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Week 2:


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Week 2:


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Assentemento #4, a two color lithograph by Rosana Paulino

Rosana Paulino
Assentemento #4, 2012
Courtesy of Tamarind Institute


The tools I’ve used to define myself are but a dull vibration, a barely audible hum. I have been reduced to a BMI, a list of nouns, a colonized gender and predetermined roles, a set of ingredients diluted to fit a social media page. A heart’s desire relegated to a job description.

Where is the language to express the universe spinning within? What about the moment I hear the moonlight roll across my bedroom floor, then the canine feet tumbling pebbles on the road, the sigh of the neighborhood, the churning hills, the breath of mountains... further and further into the light and dark? Who is that? I ache to trust in my vast simplicity and to have that trust trusted.

I lay on my hammock and hear something move wind around aircraft through the sky above me but there is nothing visible. Can we allow what doesn’t make sense? Can I, like that invisible aircraft, simply exist in a state of wonder?

My fear has contorted me into pretzels of acceptability. Silly clumsy shame, self-deprecation—all the tools I’ve used to shrink myself into a palatable (consumable) form where my vastness won’t intimidate. I’ve been Noun-ed, and I’ve bought what was sold. It is time to Verb, to become that vibration of manifestation.

I am now finished with these limited definitions of myself, and am opening to a new way. I am finished with these limited definitions of myself, and am opening to a new way. I am finished with these limited definitions of myself, and am opening to a new way. I am now finished with these limited definitions of myself and am opening to a new way. So be it.

Scream, a single color lithograph by Larry Brown

Larry Brown
Scream, 1989
Courtesy of Tamarind Institute


Hey you. You—my feet. You—my pet, my food, my fancy tool, my daughter. Mine. My hard work, meat of heart, glass of water, favorite silver bracelet, steering wheel touched by my hands only, dear friend, reliable story, my idea.

You’re mine because I choose you. And, as you are mine, I have some control—some say in the matters of things. Power. Privilege. Responsibility that helps me feel like an adult, like I’m the boss around here.

I noun you. I get to name you. Even if it’s just “mine.” And now you are transformed into an object that safely fits the empty shape you belong in to un-scary this world. I steal your scary wonder to avoid seeing my own.

I’ve stolen your animation to transform your complexity into commodity. When I can’t feel or vibrate the vastness of myself, I make everything around me tiny.

If I can work to let this go, to remember the depth of my expanse, can you?

It is common knowledge that emergency rooms fill up with patients during a full moon. We wax and wane like our relation in the sky, not alone in our stories. Cuss out the moon, honey, she owns you, and you are victim of her meanderings, her growing and her slimming. Or better yet— praise us, cells we are in the ocean of her influence. Cells influencing the ocean.

To Let Go, a sculpture by Rose B Simpson

Rose B Simpson
To Let Go, 2015
Courtesy of Ciaroscuro Gallery

Notes from Rose this week

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