The Water I Pour Over Me

 

I recently read a book of love poems written by Bertolt Brecht. 

They were not very good. 

There was one that was okay.

 I will put it, here:

 

When I Left You, Afterwards...

 

When I left you, afterwards

On that great today

I saw nothing, when I began

To see, but gaiety.

 

Since that evening, that hour

You know the one I mean

Livelier is my stride and more

Beautiful this mouth of mine.

Greener are, now that I feel,

Meadow, bush and tree,

The water is more lovely cool

That I pour over me. 

 

 --Bertolt Brecht (I don't know the specific year)

You see what I mean.  It's okay. I like the last two lines.

In other news, I have been having that particular stripe of gender dysphoria, again. That kind that leaves me dressed in roughly a three piece suit, but with my fingers painted a bright, popsicle red-orange and the tiniest strawberry decal on my left index finger. Tie wear and thigh harnesses. 

It is springtime, but there will forever be the quasi-uniformed femmey boy who occupies my genders. 

be well; be loved,

k.

(Image: Pierre Molinier, Sans titre 1960, via fiac tumblr)

(Title: Line of the aforementioned Brecht poem that was okay.)

Only Lovers Left Alive

In the sun in a black sweater, surrounded by paints.  I'm working on this 12 painting art piece (12 because one for each month and because they are 2 inch by 2 inch paintings) for my friend Elise that lives far away.  It is for her birthday, even though her birthday was in October. I'm into how it's turning out so far.  She's someone who has had a really positive influence on me- just in who she is and how she lives her life.  I met her some ten plus years ago while we were both organizing with/for a domestic violence and sexual assault organization. Raising money to build their transitional housing, to be exact.  She's someone that's always felt like a kindred spirit, somehow.  Like I've known her in a different life or something. In any case, it feels good to almost be done with this piece for her.  In the past I've been sheepish to tell her about her influence.  Fuck that. Life is too short for that crap.  I know that already, but for some reason have still felt sheepish with her. She's a good mom. A good artist. A good organizer. A good person. I look forward to writing the letter that will be sent along with this.

(pause)

Lately I've been thinking a lot about learning and about love.  I've been reading a lot. Getting stuff in order to start school (again). After being so social while out of state, I've found myself choosing to spend a lot of time by myself-  getting lost in all of the good ways. Trying to balance out getting lost in lesson with engaging in the world around me.

There is some trust that is earned. And there is some trust that just is.

I'm not sure why I trust her to do what's right. I just do.

It's the reverse engineered something of the trust that Bourdain speaks of when describing a casual but automatic level of trust that was bestowed upon him by a guy who ended up being influential in his life:

I was so shaken by his baseless trust in me- that such a cynical bastard (...) would make such a gesture- that I determined I'd sooner gnaw my own fingers off, gouge my eyes out with a shellfish fork and run naked down Seventh Avenue than ever betray that trust.




Be well; be loved,

k.
(Title, of course, from the vampire movie of the same name set and filmed in Detroit.)
(image Natura Morta- Serie B -XI (after Man Ray) Giovanni Maria Sacco via tumblr via artlimited.net)

Motherwell: An Exercise in Art and Practice

This evening at 9:51pm, an email popped up in my inbox I had been waiting for. This isn't to say that anyone had said it would actually be sent, or that I knew who it would come from, exactly, but yet, in the less-than-seven-days that I really, truly hoped it would come in - there it was.

At 9:51pm no less.

I can't express the relief I felt and feel.  A person you don't even know with the information you need falling, like some weird and strategic feather, into your accidentally open and outstretched palm when you need it most.

Talk about manifesting.

I am grateful, thankful, relieved and ready.  A determined and quick study.  I had been wondering why I wasn't sweating it, but something told me just to be patient.

And then?

There is was. 

 (pause)

Piece by piece by piece.

Something is happening.

It is the most satisfying feeling to feel its electricity going through me.

(pause)

There is something to be said about being open.

There is something to be said about putting pain where its place is.

Tell me:

When is the last time you cried yourself to sleep

in the arms of someone

who is still here?





Be well; be loved,

k.

(image credit: Open #23, 1968 by Robert Motherwell (1915-1991) via giamvixxx tumblr.)

Open That Pea Coat and Show Me What Will Get You Arrested

Here I am: Reporting live from underneath a light bulb with my tongue slightly scalded by hot chocolate.  I've been painting most of the evening.  I'm not sure what all of this is about.  It's not my usual medium, but I'm going to go with it.

(I painted my first boob tonight.  Although I have drawn many a boob in the margins of note taking in high school and into college classes, I have never painted one.  It was not from a model or anything. My imagination. So of course it is a bit unrealistic.  I don't care.  It's my first boob. It's pretty hot in that "oh this is art, I'm not suppose to say that" type way. HOT.)

Moving on.

I've been feeling pretty internal as of late.  Focusing in on art and psychic shit.  Sure, at this rate I'll end up living in the street and talking to myself but I'm fine with that. I feel like this is the month that I should be "setting goals" and things of that nature but, frankly, I'm content with watering my plants, fucking who I want, and getting way the fuck too into Jean Genet's sailor shit again.

(Pause to take in the photo, above.  Genet's sailor shit, again.)

In addition, I've been watching way too much ¿Quién mató a Patricia Soler? I can't help it. I justify it as language study (it IS!) and end up getting way too wrapped up in the plot.  I mean, can you imagine not being able to tell your children that they are your children because you've been in prison for 16 years for a murder you didn't commit? It's all totally relatable.

Okay. That's all for today.  I'm a bit obsessed with paint and with grape flavored gum.

Obviously I need to exorcise these demons out of me.

Be well; Be loved,


k.


(photo credit: I can't recall. I swiped it from Tumblr. I'm usually so good about this.  I was distracted by the hot faggots.)