is it all just a series of days?
is it all just a collection of moments, disparate and broken as fuck, packed in to one week or one month or one year? am i entirely without congruity? am i entirely without plan? i rack up sentences, one after the other... pages are filled. every now and then, i look back. every now and then, my own life concerns me. i mean in a deeper way then the usual self-absorption and apathy. i rack up the stitches, one after the other, and a sweater is made. or a blanket. and it feels somehow like a world has been created. but only for an evening. only for as long as it takes for me to return to apathy and the fear that maybe it really is just a series of events, a series of exchanges, disparate and broken as fuck.
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.