a good thing to hold on to

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We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.


-Anais Nin


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writing and life and my writing-life

funny... now that i'm not tucked away in the countryside and spend most days at work in san francisco, i am a bit more aware of this space, this blog. i log in to my account and stare at the white rectangle where i am supposed to type, the space i've laid down so many words before, so much yearning and confusion, so many attempts at self-knowledge, and feel such a heavy ambivalence. key-stroke after key-stroke, in the hope of unearthing even the smallest clue as to what direction i should be moving in, some sort of clarity, some sort of assurance, and now this... this streak of days where i just stare stare stare at the white or, worse, fill it up with text and then log out without posting it when i like having the document of my struggle. i like that that's pretty much what this blog is all about now. it's just weird, i guess... by moving back to a more populated place where i run in to friends and acquaintances, both personal and professional, on a regular basis my blog actually comes up in conversation. it's sort of weird. like my alter-ego just had her "true" identity exposed. very much like looking under batman's mask (not that i'm performing any sort of heroism here), ripping away the warm black shield of relative anonymity. it's been interesting. i mentioned it to my friend freya (who reads my blog and we discuss it's contents sometimes and i feel really thankful for that and the massive presence of art/lit/meaning in our friendship) and told her that in some very deep , very serious ways i feel like the people who read my blog know me infinitely better than people who don't. there are people in my flesh-based reality who can't stand the blog. they do not read it. they've tried and it either makes them uncomfortable or sad or they simply don't want to see this side of me. i am reminded of another anais nin quote right now as i am typing this:

The truly faithless one is the one who makes love to only a fraction of you. And denies the rest.

i haven't made up my mind how i feel about that statement yet but something about it caught my attention in a very forceful way. maybe i feel that i am also guilty of this? maybe i feel there are people around me who are guilty of this and it hurts me? and also, getting to know someone in a meaningful way takes time... and sometimes i wonder if/fear that this blog might do a disservice to that meandering road of friendship; the nebulous curiosity and intrigue that is so much fun and integral to a relationship of substance. but then another Nin quote comes to mind:

The possession of knowledge does not kill the sense of wonder and mystery. There is always more mystery.

in so many ways, this blog lays a lot of my cards out on the table. i've chosen to live that way. i've chosen to be this honest. but maybe providing "knowledge" only increases my "mystery", as it were?

i'm being a big fraidy cat, i know. and i'm letting my fear of saying too much or saying the wrong thing hold too much sway lately. i've been writing like crazy in my journal. every day, every day, every day. and i still magically find that inner zone of devilish trance-like fluidity where poetry becomes possible and i am able to bang out a few sentences, sometimes a few paragraphs, and write with the full comfort of no one standing over my shoulder.

i read this late last night (thanks for the link, rebecca!) and it calmed me so much. i read it and i thought: just work. fuck it.

if i end up embarrassing myself here it definitely won't be because i expressed myself badly. or suppose did? so what? i'd rather risk saying too much than never enough. "never enough" is not where art lives, not where meaning lives, not where passion lives and those 3 things are the 3 most important things in my current world-view. i'd rather be here and give you this crazy shit to read. you honor me by spending time with all these words. feel free to mention this blog when you run in to me if you feel like it. this world and the other are not separate. i'd like to see them gel.

art and pain

the man said Art doesn't work without pain.

i have been taught to disregard statements like that but, sometimes, when i look at my own work, the painful origins of my images are too stark and strong to deny. i read his statement again and see that it is honest, accurate in a way that makes me uncomfortable. uncomfortable maybe because i am an american and i want to seem tough, cool, collected, unshakable. then i remember i have a blog and i remember the things i've written on this blog and the reality of the situation dawns on me: OH SHIT! MY BLOG IS ON THE INTERNET! EVERYONE CAN SEE IT! hahahaha! silly, i know, but i try not to think about it. i've actually been pretty successful at convincing myself that no one reads this thing and that all my words here are really just skipping stones across a quiet lake. it's better for me to think that way about this practice because otherwise i might not say anything at all. i might become too embarrassed, too ashamed of my own life, my own lived experiences and expressions of pain. i might hide instead and cry where no one can see.

but where would be the benefit in that? where would be the art?

it is more than pain, something beyond pain, but pain nevertheless, in each contour, in every shimmer... because life is like that too. some things must be alchemised if we expect to be able to look at them. some types of pain has to be romanticized in order to even be carried. some pains are just that great, just that crushing. a conversion must take place. we develop new eyes, new words, new hands that are capable of holding new pain. we must, if we must continue.




Something is always born of excess: great art was born of great terror, great loneliness, great inhibitions, instabilities, and it always balances them.

— Anaïs Nin

today, tomorrow, and the next

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Aus den Wolken tropft ein Chor

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first half

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The Runaway Game:

I would go around and around my little bedroom that I shared with my sister and I would pick out the things that could not be left behind. I had a cardboard suitcase with tiny flowers printed all over it. I would open it up in the middle of the room and fold my underwear and socks in to it. My Bible for Children lay beneath the small, white garments. I packed my favorite stuffed animal and a coloring book and a box of used up crayons. Back and forth, back and forth, picking up every item in my little room, weighing the consequences of leaving each thing behind: Would this doll’s feelings be hurt? Would this teddy bear survive without me? Who would love them for me when I was gone?

Sorrowful. Round and round. Each horrible choice. But the suitcase needed to be ready. This game could go on for hours.

HAPPY 104th BIRTHDAY, FRIDA!!!!

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yesterday at 5:29pm

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me and my beautiful friend, Becca Schillinger, in Tobias Wong's mirror/clock.


rest in peace, sweet boy.


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today, try again.

last night i was editing a few poems when i heard the BOOM BOOM BOOM of fireworks. instantly, i stood up, pulled my jeans and shoes on, and raced up 3 flights of stairs to the roof of my building. silence, save for the orchestra of thunder. there were two couples snuggling in the dark. a soft evening and so lovely. i thought how wonderful it is that new year's day and independance day are 6 months apart... each, an opportunity to take a closer look at one's self and life, to discern the dreams and ethics that must be fought for, and who to be amid the swirl, the chaos, the collision. i don't mean any of this in the national sense (though it can and should extend there), but the personal. i have learned (and am still learning) that all change begins within the individual. it is a hard fact to look at sometimes but, barring any biological reason to the contrary, completely true. this fact kicks my ass every time it gets the chance. afterward, i think less of Success, and more about what it means to Overcome.

i lucked out and got to see the Balenciaga and Spain exhibition at the De Young the other day right before it came down. earlier in the day, a friend and i walked through corridors of old paintings and entire rooms of french palaces re-installed within the Legion of Honor. elaborate couches and desks, mirrored walls, trinkets, figurines, lamps... gilt on everything. and then arriving in the evening at the Balenciaga exhibition and seeing so clearly the influence of painting and art history alive inside the clothing Cristobal Balenciaga designed. the rituals and ornamentation of catholicism were everywhere. the somber beauty of monks robes, the grandiose drapery of popes, the fascinating spectacle of religion itself installed on a catwalk. for as new to fashion as i am, the exhibition brought tears to my eyes. and reading about this man's life... the shit he had to overcome... it just really touched me. i thought of Coco Chanel and all that she overcame. talk about having the cards stacked against you!

and then i think of myself. the recent horrors and the not so recent. the roof i was born under and the great distance i've travelled from it to rest under the roof where i am now. i think of my childhood and feel so far away from it. i feel like such a different person. it feels like a completely different life. even what my life was 3 or 4 years ago seems like a completely different life... maybe it is.

there are moments when i look in the mirror and think who the hell are you? what the hell are you doing? what do you need? be honest! we all do it, i know, in one way or the other.

and if i have a religion at all, it is Art. it takes a lot of faith to be an artist. it takes a lot of sacrifice. but it is beautiful and a privilege. it is a privilege every step of the way. last night, watching six different fireworks displays from my roof, i realized there is no way i will ever be able to see it all, do it all. i snapped my head back and forth like an excited little kid trying to watch all the fireworks at once. hahahaha! impossible. but the attempt made me smile. the attempt was a human thing to do, a human moment.

i remind myself that the point is to try.





don't you give up either.

mid-way

resolutions for the next 6 months:


1. finish reading Anais Nin's diary (3 volumes to go)

2. buy two tickets to new york. it doesn't matter when the flight is scheduled but the tickets must be bought and paid for by december 31st.

3. german II

4. make more art*

5. look at more art*



*let the definition of art be as loose, wide, wild, scary, and unexpected as possible.