.
a deeply held belief i adopted during childhood:
i am singular and will go through life that way.
i am trying to uproot it and it is very difficult.
scary as fuck.
the only place i feel entirely safe is within myself.
but that is a nebulous world.
mutable and full of anxious longing.
i take pictures of myself to prove that i exist.
not to prove it to you, to prove it to ME.
these shapes and angles and senses.
i take pictures of myself so that i can look and see and believe that i am
here, real,
walking and breathing along with the rest of you.
an attempt, maybe, to unhinge this belief in my own singularity;
to disrupt my distrust and make a window
in to (or out of) my own nebulous world.
.
Showing posts with label longing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label longing. Show all posts
Jan 17, 2015
Dec 1, 2013
a new target
.
listening to cyndi lauper, dancing in the mirror, one of those fine, fluid evenings when i stand and stare myself down in the mirror, tear after tear, so tearfully, because the lyrics are so perfect, so sharp; pierce my heart, make my eyes drop their salt, and when i look at my face in the mirror all i see is how damn ugly it is compared to yours...
is that love?
there are the moments, sad and long, when we, in the dark, scramble against feeling so separate; we scramble to be understood; so fervently, we 'll fall in love with anything or anyone... and maybe you found me at the exact right moment. or maybe you're just that damn fine. or maybe this is something that all my instinct cry for. maybe i need a new pain? hasn't it always been that way?
and so i take these pictures of myself and i'd like to think it's art. i'd like to think it's more than just a shit show. all i know is the absolute SHIT being good got me. why not piss against the wind and wear my filth as if it were silk?
it's just that time of year.
i love looking at myself when i'm a mess: a wreck of tangled hair and smeared eyeliner, lipstick on my chin and sweaty skin. i touch my reflection in the mirror and smile. i give myself a kiss and dance to the next love song alone. i slip my hand into my polka dot panties and pretend my hand is yours. i watch myself in the mirror and pretend the eyes on me, on my skin, on my shuddering, my quivering body belong to you. i mouth the words i would say to you if it was your hand in my hair. i mouth the words and i gasp. i gasp and i crawl and i writhe as if the night were endless, as if the album had no end, as if the love we knew weren't flawed, as if i could be the cure your heart longs for, as if my eyes could build a home for you in their soft blue reservoir, as if my voice could offer something aside from the cool note i play...
all my infinite lies: my collected stare.
i need a haircut and a new jacket.
i want to leave all i own on the curb.
it's just that time of year.
.
it's just that time of year, i suppose. i want to cut my hair. i want to throw all my clothes out. i want to turn the corner and see your face. or i want to click the Buy Now button on a new plane ride.
i'm unsatisfied.
listening to cyndi lauper, dancing in the mirror, one of those fine, fluid evenings when i stand and stare myself down in the mirror, tear after tear, so tearfully, because the lyrics are so perfect, so sharp; pierce my heart, make my eyes drop their salt, and when i look at my face in the mirror all i see is how damn ugly it is compared to yours...
is that love?
there are the moments, sad and long, when we, in the dark, scramble against feeling so separate; we scramble to be understood; so fervently, we 'll fall in love with anything or anyone... and maybe you found me at the exact right moment. or maybe you're just that damn fine. or maybe this is something that all my instinct cry for. maybe i need a new pain? hasn't it always been that way?
and so i take these pictures of myself and i'd like to think it's art. i'd like to think it's more than just a shit show. all i know is the absolute SHIT being good got me. why not piss against the wind and wear my filth as if it were silk?
it's just that time of year.
i love looking at myself when i'm a mess: a wreck of tangled hair and smeared eyeliner, lipstick on my chin and sweaty skin. i touch my reflection in the mirror and smile. i give myself a kiss and dance to the next love song alone. i slip my hand into my polka dot panties and pretend my hand is yours. i watch myself in the mirror and pretend the eyes on me, on my skin, on my shuddering, my quivering body belong to you. i mouth the words i would say to you if it was your hand in my hair. i mouth the words and i gasp. i gasp and i crawl and i writhe as if the night were endless, as if the album had no end, as if the love we knew weren't flawed, as if i could be the cure your heart longs for, as if my eyes could build a home for you in their soft blue reservoir, as if my voice could offer something aside from the cool note i play...
all my infinite lies: my collected stare.
i need a haircut and a new jacket.
i want to leave all i own on the curb.
it's just that time of year.
.
Nov 18, 2013
i pretended to hold your hand
.
at the edge of the world with my jeans rolled to the knee, i thought of you as i walked along that cold, beautiful line of surf and sand. i looked out across the expanse of the pacific to where the water meets the sky and thought of Germany, thought of you; your young, bright self bouncing across cobblestone and drinking beer. i played the morrissey song "everyday is like sunday" over and over again as i walked from the pier to the cliffs. i smiled against the wind and thought, "where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here."
and then a week later, a box arrives at my front door. i look at the return address and see its from my ex-stepfather. i push the box against the wall in the kitchen and walk away. i knew what the box contained... something i've been waiting for for well over a year, something i cried over the last time i held it in my hands the day after you died: the photo album of your high school graduation, mama, your days as a young GI in Hannover, and the early days of your marriage to my father.
i went to my room with a cup of coffee and wrote for awhile but the gravity of your arrival pulled me back to the kitchen. i grabbed a knife out of the drawer and cut the packing tape in a clean, careful slice. i needed to know if this treasure had truly arrived, if i'd finally received something i've been waiting for for so long. i folded back the edge of the cardboard box and brushed away foam peanuts to find your painting and another small box. i lifted the small box out, set it on the kitchen table, and looked inside.
i couldn't look for long before i felt the sting of tears in my eyes and throat. i bore the pain dryly, just long enough to photograph my treasure and to pay honor to the arrival of such a beloved and long-awaited piece of my disheveled family history.
young and fresh and beautiful at 19 years old, that's my mama on the lower right.
such a beauty.
where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here.
.
at the edge of the world with my jeans rolled to the knee, i thought of you as i walked along that cold, beautiful line of surf and sand. i looked out across the expanse of the pacific to where the water meets the sky and thought of Germany, thought of you; your young, bright self bouncing across cobblestone and drinking beer. i played the morrissey song "everyday is like sunday" over and over again as i walked from the pier to the cliffs. i smiled against the wind and thought, "where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here."
and then a week later, a box arrives at my front door. i look at the return address and see its from my ex-stepfather. i push the box against the wall in the kitchen and walk away. i knew what the box contained... something i've been waiting for for well over a year, something i cried over the last time i held it in my hands the day after you died: the photo album of your high school graduation, mama, your days as a young GI in Hannover, and the early days of your marriage to my father.
i went to my room with a cup of coffee and wrote for awhile but the gravity of your arrival pulled me back to the kitchen. i grabbed a knife out of the drawer and cut the packing tape in a clean, careful slice. i needed to know if this treasure had truly arrived, if i'd finally received something i've been waiting for for so long. i folded back the edge of the cardboard box and brushed away foam peanuts to find your painting and another small box. i lifted the small box out, set it on the kitchen table, and looked inside.
i couldn't look for long before i felt the sting of tears in my eyes and throat. i bore the pain dryly, just long enough to photograph my treasure and to pay honor to the arrival of such a beloved and long-awaited piece of my disheveled family history.
young and fresh and beautiful at 19 years old, that's my mama on the lower right.
such a beauty.
where'd you get off to, woman? you should be here.
.
Oct 10, 2013
artist statement
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
sometimes...
sometimes sometimes sometimes...
(manchmal...
quelquefois... )
sometimes art is only about your own ridiculousness...
sometimes art is only about how lonely you feel, how separate, how insecure. sometimes art is only about the text message that went unanswered. sometimes art is only about the pain that sweeps through you silently and unseen on the train as you careen home, alone, wishing there was someone to hug on the other side of your own front door. sometimes art is sentimental and sticky. sometimes art doesn't give two shits if it's pretty or not or if it's got a red face when it cries. sometimes art is only about the fact that it's fucking 2am and you're drunk and tired of feeling alone and separate and insecure and that's exactly why you're drunk in the first fucking place. sometimes art isn't about any of the fucking theories. sometimes it's about your dead mother and sometimes it's about your absent father and sometimes it's about how estranged you've become in this wide world of christian morals and families holding hands on sundays. sometimes art is about all those nameless regrets... because what is it to regret something that was never really even a choice or a deed, simply an event... like childhood. sometimes art is only about that deep ache to be touched. sometimes art is only about the need for a good, hard slap on the ass and the fact you have to find a way to go on living tonight without it. sometimes it is so fucking Freudian there's no way around it: we want what we want. and sometimes that's all art is. sometimes that's all it possibly can be. sometimes art is just a girl, alone in her room, drunk on vodka at 2am, wanting what she wants and yet barred from it all, staring wide-eyed at her own desires and crying over their absence. sometimes art is only about longing. sometimes art is only about desperation. sometimes art is only about finding a way to believe life is worth it. sometimes art is only a way to convince yourself that your own life might actually matter, somehow, to someone else, somewhere. sometimes art is only a way to remind yourself you have a sister and you have a brother and, if not for yourself, then for them. keep drawing (breathing, working, trying, aching, striving, smiling) for them. sometimes art is only a way to keep yourself sane. sometimes art is simply a reaching toward faith. a way to build faith. a way to believe in something other than your own solitary breaths, exhaled in white puffs in a cold, empty room. sometimes art is simply the life-preserver you throw to yourself. sometimes art is the only window you've got. the only friend you've got. the only mother you've got. the only god you've got.
sometimes art is another way to pray.
sometimes i'm 8 years old again, alone and afraid of the dark, and dreaming of a savior...
i reach for my pencil. i reach for my pen. i reach for my hook. i make a drawing. i make a poem. i make a blanket. i take care of my fucking self.
sometimes that's all art is.
.
Aug 9, 2013
settling in
i'm sitting in bed under my white quilt with all my clothes on, even my socks. it is a cold night. my bra is digging in to me but i don't care about getting undressed. i don't care about getting comfortable. there is a cocktail on the nightstand to the left of my bed.
when i was in Europe my phone didn't work. no voice and no text. i could connect to the internet and use it as a mini computer if there was wifi available but it was freeing to know that it wouldn't ring or buzz. i no longer spent precious time worrying if so-and-so would text. i was on my own in so many ways and, for the first time in a very long time, free to stop worrying about Time. the only actual responsibilities i had was feeding and cleaning myself. there were no other obligations to satisfy and no duties to respond to. the only Duty i had was to myself: to live as forthrightly and bravely as possible and to open my notebook whenever i could manage.
i haven't looked back at those pages yet. i want to but instead i flip through the photos i took and enjoy the sweet fermentation of memory that has already begun. the images of bridges and building in my mind are more romantic tonight than they have ever been. Berlin is a city of fairy tales. while i was there, i marveled at the great luck that had found me. there was a moment when i found myself half asleep on the small deck of a rowboat and thought to myself is this really fucking happening right now??? to me??? it was all so inexplicable and yet somehow easy. i felt at ease the second i got on my flight to new york. i felt even more at ease when i landed in Berlin a week later. i felt so secure and safe inside the world. i wasn't afraid of anything. not once. it felt honest and good to simply walk along old cobblestone roads and take pictures of the fresh graffiti that cropped up overnight in Kreuzberg. it felt honest and good to share my beer with strangers and follow them to a bonfire on the west bank of the Spree. it felt honest and good to sit at a cafe for hours and just move my pen... all my lofty thoughts and the rhythm of my heart inside this new place, this old world.
it's hard to believe that i'm already back home, already back to work, already learning a new menu and new wines. it's hard to believe that another semester of german awaits and that it is already august. 3 weeks in europe was not long enough. not nearly. not for this soft and eager heart. i fell in to the tempo of the place so quickly and felt at home so instantly that my life took on a feeling of timelessness. then suddenly, i was back at the airport trying not to think of the fact that i was already leaving. i'm glad i had a few days in new york before coming back home to california. it was a buffer of sorts. i could still pretend i was entirely free and that no timelines existed for me. i saw the Ellen Gallagher show at the New Museum my first day back. it was strange to walk through the large rooms and gaze at the work of an art heavy weight and think i'd just been at the Martin Kippenburger retrospective in Berlin 2 days before. and in the rear room of that museum, i saw the large lead airplane Anselm Kieffer constructed flanked by two of his huge paintings. it felt important and special to view his work IN germany. so laden with guilt and history and horror. it felt important and special to see Joseph Beuys' felt suit and violin case. it felt important and special to view this work with a german friend. and this all a few days after having visited the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam. such a heavy moment. such a heavy memory. those empty rooms... so small. i felt honored, especially as a diarist, to walk through the rooms where she lived and wrote. i felt honored to see the pages of her diary on display. the pages, so thin and so fragile that the room must be kept very dimly lit in order to slow the rate of their degradation. a man behind me started crying. i wanted to cry too but i didn't because i don't think she allowed herself to cry in those rooms either.
everything felt important and special. everything.
i have so much to say but it's all out of order. it's all mixed up and crisscrossed. maybe chronology doesn't really matter.
i thought when i got back i'd instantly start saving money in order to move to new york by the end of the year but now i can't think of anything more important than getting back out in the world and doing it all again. and next time for much, much longer than 3 weeks.
when i was in Europe my phone didn't work. no voice and no text. i could connect to the internet and use it as a mini computer if there was wifi available but it was freeing to know that it wouldn't ring or buzz. i no longer spent precious time worrying if so-and-so would text. i was on my own in so many ways and, for the first time in a very long time, free to stop worrying about Time. the only actual responsibilities i had was feeding and cleaning myself. there were no other obligations to satisfy and no duties to respond to. the only Duty i had was to myself: to live as forthrightly and bravely as possible and to open my notebook whenever i could manage.
i haven't looked back at those pages yet. i want to but instead i flip through the photos i took and enjoy the sweet fermentation of memory that has already begun. the images of bridges and building in my mind are more romantic tonight than they have ever been. Berlin is a city of fairy tales. while i was there, i marveled at the great luck that had found me. there was a moment when i found myself half asleep on the small deck of a rowboat and thought to myself is this really fucking happening right now??? to me??? it was all so inexplicable and yet somehow easy. i felt at ease the second i got on my flight to new york. i felt even more at ease when i landed in Berlin a week later. i felt so secure and safe inside the world. i wasn't afraid of anything. not once. it felt honest and good to simply walk along old cobblestone roads and take pictures of the fresh graffiti that cropped up overnight in Kreuzberg. it felt honest and good to share my beer with strangers and follow them to a bonfire on the west bank of the Spree. it felt honest and good to sit at a cafe for hours and just move my pen... all my lofty thoughts and the rhythm of my heart inside this new place, this old world.
it's hard to believe that i'm already back home, already back to work, already learning a new menu and new wines. it's hard to believe that another semester of german awaits and that it is already august. 3 weeks in europe was not long enough. not nearly. not for this soft and eager heart. i fell in to the tempo of the place so quickly and felt at home so instantly that my life took on a feeling of timelessness. then suddenly, i was back at the airport trying not to think of the fact that i was already leaving. i'm glad i had a few days in new york before coming back home to california. it was a buffer of sorts. i could still pretend i was entirely free and that no timelines existed for me. i saw the Ellen Gallagher show at the New Museum my first day back. it was strange to walk through the large rooms and gaze at the work of an art heavy weight and think i'd just been at the Martin Kippenburger retrospective in Berlin 2 days before. and in the rear room of that museum, i saw the large lead airplane Anselm Kieffer constructed flanked by two of his huge paintings. it felt important and special to view his work IN germany. so laden with guilt and history and horror. it felt important and special to see Joseph Beuys' felt suit and violin case. it felt important and special to view this work with a german friend. and this all a few days after having visited the Anne Frank Haus in Amsterdam. such a heavy moment. such a heavy memory. those empty rooms... so small. i felt honored, especially as a diarist, to walk through the rooms where she lived and wrote. i felt honored to see the pages of her diary on display. the pages, so thin and so fragile that the room must be kept very dimly lit in order to slow the rate of their degradation. a man behind me started crying. i wanted to cry too but i didn't because i don't think she allowed herself to cry in those rooms either.
everything felt important and special. everything.
i have so much to say but it's all out of order. it's all mixed up and crisscrossed. maybe chronology doesn't really matter.
i thought when i got back i'd instantly start saving money in order to move to new york by the end of the year but now i can't think of anything more important than getting back out in the world and doing it all again. and next time for much, much longer than 3 weeks.
Aug 6, 2013
everything is new
.
20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running. it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind. it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month. i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart. it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance. i had been outside myself for an entire month. i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant. gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads. a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.
as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view. no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road. "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought. a canvas. i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one. i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker. "yes. perfection. the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty. this is the only gesture i have." i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful. where had my endless waters gone? i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters. i thought of his refrain. i scrawled it quick in fat print:
yes i will. i fucking promise.
it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home. there is so much to say... it will come as it is able.
yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair. the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare. i watched him the entire time. it was a moment of quiet happiness. it was a moment of connection to another human being. i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street. i very rarely think of it as ART. or rather, ART isn't even the consideration. i think of these things as Signs. as a Cry. it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard. not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another. i felt unbelievably lucky.
i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror. i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary. i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal. but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough. all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered. i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide.
.
20 hours of travel, a delayed flight, a diverted flight, sleeping on the floor of SFO as i waited for the first trains to begin running. it was a long walk home that morning but i didn't mind. it was the first time i'd put my earbuds in in a month. i was the first time music had coursed through me in lock step with my fast-beating heart. it was the first time in a month that i was able to lock in to myself, only myself, like masterbation, no one else, no distractions, no concerns, no muttering in the distance. i had been outside myself for an entire month. i had been in the wind, in the sun, within a language that floored me and made me its' servant. gladly (gerne). i'd been so outside myself for an entire month that it seemed impossible to find myself walking along familiar roads. a part of me was still in Berlin, crossing the Oberbaum Brucke, not crossing Shattuck Ave in Oakland, California.
as i came closer to my house, a dirty, discarded chair came in to view. no cushions, abandonned on the side of the road. "ahhh... a canvas..." i thought. a canvas. i didn't know how badly i needed one until i saw one. i went inside and grabbed my big, black marker. "yes. perfection. the first thing i will do upon arriving in oakland is write on the street", i told myself, "this is the only real beauty. this is the only gesture i have." i thought of my beloved bridge in Kreuzbeg and my heart ached something awful. where had my endless waters gone? i thought of David Wojnarowicz and his plea that we live life like it actually fucking matters. i thought of his refrain. i scrawled it quick in fat print:
yes i will. i fucking promise.
it's so hard to believe a week has already gone by since i've been home. there is so much to say... it will come as it is able.
yesterday evening, i stood in my dark kitchen and watched a man cross the street to take a picture of the abandoned chair. the sun obscured the image and he kicked the chair in a half circle there on the corner to get it out of the glare. i watched him the entire time. it was a moment of quiet happiness. it was a moment of connection to another human being. i have no idea what to label the work i do that happens in the street. i very rarely think of it as ART. or rather, ART isn't even the consideration. i think of these things as Signs. as a Cry. it was wonderful to be able to witness my cry being heard. not only heard, but echoed in the heart of another. i felt unbelievably lucky.
i am happy to stretch out in my white room and see the reflection of my body flash in the armoir mirror. i am happy to make coffee in my kitchen and spend the first 2 hours of the day scribbling in my diary. i am happy to have a washer and drier at my disposal. but i assure you, 3 weeks overseas was definitely not enough. all my plans have changed. my ideas are totally shattered. i have no answers and all of my goals have been flung far and wide.
.
Jun 16, 2013
ghost love
i love being around people's mothers.
i love looking at pictures of people's mothers.
it's the closest i can come to looking at pictures of my own.
still, ma mere, the caught image of you sends me running.
i've learned how to keep a dry eye:
don't look at beautiful things
that pull the old heart strings
and which you'll never see again.
and so i bask in the smile of other people's mamas and feel absolutely real joy. i keep my own mother's image in my heart. especially when i look at the sky. i think of her when she was 19, walking cobblestone pathways in Germany, wearing her forest green velvet blazer. i can finally fit in to it. i wore it on thursday and thursday was the best day in the whole fucking world. :)
i love looking at pictures of people's mothers.
it's the closest i can come to looking at pictures of my own.
still, ma mere, the caught image of you sends me running.
i've learned how to keep a dry eye:
don't look at beautiful things
that pull the old heart strings
and which you'll never see again.
and so i bask in the smile of other people's mamas and feel absolutely real joy. i keep my own mother's image in my heart. especially when i look at the sky. i think of her when she was 19, walking cobblestone pathways in Germany, wearing her forest green velvet blazer. i can finally fit in to it. i wore it on thursday and thursday was the best day in the whole fucking world. :)
Jun 6, 2013
May 21, 2013
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.
.JPG)
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.
.JPG)
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.
May 13, 2013
Mar 21, 2013
Jan 15, 2013
excerpt:
.
I sit across from the thin mirror in the corner. I am folded up like a blanket , all my limbs
arched and turned inward toward my form, shielding the delicate tips of
pink from all eyes. Even mine. I look at
my face. I see the red lines I’ve
allowed to be drawn across my forehead.
Examples of humiliation and confusion. Proofs. It’s all mathematics now. I stand up and walk to the dresser. I pull out the black sweater in the top drawer. I watch myself in the mirror. I count the seconds it takes. I recite my age. I am acquainted with enough years to make
sense of all the spinning. I turn the
knob and step out in to the hall. The
mirror stares after me. I am looking out
the window now. I can count the avenues
and detours. I pull the sweater over my
cold self and keep walking. Two sleeves
and a hole for my head. I can count
until I find myself outside your radius.
I can count rather than repeat your name. I can watch the clouds. I can count.
I can hope. A window. A window.
A way out.
.
Jan 2, 2013
DAY 2
.
let me reiterate: maybe it is true that i am less afraid of you than you are of me. maybe i have far less to lose?
as one who understands the total figment of security, i can afford an uncommon brashness when it comes to certain things. i understand the reality that, daily, i must eat and that, in our culture, that means i must make money. but that's where my concern for money ends. i truly don't give a fuck about retirement plans and home-ownership. the less cages i lock myself in to, the better. i prefer the wild ache of artistry and philosophy. i prefer the torture of thinking and living to scrimping and saving. give me pardon if this apparently youthful outlook offends you. i don't mean to attack or jibe. it's only the case that i watched a certain someone plan for their retirement and then die 2 years in to that solitude. i assure you, she would've much rather kept working and kept experiencing the world if she had known what was coming. and so i expect an unexpected death as well. i expect to work right up until that day, like ma mere, louise bourgeois, sculpting in her studio all day long and then dying in her sleep after a full day's work in the studio. let that be me. let that be my end. how sublime. how ecstatic. how necessary! let me move my pen right up til the end. let me dribble one last blot of ink as i suck in that last, rattling breath. i don't plan on letting up until that exact moment... whenever it may find me.
sometimes pleasure and beauty become the most important things. i remember my mother saying in her sickness, "suck every last ounce of joy out of this experience you can, little girl" and i parrot her voice inside my heart every chance i get.
sometimes, i am thoughtless. sometimes, i am no where near as diligent as i should be, as i am capable of being. there was an era of such prolific artistic production in my life not too long ago and i miss it. but today, i went running down Shattuck Ave in Oakland and it occurred to me that i was so prolific because my self-worth depended upon it. the sad fact is that being stuck in a bad relationship has the effect of sapping one's idea of self-worth. i made so much fucking art because i was actively warring against a life that told me i was next-to-nothing. it had been that way for years. and before that relationship too.
but i'm not blaming anyone for my decisions or my mistakes. at this point, i am glad to have walked this particular road. it is the thing that makes me able to look at you and smile. it is the thing that makes my gaze soften with understanding. i look at you with such warmth, such light, such appreciation for every awkward moment, every fantastically beautiful gesture and movement. i look at you and know that i will never have all the information. there is an entire story, an entire life behind you, within you that i know nothing about. there have been such beautiful moments and such horrors. there has been poetry and atrocity all around you. these things, whatever they are, have made you capable of certain actions. these secrets have made you long for certain things. i will not judge you: the same thing is true about me.
i come to realize that i am not a simple human being. i am not difficult either, but i am complex. as such, i gravitate toward complexity. i like complex people. i like complex art. i like complex emotion. i like complex thought. why did i ever think a simple life would be the right life for me? we are taught to pursue certain avenues. it is after going far enough down the dictated path that i reached a primary truth about myself: i don't want a simple life. i never have.
let me reiterate: maybe it is true that i am less afraid of you than you are of me. maybe i have far less to lose?
as one who understands the total figment of security, i can afford an uncommon brashness when it comes to certain things. i understand the reality that, daily, i must eat and that, in our culture, that means i must make money. but that's where my concern for money ends. i truly don't give a fuck about retirement plans and home-ownership. the less cages i lock myself in to, the better. i prefer the wild ache of artistry and philosophy. i prefer the torture of thinking and living to scrimping and saving. give me pardon if this apparently youthful outlook offends you. i don't mean to attack or jibe. it's only the case that i watched a certain someone plan for their retirement and then die 2 years in to that solitude. i assure you, she would've much rather kept working and kept experiencing the world if she had known what was coming. and so i expect an unexpected death as well. i expect to work right up until that day, like ma mere, louise bourgeois, sculpting in her studio all day long and then dying in her sleep after a full day's work in the studio. let that be me. let that be my end. how sublime. how ecstatic. how necessary! let me move my pen right up til the end. let me dribble one last blot of ink as i suck in that last, rattling breath. i don't plan on letting up until that exact moment... whenever it may find me.
sometimes pleasure and beauty become the most important things. i remember my mother saying in her sickness, "suck every last ounce of joy out of this experience you can, little girl" and i parrot her voice inside my heart every chance i get.
sometimes, i am thoughtless. sometimes, i am no where near as diligent as i should be, as i am capable of being. there was an era of such prolific artistic production in my life not too long ago and i miss it. but today, i went running down Shattuck Ave in Oakland and it occurred to me that i was so prolific because my self-worth depended upon it. the sad fact is that being stuck in a bad relationship has the effect of sapping one's idea of self-worth. i made so much fucking art because i was actively warring against a life that told me i was next-to-nothing. it had been that way for years. and before that relationship too.
but i'm not blaming anyone for my decisions or my mistakes. at this point, i am glad to have walked this particular road. it is the thing that makes me able to look at you and smile. it is the thing that makes my gaze soften with understanding. i look at you with such warmth, such light, such appreciation for every awkward moment, every fantastically beautiful gesture and movement. i look at you and know that i will never have all the information. there is an entire story, an entire life behind you, within you that i know nothing about. there have been such beautiful moments and such horrors. there has been poetry and atrocity all around you. these things, whatever they are, have made you capable of certain actions. these secrets have made you long for certain things. i will not judge you: the same thing is true about me.
i come to realize that i am not a simple human being. i am not difficult either, but i am complex. as such, i gravitate toward complexity. i like complex people. i like complex art. i like complex emotion. i like complex thought. why did i ever think a simple life would be the right life for me? we are taught to pursue certain avenues. it is after going far enough down the dictated path that i reached a primary truth about myself: i don't want a simple life. i never have.
Dec 27, 2012
girl, your voice breaks my heart...
.
the desperation is overwhelming. i know it inside and out. how many years? even as a young girl? how many silly evenings did i spend wishing on the first star for a way out? and now, with no parents to run from, i still identify with this eagerness. i spent too many years inside such hunger.
but now i live in a city. i know how to wait tables. there's nothing to run from these days. i can write poems in the evenings and dream in my lonely hours of hands in my hair, a man that might understand me or, at least, a song like this. i can read whatever terrible philosophy finds me. i can curl up beneath a blanket i made with my own two hands. just me and my crochet hook and a bit of yarn, just like my mama, just like my daddy. where the fuck did those two go? oh yeah, one died and the other decided it wasn't worth the trouble. life. and so i listen to this song and ache. people i haven't seen in a decade leave messages on my phone and my eyes sting with tears. but that was a different life. i'm not that little girl anymore. i'm not a little girl at all. i'm 32 years old. i'm grown. i've been thrown against the wall and come face to face with some shit that was way before its' due. and i'm not mad about it, just please attempt some understanding... i can't be younger than i am. i can't be 32 in certain ways. in certain ways, i'm so much older than that. how old were you when your mother died? did you have a stable job? did you have a spouse? did you lose a spouse? did you have children? were they grown? were they in college? see, when i was in college i was taking care of my dad. he's a quadriplegic. i would go to class and then race home to cook dinner, do the laundry and be a confidant. on the weekends, sometimes, i'd paint pictures that were sold in a gallery in san francisco. people only saw the paintings. they didn't see what went on behind them. i wasn't a good enough artist at that point. i didn't know how to make it apparent. i didn't want to. i've spent alot of years feeling very alone and very ashamed.
but not anymore. and no matter. it's just that i love this song. and while it plays i crave the same shit she sings of... that goddamn ache, that reprieve. just put your hands in my hair, kiss me hard and make me feel like none of this matters, that i am somewhere else...
....
at intervals, i feel like one big gaping wound....
or one big block of ice.
does it matter which? i still need your mouth. i still need your hands. i am still a human being, equipped with all the tawdry longings and secrets that most possess, and i still want a strong arm around my shoulder.
i play the old tunes that our parents put on the stereo when we were children. my heart aches something awful. not for what might have been but for what is. and in spite of how i feel tonight, i love us kids with such ferocity. they don't see it but we have been made so much more beautiful because of what we've come through, dear brother and sister. the task is for us to see it. and then, to believe it.
;)
.
the desperation is overwhelming. i know it inside and out. how many years? even as a young girl? how many silly evenings did i spend wishing on the first star for a way out? and now, with no parents to run from, i still identify with this eagerness. i spent too many years inside such hunger.
but now i live in a city. i know how to wait tables. there's nothing to run from these days. i can write poems in the evenings and dream in my lonely hours of hands in my hair, a man that might understand me or, at least, a song like this. i can read whatever terrible philosophy finds me. i can curl up beneath a blanket i made with my own two hands. just me and my crochet hook and a bit of yarn, just like my mama, just like my daddy. where the fuck did those two go? oh yeah, one died and the other decided it wasn't worth the trouble. life. and so i listen to this song and ache. people i haven't seen in a decade leave messages on my phone and my eyes sting with tears. but that was a different life. i'm not that little girl anymore. i'm not a little girl at all. i'm 32 years old. i'm grown. i've been thrown against the wall and come face to face with some shit that was way before its' due. and i'm not mad about it, just please attempt some understanding... i can't be younger than i am. i can't be 32 in certain ways. in certain ways, i'm so much older than that. how old were you when your mother died? did you have a stable job? did you have a spouse? did you lose a spouse? did you have children? were they grown? were they in college? see, when i was in college i was taking care of my dad. he's a quadriplegic. i would go to class and then race home to cook dinner, do the laundry and be a confidant. on the weekends, sometimes, i'd paint pictures that were sold in a gallery in san francisco. people only saw the paintings. they didn't see what went on behind them. i wasn't a good enough artist at that point. i didn't know how to make it apparent. i didn't want to. i've spent alot of years feeling very alone and very ashamed.
but not anymore. and no matter. it's just that i love this song. and while it plays i crave the same shit she sings of... that goddamn ache, that reprieve. just put your hands in my hair, kiss me hard and make me feel like none of this matters, that i am somewhere else...
....
at intervals, i feel like one big gaping wound....
or one big block of ice.
does it matter which? i still need your mouth. i still need your hands. i am still a human being, equipped with all the tawdry longings and secrets that most possess, and i still want a strong arm around my shoulder.
i play the old tunes that our parents put on the stereo when we were children. my heart aches something awful. not for what might have been but for what is. and in spite of how i feel tonight, i love us kids with such ferocity. they don't see it but we have been made so much more beautiful because of what we've come through, dear brother and sister. the task is for us to see it. and then, to believe it.
;)
.
Sep 23, 2012
east coast west coast pistoletteo: longing: NY rant #2
me and michelangelo pistoletto at MOMA in NY
and SFMOMA just yesterday.
what of my bleeding heart? what of all these dreams? except that i plan to make no excuses for myself. except i plan to make no excuses for my desires and the longing i feel in my fingers to trace the line of foreign hipbones and poems found in used bookstores. my romantic heart will not be made to feel embarrassed. my romantic heart will not accept limits. if they want to laugh, let them laugh. i will take pictures and write poems and paint pictures for you for you for you.
tonight, i am listening to the favorite band of a long ago ex-boyfriend. the one who dashed me to pieces so many years ago. i am able to do this, finally, because of new york and the experiences i had there. the smashing pumpkins were playing in the background as i scratched a man's back, as i smelled his hair and felt his hands.
and now i can't stop listening to this music.
this is what it is to feel connected. even if the connection is fueled by loneliness. this horrible ache. i know i am heard. at such unexpected and beautiful intervals, i am given the sweetest encouragements. finally, i can tolerate being at home. california, i love you and i always will but i need the staten island ferry and the dead pigeons on the sidewalks of the lower east side. i will take my teddy bear with me, the only remaining relic of my childhood, and cross this wide country. i will empty my storage unit of its contents. my mother would tell me, "little girl, you're too sweet! it's only stuff! it's just hunks of wood! give it to the goodwill and get going!" this is her hope chest we're talking about. this is the only reason i have a storage unit in the first place. to keep hold of my mother's possessions while i welcomed quasi-homelessness 7 months ago. and in the stillness of such loneliness, within the chaotic swell of such uncertainty i redacted book-pages and made sweaters and backdrops to pose in front of. scenes that make me out to be a heartbroken whore. and maybe i am a heartbroken whore. maybe we all are. all i know is that, suddenly, i felt understood and connected to my status as Human on a dance floor and in the shadow of the statue of liberty and in the arms of a stranger and in the humidity of manhattan.
somehow, i will return in november. plans are in motion. it is a certainty. until then, i push the paint and pull the stitch. until then, i listen to the smashing pumpkins and dream away of all manner of inappropriate enterprise. until then, i write in my diary and sing a song of rebellion all night long.
Sep 17, 2012
absence
i feel like a begging dog.
Sep 9, 2012
new york rant #1
it's 1 am and i'm in bed with a glass of riesling after meeting up with the crew for a quick round of cocktails. everyone wants to know about new york and what i did with my time there. it's a blurr of fantasy and fascination. i can't tell you what i did because i'm still waiting for my breath to slow and for the earth to stop quaking. all i know is that, now, almost 4 days after returning home i feel so heartsick and stupid for leaving. i have enough in my savings account to make relocating to new york a do-able enterprise. hard, but do-able. i just didn't want to be a dick about it. and besides, i still need to go to Germany. but my heart throbs. i long to return. right now. fuck it. let me buy the ticket and pack up these stacks of books. let me throw some clothes in a bag and give the rest to the Goodwill. what am i sticking around for anyway? because the truth of the matter is that i feel, every second of every day, the weight of death baring down on me and there are precious few reprieves i receive from it's heft. in new york, i started crying angrily at my friend that we needed to pick up the pace, that we needed to walk as fast as we could, that I needed to walk as fast as I could and round as many corners as possible and caress as much pavement as possible and hear as many accents as possible because my mother is dead, died at the ripe old age of 55, a week before her birthday, and ever since i feel the weight of mortality pressing against me. i feel it wrap its eager hand around my throat and i stare at other human beings in disbelief that they seem to think they have time to fucking spare. news flash: there will never be enough time. this is the tragedy of our existence. this is why we make stupid mistakes. this is why we risk all for a chance at the fairy tale. this is why we are bastards to some and angels to others. this is why i write and write and wait and wait, wait for someone to act like they fucking understand one goddamn word coming out of my stupid, impatient mouth. because in two seconds i'll be old. in two seconds i'll be staring my own death in the face. i don't know if, at that moment, i'll care about whether or not i ever traveled or the books i never read, but i sure care right now. i care about dancing and sweating and feeling connected to something larger than myself, to some sort of surging universal passion that might **might** be capable of connecting me to another human being in a way that defies all logic and explanation. is that really out of the question? in new york, on my birthday, i shared such an amazingly beautiful moment with a stranger and i can't define it at all. all i can tell you is that i am rattled. i am rattled in such a way that i'm actually grateful for the pain of intense longing that has resulted. i don't want to be on the pacific coast any more. i want to be back on that beloved ferry, named after my brother, looking at lady liberty and crying silently behind my sunglasses. i can't tell you how emotional it was to see her. i stood on the deck and stared at her green contours and listened to the myriad of languages swirling around me and thought, "can a person really call themself an American without having seen The Statue of Liberty?" and then i thought of my mother who died without ever seeing her, without ever seeing the new york skyline or the famous paintings in MOMA or the wide smile of a happy stranger in a dance club in the lower east side at 4am.
these statements make me seem wild and intense. maybe i am wild and intense. all i know is that i cannot live without passion. i tried and something inside me, something fundamental and necessary, withered to a state of unrecognizable atrophy. finally, that which was stilled has woken up and is gaining strength. i don't care if i make mistakes. i've spent the entirety of my life being "good" and it has only ever amounted to degradation, humiliation and confusion. it has only ever led to self-loathing and the painful dismissal of tightly held dreams. no more. i am unwilling to go that road again. i know where "good" takes me. can "bad" really be that much worse? if redemption exists for me anywhere it is in my art, in my diary, in my words. it is a pity that so few have the stamina to love me and so i traverse this world alone. fuck it. let me know you by your art. you will know me by mine.
a stranger's hand brushed my hair away from my sweaty forehead on a dance floor in new york and my entire life changed. for as complicated as i am sometimes accused of being, it's just that simple.
these statements make me seem wild and intense. maybe i am wild and intense. all i know is that i cannot live without passion. i tried and something inside me, something fundamental and necessary, withered to a state of unrecognizable atrophy. finally, that which was stilled has woken up and is gaining strength. i don't care if i make mistakes. i've spent the entirety of my life being "good" and it has only ever amounted to degradation, humiliation and confusion. it has only ever led to self-loathing and the painful dismissal of tightly held dreams. no more. i am unwilling to go that road again. i know where "good" takes me. can "bad" really be that much worse? if redemption exists for me anywhere it is in my art, in my diary, in my words. it is a pity that so few have the stamina to love me and so i traverse this world alone. fuck it. let me know you by your art. you will know me by mine.
a stranger's hand brushed my hair away from my sweaty forehead on a dance floor in new york and my entire life changed. for as complicated as i am sometimes accused of being, it's just that simple.
Jul 31, 2012
can you see me now?
there are these sudden, unexpected moments when walking down the street that tears begin to sting inside my eyes. there are these sudden, unexpected moments when everything i'm made of wants to come out, wants to rip me in half. sometimes it happens on the train. maybe it is a certain quality of the light, a certain time of day. there are these sudden, unexpected moments of beauty and sudden, unexpected moments of tremendous sadness. in these moments i long to hear my mother's voice. but i have only my own. and i tell myself "don't cry, little girl. don't cry."
listening to pearl jam's "release" this evening for the first time in years, i want to cry. i am alone here in my white room. there is no one to hide from. and besides, i mastered the art of silent crying a long time ago. but i hold myself together. i pause the music. i look at my mother's face inside my memory and instantly look away. there are things i haven't yet learned how to look at without becoming a child again.
i know she would be proud of me. sometimes this knowledge makes such an unspeakable longing quake within me.
listening to pearl jam's "release" this evening for the first time in years, i want to cry. i am alone here in my white room. there is no one to hide from. and besides, i mastered the art of silent crying a long time ago. but i hold myself together. i pause the music. i look at my mother's face inside my memory and instantly look away. there are things i haven't yet learned how to look at without becoming a child again.
i know she would be proud of me. sometimes this knowledge makes such an unspeakable longing quake within me.
Oct 29, 2011
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