Pluck a needle from the cluster, thread my vein, and write about what it is when desire speaks louder than shame. (2023)
To admit that things are different now would require something more or
To give up a bad habit
Pluck a needle from the cluster, thread my vein, and write about
what it is when desire speaks louder than shame. If I’m being honest,
I’d find it difficult to call this a miracle. Frankly, I don’t know how to
talk about time. Could you weave my arteries into the fabric
and try to think of something worth saying? Time is dust accumulation.
Time is the movement of light. Time is like rot. Count my fingers with me.
It’s a farewell to the flesh. In this soft ode to breathing let me think
about introducing splintered wood and fractures. Instead let me do something
that makes more sense and leak oil into the waterways. My own reflection
in the holographic sheen. And so vessels create new pathways
only to choke themselves off down the line. Then, of course,
the breathing becomes difficult underneath the harsh overhead lights.
Earlier this year I declared this piece was Done because, really, I was so incredibly tired of looking at it. I didn't like it very much but I was Done with it driving me up the wall. Months later I finally came back around and begrudgingly admitted it wasn’t quite there yet. I slapped on some major color changes, and it looked a lot better, but I continued to sit on it. Now, again months later, I think it is what it always will be, which is pretty alright. I do think it looks solid, there are definitely some parts I do love. Beyond that, I'm simply in too different of a place and time to have any interest in poking around in there again. My relationship to the seed of the piece is too different. To approach the topic again would be better served starting from scratch. So, lovingly, it is what it is. I'll call my work "maximalist studies of moments" and, baby, this moment has passed.
