A poem by Rothko.
A poem by Kaiya.
Before there was a you, or even a me, there was a Honey, Squirt She taught me how to dog, she even taught the Bald Man how to human I didn't realize they knew her here I reckon this is some kind of monument
We once had a dirt and a grass, but we have exchanged it for a concrete, and it's good, and it's of no consequence. I'll chase a ball fast and treat a concrete as if it had give like a mud, and I'll cut left and right and break hard until my carpal pads tear and...
A poem by Rothko.
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)