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Posts from the ‘all that they would disdain to think were true’ Category


To write is an act of aggression. Words. Language. Slicing.

How does one speak without shuddering? The rupture of air via sound.

How does one read without wincing? The penetration of pupils via photon, and symbol, and the desire of someone outside.

I am all ear and skin and retina-wide eyes; I am a neuron firing and firing and firing into the machine.

I sigh, I think. I delight. I breathe. Ai-




What question wants to escape
from this screen– past iris
and pupil and lens &– into something assumed
to be meaning?

The common denominator of all words is that they lack a voice,
and– mute– can only be spoken.

What is it that you
and words have
in common?

To construct the architecture of the body such that it is made into
a vehicle capable of the syllabic is part of the art
of being human.

Pronunciation is the opposite
of renunciation. Speak! 
But I cannot.

la la la lalalalal


Synonymy is an allusion;

Everything can be read into
the point where language fails.

Blink once for yes.
Blink twice for no.

With every blink the eyes realign. It is this staccato that maintains
an illusion of focus; without the constant stutter the world would appear
to leap

Involuntary. Volatile. Inviolate. It is all in the eyes, this beheading.
Untie the green ribbon and locate the jugular vein. Vanity is a pale
imitation of bloodletting.

Is there blood in your eyes?
Blink once for yes.
The rose-colored glasses, they suit you.

Everything can be read up to a point.

Everything except this. This
is pointless.

je suis un ange vachement assoiffé.

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Find something of immeasurable value and in possession of surface features that cause others to shrink away and/or question your sanity.

Sink your teeth into it and hold on until it stops fighting.

When it gasps love at you adjust the grip and whisper that it is already making your dreams come true.

Savor the feeling of it relaxing further.

échanger les points de vue.

I love comparing notes with people.

There is a beauty to the notes of those who were forced to stutter through a litany of countries and cultures as children, or who from a young age found themselves inhabiting high-stakes identities that forced a double life, or who are well-versed in the art of creating mosaics out of trauma.

There is a beauty to knowing what it is to have a self that bleeds beyond the shattered worldview that was originally intended to hold it.

There is a beauty to knowing what it is to shrug off the known.





It is strange feeling strung between worlds. My day-to-day life is Los Angeles, with its frothy beauty and dark magic and the inimitable quality that comes with an industry prefaced on dreams being spun into the real. It is a city that felt like my native environment from the moment I moved, awash in multidimensional beings and people for whom art is as fundamental a need as shelter. My heart is stretched elsewhere, though, or at least for now every beat comes with the wistful echo of longing for my family. M and I talk every day, and the future continues to skip merrily toward us; still sometimes it takes everything I have to stay present and focused here rather than in the wholeness of a local reunion.

I am going to be in Boulder next week, to visit Gaia and to spend time on Mant1s. Did I really leave Colorado seven years ago? It feels in some ways like a lifetime since I lived there, and in others as though it was just yesterday. So much of my time there was spent focusing on community and building community, both personally and as part of my work. It is ironic that community was the last thing I was thinking about when I came to Los Angeles, yet without even trying the community that’s grown around me here is one of the warmest and most familial I’ve experienced in my life. One of the beautiful things about following one’s heart is that it connects you to others who are similarly guided, or who resonate with that sort of compass.

It makes for good company.

Oh, LA. I have never felt so loved by a city, nor so deeply at home in one, nor inhabited one so aptly named. I suppose I should be grateful to have something to look forward to; otherwise I could not imagine feeling more content with life than I am now.

I imagine that contentment is due as much to the sweetness that comes in the peaceful anticipation of the inevitable perfection of the future as it is the unexpected coziness of my home and humans here.

I imagine that hearts are made to be stretched.