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 that 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]

Sunday, April 2, 2017

Don't Look Now, or, The Pretty Construction Worker Fumbles His Smooth

Currently, I am a feather floating down to the ground from the heights of an airplane.

And, let me tell you:





Let me say something, here, about the power of being treated right: My body is not on guard 24/7. There is no stress and random bleeding because there doesn't need to be.

There is only sleeping in
and kissing
and fucking
and coffee on a white bedspread in the sunlight on a Sunday morning.


I am currently reading Tragedy: A Tragedy, the play by Will Eno that was suggested to me by uncertain yet talented lips. I am also reading the third book of a trilogy that will not be named. It is an escape. It's not that I am embarrassed. It's that I'm not quite sure I would like to endorse it quite yet. There is, I must say, the satisfying feeling of coming around the bend of the last few chapters of the last book.

Completion, in all of it forms, seems to be a theme in my life as of late.

be well; be loved,


(image via bluesonplanetmars tumblr)

Monday, February 27, 2017

The T-Shirt You Left at My House That Meant Something to You Having to Do With Your Best Friend, or, Cum Rag for My New Lover

Today it is snowing, and my room smells like marjoram which, if you are unfamiliar, could be described as a mix of cedar and citrus and camphor. The window is cracked open, slightly, because I love the feeling of inhaling cold air mixed with this scent. It spreads my lungs open. Makes me feel clean. Open. Limitless.

I am.

Conversations in dark bars about Alfred Kubin and theater and history all the while seeing into each other for once. You have become someone unafraid of your history and that, in itself, is beautiful.

You are.

There is a romance in hearing what we have learned from each other.  In being able to meet each other's eyes before you leave to return to Spain for the last time.

Although the powder has long since been wiped off of your face and replaced by a diligent reader's expression, you will still always have a flair that I recognize.

It is, after all, that of a dandied chimney sweep with eyes as lost as they are penetrating.

be well; be loved,


(image via santgazi tumblr)

Saturday, February 11, 2017

Threatening Thirst and Razor Sharp Wit

This morning I listened to the news and then to a lecture on the Russian Revolution.

There has been a focus, today, that is both falsified and needed.

This afternoon was amazing, in the true sense of the word.  Artists, whom I respect and have admired from afar for years now, were a few feet away from me, making eye contact and shyly shuffling about.  I felt fortunate, beyond words, to be in their private and invited presence.  So different than what it is like to be at an opening of theater or an exhibit. Impressive to study and watch them as they interacted with me and with each other in their true selves.  Acting and directing both remain a mystery to me in their disciplines and art forms.  Incredible to be in such an intimate space with these hands and mouths.

In other news:  Fear.

It is something both  necessary and something needed to be flushed away.

I am not afraid. I have seen to much on the other side to think, for one moment, that there is anything more substantial than a pitiful pile of salt that comprises it. Fear. Step past it. Better yet, step through it. The feeling of its weight as it sheds from  you is exhilarating.

be well; be loved.


(image via pronao tumblr)