crying as performance art

Tears build up beyond your eyelids and you can feel the heat rising. The temperature of your body quickly speeding up towards triple digits when you have to hold back what your body needs to release. But you’re riding the train and it’s crowded with rush hour commuters. Usually if it’s a quiet evening going from Manhattan to Brooklyn, you’ll let the tears stream down your cheeks. Feeling a burst of heat drip down your skin. Body temperature levels out. As you let go what no longer serves you through the form of salt water, you feel seen. Crying in public is a form of performance art. Just far more genuine. You are, as scientists would have you know, made of 60% water. Similar to Mother Earth. Just one of the many things you two have in common.

The tears can formulate from any number of storms currently taking hostage of your insides. Maybe it is from your craving for a maternal love that seems to always just evade you. The familial focus is so much easier to stay residing on your sibling(s) who are Less Difficult™ and What Was Expected From Conception™. You are a hurricane that sometimes yells when emotional. And always cries when the tears build up behind eyelids. And always twirling around, difficult to contain, difficult to keep still long enough to Love™.

Or maybe this time the tears flow out of anger for a perfect love lost. But if the love was so perfect, would it have been lost? But if the love was so perfect, won’t it return? But if the love was so perfect, wouldn’t they also be unable to breathe the way you are right now? This anger is rooted at everyone but the very person who is now gone. The people who are easier to hold resentment against. Or maybe the tears flow out of lost memories. You know, the memories you had built up in storage to save for a rainy day? The ones not yet lived out yet but they were supposed to be in the near future. So close you could taste them but now all you can taste is salt water. Gallons on gallons, plentiful, always a reserve... of salt water.

The streams coming from your eye ducts might even be the result of feeling a loss of self love and connection. Maybe you woke up this morning and realized you haven’t masturbated in months. Maybe you woke up this morning and realized you forgot what it feels like to take yourself out on a date. Maybe you are riding home from work and feeling as though your job doesn’t serve you anymore but you need to keep living life in this capitalist society. These tears are slow and quiet. A soft reminder that you need to take time to love yourself and your Earthly being.

pt. 1

How do you continue to resist capitalism when we live in such a hyper-capitalist state (city bc NYC)? Like most change, you must see beyond the narrative we are told to prescribe to in order to (envision) true opportunity for real structural change. Tho at times, I must say I do feel it's not possible, that we are too far gone. Then I remember love. You know -- in that constant state of recovery from the ideologies we are taught from neo-liberalism. From capitalism. From the patriarchy. From state sanctioned violence.

pt. 2

beginnings n middles n ends::
My insides are where I find solace
I've turned my body inside out
My small intestine in my hands
Playfully rolling through my fingers
The shades of furious red
I pull my heart out
Pluck my veins and arteries still
Flowing freely
But I cannot be free
Not while the confines
Of my own being
Enrapture me

pt. 3

Missing this feeling, this moment, this me. There is a brisk realization that hits when the moon pulls you up. How do you focus when you catch yourself off balance? Where center is, is that really the way to see the world? Should we not seek off kilter visionary ever so often? I have my bedroom window open most nights in the month of January. I welcome the cold air. This body of mine may not much appreciate the juxtaposition between cold breeze and stiff inside winter air. A body is a weird thing, carry me all about in so many different directions (yes at once, we can exist beyond this body in many locations at once). When you lose your mind, does it simply mean it's existing somewhere beyond where this simplistic body has allowance to be? Hm. I feel every inch of me as I grasp for sleep tonight. Certain aches, certain pleasures. It may all just be designed to make me get lost in the end.

pt. 4

What does mundane mean when you grow up in suburban america? Well versed in small talk, laughing on cue, smiling politely, covering up the indecency of being a woman, burying my queerness below the "nice girl" look.

Able to slip into my role in this world, yet I still have not mastered the skill of hiding my wild boldness, my restless feet, my aching hands, my lustful eyes. Your talk of babies and tour vacations has driven me to madness before. Driven me to months in bed, anxiety brewing under the covers; to feel, to crave, to understand anything outside of your lies.

It may not be the mundane that bothers me so about suburban life. It may just be the way you are all able to cover up the truth. You lie so well, box it away in the attic, along with the ghosts of your past.

However, I cannot ignore the madness of this world. It weighs heavy on my lap when I sit down, my arms clumsily wrapped around it always. It jangles round my hips as I run down these quiet roads. And when I walk into your perfectly made living room, I can see you gaze upon my demons. Your gaze burns with a craving for the ability to face the gory truth of it all. But that would mean quite a bit of unpacking, wouldn't it? And gosh, unpacking is just so cumbersome.

You see, I don't pack mine up at all. It's boiling on my skin, embedded in my clothes. I've shown you my depressed nights, my manic binges, my crazed travels, my sporadic romantics. I cannot trust you all with your hidden truths. You are an explosion waiting to happen. I've seen it, the quiet suburban house burning softly when a truth comes to run away.

pt. 5

Been thinking about the power of reflection a lot lately // how at times I look in the mirror and feel most in my body; and other times I am beyond surprised by the vessel that carries my experiences out in the world

Been thinking a lot about the magic and resilience of femmes lately // how it takes power to continue to be queer and femme and feel seen

Been feeling heavy lately // like the weight of my 25 years around the sun has been a burden; but it's not, it's a gift that I continue to uplift and hold space for

Trying to find a semblance of peace in this muddled world // taking all my obstacles and hanging them in front of the mirror, to know them is to overcome them // noticing the walls around my heart and finding space to let them down 

pt. 6

We're all a tangled mess moving slowly through this world. I wonder what your imagination says about your desires. And I wonder how we may heal through nurturing masturbation. I think the answer (if there ever was one) is hidden in the inbetweens. The wax and wane, a poetic dance. Imagine here: a pile of charred coal, honey drizzling and dancing above. Your amerikkkan screen has consumed you, eaten you whole. Don't you see that? I envision milk pouring from Her hands, the maternal source of life. Providing, providing. A dash of honey for Her sweet tenderness. Don't forget about Her tenderness. Stay tender. Stay lovely. My mind is all fragmented selves. See here: departing ceremony for all the persons I've carried. Learn to carry, they will say. Carry it all, they will say. It is your burden, they will say. (it is not). We share in this burden, I am here to help you carry.

pt. 7

I got to see some of my favorite humans today; under terribly sad circumstances. To me, femininity means emotional vulnerability with dear friends you haven't seen in months. Because loss hits us all, all of the time. And you show up. Show up.

-------

You could have cut the air between us in half, thick as honey. Honey dripping off the words coming out of my mouth. Then slowly drenching your hands cupped beneath my mouth. Your fingers catching the honey as it spilled out of my mouth with every word I spoke of our love. Your hands cupped: filling with my honey. brimming over. too much. Holdspacefor...

pt. 8

When what you need from someone and what you get from them is disparate; you have yourself. 

pt. 9

Imperfect, perfect moments. The sun is shining. A gust of wind as I snap a happiness selfie. The word honey written on brick, I love honey. Today I got asked how I've healed to the point where I can openly tell my story to auditoriums filled with people. Healing is continual, but healing in community with 150 people listening to my story and my learned/lived experiences is the best way I've found to navigate this crazy world. Life is just so damn beautiful lately, I'm just so damn happy lately. Love on.