6:50

I have barely been sleeping, but when I do my vision is in an unimaginable shape with new ideas and forms of people that come from some desire I have not yet spoken to. There are things that exist inside of me that I do not know, that I call darkness because of its understood presence but vague body, layered beneath the light and clotted with my old, useless memories. Everything that I do not want to see comes from there with some grotesque mask and when I speak to my lover I want to put my index fingers in his mouth and tear off his skin, find what is underneath.

He has been calling me insane and perhaps I am. I thought I would be excited for winter on the east coast, but the sequined snow is the only elegance in this town and I let it run through my small fingers, slide in the space between my breasts. I miss New York but I love my sister and last Saturday I heard the birds outside the kitchen window singing. I could lose my modernity, my comfort, but if the birds did not come back for spring I know I would die. I am proud that they can survive beneath our wires to make nests in the corners of our gray buildings.  I am so weak that I struggle to keep my eyes open in the cold breezes.

I may not have much love (that is a lie I am full of it) but I have nature and art and beauty and poetry and I feel that is enough. I pack it in my broken mind like cement, plant words in the unnatural soil. 

I am struggling with accepting the work I have created which begs to be very modern, full of unrestrained lines and different genders, murder, shedding limbs. It is graceful and comes from a desire to evolve my surroundings. As a culture we need new experiences, mythologies, gods; our minds and insides need female priests and presidents with HIV. We need creation stories of how the world came from the blood of a prostitute as much as microchips. We need to come home to our own intelligence.

I do not know how I feel I have the right to express such sentiments when I am hiding from the world on my little farm, waiting for warmer weather so I can be fucked in the sun. I waver between my desires of soft clothes and skin to the needs of novels and art never understanding to allow both room or how they are practically the same.


I resent that I am very, very human.