that the materiality of the signifier, let alone the materiality of my being-in-my-own-skin, is running rampant over my conscious mind and libidinal etcetera? i suppose that goes without saying. constantly i feel more like a figure in a painting, or like a statuette, than i feel like an acting subject.
yeah, couple that feeling with some occult/demonic/lsd vibes by way of gnarly flashbacks and induced rewatchings of The Exorcist. i end up contemplating long-forgotten halfbacks and waiting out the afternoon impatiently.
there’s no psychopharmaceutical antidote to this, i don’t think. this is a behavioral struggle over the stakes of me and my turkey flesh. i hope that i am allowed to represent myself in this derby. i am confident that i have a fool for a client.