When Jeff Thompson, one of my favorite and least favorite professors, a genius and a hypocrite, asked me if I was an artist, I replied, “some days.”
These days, it would seem, I am not. Perhaps it is because the last time I immersed myself in art it left me empty and terror-stricken and I am still coping with the panic attacks when someone says they would love to talk to me about “my show.”
And sometimes, when I go to museums or galleries I can not see where I would fit in in this place. or I can, which is by far the scarier feeling.
But then I discover, on accident, people who make art that is beautiful, that is a celebration of breathing (in too, but especially out). I forget that there are still ways to share art that are free. and for the moment, I find myself longing to be an artist. at least for today.
Pictures, taken by a woman, or several women, usually polaroids. with the text that accompanies them.
overcoming domestic ecstasies
is by admitting
or opening away.
The objects of desire
opening upon themselves
the objects of faith.
The way things work
is by solution,
resistance lessened or
increased and taken
The way things work
is that we finally believe
they are there,
common and able
to illustrate themselves.
— jorie graham
It was something he had long dreamed of; it had at last become a reality.
It was for this alone that he had loved her, or pretended to love her; for this alone he had assiduously undermined her defenses; for this alone he’d furiously sought the chance to sleep with her, slept with her — till lo, the preparations were complete and it only remained to pronounce the phrase he had longed just once to pronouce with his own lips, with due authority, like the edict of a king:
“It’s time to break it off.”
icluding my own. i throw stuff in there off the cuff. others throw stuff in there. every single time i open it and peruse through it, i find something that makes me really happy.
if you ever let me into your bathroom, consider this a warning ahead of time. even if it’s just to know what brand of dental floss you use and especially if you use a motorized brush or not.
once upon a time an old lover threw endless parties. he loved to make drinks for people, play good music and watch them dance. subtly introduce strangers to one another, mostly cook these incredible, way-better-than-mouth-watering desserts. and though he was not very conservative, he was very set on creating a rather fixed opinion of himself, and of us as a living-together relationship. he would close all the upstairs bedroom doors and scrub down the shower and tiles before the party (although the rest of our lives were in wild, gritty, dirty-bathtub abandon).
of course, i made it habit to hide things places that he would not figure out until after the party, if at all. i put a candy jar on the back of the toilet once and filled it with fortune cookie papers (rather, Vulgar fortune cookie papers). when i had less time or less imagination, i would leave a pair of his dirity underwear in the bathtub behind the shower curtain.
the point it, it required a nosey guest to find these things. it had its well-kept appearance, yes, but if you unfolded the towel on the towel wrack, a cut-out from hustler might fall on your shoes. and, of course, the infamous place was the medicine cabinet. for all of you sneaky little brats who peak into other people’s private places, i left gifts of great congratulations for you. after all, i’m one of you myself.
so, let’s call this incentive to look behind the cabinet for once.
Originally uploaded by tetheredto.