who are you
watching me from way over there?
it'd be nice if you leaned in a little closer. it'd be nice to sit together, your neck an inch away from my lips; your skin, a net for my breath.
but tonight we only have my pitiful words and the glow of my little electric play pen. maybe that is more than enough. maybe it's just as good as candle light.
the passed few days i've spent such lovely mornings with my diary. page after page filled. my handwriting becomes wild and loopy. i write faster and faster. i forget eloquence and choose vulgarities instead. i write with pens stolen from hotel rooms and think of New York. i wish it weren't winter. i'd fly back in a minute if i had the right coat and the right boots. i miss the bowery. i want to walk along the streets there without a plan, notebook tucked in my bag, a map and a couple bucks for drinks. i will be back in the spring.
but here in my little corner of california, i listen to depeche mode and crochet a sweater for my best friend's mother. she is my mother too in very special, specific ways... and also a friend. i lucked out meeting Becca. we met in a color theory class at CCA and have been friends ever since. fuck student debt. if one thing came out of going to art school, it was meeting her and i assure you her friendship is worth ever cent. in fact, i got her at a bargain. when my mom died, she cried on the phone with me. i called her from tennessee and as i cried, she cried. i will never forget that moment. i will never forget that level of spiritual generosity. what it is to cry with another human being... it's something beyond words. there is no way to describe it. thinking of it even now makes my eyes sting with tears. there is no way to thank someone for it. the best i can do is say that Becca endured the torture of that moment with me. she breathed it when i breathed it. she didn't back away. the dark didn't send her running. she stood with me there in that moment and didn't flinch. i recounted my last moments with my mother to her and she bore it with me. when i returned home after the funeral, she sent me my very first tube of red lipstick. NARS red lizard. and just like that she changed my life.
("art witch" indeed, my friend. ;) i miss the hell out of you. if anyone speaks the same language as me, it's you.)
she is such a treasure. i love her endlessly.
so let me spin another song and let me pour another Greyhound. i have the day off tomorrow. like a good girl, i went on a 2 mile run today. i'll do it again tomorrow too. i'm thinking about the New Year and making resolutions. you know i'm too impatient to actually wait until the 1st to get going on my plans but, still, i love the ritual. i love the marker of time. a brand new year finds us again and i am thankful for it. so thankful and so hopeful. for the first time in years i feel like my life actually fits me, that i am not living a lie. it is a fantastic feeling to feel authentic. it is a good, deep warmth.
and here in my white bed, i call up my favorite memories...
oh, i would snuggle up against you if you were here...
but first i'd rub your feet and leave my lipstick on your cheek. and just like last time, we'd look each other in the eye and be sure not to regret a thing.
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.