Sunday, October 8, 2017

Do You Believe in Magic?, or, Your Belted Hips and Paint Spattered Pants

Dear C,

It has been just over a year since you died.

It is the autumn that reminds me of you the most.

That face, those hands, that laughter and that wild, wild look in your eyes upon learning.
I miss you everyday, and can hear you best as my shoes click upon the pavement.


Sunday, September 10, 2017

The Solitude of Corpses, or, The Depth of the Ocean

There are odd, even embarrassing facts that follow us at times.  Accidental occurrences that instantly expose a truth and/or contradiction of ours that is undeniable.  One of these accidental occurrences is that, every time Miley Cyrus's Adore You comes on somewhere, I think of a person I am surprised I think about so readily. Always. (I know, I know. Where am I that this song is coming on?  It's as if this sliver of pop culture haunts me through the electrical sockets of most buildings.) It's a funny, sad, weird betrayal of heart and mind.  But it's enjoyable all the same.  The truth rises no matter how deep you attempt to bury it.


This weekend has been one of recharging.  Of writing. Of creating. Of friendship. Of late night adventures with people I sort of know. Of revisiting a film that speaks to me in different ways every time I watch it.


I have been thinking about time, lately.  Not in the typical ways of scarcity or big questions of life. Rather and simply, the enjoyment of time.  Even when that enjoyment involves sadness or worry or fear.  There is so much going on in the world.  I want everyone to feel safety and certainty, but I also know that these terms are relative and can instigate so many ugly things. But in a fundamental way, a basic way, I want people to feel these things, and for these things to be true.

be well; be safe


(image: Lush Paintings of Solitary Swimmers by Pedro Covo via genetic-freak Tumblr)

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

A Penny Dropped Into a Puddle of Oil

As the core of the world goes up in flames (literally; figuratively), I am relaxing into things with a functioning box fan and a red bra.

These days have been odd, indeed.

From time to time, I pair myself with someone quite the opposite of me. I like to study their stitching; their routine. I think of it as a form of self restraint- my curiosity peaked by their checks and balances; the way they butter their toast.

It's only a matter of time before I daydream into the more complicated.  I take a bit more time for myself to ride the anchor down to the bottom of this sea. Past the firm handshakes and punctuality; past the sports fans and socially acceptable DUIs.

During my descend, a thousand images of black, blue, purple and a pitch gray.

It is where I find home.

Above, there are the perfect haircuts of the blue eyed, blonde-haired religious children of the corn, all grown up.

Below, there are the perfect haircuts of those sable- and black-haired beauties who study and practice the most dutiful way to shine a boot.

There is a difference, after all,  between one who cums in a surprise and fear of their own body, and one who familiarly taunts you with its peaks.

(image: Betony Vernon The Boudoir Bible via korlaena tumblr)

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Angled Asylum

There is, of course, something to be said of the feeling of a hand clutching the face.  Fingers spread over fingers and eyebrows, a thumb almost touching an ear but failing to. The meat of a hand pressing into your mouth.

There is something to be said about this.

Tell me about the last time you had lipstick spread across your face. Who was the original wear-er, and why, please tell me, was it spread?


Last evening I had eleven minutes before I had to board a train. It was rush hour.  He was in his high towered office that looks over downtown from a middle height. 

"I'll run,"  he said.

He did.

He met me as I sat perched upon a ledge that long outdates most of this city.

"Let me walk you underground."

The thing about rush hour is that, while everyone is running and walking everywhere, no one is running up that winding staircase that has at least five flights of stairs. No. Not when there as escalators. Elevators. This collective laziness and expediency offered stone-stair isolation between the third and fourth flight, and it was only a split second after I turned that sharp corner, that my spine was pressed up against its wall.

Here is to expediency and the pain and pleasure of ninety degree angles.


(image: Florence Henri, Portrait, 1928)

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Upon the Wilderness Quixotic

This morning I woke up in what looks to be a stylized Italian mourning dress.  My make up was still on, but my shoes had disappeared.  There was no drugs involved. No alcohol. Walking past a mirror at 6 AM was both odd and enticing. I showered. No one was there to stop me.  I dressed, quickly, and left while there was still water dripping from the tips of my hair.

I have been lead up to a project that will begin, officially, tonight.  Although its pieces have been falling to me from the sky, found in sandwiches, written on crumpled up pieces of paper I find one the bus: It is tonight that it officially begins.  The air is still in its knowing.

Will you hold my hand as I go on my adventure? I wouldn't ask.  And even if you did make movement to hold it you would find, upon squeezing it, that you had been left holding
a thick rubber hand.


(photograph: This is a photo of Renee Zettle Sterling's Object of Mourning Veil #4. Here is an article about the art of Renee Zettle Sterling)

(To accentuate: From the 2014 display at The Met )

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

On Wondering if You Have Dodged a Bullet or Lost the Love of Your Life

The past few days have involved a lot of dancing, amazing conversations, and wrestling with furniture.   I've been reminded that all of the beautiful and complex minds in my life are exactly what I need at any given moment.  These conversations just continue to affirm that it is best to be who you are- always and boldly- in an unapologetic fashion.

(It's not my concern that you don't understand my gender, my inclinations, my high heels and tie wear.  I see you.  Your widened eyes and quickened pulse, coming at me: a finger fascinated with the blades of a propeller.


Around this time last year, I was in a class learning about oxytocin. This time around, I am a graduate once again and ready for the next step in this dirty-clean forest.  I am both nervous and excited about it.  I look forward to floundering and making atrocious mistakes so that I may get better.  The art of saving face has long since been abandoned:  There is no thrill to it.  Look like an ass for a while.  You'll feel the burn of your face, the beat of your heart, the thrill of the lesson. Save the perfect masks to hang from walls. They simply are not worth the lessons you lose by wearing them.


As per usual when the sun comes out, I am covering myself with the pages of books scribbled with thoughts and prose.

Book wise, I've been reading David Sedaris' newest book and it cracks me the fuck up.  His observations are so stark, accurate and deadpan.  How does he not laugh at his own jokes?  I must study him if only for this reason. (I'm listening to the audio version because he reads it.  I've always loved his cadence and delivery).

I appreciate that the latest book is made up of a series of diary entries from the 70s through the 2000s.  Within his stories, there are threads - single sentences- that breathe the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. He talks about his father getting weird about him drinking out of other people's glasses in a way he isn't with his other siblings. There is no pain in his voice or words- it is stated simple and matter of fact.

 I've been thinking a lot about how the things one witnesses, reports and does day to day can matter in a way one is not aware of in those exact moments. Best to think that everything you do matters. What you are a part of in this moment you can only begin to imagine.

So begin to imagine.

be well; be loved,


(image: via crystal-black-babes tumblr)
(title: slight wink to the embarassing fact that I, admittedly, can't get the Zayn and Taylor Swift song out of my head.  I have been watching this choreography video for the past 3 days and am not stop dancing in the same outfit as the first woman who dances. See it here if you are curious. )

Thursday, June 15, 2017

Girl Loves Me

I've been listening to Bowie's Blackstar in the dark for the past few hours.  Good headphones. A cold room.

Girl Loves Me.


(photo: Catherine Louis via giampixxx tumblr)

Sunday, May 28, 2017

Be Yourself, or, Salt at the Door For The Night Hags

What I've got is that art ignites art.  This is more true than ever, at present.  There is art that, absolutely and without question, actually has a visceral impact on my body. My heart beats quicker, the ideas start storming, I can feel a hot warmth in my throat and upon my chest. 

Tonight things have been good. Really good. So good that you find yourself slightly sunburnt and sitting on a stoop talking about shit that matters. So good that you're up at midnight eating chocolate cake with one of your favorite people in the world and talking about how your heart can't stop beating so fast from the consistency of sound and image brilliance you both just witnessed.


I've been thinking a lot about love and how much it means to mean when people can call each other out and neither of us is too big of a baby to own it.  I love it.  A while and a step back, there were too many people in my life that were too soft for my liking. Too soft to be able to find their legs and stand for what was right or aimed for. Too soft to hear someone tell them Look, man. You're smart, but you gotta act right and stop acting like people owe you shit for your parents being dickheads.  Things like that.

Anyway.  That's in the past now.

Now, it's nice. Talking with people secure enough to love themselves and other people.  Making phone calls to Madrid because why the fuck not? Getting packages from London because sweetness, I'm here for you.  Writing letters to Chicago because, of course I am.

Life can be hilarious in the number of doors it will slam in your face.

Good thing I've always climbed in through the windows.


P.S. I've been listening to Charlamagne tha God's book (the audio version that he narrates), and I am currently living for it on multiple, multiple levels.

(image: Chaim Soutine Red gladiolis, 1910 via lecollecteur tumblr)

Saturday, April 29, 2017

But, Your Honor, My Friends Will Tell You I Wasn't There

Recently, I attended a lecture that revolved largely around Phalaris's brazen bull (the concept of which is illustrated to the left).  The concept is pretty gruesome, but the lecture was incredible and went into the politics of sight, compartmentalization, and the politics of pleasure and pain. It was pretty fascinating to learn about this killing device and how it's aesthetic beauty (the sculpture itself), pleasurable scent (the heat would eventually ignite incense that is kept in the nose of the bull), and pleasurable sound (there were pipes within the bull that would convert a person's screams into music) would sometimes lead people to not know of its function or, perhaps more often, would sway them into willful ignorance of what was happening.

I've been thinking a lot about this concept and some of the things that came up in the lecture quite a bit since attending it.  I'm not quite ready to rehash or to riff on it. For now, and pardon the disgusting pun, I will let it simmer.

[This lecture was based on ideas and research of Timothy Pachirat, Univ of Massachusetts Amherst]