these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.

thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.

my artist website is here.

May 26, 2010

story time



after Harold Abramowitz's Not Blessed

there are stars in the sky, black marks, big as teeth. i stand close to the door. i listen for feet. it is the only time i hear my name. that shuffle, those dreams, kicked across the road, the road that opens up, unnoticed to most, sly and buttery and calling calling a name that goes unknown.

his feet padding up to the door remind me. i hear them as if they were still small. as if he had never seen the road unwind, or the feared forest across the way. the shadows bent strangely down and i forbade him to go near. he has grown but his feet still say my name. large as they are, deep thuds ringing out the kicked dreams. it is the only time i hear my name. the only time i feel relief.

i hear the simple chorus and run to reach with my crinkle eye through the spy hole. i hear my name and know my boy is coming home. coming home like the hunter, lost a hundred years. his family lived convinced he was dead. the hunter stepped through the great window one day and collected his family again. a century of waiting relieved.

i long for my waiting to rupture. my own hunter gone off. he took an axe to demand our daughter back and left the little one with me. years already and still i leave the big window open.

every night i mend the broken boot soles. my single hand pushes the thick needle. my single finger warns against the forest. the forest is to blame. i make apologies. i amend and mend and mend. i wipe down the small gas stove. i arrange the cushions and pillows. i arrange the jars on the sill. i collect the dust from the floor, the dust from the road blown in from under the door. i stand close and listen for the pad of his feet, the romp down the lane, the name, the name, my name.

a police officer interrupts his skipping. calls him to the side of the road. my name drops like the belled head of the flower that grows there, like the rabbit slung over his shoulder, stuffed with arrow. the police officer carries his kill like a runaway's knapsack, a kerchief on a stick, the arrow in deep, my name limp as that head, flat and ravaged, unable to sound.

my grandson answers the police officer's questions. he points toward our small cottage. i stand at the door, my eye reaching through the spy hole, my ears hoping to grab my name, the pad of his feet, that chorus. he points to the little lake. he points to the flower. the police officer shakes his head. my boy points to the forest and points down the road. he points at the dust. he shuffles his feet. my name, whispered. the police officer shakes his head and says no. the head of the rabbit wobbles and drips.

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