It's like I woke up one morning and my superpowers kicked in. Not an uncommon trans experience. I haven't met a trans person who isn't a polymath eyes wild with the secrets of death possessing intersecting knowledges unique like flowers and an utterly breathtaking perspective on the astounding beauty we can achieve with our minds while the enacted world of material and speech wounds us in ways we can't explain to ourselves let alone the people who want to help us.

Death? Why, yes? I heard from a close friend that in order to be trans, you have to come to an acceptance of the fact that you must kill parts of yourself to move forward and this is not a death as an end, but a regeneration. Another friend once told me that a friend's father once told him that death isn't the worst tarot card, in fact it's a pretty good one. I sometimes call Tvordis a Tarot deck of all death cards.

In retrospect, that reading Finnegans Wake in 2017 was such a soothing experience for me is a lovely punchline to the walking contradiction I proudly was. A castle of word games with no end. Thanks Jim, I owe you one.

That's why I say all of the art I made until I was 27 was a symptom rather than a cause. I refused to call myself a musician from age ~19 to 26 because I didn't make music every day. Completely arbitrary restriction, immature, absolutely. Once I got an instrument I enjoyed playing (because synthesizers are an infinite wave of expanding beautiful complexity), and started recording again after years away, I felt comfortable calling myself a musician. That, however, is another distinction I feel is arbitrary when the tools of art creation are free to anyone with a personal computer (we should make sure everybody has one with Serum and Ableton loaded on it). The art I released but refused to name was all already created. I just compiled it in an expanding frame that made sense for me.

What's interesting about that specific refusal I learned from Emmanuel Levinas.

The word by way of preface which seeks to break through the screen stretched between the author and the reader by the book itself does not give itself out as a word of honor. But it belongs to the very essence of language, which consists in continually undoing its phrase by the foreword or the exegesis, in unsaying the said, in attempting to restate without ceremonies what has already been ill understood in the inevitable ceremonial in which the said delights.

His frame that the world is enacted in speech resonated strongly with the way I use language. My friends identify a particular propensity to put things where they don't belong, and enjoy it. I always encode a hidden language of signs for my friends.

"Sport a jones"

"Ace of cakes"

"Pineapple bourbon"

"fit and spicy"

My brother does this too, and I love him for it. There exists a rapidly evolving cockney slang in private schools on the west side of Los Angeles around doing dumb shit with your friends. I hope there's a teenager out there who's already written a personal essay about the phenomenon, I bet it's brilliant. That's not my book to write.

Insberting clonsonants is great, I krecomlmend it.