tonight, the center of my heart is still

.

my bedroom window in open.  i can hear my neighbor flirting with a girl on his front porch.  and every so often, the thick click of a new can of beer being opened overlaps their giggles. 

this is the dance.

i think of my newest banner stitched to the cold pole of a stop sign in front of a wasted, graffiti covered warehouse.  the words wail out in black in white: THE WAY YOU NEED TO BE LOVED.  isn't that the only search?  isn't that what we're all up too out here?  isn't that the dance?

the voices next door lower.  they're speaking softly in spite of the beer.

the way you need to be loved...

i've been asking myself this question for a while now.  we all crave that beautiful sense of security that tends to proliferate romantic partnerships.  we all want that sense of security and belonging, of being understood.  i'm no different.  those things feel good and sometimes in the middle of the night the deepest seed hunger in me begins to ache and twist.  i think of eyes locked in to one another and hands lost in hair.  i think of eager mouths and eager hearts and sweat flying.  i think of all that gorgeous softness, all that fantastic hardness and sigh.

the way you need to be loved.

i think of the words i bang out across the keys.  i think of all my scribbles, the pages i fill, another volume of the diary nearing its end.  i think of the images i've made and the images i need to make.  i hunger after their creation.  i want them in front of me.  i want them to exist.  i want them to be seen and to be known.   my value dwindles in their absence.  a day passes and i haven't drawn and so i begin to feel the worthlessness of my life stand tall.  if i can't do this, what is my life for?

the way you need to be loved.

i remember laying awake next to the snoring body of a man who no longer touched me.  i remember waking up early to run and sweat.  i'd pretend the pounding rhythm of my feet on the pavement was the pounding of hot, delicious sex.  i was young and alive and i wanted to express those qualities, luxuriate in the beauty of them, but i was in a relationship that no longer provided for such things.  my heart broke over and over again every time he rolled on his side away from me in the bed.  i would gaze at this dark outline and try not to cry as i felt the worthlessness of my life stand tall.

the way you need to be loved.
the way you need to be loved.
the way you need to be loved.

i miss my siblings.

i miss our mother.

i thought about her a lot in Germany.  that was her fairytale land.  it's a place where anyone can fall in love.  it's a place where spectacular heartache and spectacular beauty rest side by side.  one morning as we cruised through sunrise in the most uncomfortable bus i've ever sat/slept in, i looked up right in time to see the sign for Hannover.  i thought, "that's your Germany, mama.  i'm heading back to mine; my rough and tumble Berlin"

i'm more schooled in what i do NOT want than what i do.  i look at myself in the mirror and realize that i'm simply searching.  just searching.  i've still got so many unknown corners within myself to explore.  i don't want to backtrack.  i don't envy the relationships i see around me.  all the locks.  all the ugly names.

i took this photo in a mirror inside an exhibition at the Foam Museum of Photography in Amsterdam a few weeks ago.  It's half-frame photography that ended up in an accidental double exposure.  it's actually a very accurate self-portrait.

the images collide and waver.  the outlines are indefinite.  i am searching.  must it feel like sadness?

that seed that twists itself like a knife within me is trying to tell me something but i've not yet learned its language.  i have to listen closer.  i have to get the static out of my ears and the anger out of my heart.  i have to pay attention and make room for the unexpected.  i have to pay attention and i have to be brave.  i have to use my two hands and build a life for myself that fits me.  who i truly am, not who i've been expected to be, nor the dream others have of me.

i like this moment...  laying in my bed alone listening to my neighbor flirt with a girl.  soon, another beer will crack open and i'll raise my cocktail silently toward my open window in cheers.


the way you need to be loved
the way you need to be loved
the way you need to be loved

.

while reading The Hour of the Star

seems i am always circling around some sort of Reckoning, some sort of Return.  these thing i chase.  the moments when i feel most alive, charged with electricity and love, full of fear and pleasure and ego.  or the moments in the middle of the night when i am convinced of my own ineptitude, my selfish stupidity.  those horribly cold moments when i wallow in all my worst thoughts of myself, when i focus on all i lack, all i have always lacked. 

chasing a Reckoning.  some sort of Shattering.  a tear in the seam.  a crack that will let a little light in.  or a little dark out.

and i open a book and i read the words and for a one warm moment i feel Known in a way that i've always needed, in a way that i so often crave. 

 

the words stare at me and i nod my head: "Who hasn't ever wondered: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?"

there are so few moments of reprieve.  too few.  i look at my hands.  i put polish on the nails.  i look at my eyes.  i pull tar through the lashes.  i look at my mouth.  i cover the soft pink with the loudest red i can find.  these additions make me Real.  these flecks of color, these gestures toward Urge and Desire prove i am alive and healthy and humming with the ability to take part in an exchange with the world.  i am here and standing and capable but my little love-sick heart goes on wishing after so many ridiculous things.  

i want to be invincible and never made silent through shame or guilt.  i want to be the strongest thing in the world.  i want to not hurt.  i want to not long for things the way i do.  i want to feel contained and content and totally devoid of certain desires for the symbols of approval and appreciation.  

i suppose it's normal now for the questions to come.  it's been a week since buying the ticket and i am settling in to the knowledge that something i've dreamed of for so many long, lonely years is about to happen.  i make lists of what i need to take care of.  i need a backpack and flip-flops and a towel and a lock and a map.  i woke early this morning and kept my appointment at the post office to get an expedited passport.  when the moment came where i had to declare under penalty of perjury that i am who i claim to be i felt so giddy.  such a child-like happiness coursed through my entire body and i couldn't help but smile at the woman who asked for my oath.  in 2 weeks, my passport will arrive.  my birth certificate will come back to me under separate cover.  it's the first time in my entire life i've actually ever possessed the document.  it's always been in someone else's care. i'm an adult in such an official way.  i look around at the portfolios leaning against the bedroom wall, the guitar i haven't played in close to a decade, the books that will remain unread and all i can think is "just get rid of all this shit.  get rid of everything."

i war against my frailties.  i pull yarn through a loop with a cold hook.  i fashion a text of my own in red letters and i stitch them to poles on the street in the middle of the night when i walk home from the train station after waiting tables all evening.  i say this in plain language but it is a romantic moment.  no cars, no birds, no sound at all save for the soft scratch of my shoes against the sidewalk.  for however humble my life may be, it is also quite charmed.  i am not blind to the beauty that curls around me.  i am not oblivious to the goodness that swirls.  and so i am disappointed in myself when these frailties rear up and my little lonely heart beats against my ribs, begging for things i know don't matter and will only serve to hold me back. 

think of airplanes, little girl.

think of airplanes, woman.  

there is so much i do not know.

 

 

once able

.


it is beautiful to be able to sit naked on a sunday night with a cocktail and a favorite book.  i haven't read poetry in so long it seems.  it is a life-blood that returns to me.  i flipped open Ariana Reines's THE COW and read the first poem that my eyes happened to find.  of course, it is the perfect fit:

 

that last line, the refrain, is such a brutal chime.  an ache that rings through me in a language i understand...  a need i understand.

to be fully oneself.  to be honest.  to be unafraid of the ugly.  to be unafraid of becoming ugly.  to be afraid but to move forward anyway.  to be lost and uncertain and choose to see it as Freedom.  to be able to create a well of courage and move, finally, like a king.

it has been a week of sleeping on ice packs and trying my hardest not to let negativity take hold.  finally, this afternoon i was able to pace slowly back and forth down my hallway without appearing feeble and deformed.  my disk in finally slipping back in to place.  i haven't taken pain meds in days and am finally on the mend.  and i promise you, recovery cannot come speedily enough.  cabin fever is a motherfucker.  i loathe laying around in general and this week of being confined to bed nearly made me cry.  i love solitude but only after exercising my love for being out in the world, in the surge and throng, in the heat of work and play and exploration.  even boredom is better outdoors than when locked away in the room at the back of the house.  it has been total agony in more ways than one. it's one thing to lay around out of sheer laziness or exhaustion; it's an entirely different thing to be confined to bed due to such severe physical pain.  the pain itself makes one depressed.  the fact that it seems unending.  the fact that one can look back over the course of a week and still not be healed.  the fact that one must sit and deal with the fact of the fragility of their own body...  how easily it can be broken...  how easily it can become a cage.  

still, there is always a value.  i've made a pile of yarn bombs to drop the second i can get out of the house and resume my artistic adventures.  i long for the wide open expanse of dark city streets in the middle of the night.  i long for the glow of street lamps and the headlights of cars cruising slowly by.  it has been such a practice of patience and endurance to withstand this stillness, this degree of physical inability.  it breeds compassion, that's for sure, as well as providing one with the somewhat uncomfortable opportunity to perform a deeper self-investigation than one might have undertaken otherwise.  i haven't been able to run my fears away or burn my sadness down with work and excersize.  i've been forced to sit here with them.  i've been forced to sit and look at my ghosts.  i've had no choice but to recognize when my feelings were dramatic and unwarranted, based purely in the pain of my situation, and when they were a normal, natural outcropping of a hurtful event.  i have filled so many pages in my diary and am coming face to face with the core of my needs, the remainder of my naivety, the necessity to emerge from this site of safe repose (once able) and rush again toward the life that is waiting for me in the ecstatic hustle of art.  i am newly aware of a bevy of mistakes i've made and i aim to repeat not a one.

i think of Simone Weil.  i try to obey her.  i try to not struggle against my suffering but to endure it passively, to let in polish me, to allow it to create a new beauty within me.  it is a hard task.  an exercise in endurance and  the ability to tolerate anguish without becoming bitter.  

i need to discover a new definition of the word LOVE. 

i need to make room for the creation of a new face for GOD.

.

let me lay a little judgement down, let me cast my questions out

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write.  

don't write for the public, just write. 

don't write for the public, just write. 

don't write for the public, just write.

don't write for the public, just write. 

write as if no one is watching.  

especially your mother's family.

this is what i tell myself tonight as my fingers reach for the keys.  i tell myself: please do not try for eloquence or an even keel.  do not reach toward that horrible expectation to be fucking fair and unbiased and full of benevolence.  i am not a god and don't want the responsibility of one.  though as far as i can tell, gods are really just dead-beats who somehow managed to turn the abuse of neglect in to "mystery".   maybe being a god is the freest thing an entity can be?  still, i prefer the heat of my flesh to the cold skin of aloof perfection.  i turn back through the pages of my ravaged and bent diary and find so many insights to cling to.  and not simply of my own either.  i've recorded the things friends have said to me.  beautiful, intelligent, talented, cultured women who i am stunned by and proud to know. i thankfully had the good sense to write down the advice they gave me and the assessments they made.  whether it be a day ago or a year ago, their words are a balm and a warm hug.  just like everyone else i possess a tremendous talent for convincing myself that i'm Right.  :)  luckily, i am a diarist and can prove to myself otherwise.  my wet and trembling eyes skate hungrily across the thin blue lines that carry my handwriting.  i read page after page.  the ink functions as a mirror.  at times my script becomes wild and loopy as my emotions build and gather steam.  other times, i am controlled.  my script is measured and small, sure of the curve of an N and the beautiful slant of a T.  in the diary i write in cursive so that i can write as fast as possible.  

i will never be able to write fast enough.

what i wanted to talk about tonight is that marriage seems largely like a bunch of bullshit but doesn't that make me sound bitter? does it make me sound envious?  i assure you i am not envious of married people and if any married person wants to know why that might be, i suggest you take a moment and look at how YOU speak about marriage.  y'all don't exactly seem to be a fount of five star reviews.  just sayin.  y'all speak ATROCIOUSLY about what marriage entails.  you use the worst language imaginable to speak about your spouse.  it's sickening.  it really is.  not to mention totally offensive.  WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STILL MARRIED IF THAT'S HOW YOU REALLY FEEL?  seriously???  why are you married?  and please don't give me that "for the kids" crap.  we are all so beyond that degraded, abusive, deformed logic.  the desire to have children itself is, in our time and place, a pretty thin reason in and of itself to wed.  i myself do not intend to procreate.  i have absolutely no desire to be a mother.  i do not want to bear children.  in fact, i am doing my best to ensure that my particular bloodline has the least chance of survival possible (and if you met some of my family members, you'd understand why).  aside from that glaring bit of judgement, i simply do not find babies to be at all compelling.  i never have.  i have more to offer this planet and humanity than my biological capabilities.  i do not think that raising children would be a worthwhile way to spend my time.  not at all.  and why does everyone seem to throw logic out the fucking window when it comes to this topic???  as if EVERYONE needs to have a baby???  for all you know, i might end up being the WORST MOTHER IN THE WORLD!  but i suppose it's the same dumbass glitch that makes us all believe that, upon someone's death, even the monsters among us go to heaven.  because i'm not talking about the waiters, artists, and chefs i frequently hang out with, i'm talking about regular people in the suburbs.  all the so-called Christians who esteem the institution of marriage.  y'all should hear how your respective mate speaks about you when you aren't in the room.  better yet, maybe you should go to your room and think about how you speak about your mate.  use it as a mirror.  look at how ugly you've become.  look at what an ugly proposition you've presented marriage to be.  think about all the things you deny your counterpart.  think about all the rules you've wrapped around them and your association with one another.  all the little signals you expect to see as PROOF that he or she really loves you.  i am becoming convinced that it isn't love that most people want, it's protection of their fabulously tiny egos.  as i move forward i realize more and more that i am simply uninterested in a conventional life.  i am not interested in being involved in what others have termed a "real" relationship.  if the utter shit y'all are describing is a "real" relationship, i prefer to play house, thank you.

i know 3 couples, maybe, who seem to truly love and respect each other.  their love is an encouragement to me that maybe something different from what i've known exists.  i don't want to be embittered or smug.  of course i want to believe that i belong somewhere and that at some point in my life i will be appreciated.  why do i need it to be "forever"?  nothing is forever.  we all march toward our demise.  death is not a fiction.  we age every day.  we will all find  another white hair in the mirror tomorrow.  while i'm here and while i am able, i want to create as much joy and passion as possible.  i don't need someone to promise the rest of their life to me in order to appreciate the absolutely stunning beauty of their humanity.  the rest of a person's life is a huge thing.  who am i to dictate the terms of it or feel entitled to make rules regarding it?  love is not subject to scarcity.  there is not a limit to how much love a person can feel.  there is not a limit to how much beauty a person can behold and appreciate.  and pain will come regardless so let's just get over our egos and let people be who they are.  if anything, that's what i want.  i want to be myself.  i want you to be yourself. i don't want to be a parent.  i don't want to suppress another human being.  i want a man that i might love to come back to me freely at night.  i don't want a man to lay next to me out of a sense of obligation or pathetic fear.  i've had that and it is torture.  it is torture to lay next to the sleeping body of someone and know, for a fact, that they are only there because it has become expected, because it has become comfortable.  i would rather risk my heart being broken over and over than ever suffer that shit again.  why should anyone think my heart too fragile to withstand the risk?  i'm an orphan, guys.  we're tough. and like most tough motherfuckers, we are capable of tremendous love.  we are capable of ushering forth tremendous compassion, beauty, understanding, patience, and appreciation for the hardships and horrors inherent to humanity.  what i am no longer capable of (and i hope my siblings aren't either) is allowing another person or social expectation to limit the amount of pleasure, beauty, and love that exists in my life.  if someone loves me for a day or a year or 10 years, it is a gift so long as we are both being ourselves.  i don't need an ordination to know it or a tradition to approve it.  my mother would high-five me and kiss my forehead and hug me so tight and say, "little girl, you better suck every bit of joy you can out of this experience".  i know because she said it to me often enough when she was alive.  she knew my heart.  she knew how soft it is, how eager to please and comfort.  she worried that it would be taken advantage of.  it has been, in horrible ways, but i am not afraid of testing other waters.  i know how to be myself.  i know my own death will find me.  i am afraid of it finding me too soon.  i am afraid of it finding me in the midst of some unreasonable fear or expectation that prevents me from knowing the world in all it's sorrowful glory. i am afraid of it finding me before i kiss the weary eyes of another human being who has also been subject to the wrath of this world's winds and retributions.

fin.

WORDS WORDS WORDS

my Talent of the Room finds me and every morning i spend a solid 2 hours writing in my diary at the kitchen table as i sip my coffee.  i look out the window onto my busy street.  i listen to the cars and people rambling by.  i feel the sun on my legs and the pen in my hand.  soft pleasures.  necessities.  i can't imagine ever being without this little waking ritual of mine.  i can't imagine ever giving this up.  these hours behind the pen, inside language, inside the inexplicable twists of dreams and memories.  there's nothing "little" about it.

i've fallen back in to a phase of self-investigation and exploration.  i doubt one's need for such things ever really goes away and that's probably a good thing.  as i gain insight and information, i recalibrate.  as i pick up moments of confusion and wonder - or even doubt and fear - i use them to look a bit closer at my own motives and desires.  everyday i seem to be learning more about myself.  i feel like i'm growing up in a totally new way.

i finished reading the second volume of my 2012 diary yesterday on my train to work.  going through these pages is an integral part of my current round of investigation.  i feel so lucky to have such a tool at my disposal.  i can't explain how amazingly valuable it is to be able to read exactly what i was thinking about and wrestling with on THIS DAY one year ago.  it's a fantastic was to measure change.  but also, i return to the idea that to keep a diary is more than simply recording one's thoughts and activities.  it is a life's work.  i've said so many times here that words make the world and i truly believe that.  language is a living, nebulous thing and our use of it impacts how we see ourselves and the world we inhabit.  it determines the world we create.  my attractions all have a root in Language.  from the look of a person's handwriting to the particularities and lilt of speech to the a person's command over poetics or even just the maintenance of a deep, strong vocabulary, my interest is ensnared.  i have deep attraction to people who have big vocabularies and can use them effortlessly, who don't sound pompous and puffed-up.  even the sound of someone's sigh is attractive to me and a good laugh is a very strong aphrodisiac.

all this to say- language, in all its forms, the very act of and desire to communicate with another human being is something i've always been attracted to and is a basic building block of my own personality.  as i look back and re-live certain experiences through the lens of my diary, i see how necessary certain types of connection are to me.  i need conversation, intellectual engagement, philosophic enterprise, and poetic experience.  simply put, i need passion.  i am not a simple person who can be satisfied by simple relationships.  i'm not difficult either but "difficult" is not the only opposite of "simple".  complexity is also an antonym.  i like complex people.  i like the mysteries they contain.  i like not knowing the next thing that might shoot out of a person's mouth and i appreciate people who know how to hold up their end of a conversation. 

sounds simple enough until i look deeper at the statements that i just put forth.  it is romantic to say that i want a passionate life.  but in accepting a passionate life, one also accepts the necessity of pain.  one must accept certain risks and that sometimes the gamble will be lost.  i won't always come out on top but, thankfully, i'm the type of person that can turn almost any negative in to a positive.  i'm not thankful that other people have mistreated me and i would probably never thank someone for their atrocious behavior regardless of the good that may have ended up flowing from it later on.  but i am thankful to be the kind of person that can take that hurt and allow it to polish me rather than become embittered against others.  it's not so much a point of forgiving others as it is a matter of forgiving myself.  i'm not exactly sure what that means or how to accomplish such a thing other than learning from my own mistakes and not allowing myself to slide back in to familiar, yet harmful, patterns. 

it's difficult to know, though, when i'm being smart or when i'm running scared.  certain emotions make me feel foolish now and i've noticed lately that i run from them.  i play it cool and not a single ripple of embarrassment or heartache will show on my surface if i can help it.  i have no problem showcasing pain in art or writing or even here on the blog but i do not put that shit on display in front of many other people.  there is a very small handful of people that i am close enough with to really lay my emotions out in front of and, within that group, still fewer that i would actually allow to see or hear me cry.  but i suppose that feeling foolish (or even actually being foolish from time to time) is going to be part of the ride.  necessarily so.  but i don't know how to uproot this idea that seems to have grown in me that others will find my emotions to be repulsive.  i don't know how to counteract my experience that people run away from the darkness a human being contains.  i don't know how to stop believing that most people are fair-weather friends.  somehow i must unlearn these things and manage to become brave enough to risk feeling foolish. it's the next step in becoming a better friend and a better artist.  risk is mandatory. especially for someone like me who wants to know about the world and establish meaning in life.  especially for someone who doesn't think before she writes and puts all this shit out on to the internet for anyone to read. ;)

camera 1, camera 2

.

.

while i'm young i wanna have FUN FUN FUN

and cry cry cry.  i want to think of your body, so far away, the way it lay shivering beneath my lips, my hot hands, my wishes for a better future.

but what of the future?  the new year is so close.  she presses against me like an invalid needing to be carried, needing to be seated on some cold throne; needing milk or meat or salt.  and i want to please her.  i do.  i want to be obedient and diligent.  i want to be thoughtful and poetic.  i want to be ABLE.  the new year breathes against my neck and i wish it were the hot breath of a lover.  that hunger.  that dire need.  that ache.  maybe it is.  while i listen to Lou Reed and drink the apple/vanilla/peppermint vodka my beautiful Annie gave me for Christmas, i think of the year about to be born.  what sheets lay waiting to be tangled beneath my body?  what fist might in catch my hair?  what page might catch what horribly hot poem, what anxiety ridden wish, what letter to my mother written far far far too late?  can i bend beneath your heat, sir?  can i bend beneath your lips?  because i have enough Truth within me, i am not seeking it from you.  i want only the external, the expression, the slip of sweat and spit.  you owe me nothing and i would love to bear witness to that fact.  let my body and face be a record of all that you DO NOT OWE ME.

(it is always a slightly scary moment when one wonders if a lover has yet googled their name.)

but what is it i am after, exactly?  what is it i long for?  every day i hunger after something.  i ache and ache and ache.  i type the words, i let my ink spill, i twist my wool and fashion myself a new poem, a new blanket, a new prayer.  and yet?  and yet?  and yet?  i am without.  i am hungry.  i need a new scene.  a Poetry i can curl below as if it were a man.  i need a Poetry i can be afraid of.  a Poetry with some weight. 

i need a Poetry with a fist.

we count down the days.  we pour the alcohol in to our cups.  we wish for the best.  do we think of our mothers?  we think of ourselves.  we bend to the wind of desire and wait to be kissed.  we hang up our clothes and pretend to be good.