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.

Oct 14, 2013

yeah, i said it


tonight, i think "fuck grad school"...

tomorrow i'll probabaly think different.

and next week i'll be in anguish.

because how fucking long am i gonna hem and haw over this shit?

how many weeks/months/years

because before i know it i'll be 50

and before i know it i'll be 60...

or at least, i fucking HOPE i'll be 60...

you know my mother died a week before her 56th birthday, right?  it's gonna feel really fucking weird when i turn 56.  if i am so lucky.  because i assure you, all youzzz who are over 55 and are reading this are LUCKY.  it's true.  so isn't it totally stupid that at the age of 33 i'm worried that i'm somehow passed my "prime".  fucking stupid. because i assure anyone that may need assurance, i live on the edge of my prime.  my feet are hardly wet.  i love this place where i stand.  how is it that inadequacy finds me?  how is it i ever feel unsure?  how is it i look at my eyes in the mirror and search for the crow's feet???


i will tell you right now, crow's feet don't make a shit bit of difference when we're talking about ANYTHING that actually matters and is worth discussion.  a wrinkle don't mean a thing when we're talking about art and it don't mean a thing when you're bleeding out (or over, or on) a poem (writer or reader).  a fucking wrinkle won't get in the way of any type of real beauty, not for a second, and it sure as shit won't make me look any less magical, any less spectacular, any less worthy of idols fashioned in my likeness when i'm sucking your cock.  just saying.  and if that's crude, if that's distasteful, i really don't give a shit.  i truly don't care.  because anyone who's got a cock i should be sucking wouldn't be offended by anything i've just said at all.  in fact, they'd get hard.  and for more than the obvious reason.  i let some twisted ass suburban version of spirituality pervert my view of Self for far too long and i've been listening to britney spears and drinking vodka all night.  just a regular sunday night.  i've been getting my hands dirty with graphite and thanking my lucky stars that i'm not trapped in the life that was (once upon a time) laid out for me. some life of bitching at each other...  some life of being told what to do and how to be.  come on now.  i ain't my mama.  i don't get told what to do.  i loved that woman, be sure, but she wasn't perfect.  and all us girls are allowed, at a certain point, to critique our mothers (dead or not), to see them as women, and to determine for ourselves who we will be despite the crazy shit they taught us.  it doesn't make me love my mother any less and it surely doesn't make me miss her any less to tell you that she fucked me up.  she did.  so did my dad.  that's what parents do.  i am not minimizing ANYTHING.  because the truth is that some parents fucked their kids up way more than others.  *cough cough*

but this isn't about blame.  it's about singularity and how to bare it.  how to walk with one's head held high amidst the onslaught of judgement flooding forth from the most unsupposed places and people. it's about fear;  the horrible nagging fear that maybe your best just plain sucks.  it's about the strain and stress of looking at one's own life and wondering what the fuck avenue to cruise down next.

don't you know i just want to run to you, curl up against you, feel that tremendously beautiful heat that i cannot provide myself regardless of how hard i try, and spin in that beautiful ache of pleasure and pain and need.  don't you know that your face in my hands is the only image i actually think sacred?  don't you know that when you slapped my face, i found completion, and all i want is to curl at your feet and whisper all my secrets across your toes.  i'll scratch your back and play your favorite song on repeat...

or at least, i would...

if i were as brave as i try to be.

tonight i think "fuck it all".

tonight i think, "just tell everyone you love that you love them".

and really, who gives a shit if you've got a line at the corner of your eye.  girl, keep smiling.  you've got every reason.  it makes you more beautiful anyway.  that's what i've been telling myself all day.  even though my life has been what it's been, i've got every reason to smile, the least of which  is that it makes other humans want to be around me and i really like hugs and scritches.

curl up with me.  let me scratch your back.  come watch me draw pictures.  come drink my vodka.  come help me practice my german and french.  come dance.


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