me and michelangelo pistoletto at MOMA in NY
and SFMOMA just yesterday.
what of my bleeding heart? what of all these dreams? except that i plan to make no excuses for myself. except i plan to make no excuses for my desires and the longing i feel in my fingers to trace the line of foreign hipbones and poems found in used bookstores. my romantic heart will not be made to feel embarrassed. my romantic heart will not accept limits. if they want to laugh, let them laugh. i will take pictures and write poems and paint pictures for you for you for you.
tonight, i am listening to the favorite band of a long ago ex-boyfriend. the one who dashed me to pieces so many years ago. i am able to do this, finally, because of new york and the experiences i had there. the smashing pumpkins were playing in the background as i scratched a man's back, as i smelled his hair and felt his hands.
and now i can't stop listening to this music.
this is what it is to feel connected. even if the connection is fueled by loneliness. this horrible ache. i know i am heard. at such unexpected and beautiful intervals, i am given the sweetest encouragements. finally, i can tolerate being at home. california, i love you and i always will but i need the staten island ferry and the dead pigeons on the sidewalks of the lower east side. i will take my teddy bear with me, the only remaining relic of my childhood, and cross this wide country. i will empty my storage unit of its contents. my mother would tell me, "little girl, you're too sweet! it's only stuff! it's just hunks of wood! give it to the goodwill and get going!" this is her hope chest we're talking about. this is the only reason i have a storage unit in the first place. to keep hold of my mother's possessions while i welcomed quasi-homelessness 7 months ago. and in the stillness of such loneliness, within the chaotic swell of such uncertainty i redacted book-pages and made sweaters and backdrops to pose in front of. scenes that make me out to be a heartbroken whore. and maybe i am a heartbroken whore. maybe we all are. all i know is that, suddenly, i felt understood and connected to my status as Human on a dance floor and in the shadow of the statue of liberty and in the arms of a stranger and in the humidity of manhattan.
somehow, i will return in november. plans are in motion. it is a certainty. until then, i push the paint and pull the stitch. until then, i listen to the smashing pumpkins and dream away of all manner of inappropriate enterprise. until then, i write in my diary and sing a song of rebellion all night long.