When I paint, I begin with the bones of bare line, fleshing out the image with rich layers of gossamer thin glazes. It is a metaphor for my life.
I was born in the nitty-gritty, and I kinda liked it there, actually. The known world is naturally divided into perimeters of class and caste, and for your own safety, you don’t put your hand on an electrified fence. That’s all the meaning you need.
So I know most poetry is fucking bullshit, okay, but somehow I came into this life seeking beauty, even if it would wound me. Even when the human condition turns ugly and cruel, I try to keep my eyes wide because I know the contrast will only serve beauty more exquisitely still. My love of it has been “the precious pearl”… all of my days.
My mother taught me to yank dreams out by the roots. Our ability to bear the brunt of injustice assures us that true caliber is measured in endurance. Our children are not dreamers. We are survivors, she said.
I felt my mother’s words so acutely at the opera. I had just witnessed thousands of red rose petals raining on the stage as Puccini’s Butterfly stabbed herself. That blade pierced my own heart. In the lobby of the theatre, I saw several people of a different class flick their eyes down to my feet. Looking for fear on my shoes? Surprised I am not crippled? I would rather find courage than face regret.
Lately, the silence rising in my throat is choking me and I can feel the stories kicking the back of my ribs, waiting to be born. I try to make this dream smaller so there’s no need to slay it. I am trying to find the bare bones so I can begin.
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