Burst Forth: A Symphony of Citrus

The excitement and shade of it all...

2016 comes to a close.

And while it was a suck hole of a year, I still can say:

I am happier, healthier, having more fun, feeling more content, more committed, more loved, more held, more able, more excited, more blessed, more fabulous, and more generous, more adventurous, and more connected than ever before.

The things I decided to change at the beginning of 2016 I hunkered down, stuck to, and changed.

The things I set to achieve in the beginning of 2016 have come to fruition times a thousand.

It feels good.

While there are plenty of reasons to mourn, rage, and organize on both personal and political levels, I'm going to keep this entry to a particular and needed personal note.

Said simply:

Set what is your true heart's desire within your frame of vision.

Even if it's only in your mind.

Especially if it's only in your mind.

Pay attention.

Take risks.

The universe will conspire to assist you.

To lift you.


Typing from high atop a mountain I never realized existed at this time last year,

until I dreamt  of it,


k.

(image: Shyloh Wilkinson by Matthew Pandolfe via endarkenment tumblr)

Always

...she interrupted him with a sympathetic but firm smile: "That's hardly relevant now and, besides, my time is not like this piece of chewing-gum." Muriel was completely taken aback (as well as somewhat in awe of this attractive, elegant, educated woman, who was, of course, very well dressed), because there was no chewing-gum in sight, not even an empty packet on the desk or the merest whiff of mint or strawberry.  True, the office was so pleasant and so highly perfumed that no other odour could possibly have survived, and at first, Muriel felt as if he were floating helplessly in the air, drunk or even drugged. 

-Javier Marías, Thus Bad Begins

This year I  have managed to dodge any loud build up to this day. I find myself left typing at a kitchen table with the periodic spattering sound of a hanging plant that is dripping excess water onto a lovingly placed towel on the floor. Things have been busy and warm as of late, and I have about twenty minutes before the whirl begins again: I am steam and eucalyptus and ready for all of it.

I am thinking of you.  

Even in the most official and uniformed sense: How could I not? 

It isn't often that the mirror reflects back the eyes of another, and it is these types of intricacies that are no longer something I would wish to rid myself of.

Be well; be loved,

k.

(excerpt from the new Marías book. English version released November 2016. We shall see. This British spelling of things always trips me up, but admittedly charms me.)

Fountainhead

If I could tell you anything, I would tell you everything.  It sounds grandiose, I know, but it is as true as the colors of the flecks that are hidden deep within your eyes. 

I see them, you know.

I could draw them for you.  

It would embarrass as much as it would flatter you. 

The other evening, I was walking down the street of a small town I'm not too familiar with.  There was slight ice and the smell of frozen grass.  I wondered what it must have been like for you as a child growing up amidst apple orchards with such rotten parents.

k.
(image via cucarachaa tumblr)

Do You Believe in Magic?

It is cold, tonight. Peppermint tea and sweaters aren't cutting it. The hum of fluorescents only amplify this fact in a space as large and open as a warehouse.

I've been thinking of Chaya as of late.  Missing her. I want to get all zen about everything and act like we are all part of the same energy, Chaya isn't actually gone, she was never here, blah blah blah, but I just can't. I miss our conversations. I miss the hilarity. I miss the red lipstick and red knee highs. I miss the fact that we were two loud and laddish lady boys who took chances and risks that we knew we would always be blamed for.  Why not do what the fuck we want when we are going to be woman hated for it anyway?  Why not do what the fuck we want when we are going to be man undermined in it anyway?

And so we did.

And that is one of the spaces I miss her in. The black lace lingerie of one forever perceived as the mistress.  The other woman.  The harlot. The unmarried artist.  The untrustable. The brilliant. The naive. The tomboy. The adventurer.  The maniac.  The psycho.  The obsessive. The spontaneous. The shining. The counselor. The sprite. The bad ass.  The intimidating. The entire. The uncatchable. The untethered. The elusive. The vaporous. The gone.

I love you. In red motorcycle pants. In gold fingernail polish. In the aisles of thrift stores. In the tea room in that seedy spa we would find ourselves at from time to time.

I know you are all around, but, I just need you to know that here, tonight, sitting at this desk and typing out what will never really end, that, I love you.

I love you.



k.

(image: Yohji Yamamoto A/W2009 via
witches sabbath tumblr)