What we do, what two mistimed people have always done, only ever has one ending. It will never be clearer than it is right now.
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When reporters ask for the secret, you are good at hedging: hard work is a sweet way to say obsession. Pathology is prettier when masked in music.
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Elegy can be messy. Elegy is sometimes unhappy with itself, too. Elegy is regrinding the lens again & again & again. Elegy is a reconstruction of joy.
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Elegy is birthed from such discomfort, a speaker navigating a world that hurts precisely because of its horrible resemblance to the one left behind.
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Elegy is the séance we hold as we pray for a visitation from the ones we have lost. We invite them to haunt us. We sing to them, and listen for song in return.
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I was praying the only way I knew how. I was trying to build a boat, to take me through the waves of grief on your street, right up to your door.
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With my suitcases packed & the sky creased to its perfect middle, I’m the most beautiful I’ve ever been without having already left.
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When I listen to music, it moves through me because it has to. The soundwaves hit my ears, and my body decides where it needs to go next.
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I could be sharp-tongued, curious, fucked-up—what had never felt available to me. For the first time, French was no longer borrowed, but mine.
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The artist’s dictum “trust your materials” only started to make sense in collage, with strange fabrics and colors and patterns coalescing in startling meaning.
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