My spirituality is a big deal to me, it ripples into my wrists and then blooms, blue. I want God on both sides of me, everywhere, unsightly, pushing envelopes into my hands, brutalizing, recovery. To devotion, I give my “I” - my ego, secrets, obsession with making myself severely unavailable by manufacturing mystery...
The sun stands still again. On June 24th last year, I tweeted: “The world will not succeed in disrupting my craft” 13 likes. Even the angels were trembling then. At age twenty-six, most feels new!
The summer hit so early this year, every weekend night I spend six hours waffling on the perch between sweat and chill and then the morning pulls me to my feet and I find myself walking down a mist-laden corridor with two horses beside me. One black stallion, one dappled pony. Hope everyone's enjoying this indulgent hagiography of a website
Caved and bought $64 worth of Soylent! Definitively taking note of how a follicular lack of appetite continues to gnaw even when my hormones are quiet and doing something preparatory about it. The smooth and low level of progesterone makes me forgetful.
Spending this week feeling EMBARRASSED! of my HUMANITY! and ALL! THE! WAYS! IN! WHICH! I HAVE BEEN! CHANGED! BY OTHERS! My PERMEABILITY! MUTABILITY! GEMINI!
It pains me to bear another's witness of me - the secret of change: hidden until seen. These moments I've been having, my new shape spilling onto the floor, me trying to pull my organs back inside without anyone seeing. Like where the red fern grows, Old Dan and Little Ann soaring through the Ozarks, sliced open by prey. Literally, God, please give me the strength to more authentically enter the playground of the world and please let me be accompanied by the people who deserve to be there with me.
Staring ambiently into my paintings while I protect my loneliness. Ate a lemon square at Asaad's house - they handed me such a beautiful, shimmering blue plate, dusted with powdered sugar and cardamom and flakes of salt.
The whole operation of crying has turned over; responsorial, face-level weeping -> exhalation of grief stored in the chest. What is next? It's not mine to worry about but that's a choice. The less I control how I express, the more I'm able to freely paddle through the sea of any given emotion, and it through me.