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)