#fieldnote

[bengisuedotcom]

NOTE NO. 2  On the Art of Disappearing Without Dying

Start with something small. Not a sudden vanishing act—just a slow, fading blur. Stop replying to texts right away. Let the unread messages accumulate like dust. Skip a party. Cancel plans. Post nothing. Let the algorithm forget your face.

It doesn’t take long. The world is quick to replace what won’t perform.

There’s a difference between being alone and becoming invisible. The first is a choice. The second is a slow leak, a soft fade at the edges of who you used to be.

I’ve disappeared in rooms full of people. In relationships. In reflections. I’ve smiled with my mouth while my body tiptoed out the back door.

It’s not that I want to be gone. I just want to to know if I would be missed. Missed in the way I miss people. 

And still— there’s a strange relief in becoming untraceable. A kind of comfort in perceived fragility. No one expects the ghost to respond. No one asks the fog to explain itself.

To disappear without dying is to become mythic to yourself. A rumor. A ripple. A dream you almost remembered.

[witchstone]

oh to be a pretty little ginger cat snoozing in the dappled shade of the wild mango tree

[rifles-and-lavendersights]

She said “don’t look at me” while looking like that.

Be so fucking serious. She’s the love of my life <3

♡ Art credit ♡

[gerard-lange-art-journals]

For many years, I've carried a pocket notebook in which I inscribe daily musings, documentary information, grocery lists, etc., etc. These informational notes find their way into the art journals that are most often completed back home in my studio. Fully completed notebooks are archived in handmade book boxes.

Gerard Lange art journals, Appendix J, Notebooks (book box), hosing daily and event-specific notebooks, 30.5 x 22.5 x 12.5 cm (12 x 8⅞ x 5 in.).

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

Emily darling why are you writing this in your formal academic journal maybe some thoughts are inside thoughts

[shamanfox]

FIELD NOTES FROM THE ILLUSION

Entry 071 — July 3rd 2025

Location: United States of Emergency

Status: Still breathing. Barely.

The headlines call it a Mega-Bill,

but for those of us living in the margins—

it’s a mega-threat.

A mega-razor.

A mega-trigger wrapped in the fine print of bureaucracy.

They slash Medicaid

with the same smile they use to bless fireworks,

celebrating “freedom”

while pulling the lifelines from our lungs.

i sit with my pills like offerings—

lined up like fragile soldiers

holding back the dark tide that whispers,

“You’re too much, too tired, too broken to matter.”

This illusion wears a suit now,

with a red tie and a mushroom cloud temper.

He bombs countries at midnight

and calls it “buttery.”

He guts healthcare

and calls it “winning.”

He touches the core of my diagnosis

like it’s a line item on his ego’s résumé.

My PTSD doesn’t care who voted for him.

My DID can’t just “bootstrap” its way through a budget cut.

My depression doesn’t give a damn about tax relief for billionaires.

He signs the bill.

And i feel it in my chest

like a landlord pounding on the door

of my nervous system.

The illusion deepens—

not because it hides truth,

but because it distorts it with confidence.

This is not policy.

This is sabotage of the soul—

dressed in flags and slogans.

So i breathe.

i write.

i create.

Because if i stop making meaning,

he wins.

Not politically—

but cosmically.

[herlastnamepage]

Please kind human did I overhear correctly that you had some nuts The Midlands, 2025 @herlastnamepage coffee fund

[crimson-kas]

My everyday carry notebook is a Field Notes brand notebook decorated with stickers by SlowlyWarmCo. This is where I plan to write down random quotes and thoughts I come across in the wild.

[smallweather]

. . . drawn to soft singing, warm tea left on moss, and memories not yet spoken.

they’re mute, but if one circles you three times, you’ll remember a truth you forgot you loved.

They nest in old cloaks, tree hollows, and the folds of time itself . . .

[pngianne]

🧫🔬🩸🔎 assets for my series “Yes I’m Changing”

[notesfromtheunknown]

Fae Sighting

Spotted in the rain gutter: a flower that hums lullabies at dusk. Collected for further study (it bit the collector)

[bengisuedotcom]

NOTE NO 1

There’s something obscene about hope when you don’t feel real.

I’ve been trying to stay human all week. So far, all I’ve done is bleed into strangers and write it down like that’s some kind of salvation. 

The days blur in the corners. I wake up already dissociating—light pouring through the windows like an interrogation, not a gift given bye god. I go outside and mimic gestures I think belong to a functioning person: nod, smile, swipe, sip, repeat. Every conversation feels like bad improv.

Sometimes I catch my reflection in a train window and think: she looks stable. Then the glass flickers and I remember I’m not watching a performance—I am the performance.

Hope, in this state, is violent. It requires a version of me that doesn’t flinch when touched.

And so far I always have. 

Last Thursday all I wanted to do was cry in the smoking area of the members club. No one noticed. I’ve become masterful at curating collapses that don’t disturb the peace.

I think I’m allergic to being perceived. But I keep dressing like a warning. I think I want to be saved. But only by someone who won’t flinch at the wreckage. And so far everyone has. 

My notes app is a war zone—half therapy, half poetry, all evidence.

I keep thinking: if I document this disintegration thoroughly enough, maybe I can convince myself it was transformation all along. Maybe then, I can help my therapist understand. Maybe it will help me understand.

Up until now, though, all I can say is: with each word, each thought, each confession— ironically enough— I am one step further from actually doing so.

And yet, I keep writing. As if naming the wound could ever stop the bleeding.

[witchstone]

thinking back to late autumn in the foothills

[liesonthefloordramatically]

Of interest to a whole bunch of flavors of nerds following me, but there's a really good interview on the New Books Network with the author of a new book on translations of Tolkien into Chinese, which addresses a bunch of fascinating questions like "what do you call an 'elf' in Chinese (and how do you distinguish Tolkien elves from Tinkerbell or a Smurf)?" and "why is 'doom' so hard to translate?" and "is Lord of the Rings wuxia?"

[imissthembutitwasntadisaster]

the way they’re not letting me post this as a normal link ANYWAY FUCK IT WE BALL NEW CHAPTER DROPPED this is more drafty than I like so I’ll edit it later but I’m tired and wanted it out. 

[orange-photoproject]