for my cousin, Sarah

Remember the time we, stumbling, brought out Nana's 70th birthday cake (on fire) drunk on a cocktail of disgusting liquors we stole from the adults? Laughed devilishly for hours on the beach because Ann's spoon broke off in our pint of Ben & Jerry's? Our conspiracy tree and all the plans we hatched there? The time in St. Paul when I fell off the front steps (we were dancing and lip-syncing to Billy Joel's "We didn't start the fire", if that wasn't funny enough)? Skipping stones on Lake Seneca? Your curry dinner in New York. Case of You on guitar. Dakota told me my fortune that night while your mother ran her fingers through Ann's hair. We both had the same cursed front teeth. Tried our hands at cello. Blistered our feet on the bottom of Nana's swimming pool year after year. Our laugh is the same even. I recorded myself laughing on accident the other day. It reminded me of you. Our donkey gasps and witch's cackle. Just thinking about it makes me smile.

relief

I must submit myself to living. I've been struggling against it and nothing could be clearer; I'm losing. I question too much, feel too much. just give me a hammer and a nail. some wood. a sleeve that has neither snot nor blood on it. maybe sweat. you can lose yourself in work or find yourself. either of these would mean relief right now.

not the peacock I think I am

I've been lacking Humility lately. It's no wonder my drawings are falling short, my prayer as well. Paul's looking for artwork that poses more questions than it answers; art that looks and listens, keeps its own mouth shut, leaves its images unsolved, searches for a constant despite the wiseacreing of the eyes. An admission of ignorance is, perhaps, simply more honest. Lines that move (on paper) are beautiful in their honesty. They resist self-satisfaction, the fixedness of dogmatism and the false certainty of subjective perspective. I used to take off all my jewelry before entering Khanegah. I wouldn't wear makeup there either. I didn't want adornment. I wanted to come as a babe would come, naked and uncontrived. The more you try to hide your ignorance, the more naked you feel revealed. I keep thinking I can draw my own face and am consistently embarrassed with the results. Is it possible something I've seen/studied almost every day of my life could still hold its mysteries? Yes, of course.

for touching:

I'm a prickle pear. a pineapple. a caterpillar with feelers all extended. I feel everything and you can't stop me. abuse me if you must but feeling I keep on. the fingers of my heart open to receive. chest bleeding. is heaving. my stomach hurts like hell. all is well and I hurt. all is well and I keep keeping. all is well.

touching: your mouth opened. your heart and nothing broke that wasn't built to break. let us not be afraid. release our untouchables. to touch each other. even though they walk our streets disguised as fears. masquerade as our fathers. wreak havoc. set us to spinning. to building. to hiding.

slippers

People say that living with others involves a lot of compromise. I learned recently that living with myself involves compromise too. There's a certain amount of self-acceptance I haven't allowed myself to engage in until now. my faults my particular challenges I've tried to gloss over with faith. I've been looking at faith as a panacea for all my other problems Maybe it's not maybe these have to work themselves out in their own particular spheres of existence. the editor. the analyst. the emotional girl-child the crone my ticking brain and its corresponding muscles and joints. wedges of flesh. bones in dresses and highest heels

all these
the shoes I fill

maybe one day I'll glance down and see only one pair. they'll be encrusted with rubies. that'll be the day I go home.

living itself is a compromise