October 1, 2016 § Leave a comment
i don’t want my fangs too long.
August 28, 2016 § Leave a comment
Brief 35mm encapsulation of summer. No owed dpi. All of these things are my favorite things.
June 3, 2016 § Leave a comment
lavender in our pits in the pits of our neck
in fingerprints on the third eyes of children
when they pry open all of the trapdoors on
our skulls on an average school day. HOW!?
calm/calm… calm. calm like we’re salt lamp orange
glowing around them and flickering in front of them
once skill and now weeping willow. HOW!?
we’ve licked the salt lamp before turning it off.
avocado pit is a female adam’s apple. HOW!?
eve’s peach sits on her rolling chair…
scoots towards the
19 days… 19 days… 19 days. 18 days…
slough off musty carpet hurt, bed bug dirt, small voice,
big voice, big arms, and stomping feet that escalate from
walking feet. HOW!?
rub our heads on slate
post-shed big arms will hold one frame only
then grip the bed frame bucking a stretch from crown to toe?
HOW!? lavender in the bite and lavender/lavender… lavender.
lavender is how to grow amythest teeth.
zines are gone///new zine projects in works. This year was the most rewarding teaching year of my life.
January 11, 2016 § Leave a comment
I’ve earned these tits
they didn’t breakthrough my glass chest one day
they fatted up with my thoughts and before I could complete
the thought about the man in the jacket smoking a cigar
my hands were full of them
Sitting at Bluestockings
chocolate in my teeth
chest on the floor
I feel my head on your shoulder
this is winter chest. We are surrounded by metal
this is the ____.
Chest at eye level means mother
and so often I get called “mom” that I figure at some point
I must have given birth to something that speaks
and I no longer have two cups of spit,
but I’m a superwoman
with a chest underneath breasts
is like mechanical armor
but I don’t want to scare myself.
I was going to tell you all about Africa
and the sun on my front and the perfume on my collar
and the dirt that collected down my sternum
but David Bowie died today and hugging his records
to my chest and thoughts about
coming into my tits in an age of
once upon an ace bandage and
handover the pushup bra
made me clam
made me feel like I was breathing through his chest.
I walked around in heels today with myself in only one order
and I pressed a chest at the end of the night.
November 15, 2015 § Leave a comment
I last ruminated about Ana Mendieta’s life when I wrote about her work for the Center for Book Arts archive project years ago.
Yesterday I came face to face with this six frame morph of her face and it jump started my admiration and connection to her work again.
– Cuban American
-murdered by husband (?)
– connected to the earth. Her representations through performance, sculpture, and multimedia…make my heart pump faster and the minerals under my tongue swim to my head.
This comes at a time when I really need the strength of women artists around me. Lately I’ve been thinking about the idea of artists protesting art movements. The emotive and vibrant… actively writing letters and boycotting galleries that promote minimalism and movements like dada or Bauhaus.
I’ve been thinking a lot about releasing artifacts of self upon topographical maps that only document the geography of one’s travel from point a to b (as set by artist). On one hand I want to engage in mapmaking as art because maps are faulty and inaccurate simply by escaping scale. On the other hand I wonder if my map has too many surfaces for me to handle right now.
September 24, 2015 § Leave a comment
December 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
from 35mm – toycam (toys r us kids point and shoot with a helluva light leak)
plants with roots getting used to new soil- new pots. bigger pots to give the stems backbones. bigger pots so more branches, more leaves.
new living situation. t&t hold hands towards the same fridge, touch backs, shoulders, and foreheads at night. plug in the christmas lights. drink from the same glasses and breathe in modified BQE air. hail northern brooklyn, a safe hail of headlights through the night panes. my paintings on our walls. friends drawings framed and present. new colors that control mornings. gray and orange, spackled and papered.
drowning in the arms of career. career, careen, carousel. there is a feeling of drowning when an 8 year old is in my arms. there is a feeling of lifting myself up at the end of the day. conversations about racial injustice, the creation of safe communities. these kids are telling me that they are in love with the coco, that shmurda was locked up, that their bunnies and kittens are soft at home. nothing for me is soft at home, but i’m safe at home at that’s embroidered on my diploma, the edge of my flannel collar, the shaved back of my head.
in the summer i put a circle around me. bare feet and whole bodies. we were in a lake, we were under the map of stars. we were drunk on words and buzzed on light. someone held my hand. we watched the moths swarm.
glad to know this, glad to bury myself in the buzz of light.