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)

Thursday, February 2, 2017

Road Ends Getting Nearer / We Cover Distance Still Not Together

It was me on that road, but you couldn't see me

There is a depth associated with childhood that I tend not to bathe into. It is all consuming. It is dark.  But it is also creative.  It is being cold and hungry and rocking back and forth and not realizing that there was anything wrong with this until one day, your friend's mother reprimands her for starting to rock as well.


Last night a tiger paced in front of the building I was in.  Slow, short paces. Impatient, but disguised friendly. Destructive but cloaked in cotton.  Its head as it paced was the lull of an infinity symbol. (If you've ever seen it, it is the swaying of the tiger's head as it rips a man apart.)


For a few years, I was in a fairy tale. Something of Cinderella. Something of Hansel and Gretel. The woods around me had no leaves. The paths within them had no end.

and then flashlights 
and explosions

be well; be loved,

(title and italicized words from Röyksopp's song What Else is There?)
(whimage: Fei Fei Sun photographed by Josh Olins for Vogue China November 2011 via pradaphne tumblr)