at home, writing, or sitting with topped glasses, text between our spread legs. Haven’t yet decided. I'm not even sure if my phone is working properly--I haven't paid my bill. I have no time for anybody right now, not really. Not emotionally.