caedance @caedance - Tumblr Blog

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grief looks different for everyone

they keep telling me this

and they’re right

we lost parts of ourselves along the way and somebody forgot to tell you

i’m sorry.

you forgot that plants need sunshine year-round

not just in the winter

and she always quietly reminded you of that

am i right?

you drew close when it was convenient,

loved deeply when it made sense

but still bred joy in the form of paper airplanes, sunsets, and G chords on Sundays

not perfect

but in the best way you knew how to

letting it grow,

slowly

and letting her go,

slowly

in sweat-soaked runners and tear-stained lined pages

when you’re honest

you knew that the sand was running out.

that’s why you captured longer moments in smaller ways

and started to draw close in-conveniently,

stopped trying to make sense so you could make memories instead

i hope you know that mattered

that mailing notes, and gifts,

planning surprises just to see her smile made a difference

i hope you know she kept every letter

every card

every ugly childhood craft

and every photo

she wrote down all your addresses

and phone numbers

and friends’ birthdays

and maiden names

and had gifts for your next birthday in her closet, behind her blouses on the 2nd shelf.

i hope you know that no amount of time ever would have felt like enough

and that you carry her legacy now.

do you know this?

no?

well

that’s ok

we know it takes time

but if you need to be reminded

just go outside

buy a pastry at a local cafe

tell yourself it’s ok “every once and a while”

sit at a table without any technology in sight

enjoy a cup of coffee,

and watch the people go by with a twinkle in your eye.

talk to the nice lady beside you

bond over the weather and the sandwiches

and stop to smell, and take a film picture of, the cherry blossoms on your way home.

put your feet up to relax,

open a good mystery book

a real, paper book

and get lost in the story before you.

remember that your character is significant

and that without you, this book is just a disjointed tale.

understand that the people you impacted will never forget you,

and that your courage, prayers, and kindness will ripple through generations.

and leave the kitchen light on

just a bit

dim enough to quietly hum the plants to sleep

but bright enough to sustain that light joyfulness that follows you.

“ok,

bye

i love you

talk to you soon”

“goodnight”

i’ll see you in the morning

Freedom looks different now.

The unknown

Still He hovers.

The divine,

Still She beckons

The familiar

Still coos softly,

mouth watering,

in sheepskin

We miss you.

But somehow, sunlight overshadows what once seemed delightful

And light becomes the best teacher

The best agent

A real love

Revealing the now undeniable cracks in our foundations

So we stop

And fill them in.

At least, some of us

-I hope you will one day, too.

We created this together, so can we cradle it together?

Are you scared?

Hurt?

In an unbeknownst denial?

Isn’t that how this works?

Here, take some sunlight

*he takes it*

May we heed to the grander invitations of glory

May we cover our heads

And may we act courageously,

Even with pits in our stomachs.

May you become open

And may you ask Them honestly

May I despise distraction

And may I dance transfigured,

With hands open.

We are becoming.

March 26th

Day 14.

#quarantine2020

Spirit & sense

Home and uprooting

Deeply woven childhood blankets

Restless cannonballs of youth

Painfully overthought adult calculations

And hopefully,

Tuned in and heard voice of God.

June 2018

I’m not sure if he wanted me to see him,

Or just for me to know

that he saw me

seeing him.

I miss the wrong things on the right days sometimes.

Nostalgia from missile launch,

Leaning out that big sunny window,

The cozyness of chaos,

Pure insanity itself,

in rhythm.

Funny how thoughtful deception can appear

Like a mirage in hot deserts

Like a warm body on cold nights.

Ice melting and the sun iced over

Not hell though-

She’s doing great.

They all are, seemingly.

It be like that sometimes.

Image Feb ‘20

Words March ‘20

Calgary

Sensual

a poem.

Why does the flesh of an orange bleed so refreshingly, sweet like water found only a heavenly waterfall?

Why does the night sky, laid lavish with bedazzled flecks of divinity, cascade like magic over both warmed hearts and the anguished alike?

Why does snow drive away the familiar in its purified whisper, yet somehow in its crystallized glory draw us closer in confidence to the ones we love?

Why does donning the colour gold bring one to feel royal, priestly, worthy of the unearthly invitations bestowed despite a messy, rebuilt foundation?

Why are we here, and not there?

Why does the first glance of morning light over the city skyline feel like such a sacred moment of existence?

Why do we exist?

Why do we commune?

Why does going pee in the bushes feel so hilarious & adventurous?

Why do angels exist?

Why do babies understand each other’s intentions at all, and with only partially developed brains?

Why do humans grow inside one another?

Why do people like kangaroos, but dislike rats?

Why do I find bunnies cute but rabbits creepy?

Why do people find wolves both scary and mystical enough to iron in confidence to tshirts?

Why does condensed dirt over time sparkle like covenants in gold bands on nervous fingers?

Why doesn’t rain bother worms?

Why do we cover potently rich soil with imported seeds of green blades to soak sun on?

Why is a natural lake more refreshing than a human-made one?

Why do people prefer handheld toothbrushes?

Why is the air crisper in the morning, and more enjoyable before a flight?

Why does driving into an American strip mall bring me so much joy?

Why do some people clean to relax?

Why do people rally around nationalism?

Why is home important?

Why can some people taste the smell of things?

Why do we love illusions?

Why does the sunset leave with awe, each night, and why are sunrises equally as beauty filled?

Why are the iris of eyeballs painted with god-like attention to detail?

Why do we matter?

Why does the word ambrosia feel like magnificence?

Ambrosia...

Why does the cold, crisp crunch of apples taste better in the summer?

Why does melanin ripen?

Why does sandstone not fall apart?

Why do sandcastles bring kids joy?

Why do adults stop building sandcastles?

Why do people get embarrassed on their birthdays?

Why are you still reading this?

Why do we need connection?

Why is it comforting to slather thick acrylic paint onto a fresh, untouched canvas?

Why do adjectives matter?

Why did you call?

Where are we going?

Do you mind if I take a photo of you?

Yes—right there.

In the light.

—

Feb 2020

Winter bicycle rides & dinner dates with queens.

The best foreign meals & stunning natural views.

The freshest of oxygen.

Unity in melanin.

Bustling alleyways & comforting malecon walks.

Long-distance phone calls & solo sushi jaunts.

Lessons on Korean ramen vs Japanese from Kevin at the corner store.

Loneliness, fear, discomfort, and loving well.

Showing up, getting creative, reaching out, and reclusing.

Making magic.

Seeking wonder.

Hurting deeply.

Living vividly.

Telling her it’s ok and then trying again.

Hearing their stories.

Writing my own.

Going to hear DJ sets anyways because I care.

Learning to rock heavy sozhina.

Late-night chicken & Afrobeats with Lemba.

Mexicanos. Brazileros. Not being the only POC everywhere.

Fyre Festival. Making curry. Walking to church.

Trying harder. Disappointing. Befriending mercy.

Meeting my dear one wherever she can get to. Seeing Abbotsford. Trying Maplewood. Getting honest on our hike.

Hiking.

Feeling the soul and rich trunks laden with lost love & glowing smiles that the sea breeds.

Doing too many stairs but finding something good at the top.

The way that the rare sunlight looks on tall, shiny windows over the bridges.

The specific blue of this water, in this city, with this light.

Biking uphill on Clark to give affection.

Long talks in the car at my the alley when the nights end.

The song playing when her and I realize the truth.

The stripped down house where He told me what was happening.

Everything changing.

Running in the sand under overcast skies to new sounds in the most ridiculous of cinematic days—knowing both God and pain deeply at the same time.

Nosebleeds. Joanna. Thotiana. Beautiful Smile. I Am Not My Own. Divinely Beautiful. 5 + 5. Asking what to play. Not understanding. Rerouting. Playing it anyways.

Good craftsmanship. One-way announcements.

Metrotown Thai food. Roots & Key of C.

Cheesecake & coffee.

Laundry & sweeping.

Gifts of canvas. Short drives. Friend time. Cleaning up.

Lost lessons.

Sunday mornings.

Contrasting moments like burlap over Thanos’ hand.

The multiverse. DoorDash. Car2Go. Cartems.

Concerts. Goat roti. Dog dates. Duffins.

Gastown. Fortune. Evo. Sunsets.

Tacos. Like we used to. PayByPhone. Science World.

Making the mark.

Marking it up.

Missing it often.

Tumorous ballooning.

Awkward trios.

Thoughtful gifts. Cluttered closeness.

Oceanside living.

Stunning strangers with simple hellos.

The way the air smells in the overpass to the Skytrain, from the airport, when I land.

Drifting, like the logs I see in the river below when I fly away.

Nostalgia.

Februaries.

A year ago.

—

imágen: febrero 2019

palabras: febrero 2020

Quiet Sundays & mystic Mondays.

Chilled wind tickling neck curls.

Tired concrete echoing back.

To you of course.

Lights quietly lullabying.

Sirens sleeping on autopilot.

Cat meowing into oblivion.

Mouths curving into joy stickers.

Tea steaming through pore doors.

Curries testing litmus.

Time passing.

Moon waning.

Curious children.

Mood changing.

Subway housing hopeful cups.

Furry minis seeking street scraps.

Small cars showing glory.

Canopied comidas listening closely.

Listening.

Closely.

Losing good ribbons.

Stringing celebratory streamers.

Why were you gone so long?

What were you doing?

Candles correcting.

Cold cream melting.

Shower steaming.

Music explaining.

Rain asking for return policies.

Arteries still wet regardless.

Emptiness highlighting itself.

But.

Gold coins.

Gold coins remembering.

Gold coins holding as they see fit.

Tuesdays are ok too.

But not as lovely as Thursdays

Where threads count themselves.

Strung spirited like the moment a city becomes free & foreign

Or when a nation-state becomes tight like banjo strings.

Who told you it would be sensible?

Glimmering.

Warm salt.

Good shows itself.

Like.

Gold coins jingling in pocket.

Proverbial.

Forgettable.

Pablo / Jesus.

Here enough.

Hungry.

Spacey.

Dunkin. Top. Ocean full.

Glistening, even.

Starting on Sundays.

- -

Autumn, 2019.

I am finding my greatest strengths by surrendering in the midst of my weakness.

I am mosaic.

I am kintsugi repair in-process.

I am light through dusty window pane.

I am hot tea, steaming on top of sunshine in morning.

I am warm dough in cold hands.

I am warm hands.

I am bounce back on gahd.

I am soft pillow.

I am textured canvas.

I am good rent on bad days in tree shade.

You are tree shade.

I am fruit.

You are seedling.

Your seeds are showing.

I am concrete.

I am wood splinter.

I am dry cotton balls on chapped hands.

I am crackling microphone fuzz on Sunday.

I am glorious packets of Chik-Fil-A sauce.

He is waffle fries.

We are taking this too seriously—I am blooming.

We are laughing.

You are good and grounded and crinkly.

I am strange.

I am chlorella and chlorophyll and you are ATP.

I am flower.

I am Tracy.

I am sea star.

I am Komodo dragon.

I am regardless.

I am shiny.

I am learning new words with good doctors.

I am a treasure map.

I am river rush.

I am—becoming.

- -

Words by caedance, January 2020

photo by @michael.oyaro, Sept 2019

“My love & my hate

My tears & my joys

Existing

Actively alive between the exposures

That’s my hope for you

Him

Them

Grateful.

Good to go.

Strive-free.

Chin up.

Eyes bright.

“On the first flight home.” I saw them

Differently

Tugging at my heart strings, of course

But with less power

More like a memory

Characterized like a vision

Seen like wind - only by their effects

You mastered me

Just- an older model

Even robots can learn

And we cried our way out of tears

So as old tin I boarded steel and became new.

Met a wizard with great will and was given a heart.

Skipped a yellow brick road then noticed you weren’t with us.

You went ahead on a stallion while we enjoyed the views of steady exploration

Flower-picking

Brick-tripping

Air-breathing

Sky-scanning

Moments of wonder

It was glorious

It might be paradise

Or the most lush desert we’ve ever known

But I break bread, sip maroon, and thank Love for the opportunity

Anyways

To be here

And now

With her here

And now”

photo, Oct 2019

words, Nov 2019

In these wires in this sky are held taut the often seamless tensions between pain and beauty. “But isn’t that life though?”

Is its name another call for zindagi?

Shall we rename her La Vida?

Buff her and buffer her down to un vie?

A territory belonging to others, but also to those heart organs which gush and grow over her

Not the kind of community anyone had set out to build, but land expanded

Hands rebanded

And this brand was made.

You can flip it on its head and call it magic, make it brave

I’ll choose to awe the corded tensions yet lament their dropped decay

📷 summer ‘19

🖌 Oct ‘19

Life is happening whether you like it or not. Don’t miss out. Cry your muthafuckin tears. Fill up oceans with salty raindrops until you’re exhausted. Wave away all the imposters and bandaids and feel. your. pain. “I know you’ll do it again..”🎶

Time is passing every second. We have been conditioned to believe that money and things and titles are of greatest value. But time is something you will NEVER be able to get more of or take back.

Are you doing ok? No? That’s ok. I’m sorry for your loss. Now lean in. This is going to hurt. A lot. Dump salt on your gaping wounds and clean your heart out Grip hands way too tightly and fall down and get scabs as you try running again. Be discouraged and dismayed and then re-member that you can drag your heavy fucking heart out to try again. Yes That’s it One step Two steps Three steps...

I am convinced that as you re-start you will be re-freshed and re-newed. Re-discover Re-risk my friend Re-risk!!

There are sunsets you’ve never seen before Gently waning over horizons of land you never thought you’d touch. Notice that TIME has passed and now you’re- Wait Now you’re flying? Holy shit.

Re-call that only a short time ago you could barely lug legs on leisurely lobs but now you’re flying?! Dear Lord. *write this down* Write down how the air smells up here. Look at look how small those problems look from up here! Write about how the ocean makes you feel from this vantage point Try to point out the tears you once filled it with Nothing? Okay. When you can’t isolate them, see the magnificent glory that is the sea and re-member that your sacrifice helped to fill it That your courageous choice to hurt and then heal brought tiny droplets of now-hope into this vast body of beauty Wow Tell me you’re not an artist As you Take up your paintbrush and draw new pictures of hope Sing your sad songs and laugh furiously at the joys to come Pirouette into purpose with scars on your heart and body I see you Doin’ the damn thing Yes. - So time It passed Did you notice?

Put hope back in your heart and steer clear of false satiators The time you’ve clocked in health and in hardship has truly and actually made you better than this What’s freedom without a feather in your cap? What’s Hope without some homelessness? You took courage so now take heart You took time so now take the very best of what’s in front of you Wow. I hear clocks ticking and the fears fade away We are moving We are dancing We are only standing still when required for rest & for mourning But then, we walk On Tuesdays, we run And by Fridays, we’re flying We’re gotdamn flying. Not forgetting our hurts, but being re-newed and re-stored as we blow glass alters of hope and of love from the crystallized tears we once feared in the night. Re-consider the bottle. Dump it out. Grieve the old ways. Cry hard. Bruise your cute ass heart up. Fly high. Jump for joy. Dodge bullets. Thank God. Sew new wineskins. Get ready. Wait. -Don’t look down Take a breath Be filled up Now-

Haha

-yes

Now jump.

Hey, so, Happy Black History Month! Here’s a photo of me embracing & loving my big, frizzy, curly hair gifted to me from my black American father, and his Georgian and Canadian family tree, and my white mother, and her Canadian and European family tree. My hair was sent over in pain and turmoil via ships and in cargo holds many moons ago. It was beaten and broken, but not destroyed And maybe even made stronger in the journey. My hair waited patiently through embarrassing & agonizing interrogations. It sat angry but muted as it was told all of the things it could never be or do. It sweat, and gleaned, and grew as it moved from south, to south, to west, wondering if it would ever be fully free, some day. It took in the heat of west coast settling, and shared its hard work for no reward as it sprouted into age. It bounced with pride as it finally received its own paid wages And stood tall as it accumulated savings and strategy. It moved joyfully through kitchens of community And my great grandmother’s house of borders, corn bread, and collard greens. It grew stronger as she moved from dollar-a-day wages to property ownership And gained a sweet aroma under the avocado tree and warm sun in the backyard. My hair coiled character from my grandmother’s spunky story telling And untameable curls as my grandparents attended rallies and protests. It gained resilience as my great grandfather survived a tragic fire as a baby And learned the need for self care as it was nursed into a new family, with a new name It gained hope in the unseen as my grandpa preached and pastored And appreciation for sitting and being In the eclectic living room of his home. It rose to the occasion As my great grandmother rose the best and sweetest rolls in the oven at holidays. It sprouted in creative and inspiring waves near the silently pensive painting hand of their son, my grandfather And grew bigger as my father and mother expanded larger the family tree. These strands learned to bounce before they saw oxygen, spinning into big dreams as vinyl disks ran round And found their own lanes while my mother boldly blazed her career path. My hair became tenacious while my father ran spineful wind sprints to train on the school lawn in Calgary And started wandering off on its own while under the hood of his entrepreneurial, photographic eye. And finally, when after this long journey from motherland to ship to peach country to la la land to nearby to up there to tundra From Deutschland and colonies and iron curtain and west and south My hair Set aside for so long Was given To me. Thick, brown and voluptuous Just like I would one day be It curled in mountains as I grew taller and smiled wider Drew lions and cuddled bears and solved problems and danced shows and hurt deeply and loved beautifully and heard hip hop for the first time My hair danced in the living room, and grocery stores, and church. My hair loved Kirk. It grew longer as my white mother spent long hours helping me learn, write, plan, and apologize It shrunk back when learning to apologize. It curved into smiles as a little baby was born And rested gently in joy as she became my one and only fellow spawn It frizzed angrily when said sister didn’t get in trouble And zig zagged in tribal love languages as my mum took us to black cultures’ festivals To be around other kids who “looked like us” My hair was stubbornly empowered as my mother annually refused to pay school fees, and gained an early fist for justice as she told them school should be free. This frizzy masterpiece shone lustrously as my parents encouraged my shining - applauding my creations and leaving space for my uniqueness. It was saved by grace as my mother became unknowingly woke, and quickly forbade me from relaxing its hairline away. My hair was flattened and boxed and covered and brushed and moussed and straightened, conditioned, and tugged at, spat on, pet, and coloured, hated, appreciated, straightened then curled, seen, and cherished... a world entrusted to me On my own head A paintbrush A megaphone A serenade A sonnet A stare A sword A flower It has been glared at and pushed down Pulled on and cuddled in Forced and asked and loved and tasked and- This hair is mine In theory But really it’s a big tree Of fame and famine and trial and terror and ease and beauty and art and error And sweet buns and field runs Of quiet mouths and warm suns Of untold story Of obsidian glory Of an honour I may never fully comprehend. But I know that this hair is a crown So when you see it big When you see it bold Wrapped Coiled Braided Electric I understand why you stare now For of course- Don’t we all stand in awe in the presence of royalty?

-c.

🖌 Vancouver. February, 2019

📷 by Taylor Cullen, Calgary, January 2018

💄 by Aleesha Paige, Calgary, January 2018

We’re Okay

I am grateful for a joy and a peace that overshadow fear & shitty situations.

I am in Love and under Grace.

This has been the 2nd hardest season of my life so far, and I couldn’t be more content.

Not happy.

Content.

The secret is quite public

Simple & complexly beautiful.

Free

Yet it continues to cost me everything.

I am learning.

I can’t believe all I’ve been blessed & entrusted with.

I am stunned and I am covered.

I am sad & I am empty

I am full & I am smiling

I am hurting & I am unsure

I am healing & I am laughing

And here we are.

Here’s a picture of me in one of the simplest & coldest places I’ve ever been to.

Love was there too.

Happy Wednesday.

May your path be revealed royal today.

May you know that this feast is for everyone

And that that big, bountiful plate you just noticed over there was set for you.

I’ll bring the moon.

See you soon 💙

-c

🖌Vancouver, January 2019

📷 Morweena, December 2018

I think that one of the most common and sneaky ways that joy is robbed from us is from the future. I don’t mean [Insert TV show reference which I removed because I hate spoilers and don’t want to ruin it for you] running back to take it from the future future. But by allowing our minds to drift away from where we are.

What’s right in front of you?

I think it’s a great art form – one that I have not yet mastered, to simply appreciate the moment I’m in, regardless of what will happen in the future. You may not know what is happening tomorrow, may be job seeking, looking for a place to live, concerned about a relationship, not sure if you’re getting on that flight, sick, waiting on surgery, nervous about a meeting, about to have a kid, scared about that first date…

I find myself in some of these situations currently, and I think that one of the greatest gifts I will come out of this season with is hopefully having a better practice of what it means to be present. Again, I have nowhere near mastered of this, but my aim and desire is that I can be taught to appreciate what’s right in front of me in each moment. And just be there.

Sun streaming in on my face, the incredibly warm sensation of its touch on my skin. The way it looks on my blankets in the morning, the taste of this peanut butter, this potent and spicy tea...

May I not let concerns of tomorrow take this joy from me. May we learn to love the art of living - sitting in pain & happiness, in the grasped and the unknown all at once.

May I sip soulfully and celebrate the aromas in my nose and these words on my tongue.

💙 c.

Vancouver, January 2019.

Suspension.

You’re not always going to make the “right” decision.

Some might even say there’s no such thing as a right decision.

It’s ok.

You’ll survive. You’re not doomed.

You’ll be walking through this dark, scary place, with branches and critters poking you, wet dew seeping into your city socks, completely black sky all around you. You’ll look for stars but they’ll mean nothing, you’ll ask for signs and miss them all, even the brightest one as you stare up at the moon...

You’ll be upset because you didn’t pack accordingly, because you wish you’d worn wool socks and spoke to that business owner and asked that girl out and that you’d signed the lease on 12th, not 41st.

You’ll be angrily trekking through the brush, succumbing to how stupid you feel for coming out here alone, how dumb it was to leave your comfort and-

Why didn’t you just stay home?

You’re exhausted and wet and mad and bitten and calloused and bleeding and stressed and now you’re crying

Oh god now you’re crying...

Seriously man?? Get your shit together.

This is your fault, your call, your choice, you did this - YOU.

There’s no one to blame but YOU for being here.

And where is here anyways?? It’s pitch black, freezing, windy... .”where the FUCK am I?????!”

Fuck.

You sat down then - I remember this part well- so you’re sitting, now. On the cold soil, the wet earth, the frosted leaves. And somehow, in this midst of your chaotic pain, you fall asleep.

And you dream.

You dream that you turned left back there, you dreamed about how green the grass is on the other mountains. You dream about kissing the girl you should’ve asked out, and you dream about the job you never applied for. You dream of drowning in a guilt-laden coffin of invisible expectations, and you dream about the 5 calories you should have left behind when that scruffy man on the train offered you gum.

Suddenly 2 hands start slapping you. You can’t see their faces but somehow you know their names-

One is Guilt, the other Shame

Guilt slaps you obviously, and clearly it’s your fault for sitting there while

Shame slaps you so quickly you don’t see him, and so hard that you feel paralyzed.

But now you’re awake

Dear Lord now you’re awake and...

It’s sunny.

How is it sunny?

It’s been dark and cold and void for so long but now... it’s sunny.

You feel the warmth on your cheek

You squint through the trees and rub the crusted sleep out of your eyes.

The air smells... nice.

It smells really- nice.

You feel your lips turn up into a smile but you’re still mad about last night-

“Cos that wuz BULLshit!”

How lost you felt. How dark it was...

But your lips and eyes disagree. Your eyes are squinting in response to your lips curling and now you might be smiling.

Dear god, what’s happening.

You remember that darkness only lasts the night..

The sun is dancing through tall trees and thick leaves and it’s beautiful.

You’re trying to find the path you came on but you’ve strayed long from it. Now you’re just standing on thick moss and fresh morning moisture. No path, no road, just potential routes onwards.

That scared you last night, in the dark. You were so upset for missing the right turn, so defeated from choosing the ‘wrong way’.

Though here you are... cold, but the sun’s warming. Scratched, but you’re healing quickly. Walking with all that you came with - your clothes and a backpack; one water bottle, 2 snacks, and a notebook. Last night you despised the tools you had, but now in the light, you sense their need. A story is on your lips. You walk on. You’re not sure which direction you’re heading, but you know you need to walk.

You are GO-ing.

You are going!!

You think you might be experiencing “joy” this morning.

As you round a cluster of trees you see a bridge.

Dear God.

A bridge.

Since you’ve come from nowhere, it must be to somewhere, you figure.

And you fall to your knees, weeping, and the light continues to reflect the beauty you’re surrounded in. That which was dark last night, that which was scary, and painful; that which you’d felt lost in now feels peaceful.

It feels like progress, because you came through it.

It looks like beauty, as light bounces off greens and this bridge invites you to journey on.

You’re tempted to kick yourself for not being optimistic in the dark, to scold yourself for not making your own way. But Shame seems to have departed in the morning light, so instead you smile and step into the bridge.

You remember that darkness only lasts during the night...

It’s morning time.

You think you might be experiencing joy.

The forest looks really beautiful in the daylight.

-And who said you were never supposed to be here? --c. December, 2018 Vancouver.

I will redeem these

Burn plastics and make necklaces

Melt metals and crown kings

Crumple papers and weave bracelets we will redeem.

Don't you ever call us faithless.

For we are hurt

Broken

Bleeding and bruised but not

Faithless.

Just dormant

Waiting for the roar of a father and the strength of a mother to whisper those truths our hearts currently consider fairy tale

"I am here

Shhh, it's okay.

Do not cry at this daughter, your soul was made to scream

Do not lament for this son, your heart was made to ache

It's ok".

Wet breath and salted cheeks

Warm chest to strong arms

*congested sigh*

It's ok.

Slow rise to stance wide

Tears dried and heart tried

Dusted off, perfect bride

Fists high (Standby)

We gon FUCK some shit up!! So stampedes of the broken and bruised and hurting right?

Came coming out of nowhere right…

I couldn't believe my eyes

The dust rose in a way I've never seen before… Animals and priests and prisoners and prostitutes and all the things that start with P came running, they were somehow unified and I wasn't sure what to do but it was beautiful and I knew that so I just stood still

Breathing in the dust and

It was a bit uncomfortable but there was something holy about the moment so I appreciated it

I allowed my eyes to sting and my tongue to dry and my throat to clog and my feet to chafe

because the particles were different and I just wanted to be part of it

This

Thing

They were mad

And it was beautiful

They were bleeding

And it was ok

They were fighting...

... Armed.

Done with shit

Ready to quit

Apathy

With chest plates of courage and herds upon herds of -

The faithless ones rose.

So stop calling us that.

We've had enough

And the dust has only begun

-Aug, 2017.

Don’t hold my heart like that

It hurts.

I liked it better when you held it from afar

As a distant idea

Yeah

Yeah that wuh fine

More comfortable

But probably less rewarding...

I will gently pry your fingers off now

At least I’ll try

That’s what I used to do

So I’ma...

I’m doing it

One

That hurt

Two

My heart panged a bit

Three

I’m actually not sure

Four

Should we be doing this?

Five...

Please let go.

Please

Don’t make me do this, please let -

You pull me closer and squeeze harder. My heart is fast-moving and bloody and gushing in your hand so I try to tidy things up

I’m frantically grabbing napkins and rags

Journal pages and gifts you gave me

Anything to clear up this mess but

You just calmly say “I love you”, and somehow pull us closer than before

My heart in your right hand and me in your left arm

All 3 of us breathdeeply

Together

Slowly

Blood dripping

Pace slowing

Everything...

Okay.

Everything is actually okay.

So I’m open, I guess.

I open my hand now, and ask if I can hold your heart too.

📷 Chicago

March, 2018.

📝 Vancouver

November, 2018

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