Catching Feelings
Horoscopes, parasitic fungi, turning tricks, Lucia Berlin, the slacker quotient
I know I’m going through a rough patch if I find myself checking the astrology apps frequently.1 It’s comforting to corroborate the events in my life with the auguries of the stars when I lose trust in my own instincts.2 A prompt like “a surprising event will quickly change the ways you’ve been working through old trauma and psychic habits,” anchors my reflections when I’m struggling to organize my thoughts. However, if I’m feeling really despondent — persistent lump-in-throat-for-no-particular-reason, strong urge to cry but tears won’t come — horoscopes become unhelpful; I tend to interpret them as prophecies.
On an October morning, feeling morose and struggling to get out of bed, I checked Co-Star. “This month,” it said, “you are ready to catch feelings.”
The contagion metaphor is apt. I am reminded of the parasitic fungus (Ophiocordyceps unilateralis) that hijacks ants’ brains, forcing the infected ant to do whatever the fungus needs to grow, propagate. When I’ve Caught Feelings, I struggle to distinguish between actions that sustain me and actions undertaken to attract object of attachment, to encourage the growth of reciprocal emotions. When the feelings-parasite colonizes my body, I become a different person: I no longer belong to myself, I belong to my emotions. Like cordyceps, the feelings embed themselves in my brain, manifesting themselves as new behaviors — I exercise more, I lose sleep, I second-guess the things I say, I spend more money on my appearance, I renegotiate boundaries.
It’s unnerving to discover, again and again, that my boundaries are permeable, still inadequate after all these years of trial and error. There is, perhaps, a degree of control (of dignity?) that one can welcome: one can choose to stop fighting the feelings and to experience it — to relinquish control. Like Cavafy’s besieged Marc Antony witnessing Octavian invade Alexandria, stoically, there is some character-building courage in accepting failure.
So let’s self-dramatize: fungus-besieged Marc ANT-ony ego sum !
***
The successful sexual encounter is one that is enjoyable and does not kindle longing afterward. God-level success, however, is enjoying multiple sexual encounters with the same person and maintaining emotional homeostasis (i.e. impervious to feelings, no urge to possess, no pressing need to clarify expectations) throughout.3
My friend John turned me on to Eva Illouz, a sociologist who examines the nature of relationships in late capitalism. Contemporary relationships, per Illouz, lack telos (her word), or purpose (my word). The freedom to define what one’s relationship is for (sex, stability, children, status, non-sex pleasure)—to craft one’s own relationship narrative—is a blessing and curse.4 In the absence of a clear “frame,” a prescriptive social script, relationships tend to be imbalanced — uncertainty is the principle around which the relationship is organized.5
The only way I’ve managed to achieve something resembling God-Level success is through escorting. I think of myself as a freelance girlfriend: I’m available for dates, conversations, some emotional labor (usually entails offering a sympathetic ear to their problems), and sex, all on an as-needed basis. The frame is clear: I’m for hire. Like my work as a designer, I’ve fashioned myself into a commodity. My fee becomes a boundary—my time, headspace, body isn’t available for free, indefinitely. I know what I’m supposed to provide and I know what isn’t worth my time.6
Me? Taking wealth-redistribution into my own hands, literally.
It’s a relief, less exhausting, to stop insisting on my subjectivity in the face of capitalism. No point engaging in a one-sided argument with capital. Having the extra cash takes a load off my worries re: debt. And I’m good at freelance girlfriend-ing: finally I can monetize my hobby (fucking) AND my tendency to be a people-pleaser!7
Not all Seeking Arrangement encounters are successes, but they’re not more disappointing than a bad date. Once, I spent an evening with a younger Sugar Daddy, who wore a Louis Vuitton branded t-shirt?? and sported a LV-monogrammed WAIST PACK to the date. At a cocktail bar, he complained about people who spend too much time on their phones and then proceeded to show me all of his most-closeted friends on instagram.
He brought me back to his hotel (an ARLO??) and all we did was sleep. The next morning I asked him what he wanted and he said, “you can go, I’m just catching up on sleep.” I did not get my fee.
***
I thought I knew what I wanted. Now I’m not sure. I have a better idea of what I’m willing to settle for as opposed to what I want.
I’ve always thought Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s home modeled an ideal relationship (their marriage, on the other hand, was hardly ideal): two houses, each dedicated to their own tastes and artistic practices, connected by a bridge. Kahlo and Rivera’s bridge is spare — it’s just a walkway. I’d want a slightly more robust bridge, a place to make oneself comfortable right in the middle.
Lucia Berlin (a woman who Felt, hard, and struggled with alcoholism as a result), in one of her stories, describes a character who wonders why she cries while watching a sunset and realizes “I hate to see anything lovely by myself.” This is something I know I want for sure, a prompt —if not a script—for a relationship: I want someone who will witness lovely things with me.
For now, I’ll do my best to live with my Feelings .
*** STRAY OBSERVATIONS, MISCELLANY**
My instagram got hacked lol. You can now find me on ig as @serotonin_cop
Check out this British ballad I heard on NTS called “My Husband’s Got No Courage in Him” (earliest known publishing date 1701). It’s about a women dissatisfied with her husband because of his impotence, but I thought it was a murder ballad because of its mournful melody. Evidently, if the marriage wasn’t consummated, an annulment (and refund of the dowry!!) could be granted as long as the husband’s alleged Non-Performance could be proven. And so the husband had to prove that he could produce an erection before witnesses. So much depends upon an erection…
Also via John Ling: the ReadLucia Soundcloud, which is a collection of Lucia Berlin stories read aloud by Berlin herself and others. She sounds exactly the way you’d think: tender, mezzo-soprano, confident.
Do any of you want bad advice? From me? On this substack? All submissions anonymous. Write me or dm me on ig. (Provide your birth chart details, if you’d like.)
Taurus sun, libra moon, aquarius rising, capricorn mars, gemini venus, taurus mercury.
Astrology: cheaper than therapy.
Was it a prophecy? Did I actually catch feelings in October? My feelings neither increased nor decreased; they remain frustratingly indeterminate. The criminal profile: someone with a record of regarding me with ambivalence (as per tradition). Someone my friends have not met but already dislike. I’m held hostage by the sex (good), his conventional attractiveness, his occasional brilliant observation, his auto-didacticism. And he loves to gossip — I’m a sucker for someone w loose lips.
There’s something intimidating about a blank document, if a relationship is a kind of collaborative writing project. I struggle to get started. And I’ve never been great with plotting. I’m more of a flash-fiction girl. I’ll stop belaboring this metaphor now.
I’m ambivalent, at best, about having children. I don’t want to have children until I feel more financially stable, have sorted more of my shit out. It would be an impractical (and frankly irresponsible) endeavor for me to undertake, and so I haven’t given it much more thought. I already devote too much thought to things I can’t have.
The slacker quotient: take the amount of money think you should be paid and weigh it against your actual wages. Only work the amount of time that is equal to your ideal hourly rate.
Surprisingly (to me), the majority of my Seeking Arrangement engagements are much more traditionally date-like than my actual, unpaid dates. Sugar daddies take me to nice dinners, take me to see foreign films, go for long walks with me. Only a few want to have sex with me, and the ones that do tend to wait until the second or third date. My normal dates typically entail going to a bar and then having sex — I enjoy this too.