Creation

I was first taught to knit when I was eight years old / By a teacher during a bout of indoor recesses / One particularly snowy winter / When I decided I was too old for my blankie / I reworked it into a small stuffed animal / Many birthdays were spent enjoying / The (now defunct) Craft Museum in NYC / With my Grandmother / Planning, executing, and gifting / My fascination / With colors and words and how the human body works / Cookies and cakes / Staying up late and Early risers / Handmade objects / My own natural resourcefulness / Mixed with inspiration / From generations of individuals who have crafted / Creation has always felt like home. 

Collections

Every day I'm taken to my knees at the plethora of bullshit compounding infinitely.

I fill journals, post-its, and apps.

I write pages in the morning or sitting in the bath

Trying my best to make sense of the avalanche of potential nothings in front of me.

I've kept papers as far back as Elementary school.

My drawers are filled to the brim with words strung together in hopes of making sense of my senselessness.

I'm no better than the person with an overflowing wardrobe woven from Capitalism and underpaid wages.

Thoughts on writers

The words are like a necklace made of broken bottles, beautiful in its grotesque danger. Stabbing gently with each subtle move the necklace reminds the wearer of both the pain and beauty. beneath the weight of the translucent colors, the partial labels, and sticky residue the flesh of the chest rises carrying the ever-present reminder. Here. They are here. The pain brings them back every time to be here, wherever they are. The swaths of sentences and paragraphs come pouring like the falls of Niagra, overspilling on the shores. It all flows out. And they let it. They let the movement of the sharp jagged glass scrape across their flesh. They allow themselves to bleed. To feel their heartbeat pulsate to the rhythm of the clinking bottles. As the blood that runs through them gives them life the thoughts and ideas give sense to that life. A purpose to their consciousness. What is inside must come out. Every letter, syllable, word, sentence, idea, out there on paper so they can see what's inside. What was once floating through them coursing through their veins has been smeared across the once endless page. Frustratingly anguishing over what seems to be the inevitability of not being able to get it all out.