Changing My Own Life

I have recently been entertained by a phrase my friend Jess told me, quoting another poet, "If you are too consumed by grief and have to watch bad TV shows, then you are with your ancestors." Glad to know that my ancestors are not disappointed in me for watching days and days of House on Netflix.

I have been suffering from moments of defeat recently, personal and professional. I moved too far into possible futures and instead ended up just where I started -- stuck. Life is not so easily changed, no matter what my fantasies.

I don't know how often most people give themselves permission to hide under the covers and feel overwhelmed by the doors shutting all around them. Facebook tells me that I am meant to have a montage of successes, near-professional photos, and funny cat video re-posts. And it's easy to feel like I'm burdening even my most well-meaning of friends when none of the material things have changed. My life situation isn't any better, but it isn't any worse. I am exactly where I've been before.

I've been thinking about resilience. It takes tremendous strength to change your own life. But I have been meeting more and more people who, despite their burdens, have been making that effort. It's not glamorous, but it deserves praise. And while I'm stewing and scheming, pushing back deadlines and spending time "with my ancestors," I must remember that I too am one of these people.

Until I can feel well again, I have been listening to poetry that inspires me. Check out these poems -- inhabiting very different emotions -- by Stacey Ann Chin, Tarfia Faizullah, and warsan shire.

Moderating Panels & Tabling at the 2014 Brooklyn Zine Fest this Weekend!

 

I'll be moderating three panels at the Brooklyn Zine Fest this weekend, and tabling on Sunday! Come through, check out the panels, and pick up a copy of one of my zines or my new business card, designed by the fabulous Jess X. Chen (who will have her art and prints for sale there as well!). We will also be tabling with me alongside the lovely Jenna Freedman of the Barnard Library/Lower East Side Librarian.

Here's a schedule of the panels:

Queer and Trans* Zinesters -- Saturday 4/26, 4:30pm

Collecting Zines -- Sunday 4/27, 1pm

Anonymity -- Sunday 4/27, 3pm

Dark, Dark Black: A Letter

I wrote this the day before coming to see my friend Jess Chen's puppet and poetry show "Silence and the Earth," which she has been touring for the past three months across the U.S. and Canada. The show was (and is) magical. It has changed a lot since I saw it first on the East coast in New York City, where it was set up at Bluestockings. This show was outside at Gasworks park, under one of the arches, and featured candle-lit music performances, spoken word, and sparklers. Thank you for continuing to create magic, Jess.

Dear friends-who-are-artists:
I’ve wanted to write you a letter. I imagine you carrying it around in your sweater pockets, in your sundresses, on the left shin of your cargo pants. It – and I – will be with you on all of your journeys.

I like to see you honest. Too often we’re found reaching for our vices - a beer for you, some sugar for me - and laughing off our scars like they’re tattoos we set out to display. They remain there day after day. Sometimes the hurt in me is just a song I like to sing when the hot water runs brown from the taps. I’m sure there are days when your hips hurt from bearing up those beautiful bones.

To me, you are a coil wrapped tight with energy - a histone spooled with DNA. And yet, as essential as you are to my being created out of clay, the mud sometimes still comes up over your lips and throat to silence you.

Make noise anyway.

Right now, I’m divining a transition. It’s less like a to-do list and more like spontaneous combustion: as I pull words from between my teeth, I think of you casting shadows on endless walls from coast to coast. I forget that sometimes effortlessness takes a hundred pounds of dragon meat and magic to make happen, and simply because I don’t see you every day doesn’t mean that you don’t need my love and support.

Here it is.

It’s dark dark black when we can’t see our own shadows. Imagine the moon lighting your every step. Let your hair free. And look for my loving ghost tracing your footsteps in the soft earth.