When I cry it usually comes as the result of a great confluence of factors: ongoing lacks of sleep, late estrogen injections (and the hardening of my mind and flush of wet lust which doesn’t feel quite proper in my blood), a hunger forgotten and left unaddressed (as a result of hyper-focus or hyper-distraction), isolation. When I cry, it is rarely a relief. No matter how much of a break, the stress, the source of that vocalization remains. I am a big fan of getting to the root
I certainly am able to cry more readily than before starting HRT, but it continues to be tied to very specific types of pressures: failures and value threats. Pre-HRT crying marked the breakdown of relations, the failure to live to the standards of the people I respect most. Those are the chisels that crack my dam with the most effectiveness historically.
Crying now is, while fueled by exhaustion, loneliness, and the crushing ancillary of poorly maintained mental health, but still requires a rupture point each time. The shell of my historical competency of numbing can yet hold a lot in. When it cracks, I hide, I don’t want people to know I’m crying; my target is usually the shower, q place where I’m use to not existing, where the hot water pouring over my skin can remove me from the world if just for a time; but not from my hunting mind.
My mind mulls over its various attenuation and stressors. What are we looking at glitch art, our sexuality, are we getting the surgery, who must we be present for, how do we address these papers (papers for credits, papers for degrees, papers for workshops). Each thought like a dog rises to attention and falls, until they collaless into a vision.
My Actaeon mind flees but the vision true. The dogs are here ready to bite and tear.
It is all so broken, but that is why I make it, my glitch art; that brokenness, at least now, is a desire of recognition. My own subjectivity at odds with myself, pakala: when extracting myself from my captured image I can recognize the body image as beautiful but int the moments of quiet embodiment I gaze unfiltered by media or even a reflection: subject viewing subject not subject viewing object, and the subject of the gaze or perhaps the gazer or perhaps their superposition breaks. These things I make, they need to be both broken and beautiful, they need to be able to be broken and beautiful, these shitty little pngs, I need to be able to make them broken and beautiful.
If I can do that. Maybe I can be beautiful too, not in spite of my brokeness: the inability to properly reply to a sarcastic quip, the hubris, the wet snotty breakdowns, the inescapable ouroboros of engagement-novelty and abandonment that autocannibalizes most desire in just two weeks. These things about my brain and body which are difficult and terrible to control.
If I can’t make that art work; how the hell am I supposed to get my mind to?
If I can make these broken things beautiful, I can br beautiful.
If I can make these broken things beautiful, I can br beautiful.
If I can make these broken things beautiful, I can br beautiful.