in a way, everything i do, everything i make, every drawing, every poem, every photograph, every sweater, everything, is a love letter. every next breath. and the next. and the next. it radiates through me and i can't keep the reigns on it, this quaking, unsteady love. i don't know how to shoulder the weight of it. i don't know how to call it by name. my gentleness unfolds below its scorched anvil but my gentleness is only for you, not for me. i squirm and shift and ache. i pry my eyes open every morning and force them shut every night when all i want to do is curl up against you and breathe you in, tracing a slow line up the back of your neck with my nose.
when i do that, i feel the rhythm of your breathing change.
when i do that, can't you hear the small, scared voice of my heart saying, "now it's your turn"?
i looked at all the people's faces on the train today when i went to work. they all looked tired. they all seemed closed down. i thought, "i wonder if, somehow, we all hate each other... that we don't believe the things we hear... that we don't believe each person is fighting their own, private war? do we only want sympathy from one another without extending it ourselves? or worse, do we really just want a bit of pretty pity? do we want to be told we're right and that everyone else is wrong, everyone else is the asshole, everyone else is stupid and mean and tacky? do we see human beings when we look at each other? and what does that require anyway?"
we are owed nothing.
still, my gentleness extends. i can't help it. i am incurable. my kindness wounds me. it does me such damage some days but i cannot contain it. i cannot cover it up, put a lock on the lid, and stow it away.
i've been thinking a lot about love lately. it's facets and forms. maybe because i've been having dreams of my mother again. it's the time of year... my heart curls into itself and tries to nurse that impossible wound. i go to bed with a cocktail and crochet hook and meditate on my little question, my little statement, my little anthem: THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED.
i've been thinking about desire and lust. i've been thinking of security and comfort. i've been thinking about acceptance and forgiveness. i've been thinking about the game. the chase. the intrigue. i've been thinking about all the wonderfully nuanced levels of romance and friendship that so many seem to be blind to... the way your lips look in the evening verses the morning. that shadow that catches on your chin. or the beautiful way light cuts through the iris of a stranger sitting at the bar midday. or a child on a swing.
i don't want to be cynical and i don't want to be afraid.
in a way, everything i do is a love letter; an honoring of the way your forehead wrinkles when you shrug your shoulders... how badly you drive on the freeway... how beautiful you sound singing in the shower... the photographs of you as a child... the dreams you have... the dreams you had... the scent you wear and the laces in your shoes.
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.
my artist website is here.