no reckoning allowed

→ 17 May 12 at 11 am

i found this amazing chevron fabric over a year ago for $1.99 a yard. needless to say, i bought up a bunch with the intention of making some sort of garment from it. i’ve used pieces of it for other little projects: screen-printed patches here, one segment of hand-embroidered banner there. i kept thinking it had to be some elaborate & perfect garment to warrant the use of such an incredible textile. then i realized the fabric is really the standout thing here, so why not just use it to make a simple summer shift dress? i mean, this fabric screams carefree, easy, sun-drenched days. so here it is.

→ 15 May 12 at 12 pm AMMUNITION

(a little flash fiction re-telling of a night in my life that i typed up for a zine that is going to be part of a box set for The Mynabirds new album “Generals”.)

_______

“okay. this one night we were all sitting around a table. there were four of us. four women sitting around a table.

honestly, we all kind of felt like shit that night — heavy & anxious for some myriad of both spoken & unsaid reasons.

we had internalized so much of it. so much this shit that we didn’t choose, but regardless just was. was weighing on our scrappy/tired shoulders.

we paid our bill & left. walked to the car.

“so let’s do something about it, eh?”

she unlocked the car & grabbed empty glass bottles from the back seat, passing them down the line of us like ammunition.

we walked a couple of blocks with our heads higher than they’d been held in a while, resonating with a heightened awareness due to our conspicuousness, & a healthy dose of pride.

we stopped underneath a bridge & on the count of three we threw the bottles hard against the concrete wall, while warrior screams erupted from our mouths. from that deep, dark place where we’d kept them locked up, too busy being good or agreeable. but not tonight.

tonight we were wild.

we took off running in the opposite direction from where we came. away from nothing in particular & toward what felt like everything. as our boots pounded on the pavement an enormous mass of relieved & genuine laughter welled up & out, & all i could think was:

we won’t be destroying ourselves anymore.

AMMUNITION
(a little flash fiction re-telling of a night in my life that i typed up for a zine that is going to be part of a box set for The Mynabirds new album “Generals”.)
_______
“okay. this one night we were all sitting around a table. there were four of us. four women sitting around a table.
honestly, we all kind of felt like shit that night — heavy & anxious for some myriad of both spoken & unsaid reasons.
we had internalized so much of it. so much this shit that we didn’t choose, but regardless just was. was weighing on our scrappy/tired shoulders.
we paid our bill & left. walked to the car.
“so let’s do something about it, eh?”
she unlocked the car & grabbed empty glass bottles from the back seat, passing them down the line of us like ammunition.
we walked a couple of blocks with our heads higher than they’d been held in a while, resonating with a heightened awareness due to our conspicuousness, & a healthy dose of pride.
we stopped underneath a bridge & on the count of three we threw the bottles hard against the concrete wall, while warrior screams erupted from our mouths. from that deep, dark place where we’d kept them locked up, too busy being good or agreeable. but not tonight.
tonight we were wild.
we took off running in the opposite direction from where we came. away from nothing in particular & toward what felt like everything. as our boots pounded on the pavement an enormous mass of relieved & genuine laughter welled up & out, & all i could think was:
we won’t be destroying ourselves anymore.

→ 14 Apr 12 at 12 pm

a new poem to add to my list of favorites; this one has rapidly become an old friend.
god yes, mary oliver. and thank you.

WILD GEESE

_____

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

♥ 1
→ 03 Apr 12 at 3 pm

∆ ∆ ∆
∞

♥ 1
→ 26 Mar 12 at 10 pm knitting & new tattoos. monday things.

♥ 1
→ 22 Mar 12 at 10 pm

[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

"hell is other people/hell is ourselves"

miniature horse

teeth

(139) plays

♥ 1
→ 08 Mar 12 at 3 pm

shelter your psychic reality: make things with your hands every day

partially finished layout for miniature horse cassette insert. to be released soon.

the sacred &/in the mundane. embroidery on 120mm prints.

p.s. happy international women’s day! keep loving, keep fighting.

→ 03 Mar 12 at 10 pm

i sigh and rise.

i pace the floor,

make a cup of

coffee and hum.

i read and write,

sew paper, and

dance to spoken

words.

i do these things

for my own edification —

the rise and fall

of my chest.

the smile

curling at the corners

of my mouth.

the gradual release

of spectral things.

[everything out of feeling,

and not of fear.]

♥ 1
→ 28 Feb 12 at 11 am

the random, bare bones thoughts of what will eventually become some sort of treatise on art, and/or the things that i think about while i am washing dishes:

art is a way of doing things, not a result; a process, not a product.

what is the balance of intentionality and aesthetics? i am not sure. i venture to say that intentionality matters more, but truly great art is a union of the two.

art should honestly and unflinchingly reflect and comment upon the human condition. art should not function simply as another means of escape from our psychic reality—it should bring us more deeply into it. if an item is seeking to simply be entertainment or escape, it is not art. also, in this realm of thought, art should not simply be beautiful, for that is an oversimplification of life.

not every person is an artist per say, but every human being is a creator and could benefit from some sort of creative practice, if only for their own personal edification and oneness of self.

capitalist values are killers or creativity. elitism, competitiveness, and zero-sum games undermine artistic community and genuine artistic expression. we have been raised to protect our own interests, classify and categorize, and believe that other people’s success comes at the expense of our own, or vice versa. this is all bullshit and leads to even more bullshit. encourage others and remain constantly open to inspiration and opportunity. don’t try to judge and scrutinize the value of your own work or others’ work. don’t talk shit. don’t qualify. don’t make excuses. basically just do what you do as best and as bravely as possible, then shut the hell up and listen to everything.

we have to lose our fear of failure and of looking foolish in order to truly express anything with the honesty and momentousness that it deserves. with this in mind, we should never make ourselves or others feel small for hard-fought blunders. there is infinitely more space and possibility in failure than there is in withholding.

so much of art is play. getting an idea and joyfully exploring and running with it. our artistic practices need air and movement, and to not always be taken oh-so-seriously. art is wide open eyes, not a furrowed brow.

→ 20 Feb 12 at 6 pm

one: hidden bottom tabs of a rescued box. will become a book cover.

two: first coptic bound book.