Pinkerton is I think, one of the most pathetic albums I've listened to. Unlike The Violent Femmes which has this terrifying rage to it, unlike Negative XP who has criticisms of identity technologies under capitalism, Pinkerton is simply about a slut that hurts everyone around them. It's drenched in self pity that causes tragedy they don't even enjoy inflicting as they bitterly apologize for existing. There is no beauty in it, only truth, and thus is only half art. I kind of hate it. I kind of hate that I love it. I listened to someone talk about how Rivers shouldn't have written "Across the Sea", one of my favorite tracks, maybe ever right now. In the spirit of putting things out in the open, in the spirit of embracing instrumentality into my heart, I must confront this in a public forum that which I have privately alluded to and admitted.
I was 23, she was 18 year old girl, I felt like I was Scott Pilgriming to put it politely. It was like that scene in trainspotting? That's what Scott says. He says this because he's unable to control himself. I could never touch her, I think it would be wrong, but I still sniffed and licked a blanket plenty, and I wondered all manner of things all day, scheduling time to fantasize. Eventually she told me what and where to stick it so I did exactly as she told me to and reported back. I needed help, and I cursed myself for being across the street. So I moved! Written out like that it seems easy to say, but I would simply cackle when describing it to people because it was too distressing for me to even consider. I couldn't really think about her in that way I obviously felt about her because I couldn't tolerate being, as Mr. UK would say, a nonce. Pinkerton is so raw and vulnerable. Even if parts of it suck like the chorus of "El Scorcho" (which I'm not convinced doesn't suck on purpose) I have to commend how open it is, how cathartic it is to know that I wasn't completely alone. Obviously me and Rivers are different. Obviously he was even older than me, obviously he didn't transition and have to relearn life all over again, making him feel like a child. However, I feel like I really understand what he's going through. Sometimes I feel like I have more fans than friends. People who don't want to be friends, but want to follow me. Curdle is more of a fan I think than a friend. My paternal grandparents are more fans than friends. I think it's because I cultivate a profile instead of living authentically. I can only be authentic with a handful of people without judgement. I can only really exist around a select few of the people around me because too many people get too concerned otherwise, and it's not even real concern. They don't understand what's important to me. They can only orbit around dichotomously with me as their superstar or their patient. As if I could live off words and dreams and a half dozen screams, I need a hand in mine to feel, and she granted it until I fell in love with the image.
We met up, I think probationally. See, I had elevated mood a couple days ago, which usually makes me weird about her. She had some other things going on that usually indicate for us a bad interaction. This was kind of the ultimate test, a probationary meeting to see if I could be normal after so long. All of these things that made me weird, they were about her Image, and the Image should be gone, but is it really? Well, I went to the zoo and was normal. I was normal all day. It was effortless. It was scary to realize how abnormal I was in the past, and how much that was my fault. I didn't like "Butterfly" before yesterday. The Image is fully well and gone. It's been killed completely and all that's left is the normal girl at the end of it. I still like her a lot, but I wouldn't "break all my bones to make her giggle" that's for sure. That's something a deranged person would say. If she was not testing me, I was certainly testing myself and I think I passed, but part of me still needs to mourn the Image. I think I was hoping it would live on anyway, but that creature is dead, or at least not connected to anything of her anymore. I can re conceptualize. I can attach the corpse of the Image to myself. It's a thing I've been working on. I'm becoming the Images of others in my head. It's as real as me, I have to live with that. I'm saying nonsense now. I'm stalling.
There's something I have to say to you that I want to say but I can't because it makes me cry too much. Maybe in person, and you will say "I figured" and that will hurt me worse than anything. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. So I will put my whole soul into defying that expectation, and I'll never have to say it.