It’s dark and it’s barely 5 pm.
The art on the walls in this coffee shop is all uninspired, heavily Ruscha-inspired paintings.
Design Observer wrote about the Frontier Fellowship and it is good for them, but I don’t like Design Observer touching things I love.
I am way behind on the job that brings me a regular monthly paycheck.
I am learning how to say no and how to ask for things. Both have evaded me all my life.
It is all going to be okay.
Film from last summer
I am removing leaves from the backyard
What decaying secrets will this action reveal
What life has been hiding beneath the jungle of ferns and hostas enveloping
The truths of the ground could come up to meet me,
saying the smell of dead plant matter is not just that,
but bodies and bones, fecal matter and organs emitting a hiss
when greeting the carbon that seeps into ground
How many dead bunnies could rise to the surface
The one in the back by the garage
Trembling, a victim of curiosity and its own tiny heart
I thought of a shovel and could go no further
Gathering plant life I built a castle wall,
bringing leaves to place in front of its mouth,
in case it felt like eating weeds as its last meal
In the morning I dug a hole and used the tool to push it into the ground
and bury it with all the other animals who have disappeared in that spot
Today I imagined, while digging through rot,
that I might discover
some perfect white baby teeth
or the skeleton of a foot, that lucky rabbit’s foot
I can’t get over these colors.
Not in person back then, not now, interpreted by this strange, muddy roll of film.
ETA: Maybe the west is just something I dream about. Maybe I take out pictures of it, from my own memories and other’s cameras, when I need a jolt of the feeling particular to longing. Then sometimes I get close to it, for a brief amount of time, just so I can have it fill my bones fully before I retreat east to the cold, to sit in longing again for months on end.