8.2.16 (new moon pt. 2)

On the new moon of February 8th I had a dream I was looking over a city submerged in still water and a bat was biting both my pointer fingers, effectively forming handcuffs.

On the new moon today a bat was flying around the house. I reasoned with it, suspecting it didn’t want to be indoors. After carefully catching it and lifting the blanket to let it free outside it had disappeared.



8.2.19 (new moon)

It is funny that there is a drug I can take that makes me feel more like myself.

It was my first night at Geronimo.

I rocked up right afterward, vodka in hand, to watch Holy Mountain at Canada House.

As guests left Leo, Olivia, RJ, and I continued to hang out.

“I am trying to figure out which social media platform to become famous on.” – R. J.

“I am going to release my album on Wikileaks” – R. J.

A bat flew in the house.


I have been feeling bad about myself for not getting enough done, but working sluggishly on projects nonetheless. I finished archiving/tagging/editing 5-years of my blog, and bought the URL StickyPsyche.com. I got through about half of the MaxMSP tutorials, which are easy – I just have to finish knocking them out to fill any gaps in my knowledge. I can’t work on my computer for about six hours out of the day because the room gets unbearably hot and this has impeded my progress. Other than that I am about a third of the way through Pimsleur’s Italian 1, and have begun prototyping the large scale vapor screen I’ve been thinking of for a while.

Summer weather has me intensely dysphoric. Mom and I talked about hormone replacement therapy. Her position has typically been not to fuck with one’s hormones. I mentioned that our environment is full of things that fuck with hormones and while our family has rarely used any sort of big pharma, we happily self-medicate with coffee, cigarettes and alcohol. She concurred that it was my choice.

I made an appointment with the endocrinologist and she was receptive/respectful. She gave me a somewhat experimental prescription for low-dose HRT and DHT blockers, which perplexed the pharmacist. I explained that it was because I am non-binary, which perplexed the pharmacist. My therapist gave me a supply to start with, which would have cost me around $600 (no insurance until I move to Europe), saying “mozeltov!” The DHT blockers cost $9 – I also bought .98 flip flops, lemons, cabbage, and cashew-based ice cream to celebrate ;)


I went to Keiko’s Gastronomical Society with Noah and we were disappointed no one got our jokes except Rick and Alex. It was good to see Keiko. The sushi, naturally, was delicious. It was too hot. It was too early. We missed MC’s birthday party at the lake anyway – this is sad but also fine because wow I sure h8 my body, which is sad but also fine.


Nodia came over for dinner and asked me and Noah about our love lives. Noah talked about being a slut and I talked about being perpetually heartbroken, and not pursuing dating people or even hanging out with them because of unyielding dysphoria.

I then decided that this commitment to suffering was unnecessary, and asked Jessica if she wanted to meet me at the big metal industrial sculpture.  Which we did. And we held hands :)

Cis Het Shit Heads

I voted (democratic primary, Bernie Sanders) during lunch break, then sat on the plaza and ate my veggie sausage sandwich/salad. A guy came up to me and asked me where to get French fries, I told him to get some with green chile. He said where he is from they only have a little bit of spice, here we eat everything spicy. He asked me out, sat down next to me, gave me a candy, offered to buy me a new phone… at first I was amused and thought of taking him to a noise show (he assumes I’ll be open to his culture, or am already part of it, I’ll do the same). By the end I was bored/increasingly uncomfortable (he got closer and closer to me, asked if I knew small hotels for if we like each other after dancing and drinking…) So here’s a good opportunity to use nonviolent communication to avoid ever seeing this guy again. It’s annoying to be put in this position – I wouldn’t be if he knew I was transgender, if he knew I was transgender I would likely be in a more dangerous position. 

By 3pm I was in the mood for a treat and looked up recipes for vegan chocolate chip cookies that use chickpea flour.

Imagine just seeing someone in a park, talking to them, and thinking that you would like to have sex with them, and maybe they would like to have sex with you too. Imagine being cisgender and heterosexual and a man. BUT, thought experiment, if it was the norm to be nonbinary and people small-talked about intersectional eco-feminism, maybe I would swoon for people on park benches on the regular. Would I behave as obnoxiously as some cis-het shit heads? No, because in this thought experiment world people are not socialized to act entitled.


It was too hot to wear a jacket, reminding me to have #summerdysphoria. My therapist greeted me in the garden, showing me his multi-colored iris. In his office was a single antique rose bloom in a silver Nambe vase. 

John picked me up to go to the Stranger’s Collective art opening, which didn’t seem to be curated, and most of the work was unremarkable. Over dinner at Paper Dosa we talked about what kind of communist bookstores I might find in Italy, and where in the world we would like to travel.

We drove back in the near-full-moon light listening to a band-made bootleg of Gauze Veil with the skyroof open.

At home Noah and I played dress up.

Tell Me What to Do

I am fairly shameless/forgiving of myself and others, but I do feel a need to air out this feeling of being disappointed in myself, and like I lost what could have been a good connection because of, um, being a stupid asshole.

My therapist asked what the largest factors of my identity are – is age important? Connection to arts? Gender? I hadn’t thought about age being very important but mentioned that everyone I have dated since I was 22 has been 22. “What did you not get over when you were 22?” He asked. “Oh!” I graduated college and went from being a person who is smart and doing something to being someone who is stuck. This is also when I started drinking habitually.

We talked about veganism/cocaine, John Cage, Grace Jones/fashion, and body dysphoria. He asked if I am happy with myself, I said yes, but there are things I need to do to become better, happier, more self actualized.

He asked how much I drink – an average of 3 drinks a night, but sometimes half a bottle of hard liquor without thinking, and without much change in my behavior. There was barely a pause before he told me that I would be going for 90 days without drinking, and when did I want to start? I said I would be DJing on Saturday and had plans to get drinks with an artist I admire on Sunday, so it would have to be Monday. He said to “have fun binging.” It was such a relief to have someone tell me what to do.


I feel heavy going back to journaling since the last time I wrote, that day I was broken up with and have not wanted to address the pit of gut-sadness.

Jess said they weren’t feeling it, needed “me time,” that it wasn’t a reflection on me etc. Elegantly worded, fair, and admirable. Still hard not to take personally. After a brief and stilted phone conversation I left them alone.

Of course my friends experienced the brunt of my heartbreak, because I am both a weeper and a drunk. Cole gave me a big hug and offered to start a noise-band with me, Alex et. all offered to take me out for drinks, and Chris Brodsky led me to his truck where he filled a beautiful handmade ceramic mug with vodka. He gave me the cup and its contents, said if I broke it he’d make me a new one.

An overarching sentiment from friends and roommates was that they wished they could feel something as strongly as I do. I can’t imagine not feeling things intensely –  sounds great.

The next day was nice smelling and gray. I had set up my first appointment with a therapist the previous week. I had a feeling we would work well together and he said the same. We talked about being weepers, about being queers, and about what the self is.

My therapist is somewhere around 80 and is well acquainted with grief.  He has been widowed 3 times, came out late in life, has a down syndrome daughter, has AIDS, and is in recovery from substance abuse. He has smiley eyes.