The Autobiography of my Room autobiographyofmyroom OnlyFans Profile - Free Posts, Photos, Videos, Nudes, Leaked

Hey Nebulous you—-

At some point, yes. I began keeping weird hours like artists do.

The interior is vast and sometimes I get lost. What else is there to say? I was in search, and my searching, had only myself to offer. So I made myself into an offering. (and what else was there to do?). I had to make, had to do. I had to manufacture, I had to manufacture the make and the model of my own deleterious gift of desire and shame. To make the manufacture of the making, I had to position, at all times be positioned. (eager, ready, eager); I had to appear as the thing in order to be the thing. Right? Is that right, nebulous you? That to be the thing one must appear as the thing; appear in front of the the thing itself, bow down to the murky opaque, bow at its very feet? Perhaps this is the journey into this truth. This failure or this truth.

So yes I decided to keep weird hours like artists do. 2 am to 4 am I did nothing at all. 4:05 am; I moved the mirror that sat perpendicular to the bed. I put it up on the table and that was good. My reflection looked gregarious, grew in its gregarity. Kind of like how I spent a whole chillldhood walking back and forth and back and forth among sliding mirrors, when I was all too y00ung to be looking at all (so, I did not look at all.) It takes quite some time for a chilllld to be able to look at all. There are lots of things one must do to the body, all these slight dilations of the soul that must occur, to finally be able to look. A slice or splice or the slightest shift, a mirror moved around the room at 4:05 am,

4:08 and I turned the mirror on the side, a horizontal expanse stretching out before me. My torso a truncated trunk, I liked the reflection of that too. And it's not true that I didn’t look as a chilllllld, not entirely at least. My mirrors were just different then, and in them, I looked all the time! (I looked all the time!) My most favorite mirror if you must know (and you must!) was the Westfield Mall, the paneled surfaces of intoxication and want, and how in the end, I was raised on it; intoxication, want, and humping back and forth from this store to that and this window and that. I asked my mother when someone would take my chest off the shelf. (You know, when it grew gregarious enough, when it was in the fullness of its gregarity?) To circulate and be circulated, my mind was 10 sizes ahead of the body back then, and I wanted some sort of collision on the smooth sliding highways of those Cd-rom roads. Vast, and unincorporated, like Breezewood, Maryland; that vast unincorporated place. And oh, nebulous you, I know on the screen that it's best to be a girl from nowhere. I know that, I know that! But I am telling you where I was from and what I was raised on because you have to know, have to know that the plenum of intoxication and want, of the vast non space, that Breezy kind of life, is in itself a void. The pure fullness of absolute nothing. That’s what it was, really. And so to be a woman from the everywhere of my Breezewood mall is to be a girl from nowhere. Just how you like it. Yes. yes. There; just how you like it.

Okay, 4:15. The vastness and stretch took some kind of heat from me, just for a second. And the mirror is back up right, though moved slightly (ever so slightly) off to the side. It was nice playing tree. But I know that it is the world that is vertical, the structure of it I mean, of reflection and truth and everything else. And me, I am only horizontal, a dolphin loped off to the side with her humped whale hips. And I had heard murmurings, when I was still in the world, about the business of rooms. And how an artist needs a room to write. A woman needs a room to be. And a woman artist needs a room to write and to be. The convergence was happening all at once. Breezewood had spit me up and kicked me out at that point, my father and his frozen egg souffles did not want me anymore, my studies they were going so terrible (I am a student of intoxication and want and Kierkeggard’s many mirrored classroom. But in the end; not even that sissy wanted me. In the end, not even him.). When I already felt so appendaged what was I to do but go hanker after some appendage of my own! I always did love my extremes, my drool and my always aching, my always towards, my serene little room off to the side. And oh, the business of this room…..the blankness of __________________________ Alaska, how I got here, so hanging and blank, I’ll have to tell you soon. But first I have to tell you about the idea of it. The idea of an appendaged room off to the side to call my own. The idea that was a glistening, glittering horizon in my wanting and wanting mind. The chimera of that distal ray of shimmering sun. Perhaps sometimes all a girl needs is a pornography of her own.

Perhaps a pornography of ones own is what happens when one makes the idea of the room for the absolution of the room itself. Perhaps the room is what happens when pornography becomes love, when love becomes sealed, a box with no windows.

4:17 am and I left the mirror where it was for now. The windows I covered with my black-ouuuuuut curtains ordered from Amazon. I was feeling bl000dy, but kind of warm and alive. And ready to tell you about it all.

April always is the most naughty of months. And what a silly eager unbeautiful word. I wanted to say something like April is all the turbulent winds aboard some seaboard line cracking the sky back open for any god (how do we know which, who do we know who) to fall through. But it's all been said before, and April has worn me down already. Because it's always when something happens, when you wake up in the dead of night (polar still, or already), and know that, yes, they’re out there. April is all the promiscuity of choice gathered up the flowerbed of the chest. It makes something like the bouquet of change. (it's coming, it’s coming.). And beauty (the sun, languid, sinking, serene) held or grasped is never a sweet caress, never that tender kind of release, the damp wringing of the washtowl, the warmth of the rugburn squeeze. I always liked that, but knew, even as a chiiiild, I could really ever be touched like that again. So I suppose he got that right, the surrealist I know nothing about; that the grasping of beauty, the act of beholding (not the act of being) is always a convulsive kind of contact. (And oh; they are all in contact with each other aren’t they….all them that are out there….the convulsive, the rupture, that whatever whatever of the dialectic thing and the dialectic thing (more I know nothing about). What I do know about however is beauty. The being of it, I mean. The Absolute being of it. Being. Absolute. Absolute Being…..

It’s the most simple of surfaces, the smooth artifice of a quaint kind of stupidity. Earnest, beauty is always earnest. If beauty has one duality, it is this (this which is absolute duality, and so perhaps not a duality at all); that it is at once transparent and opaque, the shimmering surface and the lapping open floodgate. A beckoning kind of somatics; it is always what you are within and without. Even when you are beauty, the being, absolutely so!, of beauty, you are always within and without the object of it. And oh, can’t they see, can’t you see, that this is not convulsive at all! But lapping, slowly, a sensual movement in and out of the room, sensual, yes, even as it slices you in two. All one can hope to do when one is beauty, its being! Is to both be the object and look back at the object that is being you! It’s easier to say than to do….

And am I beauty? Oh not at all. Of course not at all. What am I? What am I but a girl who feels very and quite alone. A girl in love with the Olympics and in search of the most beautiful interiors. That’s all I am, dear nebulous you, but yes, I still know about beauty, know about it precisely because I am locked out from it. Locked out in the cold but still showing my ass to the beautiful interior inside the window of my soul. Don’t you see, I do not try to grab it or hold it, like sticks, in my hands. I just try to dance for it, dance naked out in the piiiis yellow snow. And my room, my room. It is not yet beautiful, but unlike me, I know it is what could be, it is all the interiority that could be. I know because It’s what I’ve devoted my whole life to, given my whole self up for my interior.

My interior. Which is not myself but the affirmation of A self. It is the moment when I say I and I becomes not I but the affirmation of an I. Do you see? See this distance; the distance of the atmospheric thing, the ecology of my depersonalized beauty, do you see? Beauty herself. Because then the affirmation of I which is not particular I but a general distance between the assertion and the girl, between the body and the sky, is not my body at all! Nothing has to do anymore with my body at all! It is not the hood of the body but the wall of the room, and all my Other’s that hang upon it like secret images in a gallery show. All my others and their others too, that slide in, and slide out of the room, all sensual like, an arm a leg, a stud finder for the back so as to not get hurt….how else to explain but that….how else to be beautiful but this?

And dear nebulous you, I am sorry, I am, for all the explaining. You must be tired, and my room so far, has been such a bad host. Keeping you in the entryway and insisting that I be the one to untie your shoes. I promise to you no more description. I promise to you no more boring detail. I know I’ve been stalling, stuttering, here in the entryway of love. And what I promised you was entrance! What I promised you was entrance and interiority. I know, I know. I’ve been stalling only because I’ve wanted, for a little bit longer, to savor the pageantry, the festival of all that I have become. Before I have to go back. Before I must reach back into the room, my body sliding upon the ceiling, the back an arch like arched windows, which will once again open only to close shut again. Yes this is the shape of the autobiography of my room: my back arched against the wall the windows that open only to slam shut again. It is a dark garden to go back to. But to show you, I feel I must. And my training and my love for the olympics has prepared me well. I stall; I dance; but I am prepared well.

So without further ado. I would like to present to you the autobiography of the arch of my back. I will not describe it for you, I will not confess the sins of what that back has done. I will let you see for your self. Of course if you want to. Only if you want to….

The arch. It all started to slide and curve that way when I began keeping weird hours like artists do.

It’s almost 4 am now. The time is as yet strange enough, to yes. Begin. Be be begin…..

(so I take your coat. I untie your shoes. The affirmation of the I once more beckons you in; interiority. Rife, ripe, eager.
Begin.)

Hey Nebulous you—--

It was 2 am and I was trying to sleep. I had a big day to begin (4 am, time to have weird hours, strange intimacies, time to wake to the smell of new desires), and I needed to get some rest. I had been going at it for some time now, the press and the call, and the press press some more. I’m not so good at speaking violence—it's more of a doing, a gesture, and I’ll have to sit you down and show you it all quite soon. But first I am unraveling for you the room; getting that dusty old thing of description out of the way, so that something more interesting may begin. Though before we begin, I must confess, and it will be the only confession you will ever get from me! The seediest of vanities all dressed up in pageantry and pomp, so it will be my own and only (I promise) (I promise)....that I have been writing all of this to you as a kind of manufacturing as a kind of addictive assembly line of jouissance and desire and lust. I always was one for the plastic and the plasticized. I always was in love with Poissy, as you very well know. And I have been trying to tell you so that the telling may someday become “truth” but, oh that is not how this, anything, works, is it, nebulous you? I must learn only to squelch when I can. I must learn only to squelch when I can. I’ve been doing this simple single move my whole life now; the side step macarena of being a girl from nowhere, not a dance (oh how I wished that to be true!), but more of a sports maneuver (yes, yes, dance is a sport, one of the most honorable of all, but I speak of a more insipid kind of technicality), just kicking the can of this appendage off to the side. Around the bend of the other, that was the curved line of the room, the axis that ran from my ankle to my ass. I made the mistake of saying I wanted you, dear nebulous you, to stroke the wound on the ankle as I told you how it happened. I could sniff out the bullshit in my bowl of blo-oood from miles away. The apex of jouissance, a cold delicate thing of the wall meeting the ceiling; a sky of this meshed loom blankness, manufactured, like the next hit.

Oh, I was nothing at all. Doing nothing at all. I had no one to talk to. And tried, in my waiting, to manufacture someone to talk to. But in the mirror, can there be anyone else? Seeing ghosts, and hoping they were not my own. And my waiting, which I wanted to be beautiful, which I kept hoping wasn’t passive, which I kept on with, hoping and doing nothing in my hoping but hope (a lark, a plunge, a barrelling down into your own game on inane stupid repetition of your own stupidity), it was nothing at all. And this is not the business of rooms that I brought you here to tell you about. I don’t want to say what I want, I want to be, for you, what I want. So that you can enter some kind of breath (total, complete, whole) alongside me.

But I too was oppressed by the figures of beauty. I too was oppressed by the figures. Nadja, La Maga, all those shadows, absence, presence, swirling in front of me, all my doubles. And what was I to be? By which I mean, what was I to appear to be? That's all being is or has become, appearing as being, and so in absence, in that kind of recessive shadow figure of life, how do I still appear? How do I still be? Perhaps only to be desperate at the feet of these figures; these whores of my life. Nadja, La Maga, I turned out the lights in the room, and I could not find where you were, you are so thin to as be incapable of touch, and I’d rather be fat if it means I can grope. I would, I really would. You can do more violence that way, though what I really wanted out of was that whole business of the violence of doing unto or being done unto. On the entire structure of subject verb object, in bodies and language, and the body of my language, language of my body, that whole inane stupid game.

I’ve been told my whole life there was no way out. And so descent was for my whole life what I decided to choose. Until I found this little room off to the side. It was not descent but rather….reflection….a simple set of mirrors in which to sit and “look.” I’ll get to the business of looking later, nebulous you, its far too much to get into yet, and I’ll have to go back to my first teacher in looking in order to tell you about it, but I’m not ready to go back yet. Oh, I am surely not ready to go back yet.

Because there is still, and first of all, the business of Nadja, La Maga, and they are nothing if not a business. The industry of disappeared and disappearing women, men whose hairlines recede, women whose whole bodies are suddenly gone from them. And what did their rooms look like, Nadja, La Maga, what were their beautiful interiors where they rested their heads? Oh I never understood surrealism. Like all things of the world, it was for men. Like all things of the world, it was a structure, an architecture, a form in which to rest one's head. Rest so one does not have to go without genre without form. And I have no structure, no architecture, I have only my room, but I’ll get there someday, to some other room, to Poissy or somewhere else. Like I said, I wanted out of the whole thing of demarcation all together. To be absent, to be present (to be market presence, a marker of presence and so value), its all a horrible aching game that I wanted out of all together. When I began the autobiography, I promised myself to delight and be delightable in all my presents, presence. I didn’t want to be this y0ung little thing, 22 and sounding already like an old washed up hag. I won’t be 22 and sounding like an old washed up hag! I don’t live in New York afterall, I have no obligation to be old and washed up! Not yet! Not until I’ve gotten to Poissy, and found an apex on which to rest my head.

Until then, nebulous you, I vow to be desperate and delightful and most of all earnest. Yes. Earnest, like America, my home, a y0ung little thing, most of all. So yes, I’ll try and get some sleep. Clear up these bags under my eyes. Which you can see in the sagging paragraph above, there’s some tired blueness in it, yes, I hear you, I do. I’ll get some rest, and wake, and try once again. Just like my first teacher in looking taught me. Until then, forget, as I will too, Nadja, La Maga, the whole dichotomy of appearance and disappearance, of absence and presence, of all these shadowy figures that oppress us most of all. Women are oppressive most of all. (no, I don’t blame them, Nadja, La Maga, I just want the whole world to shut up about their form! I blame men, of course. And I am just showing my desperation, of course, because I’d lick their feet too, I am sure. If they ever show themselves. And why should they, why should they?) Tomorrow, dear nebulous you, I’ll show everything. The whole thing of my room, so that you know, so that in seeing, you finally know.

Hey Nebulous you—---

I’ve been keeping weird hours like artists do.

It started out, 2 am, kind of conventional like, for a girl my age. For a girl like me.

So then 4 am, then 5m, and I was trying to press in, press on, into the weirdness of 9 am, of barrelling down the straight with a cigarette in your hand as the world is waking for their morning commute.

And now I am sitting here, 10 am, past it all which is over and done, needles in my hair and scratches down my fingernails. The kind of skull tired only artists, I presume, would understand.

Though I was not yet feeling like an artist in my room. And my room was still feeling like a room, and not a studio, the painters or the sculptors, or anything like that. What I was feeling like was not an artist but an appendage. And my room yet another appendage. Though I couldn’t tell which was which, what was what to what.

Like polar night cresting into a new bright day of more polar night. Was I an appendage to my little room, or my little room an appendage to me? And of the world, what of the world. There was still the question of the world. What I was to it and what it was to me, questions swirling around the room. The windows covered by curtains, velvet, cheap, blaa//cked out like the dots of my spectral life, though it was no matter, there were no northern stars to light any kind of soft or tender way.

Just my grubby undelicate hands, groping along the walls, not even trying to find a way out (descent, the plunge, the lark!, the only thing to do for a girl like me, the only thing to do for a girl like me.), just trying to find some damn light amidst all this aching polar night.

Anyways, nebulous you, you are probably wondering what you are doing here and I am wondering the same thing too. I have no story or narrative, really, to offer you. The realization of the appendage has given me no kind of subsequent release. I have not the novel nor even the novelesque, not the sex act nor even sexuality. I have not the world, not even another world within the world. I have my room, and my room has me. The room lacks structure, it is not my father’s beautiful slaughterhouse, my ex lover’s walks with the dialectical wind. The room is perhaps this; the room. A thing not yet in itself, not yet absolute, but somehow, always as yet remaining, always as yet here. And dear nebulous you, what the room lacks in structure, perhaps it makes up for in design. Design that is not description (what is there to describe of polar night, up and down and side and side which is a body that is all surface, a fold with no contours, a flatness without shadow), nor is it style (design is beyond the artifice, the ornamentation, the pulp and pamp and pageantry of fresh juice, though it is all of these things too); design is the breath of life, it is, dear nebulous you, the life itself that I have been slouching towards all along. I suppose I am here to present the autobiography of that slouch. A sliding, smooth thing. The truth. Welcome, I suppose. And enjoy your stay.

I suppose I can only say it's fair, that so many of you don't like what I am doing. Which I will of course take to mean that so many of you do not like who I am. (Used to it though, used to it.) You've given me my answer though. That not even pornography should reveal the conditions of its own production and consumption. Which, makes, of course, pornography on the side of art, not the side of theory. What this means is big, its huge! What it means is that pornography describes what theory is, and theory cannot describe fully what pornography does.

For the autobiography; big, huge. And even I am disabused by your tastes, and not yet artifice enough your desires, I have to say only this, that I must keep on going. I still have my private archive to protect me. Worry not about that, nor about me. I'll erase history when the time is right. When I am ready for the image, when you are ready for the scene. (Never anymore a show).
I am still in the room, and right now, I've just got to get these cut ups on the wall. Sorry for crudeness which will soon ensue.

Hello cruel world