metaphor (saturday)

the thought of her hung over us the entire night, a cloud that eventually darkened and rained.

i made a postsecret last night

it really helped me say some things that i couldn't say to myself so thank you, frank, for all that you do.

i haven't really been artmaking/artgestating lately, have i? some artists receive their greatest inspiration in moments of physical and emotional disquiet, but i am not one of them. i need to learn how to be silent again. to lie on my bed and think more, dream more, care more. soon, i promise, soon. this bodes to be a very sad winter. a pablo neruda and sweaters kind of winter, to be exact.

when in doubt

investigate how other cultures address issues of sexual fluidity and difference.

it happened like this

they hadn't spoken in weeks. then he promised he would see her before he left. she knew that the bus leaving the country departed at noon. she didn't know where he was. at 11:45 she sat at the base of the clock tower overlooking the stretch of hill waiting for her phone to ring. at 12:05 she wrapped herself in a sweater, walked to the nearest tattoo parlor, and asked how much it would cost to have the broken half of a whole inscribed into her upper arm.