The last month, and the next year, has led me to a shattering need for something, it may be an identity.
It could be the building boredom demanding a real experience.
There is as much of me as there ever was, but I am a fragmentation of experiences, wants, senses, orgasm, and sleep. That is not new, but I miss the pretense of a whole self, and the possibilities for transformation it seems to imply.
I want a unified self to hang on my body, I wore a skirt for the first time, but felt largely the same. Some small addition to a private mythology, growing outward with continued isolation. There is a fascinating illustration of ambiguous meaning in the Madrid Codex(39b) of a dying deer, a spear driven through its back. Hovering above it a second deer stares down, from its back a scorpion tail emerges, stabbing a spear through the back of the dying deer.
I’ve read this may have stellar significance, which I would also like to have, but I find myself between the deer. They look so similar, one an extension of the other.
Without the glue of static identity, or the placid noise of a really busy city, there’s no real justification left. Desires and observations and outfits and finally sleep. I have been excited by the possibility of American change, and there has been a wealth of American change. But now I would like to be change, or at least I would like to try to be changed