I. Writing; an act of stroking paper.
4 October 2018, Oakland, CA
II. The aggressiveness of buying and selling resistance, as seen on TV, makes me wanna disassociate.
self-portrait in Wave by Pirkle Jones, 1952, gelatin silver print [Oakland Museum of California]
III. Competitions of sadness are trauma tiers.
PUBLIC NOTICE, 14 September 2018, Oakland, CA
It’s ok that I don’t fit in she says.
27 April 2018, San Francisco, CA
V. If I write a word today, just one, that must be enough.
“The shutters were stuck. Then I grew absent minded.” Des Moines Register, Iowa, July 3, 1938
stretching beyond monetary value: this is more freedom than security can buy
if I wake up open to what will unfold
I am ready to claim I had a good day
specific as memories stored in the creases of expanding curves
& still I rescue myself when hope feels violent as an open hand
where fortune’s fault line is externalized validation
nested into dreams of trying to get somewhere
my body craves stillness
I press the coffee before anything begins
remember when we took turns burning wishes into the folds of our stomachs?
it was the safest place we could think of
no one dared touch us
I heard you took my name
and sewed it into your eyelids
stitches fragile as trusting strangers & friends
an exquisite waltz like light shining in distant flat darkness
Martin Wittfooth, The Ecstasy
all this absence, in the space of starting over, forms my backbone
i wish i could claim something useful here, like emotional resilience
or self-efficacy managed beyond the flutter of obscene distractions
structurally, skin has the capacity to absorb 1000 strikes soft as fur
before bruising, blue then purple then finally breaking open red
bold as light leaks found in the silenced literacy of family photos
this spread of truth tight and shallow in surrendering
Did our information channels cross? What did you see?
I saw acceptance as evolution or, for some, defeat.
Our blended memories equal parts resistance.
These metaphors really are literal representations.
Over strong coffee and homemade kuchen he said,
America does not have a culture of grief.
For some, this is our language, stories, solutions.
There is nothing in this city that is soft.
Nothing but words that flow from behind your teeth
and the background rhythm of your always working heart.
Working all sides of the angle honors a process.
All conversations end unless you want to move forward.
Value silence found around figurative positions.
The screen read:
baptized by boundaries.
I looked for dignity after that simple interaction.
Theories, as perception, in parsimony and in exhale.
artist: Kourtney Roy
underneath the ocean
a quiet roars
we all have an edge
soft margins with sharp centers
fiercely contoured boundaries
we sanction ourselves
we insist love is provocative
as we make our homes museums
every day and every night a tender eve
books left marked to forever hold place
Let every kiss hit the body / like a season. – Ocean Vuong,
A Little Closer to the Edge
sun patterns become cloud covers artist: Mary Abbott
we react as resistance
we are born again in times of violence
flash moments designed as destiny
patterns worn translucent
soft and hard (but never loose)
when the middle shifts
the center sways
She told me she cut her hair short:
she “didn’t want to look corporate”
I faced west.
You laughed softly
off to the side
watching me embrace myself.