my own lexicon sits within me
versatile to the many ways of being in the world
conversant to feeling momentum sensate inwards out
a sudden gulp releases a rush of indigo waves
morphing into glowing yellow combustions
to follow this sedative stream is adverse
to the mental doubling of my solitary mind
diffusing away thick navy-purple clouds
of clustering clutter
conjuring the word ease
to pair well with the hypnagogic state
awakening to a restorative loosening
of a ruggedly netted cloth
beginning to separate
into a clear pool of lucidity
diminishing a fumbling for control
as a choice of alluring possibilities
my speaking repertoire
not turning back
only to be accounted for
I seek forgiveness
on walking through the intersection
Arm to the side, hand straight out. STOP. All incoming traffic halts at your own willingness to stand, taking steps averse to the time set to follow. You are on your own path now, boldly drawing all authority in through your palms to break pathways of structure. Green arrows blink, dotted spots switch from yellow to red. Change is on the rise while you’re only partway there. Sheer pleasure of agency collides with a feeling of stranded insecurity. Ha. But this time around, I’ve grasped my own instinct to continue powering through.
the inscription of trace
with engagement of gesture
of shared affinities
away from the debris of
glossed smack in the middle
of a sour
embodied viewing in the gallery space
distinguish the limits from the
the edge of a line is a fold into another
caressing a language that slants into
fading as an awareness of swaying right
I release, let myself fold
break bend bold
over and over I press firmly
my hands holding my droopy forearms under a dangling head
until the movement rolls into itself
speaking from the geographical terrain
empathetic to a connection with the ground
in the shifts of vibrational energy
a permeable borderline
slides across sheets of paper on my stance
tiptoe stomping as traces of inverted spaces appear
swooshing until the fall breaks me
on a versatile floor
while dirt marks uplift wrinkle shifts
a pattern inconsistently groomed
on enlivening exhaustion
ZONKED. Still my mode clicks to run as soon as I hear the words “all my relations.” Pacing around a converted train roundhouse to a car. Wait what? I’m on the way, munching from the large bowl of shrimp chips in desperate need to tide me over. The film screening I arrive at speaks of my place of ancestry I’ve never been to before, in relation to the one I have always lived in. I emphasize this reconnection through a selection of cat emojis over late night pho. Coincidences blare signals of adrenaline, while an avocado smoothie soothes my dry tired voice like a creamy health bomb. A night of the rooster, my apparent sign to rise. Awakening settles as a soft punch in my torso. Just don’t let fatigue wash this comforting stimulation into grunginess the next day.
in parallel to
of cactus leaves
torn paper ephemera
exhaled into the
on knowing more than me
IMPLIED. Not said, but habitually performed. Attitude screams perspective, disguised as objective. There’s more to see, instead of more to know. You may treat your knowing of a certain focus as an ultimate torch that can illuminate every page of my own book. In reality though, too much leads to the burning of matter. Better to keep those flames down to a low simmer as, after all, fire can’t reach my freedom.
paradoxical elements of
polka dotted mushrooms
produce an endless dialect
“my relationship with writing is translating perspective”
[finding meaning in how I relate to words and how I make words relate to me]
I fear the ‘finite’ agency writing’s persona takes on. Writing is the in-between catalyst for me, more of a process of transfer and/or translation. Transfer = moving, re-locating. Translation = transferring with having some form of transformation or alteration happen (indirect). These are how I see them.
I had reached the point of crisis in writing. Where words began to interest me as much as the act of writing did. Dragging out of this takes time. I think that’s why I went for language as a visual signifier for awhile over textual meaning. Splurging words, translating embodied subjectivity into objectivity, which was not my direct intention. How do we balance the amount of agency we give to language in our writing?
Is knowing one’s relation to multiple meanings embedded through individual words and making space within that cluster a way to bring subjectivity into language?
How might translation of embodied experiences into words (through memory) shift the perceptions in which we remember through?
Can the spatial placement of writing (on page, object, sign, or architecture within a physical space) reduce or enhance the agency it has to be heard? To be listened closely to? To shift a way of seeing?
Does the textual assertion of one’s own self-politics in a socially coded public space shift it to be read objectively?
How can ‘objective’ be differentiated from ‘collective’ experience?
What can be said (as written form) between texts that exist in public space of brand identity and outlooks on life?
first lines combined (since a moment I let set free)
Walking the edges behind me is a young boy static crumbling semi circle swivels there’s a bee buzzing past and I’m noticing a floating spider swaying on its web flip it you find one bursting with petals of affinity illuminated underglow cutting through standing behind incoming burst meandering it’s like an unstable map folding out in many directions it’s funny how the further I think back, it becomes easier to remember experiences by overall feelings rather than by specific scenarios as an artist and writer, I often look towards ways in which writing, text, and language can unfold as an alternate mode of expression through engaging with visual forms, site-specific locations, performance, and artist books eyes closed looking at where a line ends, I’m asked to follow it, as if the rest of it is visible to trace.
In response to Douglas Huebler’s photo with the side profile of boy in forefront as part of Variable Piece #43 (Brussels), 1974/97, from behind:
behind me is a young boy
I am reminded of curiosity
He looks to our right
My experience of being mirrored as followed
I am in front
It’s like when I was speaking to that kid
In the background another one grins through the blur
I was asking him for Youtube video requests
He sees something, he’s about to speak
I opened my mouth with interest
Maybe he’s speaking to the one cut off on the side
He really seemed enthusiastic
That cute little hair cut your mom always gave you
I’m just like you
With that spark of being curious for unknown
FROM THE UNUSUAL LISTENER // TO THE ONE WITH ALL THE QUESTIONS
[responding 'To The Reader' by Jena Osman]
There’s a bee buzzing past and I’m noticing a floating spider swaying on its web. The sounds in this unenclosed room are ever so varied, diminished yet amplified while I feel their residue vibrate around my head. There is a bird, and its call sounds like a squeal. Noticing brings me here, to a place of reconciling within a place where I once only knew but still plays a part of me in the aftermath of now. This is its own performance happening that is connected to all the other parts that unfold. I am listening to the faint calls, shouts, and cheers from the school yard around the corner. The words are stretched into incomprehensible outbursts of high pitch cries made to be heard. There’s a rumble of metal clanking on the downfall of hard materials in which the cries get washed up in. Beeping. It comes in waves. The hums of turboprops linger from above, drawing lines of sound at various angles. The buzzing rush of a highway carries on from next door. Whispers get conjumbled with these additive layers going on. Cawing from right beside scrapes off some of the excess. Stopping. The chimes speak, tingling like a moment of solitude is being unlocked. I hear the flowing of my breath this time from within my body instead of only hearing it from the outside surface. My glutes squeeze as I feel the need to wake up their muscles held so still against the squished pillow overlaid on top of the grass. Slowing down through my body but warming up in my mind. Looking up to hear more clearly, tracking back to be aware of the sounds occurring now, listening to them unfold into patterns of a harmonious flow. This might be something like meditation.
Situating myself in relation to the words sounded is conspicuous because the ones you wrote are the ones I’m listening most carefully to. Now that you’ve so delicately mentioned it, the words fall full force into your own present experience of banal admiration which is now my past. I’m not getting stuck in the either or: a pronoun won’t do, and last time I’d check, grammar is a system that makes up language, language is a system of signs, signs signify signifiers, signifiers carry meaning, empathy embeds itself in the heart of carrying meaning. Clues given to follow that clasp intimate connections between questions. When the uncertain space between fingers becomes locked, sensation soars. There’s just one left behind from the cutting up of a lemon.
The butterfly has always served as an analogy for my name: that moment of a breakthrough after enduring the upmost constraints of feeling entrapped. I’m back to where I’m at around me. It’s not only the space depended upon for ease, it’s the tone you implement within it. Can’t smell the smoke but can hear the air pressuring off half my senses. The over of the edge is the horizon – but if you’re talking about the ocean, then the waver comes in from far. Not sure if your tongue is getting a bit twisted but the cross currents collide to come on over to me. Waving does not make me hungry – and one plum was good enough. The tree that’s been standing there the longest, because it’s the only one still alive. I literally just put the paper down. The bird called me to remember. The first person pronoun jar doesn’t unwelcome, it reveals a mysterious intimacy that binds together unusual responses that may or may not be up to no good. I don’t remember the aphetic elixir of the waver wavering wave since I never thought of it through those words in that way – but I’ll have to add this to my expressionairy vocabulary. My spine is curved because you’re not talking about me. My tongue is dry with no words coming off of it – so maybe that’s also why they’re coming out here instead. Shoulder staying strong as it should so say.
I hear no crowd. A poem because it reads as a path followed by the lesser known over the congestion of those attracted by spectacle force. I’ve been questioning that for days on end, but as of now it’s been the only place I can be. The cawing and chirping is warming down. Their songs are sounds, sounds that combine at different intervals with lyrics that discombobulate. Frapping as in securing tightly, lashing as in going hard. Moving up and down forcefully to act upon my current condition, jamming the twists into the path that will move me forward. This could be anything at this point – but I probably wouldn’t bid on it. Marry is a strong word but conjoining to make room for a common thread I’m still attempting. Struggling to hang on like the knot that crosses over and inside itself as the rest of its body dangles off the edge I am, but letting go would take a lot of force to unwind. I tie the one that’s going to give me most longetivity to keep on, which I picture as the mermaid’s braid. My fingers have made these marks sprawling across the page to reveal answers of questioning your words’ authority.
cards against desire
curatorial text responding to Julia Hong's readymade, 2016
Turning one over bursting with petals of affinity, you hope for them to point you towards a hill to climb.
Going up one covered with fuzzy prickles, the birds fly away in the distance until you remain left with an emptiness: time duplicating.
You look for the matching picture morphing into abstracted shriveling forms of sea stars rising.
The lava catches up, floating into an island of sprouting blobs. You watch as they elongate and ping out into loose coils of wired hooks on the end.
One of those fishy sparrows comes back, freeing the coils to the ground for red-spotted tips to resurface, eventually releasing a cross-legged warthog.
Making reference to the personification of refusal, there is no way of telling as to whether you are invoked to embrace your inner necessity to resist or go with.
There is a deer facing you, surrounded by spiky petals of sea stars.
Is this a signifier of land and sea converging from colonial’s desire to conquer?
Juxtapose this with the bamboo dock popping out a violet open-faced lily.
Relief or tension?
Breathing or being drained?
Only the unnatural consequences will tell what desire might bring.
But how much do you really need?