I wrote this last week when i could not sleep because Erik was not home.
Its all cashmere and lace
dotting in and out
Cotton thread, 500 thread count. You feel it on your skin and the brush of cloth is the feel on your shoulders. Its all this weight that I'm counting, i want to be blind but there is not point. I am so far from numb, the ocean feels like home.
I have seen death, like i will see others. I am fearful
it has worked.
Every November, like November is coming so soon. You impacted me like you will never know.
I am up again, your soft 500 count thread body is not with me, i am REST. LESS . In the most immanent sense. My fingertips hurt from all these stitches Ive sown. My body aches
my brain bakes, from all the hot mess in there.
My tongue remembers you taste. You were a one time occurrence, but a long lasting thought.
Interlocking tongues, black light. Sometimes my youth seems so strong a feeling.
I never left i am only pretending to be an adult.
These sheets only hold me, not like you can, these strong emotions Ive lost.
I'm scared there will never be enough. I will never satisfy. I am effectively fertile there are pills now and reality slips again, 100 years and we will all be dead.
I am not ready.
My Schwinn glides down the road and i headed everywhere. And I'm sad i never did mushrooms and i think i should read out loud more.
I need a strong drink and two warm arms. I need to regain a childhood. Always trying to cover lost ground, never reaching past step 1.
Its a failure to communicate and the homeless shake the cup. A few coins, cover your eyes when you die. All this shit ties up the sleep.
Its pathetic I'm restless I'm homeless I'm strong and educated. I'm laughing. Its ridiculous. I'm in love again, i think this time for good.
I pass yellow flowers everyday that reach out further all the time from the ground. Its always shady on maple ave.
I don't know why, but it wells inside me and i cannot stop the feeling of taking one giant breathe before you leap. I have been standing for so long i miss the soft cushion of childhood. Everything feels so overwhelmingly real, i always want to cry.
Music makes me feel more than art can, i love to cry about the greatest things,
I'm never going to have any of myself back. I will never stop and we all have to go forward till we die like the saw on a machine that only cuts one way until the job is finished.
I am tired.
Monday, September 20, 2010
I am doing a small scale installation in my studio, here are some photos from the first stage. Im not sure where it is going for sure, but you can bet it will be interesting. The writing on the red paper on the floor says:
"I never seem to really sleep, never really rest, the only reason my head does not hit my pillow, is "The Holy Trinity", of Tea, Coffee, and Redbull. All tied up together by the almighty caffeine Goddess. She oversees all my productivity, all my inspiration, all my passion."
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Like love, all my best, most beautiful works of art are craft out of sadness, out of pain. What a horrible sense of humor this all has. Such beauty and rich color comes from the moments that are the worst. I feel i must warn, look before you leap. The violins play and I am standing in deep waters, murky, right before I am born this is where i am. Jumping and growling at the waves that throw me towards the shores. Blur the distinction between sky, earth, water, and its all deep Prussian blue. The stars swirl and your numb to the great above. Right before i am birthed the sand beneath my feet sinks between the earth and myself and I feel cruelly connected to this. I feel the ache to warn, look at the waves for as long as possible, before you leave the shore. This beauty is cruel.