“A whisper away from moonrise, the saintly realm of vapor and flesh settles across the grounds of our castle where I, in my hazy memories, once knelt below the pines to bury my late pet mouse, covering the earth in girl tears and monumental agony. And now the flowerbed exhales like a mammal. Isn’t that something? Wild Cascade lily glass blown lamplight. Harvest this fleshly bounty...”
“On the commencing day of this month’s period, as I was digging my nails into my pelvic muscles and rolling my fists at other people’s gods, it occurred to me that each cycle of my bleeding comes with the understanding that I am nearly older than my mother was when she gave birth to me.”
“I’m a ghoul in the street lurching down toward my cave at night. Sarin falls from my sleeves into the grates don’t follow me I will deteriorate your pitiful body from the inside out side of the iron gate is frozen with the chill of an early autumn wind.”
“-Is the meme interpretable? By whom?
-Does the meme read like an Artforum review?
- Is the text annoying you with an extreme, desperate, and inexplicable need for IAE (International Art English), or does it cut to the point and invite you into the humor?”
-Does the meme read like an Artforum review?
- Is the text annoying you with an extreme, desperate, and inexplicable need for IAE (International Art English), or does it cut to the point and invite you into the humor?”
“[And I also wanted to add that you are under no obligation to respond to this but… yeah. Either way, thought I should tell you what I’m feeling. I’ve never been good at hiding it.] Beyond the window, clusters of lemon balm shudder under the City’s August sun and I’d like to put them in my tea and even more I think about pressing them to the swollen unslept veins under my eyes. [Hey do you mind if I FT u back later I’m just… I’m sorry I’m really not feeling well] [Yeah I think I’m going to take a bath…] Loneliness isn’t a result of being alone as much as it’s a result of…”
“It was warm and sweet. It hurt; and in the divinity of the moment I closed my eyes, wanting to be everything. The oxygen left my brain with a whispered “forget this” and the clouds over the night sky kept coasting along with purpose and direction. But I didn’t want to move. When I think back now, I know it didn’t happen in the current version of reality. We paint such grand horizons in our solitude. It was in the illusion of an interlude to my days that I— in the interest of bliss and love—stopped conversing with myself for just a moment.”
The Surrender of Man
powerHouse ArenaArchways 1, November 2019
“I didn’t mind the twisters forming on the horizon, because it never seemed they’d come near enough to destroy me. The few times I’d felt proximity, I’d inexplicably arrived at the eye of the storm. He didn’t remember telling me that he loved me, and neither do I remember being loved. I declined an invitation to the funeral, and got on the ship to cross the ocean before recalling I’d been booked a flight. I whispered to myself that the pain would pass as a dewy petal returning to the earth in the shadow of a break in the trees. How is it that
women never die?...”
women never die?...”
“And not all touches aim to fix. We are forming something anew. I’ve grown my nails so I can brandish them on my lovers; to pass light strokes over their surface out of boredom or to leave gestural trenches of punctured sin. I often confront our seeking of pain during intimacy within the context of a planet so overburdened with sorrow; others, who cannot sleep out of fear of violence, crave a paradise...”
“A white painting, white light: at the end of the tunnel, or death. White is nothing. It is empty space to be filled. But, emptiness is a vast loneliness, expressing nothing, suggesting everything.
White are our canvases. White are the museum walls of our time; unreflective, unobtrusive, they seem unfeeling, but minimize distractions and reinforce focus. But white can be spilled on, destroyed. White invites shadow, exposing a particle of dust floating around the air in this room, where I become hyperaware of my own spectatorship as my presence, perhaps imperceptibly, changes the light. What would the painting look like if I left?...”
White are our canvases. White are the museum walls of our time; unreflective, unobtrusive, they seem unfeeling, but minimize distractions and reinforce focus. But white can be spilled on, destroyed. White invites shadow, exposing a particle of dust floating around the air in this room, where I become hyperaware of my own spectatorship as my presence, perhaps imperceptibly, changes the light. What would the painting look like if I left?...”
“
I only operate above the waterlines, plunging in from above like a bird, expecting to see something or feel something in return.
The lighthouse on Point No Point on the eastern side of the peninsula in Washington State casts a sharp blade of light across the Sound, and on the opposite side, from Mukilteo, where I stand at the top of a hill in my neighborhood, I can see it blink...”
The lighthouse on Point No Point on the eastern side of the peninsula in Washington State casts a sharp blade of light across the Sound, and on the opposite side, from Mukilteo, where I stand at the top of a hill in my neighborhood, I can see it blink...”