I know where the dead ships go They go belly up in the small sink hole asleep in my bathtub I wrestle apart all the ribs of my departed No signs of life I pull them up in tangled droves I see love storm rings in my porcelain sea I drag fresh kill to my bed, but they give me doldrums Nothing more I dig and scavenge their insides until I realize my own mutilation I call them my lovers, and leave their parts in boxes Set them aside, send them on their way Boxes, little boxes all piled up in my closet Frustrated in fishnets, Really, I'm a temptress damned by her own fortune Still, night upon night i scream names of the gnats in my drain I try to get something to breathe again This is all i get in my little purgatory locker, cadavers
he smiled to me, a little charm to his dreds i clung tighter to the safety of his weeping gypsy nest i held it together so knotted, twisted, malformed, i gave him aesthetics, a melted reminder bead, weather worn we became bound so fiercely together by dirty sterling silver love i sang praises to his face from Broadway to Burlington the places he took me, few beads dare travel seldom saw my face, a buried and contorted little lure he whispered to me so that i might know how much i meant i shined through the knits and suffered some neglect eventually, even my companion looked beyond my glimmers and when Spring rode through our town he threw aside every unloved belonging i wove in like a spider to his last remaining cobweb he fancied me as a charm very much, but rather see me dead when i was amputated no one remembered to mourn i was put in a box with unstrung hair and left to dust mites and memorial i didnt die, you see, i just became detached i sit on a shelf waiting for the day my gypsy might come back
what is a "conceptual artist" really? why paint a painting that look like a picture that already exists in space? understanding one's medium and being "painterly" etc the difference between fine art and what sells ephedrine no one ive been intimate with gives a fuck about me right now i crave speaking to someone about my theories in art, but only my mom will listen and it gets frustrating
i changed my life these past few wks. i kicked out christian. i confronted my scary boss and asked for a promotion. i told people "no" when it was hard. everyone is kind of reacting oddly, feeling like i am a bad friend. really, i am just taking care of myself and its difficult for everyone to adjust. they dont drop everything when i need them, but i usually do for them. not anymore. i rather be lonely and consume all my own time then be there to help fill someone eles's bored time.
my new studio is tiny but i can see that in summer it is going to catch a lot of natural light and bring in a lot of people to see my work. its where all major art events in saratoga take place. im getting my shit together a lot right now. i want a fun summer, but productive is even more important.
i learned recently that i can go out alone and have enough acquaintances in this town that i am never "alone" for long. that is good and bad. life here is comfortable. in august i leave. gypsy moth style. i will enjoy this for now.
August Exit Strategy For those who are unaware, August is my last month in Saratoga. The show will be over. Since this is MY blog, i am going to probably go on and on about myself and how good things are for me. So boring unless you are me. Also, possibly, melodramatic and silly.
Nonetheless. I got studio space on Beekman Street for the summer (saratoga's art district, which used to be the shitty druggish part of town, appropriately) . i have matured into a place where i can say that producing work is my life. sometimes people have trouble understanding that when i would say "i'm going to the studio" when i was in class, it had absolutely nothing to do with my grade or anything like that. It's more like, a calling or a hunger in me that i need to fulfill. Corny, yea probably. Of course, i drift away from producing work for a week or 2 here or there, it is like a very hot and cold relationship of lust. Now that i am not required to go paint at certain times, i am presented with a challenge. the challenge is to see my own dedication. after the pep-talk my teacher gave me about my paintings, i feel awesomely confident, and like i am capable of doing something worthwhile, i accept the challenge. this last semester at skidmore was really good for me, my peers were accepting and i felt like things came full circle. next semester i will be back to school in NYC. ugh, that city and i also have a hot and cold relationship. something between a romance novel and a tragedy genre.
i sometimes feel severely judged for switching around schools so much, or "wasting time" taking credits i was interested in that are outside my major. honestly, i think i learned more in the past 4 yrs than anyone i know who went to just one school. i have learned true independence. i have no respect for people who decided to just go to school near home and not try anything new, went to one school for 4 yrs without questioning what else was out there, got a diploma and continued some menial little bullshit life. i can honestly say, i surpassed every expectation i had for myself and know that i can pick myself up off the ground no matter what happens. i wish sometimes that my family could recognize that my path was much harder than it had to be because i filled it with challenges that changed me and made me stronger. few 18 year olds choose to leave home and move to brooklyn, or move out on their own and support themselves almost entirely. blahblahblah.
i hope the next few months are blissful, like saratoga in the summer often is. when i walk on broadway i see so many faces i know. this little community is going to vanish into the back pocket of brain come september, and i'd be lying if i said that didnt scare me. but i have a land of opportunity and even more like-minded people to fall inside of again.
i believe there is a buzz in saratoga. that is why when i am having a bad day and feel sad, every customer i serve that day seems to feel similarly. ir, when i walk into the local consignment book shoppe, there is always a book out in the open that relates to a subject i have been speaking about lately. small town inter-connectivity that i am about to toss away.
i write poetry almost every day, i plan to read some at cafe lena open mic and record it for my portfolio. i believe nyc will take me back with open arms, and i will know what to do with it this time.
ok, this is too long. tell me goodbyes in august. tell me all the fun things we are going to do before i leave when you see me now, thats all.
i am a friend to the flies they tickle my face and are beautiful little embodiments they eat me up they take and they take they think they are my honey they lay eggs in all my holes i love them
I am gypsy hair and gypsy scarves over my head i am weight in a traveling man's side bag too firmly, i hug the bend of his ribs i know he can't bring me far he sees me, a charming anchor a structure of terror that spills from the pocket and can't be strung as a medallion like a vandal, i make remarks on thievery hope he doesn't see what i've taken of him my best parts taste like his brand and his coffee we roll tobacco and take up space on Broadway we wear long jackets and eat up stares and this is where he will eventually take me apart he'll leave me holding the bag he'll give me holes to remember and he'll walk off just like a traveling man does
little gnat in my bathroom sink we exchanged glances but they tell me you are too small to think little gnat, don't look at me with specks of dread i would never send you to the drain or toilet paper crush you dead i'll let you coast my soap dish read my to-do list even i'll treat you like a small friend, as i do my fish then, when your 112 days are up i will find you be a coroner for a nameless gnat feel a certain sadness, like people at real funerals do i'll see more gnats, think you resurrected but you won't have, you'll disintegrate at least i'll be distracted
