I spent yesterday in New York City. It was my last city stomp during this particular trip. My sister took me to the MoMA where I stood in front of the kind of art that brings tears to your eyes for uncertain reasons that make you appreciate living in a different way. Hopefully one day my work will be affecting people like that. Thought provokable emotional overwhelmingness set off by how I paint our world with words… what more could a girl ask for?
At this stage… possibly a ten spot.
My parents left for a trip a few days ago and I have had the house to myself. As if being locked away from life for four months hasn’t been artistically and psychologically confronting enough, how about we top off the end of the trip in utter isolation… they return tomorrow.
I’m someone that requires company… that’s what happens when you grow up in a house with seven people. I’m not someone that requires constant attention or idle chitchat… ordinarily I can be soothed by the simple sound of a record playing by a distant companion somewhere under the same roof.
The only time I lived alone was when I lived in Manhattan. And to me that doesn’t constitute as living alone because as soon as you step outside your door you have ten million friends to play with…
I have a bad habit of not taking care of myself when no one is around, like something slips away.
An ocean misleads my devotion’s depth,
immeasurable murmurs in the darkness.
Unexplored caverns. Still. Awaiting yet
to illuminate the welcome of best.
A natural patience accompanies
harp music confidence. Sweet melody.
Ancient loyalty. Roots of redwood trees.
Other admirers don’t equal me.
A jealous current flows not in my blood.
My ego’s unlearned ways of competing.
Belief in better, a previous flood
drowning out risk of potential beating.
Love isn’t about expressing what’s known.
Acceptance of being mutually owned.