her voice, delicious, spiced rum her intellect, clear, Russian vodka her truth, painful, white lightning her beauty, full, Mourvèdre her medicine, holy, mezcal
intoxicated and wrecked
you will drown willingly soberly denouncing air, pulled into the depths of her luminous current
and for women, womxn, womyn, womqn – who are difficult to love, click & hear
long, midnight, blue-black hair, unmistakably hers, melding into her pitch black jacket an uninterrupted flowing velvet river she, a radiant silhouette, like the haloed total solar eclipse that would occur later that year
her regal face is unseen, sustaining the mystery
then she rises like a sun to speak and i am in orbit
her first words: “i feel The Lake so very present in me.” / her voice weighted by the very earth in her throat
later, my glisteny eyes meet her glisteny eyes, i memorize her face / and her hands tattooed in black ink/ she is dignity embodied/
she inscribes a protocol for me in my book of hers, made of trees, and i think why am i, who am i, here
I give her a necklace suspending glass vials of seed watermelon, corn, clover and milkweed made by my hands on these forced-treaty lands
my symbolic reciprocity / for her poems that seeded me, collaterally
her poems are a well that still water my thoughts and words
although i am not sure i am deserving of the drink/
god, i never want to be just another culture thief
Her words are not for me not about me Her words are not for me not about me Repeat
am i allowed To float Her words aloud To sink them in my mind To lap them from the page
i accidentally swallow, then gulp down Her Salt words/ like when the surf breaks and surprises an exhilarated, Great Lakes girl with a mouthful of seawater during her first swim in the Ocean
Her words were not meant for me Her words were not meant for me Repeat
“The most important thing for everyone in Gringolandia is to have ambition and become ‘somebody,’ and frankly, I don’t have the least ambition to become anybody.”
Frida Kahlo
in the end, we are all just holy ghosts
lone, holy, haunted ghosts who sometimes want to feel, to be seen or felt by others who occupy our realms
if anyone were to have thoughts or draw conclusions about this particular ghost, about my collection of words, photos, ephemera, art, altars, or the microcosmic worlds i’ve built — now, or when i’m dead
— in the end, and at the beginning, it is and was, for me to better understand
my Self for myself by my self
as well, to understand my relationship to others, to the world, to the Earth – the pain and beauty of it all – and my relationship to my creativity – the conception, process and act of creating, and to existence itSelf
/ no one else is essential to interact with, interpret, interrogate or validate any of it, ever – yet they are welcomed to do so/
the imperative in my work and my art is not to be known or understood by another — even though, even when, that exquisitely rare experience occurs – it may conjure deep feelings of true homecoming or true love
further, being seen or felt – as creative, evocative, provocative, nouveau, derivative, debased or talentless – by someone is wholly different than being truly known and understood by another human being
and although communion, consummation, and collaboration in experiencing, creating, or releasing art can be gratifying, challenging, inspiring and evolutionary,
i must always remember:
all my collaborators are ghosts; i am my own, lone, Earthly muse; i Am my holy and whole audience of one
everyone else is collateral advantage
“in the end, you will find [only] yourself at the beginning”