Here’s my mama, pregnant with me but unaware of impending motherhood. Her beauty remains and sustains. New Orleans, 1984.
skyping for months has been fun and all but pales in comparison to the thrill of getting on a plane that will fly in his direction.
Happy 79th birthday to the great Willie Nelson - musician, poet, activist, outlaw, Texan, and frequent guest star in this gal’s dreams.
Bob Anderson’s opening last night in Marfa, Texas.
Tonight I feel trapped in a body that will not unleash it’s energy externally but keeps it compacted like hot dirt around a seed that’s ready to bust into life. It is agitated and swarmy but the Big Bang has not happened yet. I would walk forward towards the tool that could free this hive but I tell myself I cannot do that that until all the clothes are picked up off the floor and then I realized that a completed chore tricks me into feeling satisfied and when I am satisfied I am complacent and create nothing. This thought has crippled me into a whirlpool of bedsheets from which books and water bottles and crumbs and Hope cannot escape. It is a matter of stepping over the barrier of routine and the fear or dissatisfaction lingering in my blood. In order to do this I must do that. Fuck that. Fuck order. A shirt is a shirt whether it’s on a hanger or on the floor. And what if I paint a stones and pile them in a field, are you going to call it Land Art? Or maybe if you see a woman naked in the desert you could click a button and I AM AN ADMINISTRATOR FOR THE GROUP “NUDES IN NATURE” AND WE’D LOVE TO HAVE THIS ADDED TO THE GROUP.