January 5 2020

(no journal entry)

I have drawn hearts all over the page instead and have no recollection of breakfast.

I am superstitious and clerical, sorting and moving objects all over the house for better symmetry. I make use of corners by building shrine. My therapist would like me to note that I spent the previous night, stoned, standing in front of corners beckoning my imagination to leave. Holding my arms out as if to stay stop, I whispered to the night, “go.” I did this to each corner of the house, pausing longer near the basement and kneeling in front of any mirror. Go. These are the things my therapist wants me to write in the journal. These are not the things I am concerned about. I brought my notebook in once to show her how scattered it was.
“December 18, 2019,” I begin. “I took a bath and now I feel fine. My impulses have lessened. I am not hungry and have no desire for food.”
She waits.
“That’s it?’
“I told you my journaling is unreliable.” I open the book towards her to show her. “It’s full of trees.”
And it was: fine tipped black marker trunks with no tops lined the two pages creating a design that wove through the paper.
“I call them borders.”

 I begin the decluttering as I do every quarter. I accumulate, even if it’s wasteful plastic garbage. I use some of it, lose some of it, abandon projects, shove them somewhere in a closet or a drawer or under the bed and then begin the slow dismantling;the huge purge from the slow binge. It’s not that I don’t have focus, it’s that my attention is divided. I want to do everything. But I cannot stand having too many things for too long. They must be replaced with different things.  I combine two open tubs of blue glitter and spill some on the floor.
“Fuck.’
I have let things get too far. I have moved into an entire house with this traveling Crayola theater. In this box, glitter, tons of it, inexplicably, tissue paper, stencils, the ink to go with it, stickers, ribbon, lace, so many things and I am remembering.
“Postcards.”
I have come down with a case of fatigue in the middle of everything. When people say the artists work is reflective of the artist, why won’t anyone glue all my parchments to a wall and let the audience figure it out themselves? I just love to stop.

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