on days when i feel bad i draw pictures of what is happening inside of me, and then somehow, inexplicably, i feel better.
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honey and walnuts
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this thing they call love is a lot of work — pleasure and pain, effort and ease, day in, day out — all balled up into one. love begins as a seed of the feeling, then you must water the feeling. the feeling is made tangible in the world through work: of showing up, of being present, of nurturing, of giving part of oneself to something else. or someone else. you cannot love a passion (art, dance, a cause, an idealogy) without the labor, nor can you love another person without the daily giving. and what is the point of laboring — without love?
the things I create here are all labors of love.
and love is a thing I create with my hands.
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I kiss you in darkness.
I kiss you in sunlight.
I don’t fear your darkness.
I don’t fear my light.
recently, perhaps because it’s the transition weeks between winter and spring — I can feel the pieces of my life falling into place, like tetonic plates, forming and reforming the continents of my world. so, I’ve decided this: art is for dark, and love is for light.
both, of course, must be capable of holding light and dark. but my intention is to give my darkness to my art — so that I can give my light to love. this counter opposition is necessary for me to feel free.
for the longest time, I’ve struggled with expecting too much of men — that they should be able to hold my darkness, my emotional turmoil, my mercurical, stormy weather.
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I’m convinced that out of all the great practices we can inhabit and master — the mother of all practices, the ultimate practice of power — is the art of knowing how to be completely, deeply, in love with yourself.
I’m talking about the extremity of true love — the kind of romance you could die for — not a passing infatuation, or a weak flame. I mean a love which knows no limits, and is wholly unshakable — independent of all conditions; independent of all circumstance.
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a love poem in half sun
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I wanted him to smoke my kisses, not tobacco.
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do you want anything from afghanistan, he asks me — my friends are coming back from there soon. and i thought — do i want anything from afghanistan (?) for him, it’s simply that mother/home/land, the home he escaped, left behind, for me it’s a place i only know from radio and television noise of my childhood — *the war in afghanistan, mr. president, when will you bring our soldiers back from afghanistan
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