On a less serious note, I got turned on and blasted a joint, yeh, finally, after searching for it like an astronaut. Iran and Israel apparently, most hopefully, ceased fire. Meanwhile, in bed, I’m dozing off. I’m feeling so horny, and I’m trying to give myself fully into this feeling and indulge in it. The first thing that happens is that I try to project the desire onto the physicality of a human. ughh. This gets me browsing through nearly all the male faces I know or have seen. They present themselves briefly, like an ad popping up in the corner of my head, only to be rejected quickly. Next. “Oh no, not this one.” The sad point here is that no face does it for me. No face works out here for my imagination. You know, I even try to entertain the idea of thinking about some celebrities’ husband, but seems like I can’t do that either, because it doesn’t seem okay to fixate on someone else’s husband, even if… what a moral game, bad timing! I’m falling asleep, and I feel the sensation move freely from my chest to my belly to my inner thighs to the soles of my feet. It’s June 24, 2025. I feel drowsy, and slowly I feel like I’m sinking down. Then I remember, oh, tomorrow I have to study for the Irish literature exam. But then I say, not now, not now. I’m content, just content. Then I remember snapshots of Pastoral: to die in the country, Art Theatre Guild magazine. Shabekhier, Sama.
Pastoral: To Die in the Country (1974), Shūji Terayama.