Beyond Singularity

Let me tell you something.

There are days, like today, where I wake up with a sixth sense of what is going on around me. Electricity in the air. Instinct that goes beyond animal. It becomes celestial.  It's unified field shit.

Quantum physics and the threads of the spider that runs it all.

I wake up with the sensation that I have been fucked well while sleeping.

I wake up with more saliva in my mouth than I should have, and this remains for the rest of the day.

Salivation. Salvation.  Both mixed into one.

Every thought has to do with our barely scratched surface in learning each others bodies and desires.  No matter how long we have known each other. Sometimes it is the slow drip fire that burns deepest.

Is this what scared you? Is this what made you say that you had to end things while your eyes get wet while you trap yourself within your words, then tell me that you love me?  Perhaps.  The process of opening yourself to me - not to just anyone, although I know you have have started to with others in the past~but to me - feels like drowning at first, doesn't it?

Being pushed down beyond the surface of the water with your mouth wide open and gasping- arms and fists and shoulders lashing out in every direction to save yourself- to keep yourself from going under.

Going under.

What you don't know is that there is another world beyond the drown. Past watered lungs and salt stinging hiccups. That if you let yourself go under, if you consent to going under that, beyond, there is a land with cleaner air than your forested body has ever consumed.

A truth and freedom and an encompassing of everything you have ever wished to be free of, or to have held.

What would happen to you if you were to go under, open yourself wide to me, turn yourself inside out, or rather, allow that I turn you inside out before me?

Would you lose yourself?  Would you gain yourself?  Would it be the first time someone has seen all of those filthy dirty beautiful things you have done and seen? Beautiful only and always because they are connected to you.

I can feel your hands tremble in anticipation, in fear, in want.  I see you grip them into fists to steady them. To regain some semblance of self control. But I still feel their trembles.  Fine, millisecond trembles.

Ripples upon the water.

What would happen to you if you were to go under, open yourself wide to me, turn yourself inside out, or rather, allow that I turn you inside out before me?

To be spread upon
and underneath
this undoing sea
you are so endlessly afraid of.



k.


(image: A section of Gerrit van Honthorst's painting, Saint Sebastian, roughly 1623)

In Praise of the Succubus

Surrounded by heaps of warm laundry, curled up on my bed on the first slow night in I can remember.  I love it. Catching up on cleaning, reading, music and a few television shows. It feels like months have gone by since being able to do this.

Today I ventured about the city with a friend to assist in looking for eyeglasses. It was fun. The best company and conversations.  The sun has been out and, along with it, all sorts of familiar and smiling faces.  In the past few days, I've been able to smell the first inklings of spring, and I can't wait.  Just the scent of the earth and the trees make my heart beat faster.

Things are getting back to how they need to be.  I am dreaming more.  There are more familiar and lifelike faces that visit me while I am asleep.

They say that it is through our dreams that we process and digest our days. It is when we subconsciously come up with a plan, and resolve the haze that blocks us from seeing what we need to see.

As things come into view behind my sleeping eyes, so does the world around me.

Here's to the forward-moving steps upon our paths as they come into view.


be well; be loved; be without any tension at all while laying atop a pile of warm laundry on a Saturday night,


k.

(image of a piece by Alberto Burri via unglaubwuerdig tumblr)

I Think About You Everyday

The past few days have been both good and rough: Obsession can be a strange beast.  It can push you into the depths you weren't quite ready for.  This, of course, can be a good thing once you are out of it and not dead.  But it can also be consuming in a way that leaves you gasping for air.

I think about you everyday.

The art that comes out of me is manic.

My eyes stare past people in search of something just beyond my fingertips.

Perhaps placing a small mountain of bowling balls in my lap is the answer.

It will keep me from floating away.

And from falling into the depths that I'm not quite ready for.

Fuck it. Let me be consumed.

If I die, I will find death with my mind being completely and darkly wrapped around you.

Can you feel it?

None of this has ever been by chance.

(pause)

Over the past number of years, when I feel kind of isolated for any number of reasons, I turn to some of the theorists, mentors, social critique-rs, activists and writers that teach, mentor and inspire my mind and my action/behavior in the world.

One of the people who I've learned a lot from over the years in reading her writing and listening to her commentary and analysis is Shaadi Devereaux. I'm thinking of this because, during my day today, I re-listened to some of the Black Girl Dangerous podcasts Shaadi was on.  If you haven't listened to any of the podcasts, I really recommend them. Click here and start with Episode 1 on this playlist.


Be well, be loved.  Know that you are entirely worth loving.

k.


(image: Harald Oscar Sohlberg, Winter Nacht in den Bergen (Winter Night in the Mountains), c. 1901 via le collecteur tumblr)

Take a Breath, Say You Love Me: We Both Know That Everything Changes

 

I could tell you what I need to, but it may take a while.

Sometimes, you make people up in your head. Design them to be sweeter, smarter, kinder, more interesting than they actually are.

Other times, they just really are those things.

I've had a few out of town guests over the past two weeks.  It's been good.

In between the guests, I've been having experiences I've never had before. It feels good.

New.

Deep.

Fast. 

It makes me feel like a person just moving to town. 

I am.

I will be.




be well; be loved,

k.

(image: from iforget tumblr)
(title: From a lyric from Dirty Gold by Angel Haze. I'm listening to it again. You can listen to it here.)

I'd Breathe You In Every Single Day

There's that feeling tonight.

A sweet incense mixed with the air, tonight.

Complex, but not heavy or perfumed.

A boy left a voicemail message for me tonight.  I never replied to a text he had written a few days ago, so he called and said he had thought since he hadn't heard from me that maybe it was because I was offended by a story he had told of how he was awful to his brother as a child.

How he would tease his brother and tell him that "he was gay".

I had to laugh.

I told him that when I was a child, I was trying to poison other children, so he was fine.

I'm not interested, though.

There is something else I am concentrating on.

With my hands in my pockets and my lips slightly parted from looking up towards the sky.

Can you see it?

I can.

The embarassing soundtrack to this plan.



Be well, be loved,


k.

(Women's Hands, 1981, by János Xantus)

This Beautiful Mess

Today has been one of too many vitamins and energy.  It has been one of too many friendly dogs, too much caffeine, and too many vivid memories I am, currently, trying to forget.

This past weekend was the distraction that I needed.  Something middle of the road.  Unnecessary. Undamaging. Unphysical.

I received one of the most beautiful gifts I may have ever received this week, although I am still counting the days to actually- literally- receive it. 

Nothing makes me miss that which I do not want to miss more than sitting across from someone I do not know who, perhaps, wants to know me.

If you get a chance, listen to Nils Frahm's most recent album, Nonkeen, that just came out on the 5th.  Specifically, listen to the song This Beautiful Mess, which is where the title from this blog entry comes from.


Until soon,

k.

(image from roserum tumblr)

Of Course I Saw You Through A Window Decorated With Pink Hearts

Because life can be that literal, and that cruel.


















I love you always and forever.


k.

The Art of Patience, or, How I Pray To Die

It was the kind of  sex that only happens when there has been months and months of want.  The kind where the first kiss, first touch, first stripping of clothes, first pushing into each other all happens in the same night.  The kind where no alcohol is present, because the attraction is bold and brave enough to step forward on its own.

The pull has been grown for months.  It has been seasoned by friendship and newness and learning and the kind of love that doesn't get much voice in this culture.

There was no "moment" before we kissed. Every time we have hung out, my body sings: a low hum of sex. Of vibration.

So not matter what it is that we are talking about: Music or art or life or where we grew up or how we ended up standing on the earth a few feet away from each other in this moment in time, the reverberations were always present.

I had just looked away, down the street. I have been careful not to keep too close of eye contact.  (When I do, your eyes drop down to my mouth and you let them play there for a beat. My heart always quickens, and I'm not sure what to do next. So I look away).

I had just looked away, down the street, but my body was humming.  We were talking about something unmemorable. Mundane.

But as I looked away, your hand clasped the far side of my face and, in one movement, pulled my face to yours. Your fingers slid their weight to my chin, slid under it, and lifted my mouth to yours.  There was no hesitation.

My hands went to the sides of your face, up the back of your hair, down your chest, around your back to your waist, and pulled you into me as if wanting, literally, to push all of your body inside of mine.

Your hands were unhesitant.

Your mouth was unhesitant.

There is, as you know, nothing hotter than earned trust and total confidence.

Here's to those who know the seasoned, deep taste

of a boiling point.



k.

(image via sadviolences Tumblr)

The Timing of Grandeur, or, Fingers Upon Piano Keys

This morning I had to get downtown.

On my way, I was reading the play Don Álvaro o la furze del sino  (by Ángel de Saaverdra, Third Duke of Rivas).  This is an odd and potentially pompous sentence to write.  Here is to the classes that push you to read the most random ass shit that still, somehow, gets your mind to open.

It's amazing how quickly time passes when one is immersed in reading theater.  Some people find it difficult to read and conceptualize, and I get that to an extent.  The stage directions and lighting instructions are fun to try and imagine.  It is never the same as being in the same room with the props and costumes and actors projecting their recited lines but a few feet from you.

Make no mistake:  Reading a play written in the Spanish of 1835, set in that time, is not the most...well...suffice it to say that it is not a quick read, nor is it easy to get the references to culture of that time and place.

All the same: I enjoyed reading it. There are some beautiful lines, and some characters that are, all things considered, relatable.

I found myself wishing that the era of the dual for  honor still existed.

That may be my problem: Perhaps I believe it still does.

(pause)

When I stepped off of the bus, downtown, I took four quick steps, then stopped abruptly.  I realized  I was hearing this song by Erik Satie, the one I have been listening to obsessively for the past few weeks, being piped out into the street from an unseen source.

What an oddly beautiful coincidence.

Instead of hurrying, I just stood to listen.

To let this song from 1893 wrap around me while I stood in the cold, on the sidewalk, downtown, while 2016 and its downtown occupants and trench coats rushed past me.

There is something to be said about the intermingling and influence of centuries.

It is always present, but, today, it felt a bit more magically and tangibly present.


Be well; be loved,


k.

(photo via altcomics tumblr)

The Night I Do Not Sleep

Tonight was the exact level of social that I needed.  Good, smart people with incredible artistic talent.



(pause)



The clouds are your lower lip, now.  I study and watch them throughout my day.  People stop on the sidewalk and follow my gaze because they are convinced that a stare so glorious, so absorbed, could only mean a sight to see.

I don't search for you in the faces of other people.  It seems silly to look so plainly for something so purely celestial.


k.

(image: via oarv tumblr)

Weekend Getaway, or, Don't Tell Me What To Do

"What I mean is that you can taste the blood in your mouth when it happens," he stared at me.

I felt that this should be an excerpt of a much more interesting conversation. I was bored with his shock at dental floss mishaps. I took a breath before I started speaking.

"Okay, here's what I've got for you:

You need to live.  I know you don't want to hear that. I know you're content in your routine of making your own meals every week, hanging your dress shirts around your house and feeding yet ignoring a cat that is obviously in some serious pain, but there is more to this.

THEREIS MORETOTHIS

You love to camp. Go camping. You can do that completely stupid and unfunny thing where you stick a polish sausage in the mac and cheese and pretend your having sex with it. You love the trees.  Get in the car and go see some fucking trees.  The pine, the pitch, the tar, whatever the fuck you call it.

You can tell me all about it.

You can tell me how all you want's a steady fuck.

You can tell me how you're afraid you're too boring.

You probably are.

Who cares?

Just fucking *do* this shit. Get out there and live.

Live or Die: But don't poison everything. Anne Sexton said that.  You know what she decided.

But listen to her, anyway.

Cut the mental cords of your parents. Stop blaming everyone else for your unhappiness.  Just get out there and live.  Balance it out with hiding out, I know you need to, but go dance. Go paint. Go travel. Go find a cabin. Go invite someone to that blood villain mansion whose finger fits into that ring you want to give her.

And therein lies your steady fuck.

Do you see what I'm saying, here?"

He was silent.

Either thoughtful or murderous, I could not tell.




-k.

(photo: Ling Tan photographed by Peter Linbergh for Vogue Italia, Dec 2003)

The Art of Auto-Asphyxiation

Pt 1: A List of What is True

1) Dancing until I almost throw up is therapeutic.

2) My friends save my life with who they are and how they love.

3) There are some things in life you will never get over.

4) I can be in love with someone and the only thing allowed to say so is my eyes, and theirs in return.

5) I am in my favorite place of creating as of late. It is somewhere between insanity and movement.

6) There is a release in being able to lose everything.  The things that come to the surface are more incredible than anything you thought you had lost.



Pt 2: Diary of the Untraceable

We hang out all of the time, but don't look into each other's eyes.

The other day, I looked. And smiled. It may have been too much. We both quickly turned to look out ahead of us as we walked.





Upon the razor we dance,

k.

(image: via sadviolences tumblr)