Samira

hope you’re in the mood for weird words of wisdom from that strange old sage Henry David Thoreau. he left behind some advice that would be quite useful for you during your flirtation with the quagmire. when I would recreate myself, Thoreau mused, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and… most dismal swamp. I enter the swamp as a sacred place–a sanctum sanctorum. there is the strength, the marrow of nature.

oddly enough i’ve explicitly proclaimed plans to enter a state of catharsis, before student-life starts. a new tattoo would be a very effective means to help purge all my repressed, sublimated, disavowed, whatever the fuck else, self-loathing. little bit of pain is a sure vehicle to carry and dispose of all emotional waste. the headshaving was quite healing–there’s nothing like throwing yourself into the biggest identity crisis you’ve ever endured. last night I called louis. a random act that wasn’t preceded by contemplation, or a decision-making process, rational game-plan. I didn’t even feel a secret, uncouth urge or pressure, a shameful desire to be controlled again. I suddenly wanted to call my ex-convict, abusive, psychopath father. and somehow I found nothing strange about phoning him after spending ten-and-a-half years virtually in exile. perhaps, last night’s phonecall marks a shift in identification–similar to abdul’s interpretation of my trans-sexuality dream. it might be that I, or Id, simply never wanted to let go of my past, over-ruled by a few subconscious tentacles of masochism. the memory you can’t access at will. the psyche’s blueprint. the collector of dysfunction. the source of emotional mayhem. that subconscious is a haunted house, complete with scary monsters, spectres, and wandering ghosts. I don’t really know what brings the mind’s underworld to deliver epiphanies into our waking days. what process of elimination surfaces opportunities for burying ghosts.