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OMEGA | Em Ya’akov Liberman
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Em Ya’akov Liberman

04 Sep Em Ya’akov Liberman




heavy biking euphoria. can’t stop twitching. it’s like twitch plays pokemon, except instead of pokemon you just twitch uncontrollably and shitpost [day 26]



gorgeous, intermittently brilliant, and probably stoned out of her mind [day 17]



your roommate kicks everyone out from the sex party, entrusting them with photos, paintings of different modes of complexity along their surfaces, sex toys of various denominations, and misbegotten socks. one leaves a painting with her, but she rests it on your parent’s kitchen table and disappears to make pasta out of LSD in frustration.



she stands there near the door of the window, looking at the stove, and the steam covers her eyes, searing the glasses with bits of sky, but the air in between us attacks you. it’s cold. you’re not going to talk to her. she turns around, reaches inside the fridge, and as her body twists back towards me―


her glance catches yours, but you’re already a stone, and nobody minds.


the thing is, you don’t have a roommate. in the future, your roommates will all be men, and you will bleed yourself out at their convex nature, and then at your own insistent, pervasive essentialism (that men are convex). in the past, your roommates have all been subtle figures that certainly do not scream into your dreams ― only into poems and graffiti. they’re polite like that. your are only left to conclude that this roommate is perhaps a great circuitous demon, a mermaid (русалка) slipped from the mossy branches of your family tree/flowchart. certainly she there does not resemble any other roommate, and soon you will destroy the roof of your mouth sucking the cracks in her construction.



regarding those different modes of painting, there is no longer a good and evil in this world, but a flatness which is also a depth and a complexity which is also a surface. It is not intuitive, but the geometric shapes tend themselves towards flatness, and the spontaneous length of time is an incomprehensible complexity, much like this one. self-reflection is dizzying; your chest clenches up considering what the future might hold. you desist.




her pasta was no better than stone soup, obviously. it seethed into the air, you peppered it with salt, it made no sense, it was a Jesuit miracle. the latter you knew intimately, as a rugged salt-n-pepper figure would shout every morning from the rooftops, silhouetted there against the shivering sun groaning pastels through mist: “I believe that Jesus fed five thousand people with five loaves of bread and two fish―but I don’t believe they were all satisfied,” over and over again as the crowds teemed their way to work. this was the figure of Laius.


[day 1]




drugs don’t do anything btw, only reveal different sides of what you already were, and you don’t exist at all, and you’re having epiphanies like a 14yo


[day 26]




if google docs eats your novel, you are going to hitchhike to silicon valley and do a confusing performance art piece in the googleplex



the art will consist of burning down the building.
Marina Abramović will testify in your favour, but only because Guillaume Morissette bribes her to do so [day 6]




i―er, i mean―you have at this point ascended or transitioned or something, are passing enough to lose your transness, because Guillaume Morissette said that this pronoun (you rather than I, second-person narration rather than first), this gender of subjectivity, was more direct. likewise, even if you had it in the first place you have lost the aesthetic of being lonely and depressed, because A. Z. said that so many post-internet poets like Tao Lin put on this air of “oh i’m so depressed, i’m so lonely, i only ever crawl out of basement to publish” are actually just faking it, and you’re very concerned about not faking it (a definitely unfaked sentiment). So you blurt to A. Z.s beautiful-ass face, you’re so fucking pretentious, and spend the next twenty minutes trying to apologise and explain. [day 8]



chad: you can’t waste your talent
chad, somehow, same breath: you have to go into academia
[day 17]



“facefucking,” you tell facebook, “is gender-neutral”. [day 1]



you’re like actually a good writer, you remember, as you fuck up the words, as you fuck the words, as you think distractedly about shitposts while fucking, as you put a word to your sex, as you also worry your sexts, as your words fall into cliches instead of fucking the language itself, as you are a stale and bad fuck at words. don’t publish this, it’s a bad aesthetic to self-depreicate unironically. [day 20]


current gender: aggressive [day 26]


you listen to a poem by alex manley, ask people at the reading about sleep, pretend that you’re still related to the same person who made a favourable impression on all these poets back when you were hypomanic. but you aren’t related: you’re not the same person, because you’re not a person at all. the poem is beautiful. it doesn’t mean anything to you except it’s vivid beauty, intensified by the fluidity and choppiness of the style. it’s what your early work wishes it was. intensified also by its post-internet thematic, which your current work does do (but does nothing else). the lines, the line breaks, the little choice of words has a distinct aura: this is someone who knows what words taste like. it’s a taste you don’t exactly remember today, but you remember enough to want it. alex appreciated your attention even though you were distracted; appreciated the way you said it. is this the kind of appreciate that “makes the world a better place”? it was a fantastic reading, with a single flaw that ruined everything: your being depressed. they should’ve tried harder. [day 17]



today would have been a good day if you hadn’t been depressed. cool things had happened, as if by inertia, but you were too wildly disassociated from them to get anything. [day 15]



this is not the stillness you were looking for. there is a difference between what one practices and what is thrust upon one; a dildo is not ― in the maximum limit ― a rapist. the writing on the wall reads “DE@D MEN DON’T R@PE”.
but you are an immobility, a partial inversion of the classic home invasion narrative ― not the outside forcing itself inside, but the inside forcing itself inside. [day 3]


this was too much day for one day [day 17]



in a victorious burst, you are transported to the corner of Fairmount and Esplanade. behind this there’s an entire narrative arc full of hopes and disappointments, but you won’t recreate it. you won’t even recreate the giddiness of arriving at home in Mile End, nor the awkwardness of your cis roomie with the weird-ass backwards swastikas on his art. the figure of Laius towers over this burst, this leap. together you sing that duet of turning over the chariot and building a pillow fort on it, sacking it, setting it on fire, signing the camp songs. Laius chastises you for considering campsongs as a form-of-life, tells you the Earth is Flat, there are twelve dimensions, the soul is infinite; and an imaginary echo of Ginsburg’s asylum mother tells me that beat poetry sucks. in my other ear Claudius’ brodie pours poison: there is neither subject nor fixed identity, only partial objects produced by encounters between machines. i tell Laius that there is a context, a vibe, a spirit to camp songs, and they and their artefacts are meaningless without getting into their spirit. He answers me softly, rips my bike off the roof. we embrace. [day 1]




you can’t sleep at this point [after a bunch of trauma] Laius tells you to write but you can’t do that either. your mind is not a fucking picturesque fog; it is not even a swamp, not dignified enough for a concrete slab. your chest holds itself together violently. [day 26]




mutually assured flaking, not unlike candlelit mutual rimjobs [day 2]




waaaay too much design for one interior [day 17]



real important serious publishing is carting three boxes of wine flailing to giggle the entirety of a playground and exclaim shit this is a fuckt-up playground yo can someone take a video of this?? several several hours later real important publishing tells you that you’ve really made your writing more accessible, it communicates better with the audience. You think about communication, and wording, and art, and context. what if it’s really accessible, but only to one person? [day 8]



they called you a madman, but would a madman wear these beautiful printed tights over jeans so that they were still warm in this bitter mtl winter cold while also looking femme af? [day 29]



BOTTOM TEXT [day 30]





Em Ya’akov Liberman is dissociating too hard to figure out what a bio even is atm, but “disabled autistic jewish trans femme” is a set of labels that sometimes fit. Her physical body is scattered between Montréal and Boston. She recently had a dream that Ashley Obscura organised a reading where rather than reading anything the performers painted the entire audience’s nails in this sloppy joyful way.

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