Objects of desire for Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat

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The peanut revival is coming, is coming to our town.
This year, this diary of pain, which holds the system of
preservation, the material and symbolic, will be yours.
So, I have learned to navigate the heart and intellect.
This torment I must endure in suburbia. How long
must I endure this torment for? Must I always be this
tormented figure? How long must I live this life? A
life that seems so endless, and so, so unforgiving? This
emptiness, that useless feeling, which leaves me, then
comes back to me. Like the dead leaves of suburbia.
Like the sea I have chased with my mother, and like
all of these words, I am thinking of you too much. The you
that follows me around like a star. All this planet is,
is dust. All I am is a flash in the pan. My hair is slowly
turning white. And I certainly don’t want anything from
anyone anymore. No flowers, or gifts, or sense of
recognition. All I ask is that those flowers give me peace.
Yes, I have a mental illness. Yes, I have had breakdowns.
I think of my anatomy. Think of my face as sad, pale king.
That you give those gifts to others. This will bring joy to
others, for nothing brings me any joy anymore. Leave
me alone with my sadness. I don’t expect hope just to
show up in my life, for I see myself as alone. As always
being alone. A solitary figure going through the call of
life. I am like the wilderness the rain sinks its teeth into.
At the end of the day, there is no escape. There is no exit
out. I am struggling to find this exit out. Please explain,
I am asked. I am asked to explain myself, and I have no
wish to explain myself. I can’t remember your name for
the life of me. But I know that for as long as I live, I will
never forget you. Those brief hours. Those joyful days.
Brief hours. Joyful days. I have had those. Happier times.
All I have to give you are those stars wherever you exist.
In a moment, you made me forget myself. In an hour, you
gave me the world. Offered it up to me on a plate. And
then, you were gone. Taken up by a chariot of fire. Never
to love me in those briefest of hours, in those joyful days,
again. But, like that star, you are there. Like the dead leaves
every autumn, you are there in some unknown capacity to
Like those flowers and gifts, and that sense of recognition,
you exist, and I exist. But you exist like a man in a photograph,
Rabbit. I am crying out my eyes again. No apology from
you why you can’t make it. Oh, Elijah. I will follow you to
the ends of the chaste earth, chase down the sea for you.
I don’t want to accept that there is a point of no return.
I spent 20 years of my life writing books. Rooted in the
governing mentality of that. All of that materialism, all of
that symbolism. At the end of my life, what will I say to all
of that? Rabbit is gone. Magda is gone. I have to endure
survivor’s guilt. For survival’s sake. For the system of preservation.
I think of all those writers and poets who are so gifted in
nature, in what comes to them. And all I have is this to offer
the world. My diary of mixed feelings, and bad years, and
pain. All that I can say is that these origins of theory were a
pioneering effort. I want to remember you all, but I also want
to forget that you are not here to see my most visible self.

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