ᔕᑌᑎ Ｇ♢Ｄ Inadequacies

Dispatch
10-16-02023

October was a parade of odd days defying my creature-of-habit sensibilities. Last minute travel and psychedelic appointments lay . . .

░s░c░a░t░t░e░r░s░h░o░t░

. . . across the calendar, muddling the threshold between work and play.

There was an all night acid party in New Mexico, during which — projected 15 feet wide across the wall — I watched the movie 𝕭𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 on mute while a friend spun vinyl. Watching 𝕭𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 (ᴏɴ ᴍᴜᴛᴇ ᴏɴ ᴀᴄɪᴅ) gave me 10x the patriarchal insight as watching 𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓑𝓐𝓡𝓑𝓘𝓔 𝓜𝓞𝓥𝓘𝓔 (ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀᴜᴅɪᴏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ᴛᴀᴅ ᴅʀᴜɴᴋ) did. In 𝕭𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆, the 𝕄𝔸𝕃𝔼 𝔾𝔸ℤ𝔼 (ᴡɪᴛʜ ɪᴛꜱ ᴍɪx ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʜᴀʀᴅ ʟɪʙɪᴅɪɴᴀʟ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪɢʜʟʏ ꜰᴇᴛɪꜱɪᴢᴇᴅ ɪᴍᴘᴏᴛᴇɴᴄᴇ) blasts forth with such campy power that it boomerangs itself in the face with unintentional critique. There is a scene where a male tyrant attempts to kill 𝕭𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 (ᴘʟᴀʏᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀ ʏᴏᴜɴɢ ᴊᴀɴᴇ ꜰᴏɴᴅᴀ) with a literal orgasm machine.

ᑎO ᗪIᑕE!

Our heroine's capacity for orgasmic pleasure overpowers the contraption, setting it ablaze — a scene exposing the secret desire of the masculine heart to come against a feminine force for pleasure so powerful that even death itself is left impotent.



𝓣𝓗𝓔 𝓑𝓐𝓡𝓑𝓘𝓔 𝓜𝓞𝓥𝓘𝓔, on the other vulva, was so self-aware that watching it felt like consuming the low-bar punitive “𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽” of a comedy traffic school . . . but the traffic part is patriarchy.

That, and the level of product placement (ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ ɪᴛꜱᴇʟꜰ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛ) swizzles sticks 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 𝓶𝓸𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 and 𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖔𝖗𝖞 into a mixer to unpalatable for me to keep down.

This interpretation had me asking myself about a toxic-masculine trait I may harbor — one that hates being preached at by the feminine. But (ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ᴀ Qᴜɪᴄᴋ ꜱᴏᴜʟ ꜱᴇᴀʀᴄʜ) I’m confident that this aversion’s roots are anti-capitalist in nature. I don’t enjoy being preached at by for-profit ventures with 𝗰𝗿𝗼𝗰𝘀™ and ριηквєяяу™ froyo brand partnerships. The revolution will not create a collectable Funko Pop!™ (ɪ’ᴍ ꜱᴄᴀʀᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ɪꜰ ᴍᴀʟᴄᴏᴍ x ʜᴀꜱ ᴀ ꜰᴜɴᴋᴏ ᴘᴏᴘ).

𝕭𝖆𝖗𝖇𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖑𝖆 also had better costumes.

As the ᔕᑌᑎ rose and the acid set, I saw my first total solar eclipse. The world growing dark seemed a rational consequence of the moon blocking the sun, but I was unprepared for the eerie tone of this light. This was not the familiar purple dim of dusk — it was angry and gray. The world had the pallor of deathbed fever flesh. I felt a primordial edginess — a NEED for the return of the warm morning glow I’d know all my life — a ꜰᴇᴀʀ that some ancient Ｇ♢Ｄ gatekept it.

Steeped in that, I follow an trail of welltred thought about the unseen, ethereal Ｇ♢Ｄ of 𝔸𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕔 religion. Why not instead worship the light orb in the sky radiating the stuff of life. Would that be too literal? Too much of an open-shut case? Is the ᔕᑌᑎ to impartial? Is a Ｇ♢Ｄ that shines on 𝓰𝓸𝓸𝓭 and 𝖊𝖛𝖎𝖑 same-same to hard to stomach?

Too masculine, maybe? Nah, that can’t be it. Holy rollers love bravado. A prime frustration of the whole 𝔸𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕔 thang is that 𝔸𝕕𝕒𝕞 needed 𝓔𝓿𝓮 at all. 𝓔𝓿𝓮 is the line extension that gives the 𝕄𝕒𝕟 brand a contrast it resents needing. The perfect union, forever reminding 𝕄𝕒𝕟 of his inability to do it alone.

If anything, the ᔕᑌᑎ is too 𝓯𝓮𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓮, birthing light unceasingly — giving and giving, asking for nothing in return. It looks to me like the ᔕᑌᑎ has discovered the means of transmuting that gift into its own unending orgasmic euphoria. A big O-face in the sky, possessing more power that all the machines of death combined. What can a 𝕄𝕒𝕟 offer a Ｇ♢Ｄ like that? Maybe just a wink and a pretty dance.

After New Mexico, I had a few days back in PHX. I had two working interviews for linecook jobs, and one night at a very fun wedding with a very open bar. I woke up the next morning at 3 AM to start a day of hungover travel to the rural American south. There I developed recipes for a small company attempting the tricky biz of infusing macro doses of psilocybin into chocolate products (ɪ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴜʟᴋ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ 20ꜱ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛɪᴍᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴄʜᴏᴄᴏʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴍᴏᴅᴇꜱᴛ ᴀᴍᴏᴜɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘꜱʏᴄʜᴇᴅᴇʟɪᴄꜱ — ᴛʜɪꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴛɪᴄᴜʟᴀʀ ꜱᴇᴛ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴋɪʟʟꜱ). Silly work, where product testing is tripping on mushrooms.

Back in PHX, as I transitioned to a 40 hour workweek as a linecook, I entered . . .

ᵃᵘᵗᵒⁿᵒᵐᵒᵘˢ ᵐᵒᵈᵉ

As long as I make my body movements correlate to my assigned duties, I can disappear in plain sight. I can run like the engine of a car, humming forgotten beneath the hood of enterprise, until it offends with a malfunction.

With a bit of finesse, I can extend ᵃᵘᵗᵒⁿᵒᵐᵒᵘˢ ᵐᵒᵈᵉ to speech, generating responses like efficiency algorithms crafting answers with little need of follow up.



I was eating a jar of yogurt at work. My manager passed by and asked . . .

“Are those overnight oats?”

. . . and I said . . .

“Yes.”

. . . because a clarification would be a banal interrupt to our labor flows. Let the yogurt be oats.

I’m channeling my inner ｒｏｏｍｂａ™, scoot-scooting through the predetermined paths of my external obligation — pretending that internal worlds possess pause buttons. This helps silence the 𝖈𝖆𝖕𝖎𝖙𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 exploitation victim narratives waiting to pounce with the pain of each fresh oil burn or knife nick to the knuckle. The only person who notices ᵃᵘᵗᵒⁿᵒᵐᵒᵘˢ ᵐᵒᵈᵉ is my romantic partner, reminding me of a 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘺-𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘵𝘢-𝘧𝘪𝘨𝘶𝘳𝘦-𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵-𝘰𝘶𝘵 bit of my psyche — that I am both drawn to and frustrated by the people I can not fool.

I’d like to claim that ᵃᵘᵗᵒⁿᵒᵐᵒᵘˢ ᵐᵒᵈᵉ masks a rich inner landscape of soulful thinking, but my thoughts in October feel at best 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙺, and at worst ᵗʳⁱᵛⁱᵃˡ.

𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙺 I’m cool with. I can call 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙽𝙺 a meditative state — evidence of my Ｚｅｎ -Ｓａｔｏｒｉ destinies. But  ᵗʳⁱᵛⁱᵃˡ  insults my self-narrative of hyper-intelligence.

“ᴡʜʏ ᴀᴍ ɪ ʀᴜᴍɪɴᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴄʀᴇᴅɪᴛ ᴅᴇʙɪᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴇᴡ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴜꜱ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ 𝗖𝗮𝗿𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗿𝘁™ ᴘᴀɴᴛꜱ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ɪ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴘᴏɴᴅᴇʀɪɴɢ ɴɪᴇᴛᴢꜱᴄʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ꜰᴏʀᴄᴇꜱ, ᴏʀ ɢᴜʏ ᴅᴇʙᴏʀᴅ’ꜱ ᴅᴇꜰɪɴɪᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴘꜱᴇᴜᴅᴏ-ᴄʏᴄʟɪᴄᴀʟ ᴛɪᴍᴇ.”



This resentment of the ᵗʳⁱᵛⁱᵃˡ, reacquainted me with my inner 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 wojak, standing in the corner of the party. As I mop floors and chop onions it is tempting to self soothe with . . .

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙄’𝙢 𝙖 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙠𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙙𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙨.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙚 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.

𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄 𝙖𝙢 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡.

. . . thoughts. But that 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 is a painful doubt hiding behind a narrative of alienation . . .

𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙?

𝙳𝚘 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚢 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍?

𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝙸 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍?

. . . and 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙠𝙣𝙤𝙬 because I don’t tell 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 . If I told 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮, I’d be confronting the above painful doubts. I’d have to digest the reality that the rich and sacred projects of my life seldom warrant a double take from 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮. 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 have their own rich and sacred projects to concern themselves with. One’s that I also don’t often inquire about.

Never hitting the impossible 100% of being understood, I fetishize misunderstanding. This leads me to make less effort to understand anyone else. Why would I, if the 100% goal is not possible? Because of this, efforts of connection are, for me, courageous acts — courageous because it confronts and accepts the unknowable abyss behind the eyes of personhood, my eyes included. Any dive into that abyss is a holy go of it.

Perhaps that is the hole that that 𝔸𝕓𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕚𝕔 ethereal Ｇ♢Ｄ fills. Ｇ♢Ｄ is a void-shaped plug that keeps alienation from bubbling back up the pipes and filling life’s basin. A 𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖍 that this Ｇ♢Ｄ understands me. . or maybe a 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 . . . but what is the difference between 𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖍 and 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂? It feels like 𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖍 falls just short of a truth, whereas 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 falls just shy of a lie.

I’d like to find a way to understand the ᔕᑌᑎ’s light as understanding, so I could feel it undeniable upon on my skin. Instead of being its Ameicas’s hottest city, PHX would become its most understood.

I don’t think I can muster the 𝖋𝖆𝖎𝖙𝖍 for a 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓼𝔂 like that, but the ᔕᑌᑎ seems to understand itself — understanding its gift as life and it life as gift. That is an aspirational reminder that hurts to stare at for very long.