Twenty years ago she was sitting on his lap in the backyard of someone’s dream. Summertime in Denver. The lady in his life, the only one he told himself for years in forlorn echoes. She wore boyfriend jeans and a white tank top, skinny from last night’s cocaine party and breakfast diet soda. Yellow glasses confused her sullen eyes for sassy. She painted paintings of a one day cat standing in the threshold of a dilapidated church. She wore flapper hats, capri pants with character prints, polka dot socks. She claimed she was sad and couldn’t bear her sadness in the presence of others. Her sadness needed to be contained in a desert bubble. Her sadness was too big and grew bigger five years later in New York where streets were doused in glum. She caught the last plane and left. I hate it when people pee on the seat she’d say with chirpy disdain, her long fingers running through my boyfriend’s hair. He said every man would fall in love with her because she was exactly the kind of woman every man wanted to fall in love with. Even Beck he said, Beck would instantly fall in love with her. Charismatic without being obnoxious, maternal without being motherly, creative without being arrogant, smart without being pretentious, funny without being goofy, cynical without intense souring. Let’s wake up tomorrow and do yoga. Later she would do yoga in front of people looking to do yoga in front of other people. She would asana up and down and in between those looking for Yogic answers. They would listen of course. She was the real deal. She had been through cocaine addiction, breakups, fear of death and after parties. Recently this happened. She sent a heartbreak email to a girl who wasn’t part of the heartbreak. The girl, realizing the email wasn't for her, quickly scanned the email without taking in too much of the content. She read the email not unlike she would read the ingredients to her favorite container of chocolate marshmallow ice cream. Milk, eggs, cocoa, sugar. etc.. Considering her experience with yoga and people of yoga who supposedly take in reality and the situations of reality fully, without judgement, with non-attached ownership of information, she replied to this accidental sending of an email with an apology. This wasn’t for you. Please disregard. There was no need to explain. She was going through a breakup and she sent an email defining her feelings about the breakup addressing the person who was also part of the breakup. His name was Larry. She wasn’t sure about Larry, but Larry would always be sure about her. End of story.
Unpresidented with PWNW
Tonight I'll be participating (through words, digital pictures and psithurism) at PWNW for the Bad and Nasty movement alongside a marathon evening of performance featuring acts of protest, resistance, resilience and community building by 25+ artists. Artist slate includes Pepper Pepper, Anthony Hudson/Carla Rossi, Button Will, claire barrera, Kiel Moton, Linda Austin, Tamara Lynne, Tere Mathern, Jin Camou, Meg McHutchison, Katie Piatt, Cyndy Chan, Weird Allan Kaprow, Mike Treffehn/I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS, Danielle Ross, Anna Vo, Honey LeFleur/Erin Nilles, Roland Dahwen Wu, and more! All funds raised go to support local nonprofits Q Center, Don’t Shoot Portland and El Programa Hispano. Hope to see you there. Hope to see you there. INVITE HERE
Tuesday 9:04 pm
Chocolate tea and thumb drives filled with father's MP4s.
Ganesh supposedly cleared obstacles by sweeping the kitchen floor and cooking dinner. Gluten free. Meat free. Sugar free.
The eyes need rubbing.
Tomorrow's book club with five Oregonian ladies. A discussion of To The Lighthouse over wine.
My whiteness may blind me.
The terror of taxes and unpaid medical bills.
There is everything in nothing, but the nothing feels more like nothing and not enough of everything.
We wait for summer fireworks to bark at dogs and shit on cats.
I am not. I am.
