[Baby Likes To Pony]

I.

I believe that, at this point, 60% of the classes that I have taken in this program have gone over the ideas of the theater of Brecht.  I am not studying theater or theater history or German arts or anything of the sort. I see his relevance and influence.  I just had no idea how far reaching his influence was.

II.

Today I was in the women's locker room and overheard a young woman about to graduate college telling another young woman about her boyfriend asking her to her high school prom.  She had felt ambushed and odd about it. Evidently, a friend of hers had collaborated with him. Had brought her to a beach where he was hiding in a bush. The following conversation ensued between the two women in the locker room:

-He was hiding in a bush?
-Yeah.  I don't know. He should have told me he was thinking of asking me to prom to see if I was up for it. I don't know. I felt bad. I guess it was kind of expensive for him. Well, the torches were.
-The torches?
-Yeah...he had a bunch of torches lining a walk way. And flower petals. The torches were like 90 dollars.

III.

Do something to interrupt transphobia and the casual bullying of gender non-conforming people. Throwing binary notions of gender out the window actually liberates everyone. Trust me. I have seen this to be true.

IV.

Note to self:

Be careful how much and how often you compliment someone's lipstick and/or uniform.  They will eventually catch onto you.

Note to self:

Let them catch onto you.



k.

(title: I love this phrase. It serves as the name of an underwear company I am still obsessed with. Mostly their harnesses and waspies. Here's one I have been admiring as of late.)
(image: Beauties from the Crazy Horse Cabaret through the lenses of Gaincarlo Botti Paris, 1965 via deshistoiresdemode Tumblr)

The Lamb That I Lay Upon; The Lions That Surround Me

The weather is the kind that makes you not bother to close the windows, to pull the blinds closed, or to put pants on.

There is a second wave of energy that happens close to 9 o'clock at night.  Perhaps closer to 10.

There's been an electricity going through me as of late.

Of ideas, of goals, of archival footage.

I've been letting my hair down. Letting it spill around my shoulders.

I've been doing this with what I slide into these days, as well.

This morning, while sitting in class, I was at peace.

When I am sitting in class, listening to a lecture I could swear was tailored just for me, I am entirely content.

There are no people trying to cough their insecurities out onto me.

What I've noticed is that some people are so quick to try and shoot other people down. If they hear that you are in school, they will interrogate what it is that you study and try and shoot holes in your aims.  If they hear that you know languages, they will try and tell you that you'll never learn it, or that that they were going to learn it but went for a better aim, instead.

It's such an odd reaction.

To try and take the glow away from someone who is excited about something.

To try and discourage someone who is doing something to better themselves and their minds.

I am not looking to gain knowledge so that I can slap everyone in the face with it.

I simply enjoy learning.

And I do think that it is important.

I do think that learning (in life, on a shop floor, in a classroom, from your grandmother, from an overheard conversation on the bus...) matters and has an impact on how we can treat each other in this world, and how we can create changes.

I enjoy learning. 

Histories, stories, movements, struggles, languages, skills, tactics, compassion. 

I'm not aspiring towards a job that will make me want to kill myself

or kill other people.

And I know that, sometimes, the fact that I'm not aspiring towards that kind of life pisses people off.

I'm not sure why.

But it does.

The only thing I am certain of

is that I am not the one that they are mad at. 

(pause)

Be well; be loved; don't let anyone steal your glow.

The trick to becoming good at anything

is to just keep doing it.



k.

(image: via camilleas tumblr)

The Angels That Arrive By The Chances That You Take

Sometimes it is hard to say goodbye to a friend who is moving away.  Sometimes it is harder, or odder to get your mind and heart around, when you know that it is fairly likely you will never see each other again.

It is remeniscent of when you were a child, and a friend's family was moving away which meant, of course, that your friend would be moving away with them.

But in adulthood, this type of goodbye feels more rare.

It's an odd feeling knowing that this person you hang out with every week will not be there anymore, but there is no death involved and there is no falling out.

I appreciate the experiences and the conversations that we had together.  There were a number of them. It will feel sad and good and a part of life.

I'm not sure how to tell you this, but you have moved me.  There is a gentleness underneath your toughness that I can relate to, and that I've needed to be around.

Thank you for bringing me a part of home, and for bringing that part of home around me each time that we hung out.

I love you for that. 

And while I'll miss you, I know that my life feels fuller because you were once here. 

Thank you for that.

Thank you for everything.



My love,

k.



(image: Gregor Gaida via Belazela Tumblr)

Never Tired

The day started out with a discussion of Rodolfo Gonzales' epic poem Yo soy Joaquin at 9:30 in the morning. A political boxer that some would describe as a 'non-poet' (even better).  I was caffeinated. Prepared.  Luis Pérez's El coyote la rebelde (1947) was mixed into a discussion of pachucos and class.

The perspective of "hoodlum" will forever be saturated with class-based residue. Who you think is a hoodlum/bad seed/troubled youth/shady character can easily and simply be someone more loyal than anyone you've ever known in your delicate little life but, instead, you choose to hang a loose frame of BAD around him/her/them/us.

Don't be fooled by what you think you see.

(pause)

In other news:

That wall you're afraid to let drop?

Let it fall.

It's not serving anyone in an honest or sincere way.

After all:

What good is the peach that you cup in your hands

if you are too afraid

to allow your mouth to move towards it?



be well; be loved,

k.


P.S. I've been listening to a decent amount of Childish Gambino, lately, but I've also been stuck reaching back for  Frank Ocean's Thinkin Bout You , lately as well.

(image: Tumblr)
(title: Lyric from Drunk in Love/Beyonce)

Reflections Upon Reflections

A note:

You aren't rummaging through my underwear drawer.

Nor are you reading my diary.

You should know that the words, here, are fiction and non-fiction and magical realism and everything that exists in the in between.

I'm not concerned if you get your feelings hurt, if you are offended, if you become insecure or if something that I have written makes you nervous.

On all fronts:

This arena, in its intention, isn't for you.

It is for me.

If you are looking for secrets and clues, let me be the first to tell you that this is a waylay.

It can also be a trap.

And, yes, as with every designed trap, there is information about its maker.

But be careful of what you choose to see, here.

It is largely

only a mirror

for you

to see yourself.




be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Guinevere Van Seenus by Erik Madigan Heck for Creem Magazine, 2014 via edithshead tumblr)

The Absurdity of Answering "How Was Your Day?" : A Celebration of Undercurrents

I. Above

Waking up, drinking water on a Saturday morning out of town.  The air here smells like cinnamon and eucalyptus; my hair is dripping from having just taken a shower.  The sun is out. There is a breeze that is slight enough that the trees don't bend, but instead, appear to have periodically waving hands.

The past week or so has left me with a sore throat. Not from allergies. Not from being sick. Not from being sad.  It's something else.  Something related to not saying something you should or need to say. No evil secrets, no unsaid horrors. Just simply being able to find your voice in a situation you do, ultimately and very much so, want to be involved in.


(pause)


II. Below

There was a room you always tried to keep me away from.  Each time I would drift towards it in your home- the room off and to the right from your living room- you would intercept me, casually, and lead me away from its door. 

One morning, I pretended to be sleeping. I heard you go into the bathroom, turn on the shower, fumble with and drop the soap.  I got up quickly and walked directly toward that door you kept me away from.

What I saw as I stood in that now opened doorway, seized every bit of oxygen from my lungs; pushed tears to the rims of my eyes, automatically. It is what the body does in terror. 

I took one step inside of the room to take in the obsession.  The seasick dark maps that I saw spread across the walls of your room. 

I couldn't go completely inside of the room. 

I could feel my heart pounding inside of my wrists, my neck, my eyes. 

 The metal squeal of the shower being turned off, behind me.





k.

(image: Dante and Virgile in Hell, detail (1850), William-Adolphe Bouguereau via detailsdetales tumblr)

What's Your Name; Who's Your Daddy?

A long time ago, a friend of mine told me about Henry James and the idea of the delicate.

I've written about it before.

It's something slow.

Complex.

Flickering and soft in its illumination:

The unraveling question of what a favorite fabric feels like against  your skin

instead of the garish flood light of asking how you like to fuck.

The anticipation of touch will always swell into, and create, a thirst so much more artful than the programmed grasps of scarcity.

Take the time to consider the lines on the tips of your fingers

and what they may feel like

tracing a jawline

you have yet to touch.






Be well; be loved,


k.


P.S. If there is something on my mind that needs figuring out, I'll lose myself in dance.

Dancing.  Watching dance. Both. 

Although this song is old, I've been watching this abbreviated clip of the song with choreography by Max Dbk.  It's been fun to play with.  I like that there are a few tiny elements of boxing, crotch grabs and head clutching peppered throughout.  Follow the leader of it. It's pretty fun. You can watch it, here.

(title: from the end of the Miguel song Don't Look Back)
(image: via Mytessia tumblr)

Shit MuthaFucka, MuthaFucka Damn Damn

One of those days where everything seems to be going wrong:  "It's okay." "Breathe."

All of that shit.

At times, days like today are almost funny.  You get to a point where you are tempting the day:  "One more thing and I swear to God I'm going to start screaming and crying and punching strangers in the face!"

But of course you won't.

And of course one more thing happens, just to see if you'll make good on your threat.

Another failure, of sorts.

Instead, I'll just be celebrating the Loser's Victory over here in the center of the city:

Looking hassled and slightly insane, hair askew and wearing an expression on my face that no one could read even if they tried.  It's that expression of total stone that happens when three thousand tears are just under the surface.  Not tears of depression or sadness, just tears of pure frustration and exhaustion of being harassed by some unseen force.

A pause while I smooth my hair, straighten my DUNCE cap, throw my shoulders back and just

keep

on

fucking

going.


be well; be loved,

k.

(title: Part of a song we used to sing on the playground growing up. If you ever want to hear me sing it, just ask. It's horrible and great.)

Crystal Cages That Keep

Black lace and curvature. Half-lit rooms and the smell of incense mixed with camphor.

The way you speak is a dark chord pulled out from your depths, up your throat, and out of your mouth.

Fragile, but full.

Let me tell you something about how you are courting me. If that is, indeed, what you are doing.

It is perfect, and safe, and stretched out, and well timed. There is no pressure.

There are only stories of the childhood back and forth from a gray land to this green-gray one. There is music. There is reserve.

Within this, there is a freedom I feel that is rare. There is the gift of time. To fantasize. To think. To wonder. There is time to piece things together.  To be honest. To let you in, as opposed to dodging the thieves that are always in such an odd, capitalist hurry to know who I am. (So as not to be ashamed, I am certain.)

Here is to those whose least concern is looking a fool.

It provides the very difference

between captured

 and kept.


be well; be loved,

k.

(image via witchesxsabbath tumblr)