And they wonder why their nervous systems are in a state of perpetual crisis. It seems they take their superficial masks more seriously than they take their souls. They love to categorize themselves in tiny boxes, – gender, race, religion, sexuality – then fight to defend their box. I imagine…
A sister is hoping. For stillness and slowness. A soft gaze. An inner leaf’s unfurling. Clarity, and ease. Sanctuary.
My breath catches in the box of my chest. Whose bread has been stolen? Whose travels have been circumscribes? Whose eye will be taken? How can we make a broken world home again? I don’t believe that words can answer these questions, not in the way we use them now.…
In this quiet moment of contemplation, I write you this letter, seeking to embark on a transformative journey within the poetic realms of collapse. I seek a sanctuary for artistic exploration, and with the fertile soil of Sisters Hope Home I hope to explore a descent through the empty spaces…
In constant movement following the now Letting go of past… Pushing …future Searching for balance in being here
It was before my birth it happened. Stardust floated in the everness, and somehow it was in my mother and it became part of me. Before I was me. As I grew up I sensed a light in me, and that it could connect to others. Peacefully. I thought that…
Lacan said the desire of man is the desire of the Others. I always wonder what desire is actually calling from my own soul; What is the truth I am searching for my own heart; And what is the movement moves from my own body. Only when I became mindful…
I was born in your ancestors And I still live in your mind I thrive on curiosity And come alive between minds Without me the world as you know it wouldn’t exist The imaginary world The built world I built religion, politics, money I can build more I can build…
It is the year 2024 (anno domini), or the year 1740 (of the era of martyrs), or the year 2777 (by the count of the Caesar), or the year 231 (since the people stormed the Bastille). It is March, or Paremhat, or Einmánuður—the Lone Month—the last month of Winter. …
I am excited and tense about this imminent departure. Living in a poetic and sensual society is how I would like to live in everyday life. These are the foundations on which I try to build my community and my artistic and human practice. I wonder what happens in living…
/