A poem by Rothko.
A poem by Rothko.
everything has come out of nothing, and
we are forever plodding through the
deep and soggy, just looking
for a dry
place to shit
Okay, stop thinking about the ball and listen. These questions you’re asking: Is the Bald Man on the outsides of this here fence, and we are in? Or: Is it us? Are we the ones who are out?
It’s all the same, Squirt.
The truth is there would not even be a Bald Man there, outside us, if there were not at the same time, and already, a Bald Man here, inside us. And were there not a Bald Man in our heads, there would be no Bald Man out beyond that gate and on that grass yonder.
What is outside is in. What is inside is out.
Nothing external matters save that is shows you to your’n own self.
Your relationship with the Bald Man, in all its conflicts and complications, face licks, chest sits, and angry scoldings, dog hunting, rope pulls, and ball throwing, is only there to help you understand your’n own self better.
A photopoem by Kaiya.
A piece on reporting (or not). “I can imagine the kind of traumatic violation of privacy that would result from outing somebody, especially when the stakes are so high, like they are with a Supreme Court nomination and it makes me appreciate what Ford has done even more. I can imagine what it would feel like to hear people doubt you, or worse, to pretend they believe you, but then suggest you might be “mistaken” about the details. I’ve imagined it all week. It would be retraumatizing. It would be absolutely horrible. It would make you want to spit venom and scream and shake with anger. It’s a testament to Blasey Ford’s strength that she remained composed. It’s indictment on Kavanaugh’s character that he didn’t.”
Recently, I went to Israel and performed live a piece I wrote for the MOVING WORDS project for ARTS By The People. Aside from the trip being fantastic for all kinds of personal reasons, I was honored to have the opportunity to debut the animation and perform it live at the 2017 Animix Festival in Tel Aviv.
I don’t think I’ve posted anything on Mother’s Day since my mom died. I don’t feel like verifying this fact, even though I easily could. What I do know is that in the past I’ve felt bitter about this day. I’ve felt bitter about it for reasons that go beyond my mother no longer being here. And maybe the fact that I felt it necessary and good to post something today had something to do with healing. Maybe the fact that I went ahead and took out her letters and her photographs today, scanned some of them in, put some words to page — something “new” — maybe this all has something to do with healing.
If you have read THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION please go to Amazon or Goodreads and review it. It’s Friday afternoon, after all. What better thing to do?!?
I’m not gonna lie, my inspire meter has been resting on “E” for the past few months. My dog brain has been in need of dem bones. Well, last week, I found a big bag of ’em in the form of the distinctly venerable (yet delightfully irreverent) journal, Atticus Review. I’m happy and excited to tell y’all that I’ll be the new Editor-in-Chief of that exceptional wardrobe of words, and it’s got my inspire meter back on the big “F” where it belongs. (#notaeuphemism)