returning to the world with treasures
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embracing the cycles of change with a sharp, discerning mind
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living in the leaps and voids; the journey of finding my inexhaustible fuel for making art
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digesting the years of torturing myself with this question
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against the idea of balance. my alternative to the wheel of life.
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on quitting all my jobs and never looking back
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an episode about my inherited cultural blueprints, and beginning the journey
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a sketch of a future home
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reflections on the tensions of solitude vs. community -- being myself vs. being with others; being free vs. being in relationships -- and how I've changed my mind about all that.
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autumn in istanbul is moody; wet but not cold.
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on sunday afternon we left the house late and took a 1.5 hour ferry to get to prince islands
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all the ways in which my day-to-day has changed after adopting a dog
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on interspecies love, games, and care — how living with a cat makes a house feel more homey and magical
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I haven’t written about my day to day life in a while - perhaps because, ever since I started traveling, (and even after I “stopped”) the days continue to float by like a dream
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not feeling uninspired, but too tired to chase and catch inspiration
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like waking up drugged and hungover, except not in the body, but in the soul
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of winter inhabiting my istanbul life, and the art i made
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the ferry: from wall street pier to the rockaways
here, aboard a ferry, traveling by water — is when you realize slow truths: about why you're here, where you come from, and where this life might be taking you. I run around the city for two months, and then escape to its peripheries by water. the experience of sitting in the window seat of an empty boat (or plane, or train, or bus) creates a liminal space for the mind to unfold, and breathe. this is why I never watch movies while traveling. I let the movies of my own mind take a break, and just inhale the experience of movement.
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here: two photos from my last weeks in new york city — the financial district after sunset, in between sunshine and rain (which is to say, in a moment of rainbow) and while crossing 7th (?) ave in midtown, just after exiting penn station. I’m no longer there now, but I still carry the taste of new york under my tongue, like lozenges made out of concrete. and steel. if each city makes you into someone different, then what did new york city make me? a city of sharp edges - such that even raindrops could feel like needlepricks on the skin. here, more than anywhere else, is where you learn to put your birdheart inside a shelf, and wear your lionskin on the streets.
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birth is death is birth. the more I walk down this path of life, the more I think about death as not a thing that happens to us — a fixed event on a linear narrative arc — X character is born, lives, and dies — but as a process that moves through us, through me — an infinite number of times before the body actually dies. (and then, who knows?) it is a process of seeing death as not the interruption to life, but as the mechanism through which life can move; through which life is possible. I only need to look outside to the forest to see proof of this fact: that things die everyday. and things are born from the same soil. the sun and the moon, and the ocean tides — are but rhythms of our own comings and goings. the process of death blurs into the process of birth. and as soon as I feel like I'm experiencing an emotional death, the dark density of that shroud seems to transform, almost overnight, in a blink of the eye, into something sheer and light. the soul, like the moon — is now, and always new again.
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