I hold onto this tracking for a day or two. I can tell this will be the problem; the lapses. It’s unequivocally my fault. My meandering is a making of my own cruel device. Prone to very long bouts of dissociation, it grows legs. That means I go on fugues. That’s what the hospital says: fugue, but real short and if I said it, it would be elongated. I h a v e  a      d   i   s    s   o    c   i a t    i v e            d  i        s o r   d e r. So it’s elegant and Virginian, kind of mysterious. 

I know how my habits start: strong, detailed, honored like idols whatever routine I set. Sweep the altar. Cover the altar. Marry the altar. Sing to each moon and with fervor. Set the house with rosemary. Line the tub with lavender. Line the door with salt. Don’t let anyone in who doesn’t know you. Don’t call entities by their name. Then suddenly, reverse and harsh and they call it chaos magick. Call entities by their name several times. Throw away all the presents. Remove the altar. Divorce the altar. Burn the altar. Throw the amethyst in the water, take it out, suck the tip. Devout and anciently catholic and strumming naturally along, carried on wind, not food, but deconstructing. All the time, I am devolving and then becoming.Thin and easily excitable, papery. You could cut me in half but like a starfish, I would grow more paper. My ex used to say interesting after everything I said. I hated him because he had a small penis and said interesting after everything I said. Physically. I am a little bony but appear more robust until you hug me. Then I am very small. I am tall but I have this amazing accordion ability to fold over into someone’s arms like a pile of bones falling into a pit.  Perfect victim. Fall easily and shatter like glass when someone says my name. It’s why I am keeping journal. To track each failure in scrupulous detail. But I am prone to very long fugues. That will keep me distracted too.

I live on ignition. I’m at the corner of Spruce and 12th in sunglasses, hat, scarf, coat, no gloves, new straw. I haven’t eaten for hours. It’s one pm. I’m on my fifth cup of coffee, I have generally loose plans for today and myself as a whole, and I think: will I  always be like this?

But I say it out loud and an old man looks at me. That’s the only interaction I have the entire day with another human.

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