gentle, imperfect, non liner journal observations + ponderings
(& likely some abrasive ones too)
“If it is all poetry, and not just one’s own accomplishment, that carries one from this green and mortal world – that lifts the latch and gives a glimpse into a greater paradise – then perhaps one has the sensibility: a gratitude apart from authorship, a fervor and desire beyond the margins of the self.” – Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook.
~
hanging on
by a thread
the thread is clinging on to another thread
which is attached to a string of spider silk
which is interwoven with a long strand of static human hair
which is intimately tangled with an angel hair spaghetti strand
which is platted delicately to a string of sweet saliva
- the thread is thin my friends.
*
you made me forgot who i was
but, i remember now.
i
remember
now
*
do you think
one day
my ambition will melt away
and i can fold back into the earth
back into myself
and to all that has ever felt real and holy ?
*
the
dusty portals are mapped out
long and echo
cold and dank
but we walk because there is no other way
and she holds my pinky finger only
lightly.
you
were never home,
i just wanted you so badly to be
*
you.
noticed
the way i walked up stairs on tip toes
not sure why that made me feel so seen
as if my impish quirks firmly illustrate the real me
the loud me
silent to the outside world
but roaring obscenely to those who choose to lean in close enough -
ears pricked,
ready to really hear
*
i notice i drink my coffee black in italy
the way i used to in my twenties on rathdowne street
with a man i called my brother for seven years
chalk and cheese
i also find myself running five miles before the sun is even licking, let alone devouring the sky
my lungs assuring me they can in fact work again
(relief!)
isn’t it funny how different lands/timezones/people/spaces create varied versions of self?
or ultimately,
allow us to become a recalibrated entity entirely ?
(i also smoked cigarettes years ago for the two weeks i was in paris and cried / drank an unusual amount during my recent 30 hours in london - and then promptly dropped these behaviors upon returning home)
*
someone asks what star sign i am and before i can answer Carl chimes in -
you’re a sagittarius
how did you know that?
IT’S WRITTEN ALL OVER YOUR FACE
i’m upstate with a group of artists of various ages and from all corners of the world
we move about the 18th century kitchen fluidly and with ease,
roasting vegetables and draining pasta whilst sipping sweet wine
it’s as though we have been doing this dance together for years
the fire is crackling over four different conversations happening all at once
someone is always laughing
a crackle amidst a cackle
Carl has gifted me elderberry syrup and high absorption B12 because we had chatted about herbs and health the day before, and i was a little run down
he says my frequency is, like his, a bit much for this place
i agree
have i been to the Roerich museum?
i haven’t
i must, he says
i tell him i will this week before i leave for europe
Tina is everything i aspire to be when i’m in my sixties
she snuck into my room last night and asked, eyes wide like a child - should we all tell ghost stories?!
i hope i’m still telling ghost stories past midnight in 30 odd years
i’m invited back along the river come summer to go kayaking
Bonnie says i can swim in the river - she doesn’t, because of the geese poop
i tell her i don’t mind
i love a good river swim, poop or not
i bite into a roasted brussel sprout, notably worlds tastier than veggies wrapped in plastic from trader joes
the system will never save us
community will
i am happy in the simple i am i am
soon.
There is a man at 14th st
shirtless
hair wizard white
playing clair de lune on a less than satisfying keyboard
(it seems)
his fingers melt into the scrappy keys anyhow
plodding honey
the music travels up my spine to the nape of my neck, and i shudder
mildly
the way i always do when a moment moves me
is he happy?
will i be like him?
all this talent
white hair
routinely screaming into the void
tap dancing road side
and probably again tomorrow
and the day after that
and the next
shuffling on street corners
does anybody care ?
*
i am going
to grow my hair to my ankles
and make art better than i have
ever before
(even whilst existing in this sometime socital hellscape;
even with constant, ceaseless capitalism nipping at my bare feet constantly)
*
there is a certain kind of magic in airports
and trust me, i would know
as lately i have left and re entered the united states of america that many times in an attempt to adhere to nonsensical bureaucracy all for the sake of a dream that doesn’t make much (if any) sense at all anymore
(!)
anyway, back to the magic(k) -
it is an in-between worlds / place of sorts, where thinking can be loaded and realizations accessed and assessed
a intellectual purgatory? a spiritual holding pen?
emotions helpful, heightened, ponderings a plenty, flowing through me on the concrete floor of the milano lounge
in more than a few hours i’ll be heading back to new york city
i sleep on the cold hard floor with a jacket over me and my suitcase propped up as a craned pillow of sorts, because naturally, i can’t afford an overnight hotel
and everything i dream makes a lot more sense than it does usually
the most restful sleep i’ve had in a while
my spine realigned
when i open my eyes the coffee shop has just re opened and someone has left a small pile of euro at my feet
*
i dance.
we dance
dancing to shift the personal and collective grief
moving my body is the most powerful thing i have, you know?
using the body as art
finding art in the body
it’s currently my most potent personal alchemy
somatic splendor
our practices can shift
our spellcasting shakes
tectonic tender
there is less reverence in the tip of a paintbrush lately and electric vibrations in a pointed toe
or the curve of a spine
unfurling.
i dance to shift this energy
i dance to evoke
i move to speak
(if only to myself)
centuries old secrets i hadn’t fully unearthed are shooting through my finger tips and it is nothing short of exhilarating
*
hey, you can always move to new mexico -
you can always move anywhere
the earth ship takes on residencies
you can change your life with the flick of a dime
a wink of the eye
you can always burn it to the ground and start again
you’ve done it before
and you can again
(and trees are the most patient of souls)
//
how do you make a beautiful life ?
well, i think -
you do what you can with what you’ve got
i know; we should all be naked, eating fruit in the sun and making art, what the actual devil is this place?
(Vali Myers had no money either. Patty and Robert were broke for a long while. Nick Cave wrote his best record whilst collecting unemployment every week)
you keep pouring love out even if you’re unsure where it might end up or if it will even be welcomed
you paint walls if you have them -
with whatever color is enveloping you that month
(my little bedroom glows salmon pink; but, now, cobalt blue is swallowing me up and i want to pour it on all of life head to toe - is anyone else constantly having seasoned love affairs with color? hot and steamy hazy hue)
AND you stay hydrated, as best you can
you go gentle
but hard in your pursuits
because the structure just wants you to slip into line and push till you perish
you are not a machine!
you seek out the joy - a rebellious act
truly.
and try not to wade in the mud for too long
do not numb the pain
(do we need to talk about america and it’s medications?)
let it bleed deep
and then take a long bath
it’s important to be aware, but never consumed
without laughter we have nothing -
nothing !
be grateful for every day you open your eyes and find that your vision remains (even if sometimes hazy - it’s there!)
*
The subway ! the subway ! the subway ! (this week)
small boy with long chocolate hair linking arms with me perched to my right
hello, hi there little friend.
didn’t want to talk, just nestle in
head resting on my arm
instant ease
mother (sister?) guardian of small one - shrugs
thank you
she whispers
before they leave
goodbye
(he squeaks)
without realizing the interaction probably did more for me - i can feel his little arm linked through mine for the next half an hour
i wonder who my nieces and nephews and god children are nestling into
i wonder what will happen when i meet them again after so much time has passed
it has been two years since i have felt the familiar weight of a small one on my hip as i sway, making tea or pottering about
two years since i kissed soft little ears
two years since cubby houses and blanket burritos
two years since lounge room dance parties and craft club
yesterday a baby locked eyes with me on the L train, smiling, and i wept.
i wept.
*
There is a man at 57th
loud and eco drum
take me home
please
someone take me home
he wails
grown man // small boy
people walk on
the carts thunder by
someone please take me home
we ignore, and go on
on we go
everyone just wants to go home
everyone is trying to get home
*
that moon
pulverized me
steam rolled me
or maybe it’s the long covid that sticks to my bones like high grade organic farm honey
(everything always equates to honey)
relentless and impossible
but somehow like a sweet and familiar friend by now ?
anyway, maybe it wasn’t the moon that’s left me in this heap
head aching and body bricks
maybe it was new york city
which lately continually seems to sucker punch me when i’m down and then pumble me some more for good measure
last week someone painting my portrait commented that i was ‘intriguing’ and seemed to have ‘lived such a life so far’
that’s true i suppose, but i feel the opposite lately
languid life
starting from scratch in a new city in my something thirties
bank account, frankly, embarrassing
cheeks becoming more hollow
simple pleasures far from me now
my hair has never felt so dry
and every time it rains i genuinely fear the buildings will collapse in a heap
the way my body does every afternoon before nightfall
Max
says -
TRUTH IS BEAUTY
as he flicks through his archive of romance novel covers he used to illustrate for his bread and butter in the 80’s
he is 93 now with an impeccable, spritely spirit
cheeky, humorous and engaged
still excited
i think this is because he found something he loved early and had the great fortune of it never becoming tiresome or stale
rare.
he tells me his father was a painter and he himself started when he was just two
making the bold mistake of scribbling over a mammoth painting his father had just completed
Max says if i was born earlier i could have been on the cover of one of those novels
i laugh and say that’s an odd thought
as i stare at a buxom beauty folded and at mercy in the huge arms of a blonde, tan man
i’m not sure i fit the brief
i tell him
got any without the men?
Max laughs
he says -
Truth is love
Love is truth
Truth is beauty !
Diane at the Chelsea flea -
(actually I’m not ready to write of that just yet - it’s just between my heart and me)
*
they don’t understand just how well i can disappear
completely.
the myth of normal
the wisdom of trauma
i am very good at listening to the same song on repeat all day
acknowledgement of good outfits to strangers on the street with a passing nod
i watch your eyes dart forward and back as you sort out a tricky thought
you ask me why i’m smiling
and i’m not quite sure
easily amused, i suppose
life of the party, you say
and i smile wider
how absurd
(i’ve been desperate to leave this raucous room for the last two hours at least)
*
i used to have a burning desire to be seen
now all i want is to melt into the shadows
musing by candle light with infrequent visitors
and then the best things happened
all of them
all at once
and i still looked for you in the joy
in corners of the room you weren’t standing
i could still feel you as others clung to me
*
i am so grateful to these women
who welcomed a stranger
and lifted them up
as a virus lingered in my bones
as heart pain dwindled
i am grateful for these souls
- this city
this time
perhaps i would have given it all up by now
had it not been for them
*
dear far away friend,
old, dear forever friend,
friend who knew me before my breasts formed,
friend who knows what i’m thinking before i do,
i’m at the ‘crying because that elderly man looks lonely’ stage of my cycle
but i’m salivating as i watch the next chapter roll in
it develops with ease, like prints in a dark room
(I’m gonna start developing again, did i tell you?)
slowly, slowly, something new is birthing
as always.
i am packing a suitcase yet again
as you know!
and jesus fuck,
i can’t wait to see you
and just BE for a while
(I hope your new couch is comfortable)
x
*