Tonight

Tonight I am wallowing in a psychological rut. Letting go is so much easier when you’re moving forward, it’s this reality of my physicality that forces me to be still until the pain decreases.

If the pain decreases. God it takes so long and the surgery has caused new issues that at least are not the same issues but I’m forced once again to sit still. So I read Buddhist philosophy and meditate and tell myself I’m teaching myself to sit more comfortably with the unavoidable reality of suffering and sometimes I feel so proud of my resilience, of how I can weather the most violent and painful internal storms. Sometimes I feel so wise, so connected, so grateful, so much love and so I work to keep my focus on the beauty that is a purring cat on my lap, a storm of autumn leaves on the road, my mother humming in the kitchen, a lover telling me I am beautiful.

And I am getting better at sitting in this stillness, there are moments when I feel the reality of my body and accept it with grace and calm. There are more of those moments now as I have begun to let go of needing to meet any standards but for the ones that are realistic and kind. Everything is easier now that I am kind to myself.

Easier but not easy. Sometimes I look at my life and see how much of it has been spent from a place of enforced stillness, watching as everything moves and grows and shifts around me and I am forced to wait while my body ages and my face starts to sag. I no longer want to dwell in the bitter taste of envy when I behold the able-bodied who know not the privilege of doing without thought, I no longer want to feel as if I might die when I watch other people paint or play music or do whatever they love with unnoticed freedom. But when months go by and I am unable to pick up a pencil or brush without unworkable pain… well, to pretend that isn’t devastating would be a lie. It’s grief, it still is, maybe it always will be.

There is that temptation to fall into that grief and succumb to an overwhelming hopelessness like I once would have. I can see why I wanted to go there in the past, I can see the horrifying way in which giving up would have been a relief. This existing in my crippled and chronically painful body is hard work, it requires constant vigilance, such intense internal work, such a deep and brave and thorough exploration of myself, my worth. It requires the ability to stare into the cold face of reality and unrealisable dreams, it requires the ability to resolve to keep trying and loving and hoping no matter what. It requires a dogged determination to perceive the beauty and tenderness in whatever I might face, no matter how utterly cold and cruel it all seems.

It requires a deep humbleness, an uncompromising kindness and a gentler hold on my own ego. It requires the careful cultivation of people who can hold space with me through light and dark, sickness and health. Compassion has become non-negotiable.

Tonight I am wallowing in a psychological rut. Tonight I may cry for an hour and feel entirely bereft and alone. Tonight I might not be ok. Tomorrow I may step outside and notice something overwhelmingly beautiful such as the drama of sunlit storm clouds. Tomorrow I may read a book that takes me out of myself. Tomorrow I might have a drink with friends who make me feel loved and content. It’s light and dark just every day, it’s pain and joy just every day.  The magical highs, the tedious lows, much of it is unavoidable and inevitable so I might as well learn what I can from it all. I hope, no matter what, that I can learn to navigate the entire spectrum of experience with equilibrium, curiosity and dignity.

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That Cripple Girl

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“I just don’t want people to think of you as that cripple girl.”

A lover said to me as we lay in bed together, he was questioning why I regularly wrote on social media about my experiences with my thoracic outlet syndrome. Later in our relationship, he begun to accuse me of whingeing and playing victim when I expressed my anxieties about money, he was angry at me because I had achieved some big things with creative projects which to him proved that I was therefore capable of working, if only I was creative enough to come up with a solution, if only I stopped whining, if only I stopped acting helpless and started living in the real world like he did.

“You are just a piece of shit to me right now” he said and because he’d also been calling me the love of his life, I sat and I listened. At the time, his words hurt like hell because I thought he was right. I thought perhaps that I had earned the disgust burning in his eyes and I even felt a sick sort of gratitude towards him for “just saying what everyone is thinking” because secretly, I did believe that people must look at me and think that I am just weak-willed, attention seeking and whiny. I challenged myself to speak openly about my experiences with my disability in order to combat those fears and to decrease the isolation a person can feel when they experience chronic health issues but it didn’t mean I wasn’t afraid of being secretly judged. I was, in fact, really afraid and often still am. After all, I had had that exact experience in my childhood when I was chronically ill and my classmates would tell me that their parents said I was faking it. I’ve had doctors tell me there is nothing wrong with me. I’ve had a lot of people’s responses to my health problems make me wonder if I’m crazy.

Several months after I left that lover, realising that his behaviour was emotionally abusive while still struggling with the fact that part of me still believed his words, I got surgery on my right side. I had two scalene muscles in my neck cut and my top rib removed. The two surgeons who performed this procedure on me said it was the worst case they had seen. When I was told this in the hospital, I broke down in tears, along with my mother and husband who both held me and cried with me. After so many years without diagnosis, so many years of having an invisible disability, to have a specialist in my field tell me I was a worst case he had seen was actually incredibly validating and I will always have the scar to prove the reality of my experience to myself and to others.

The improvement was almost instantaneous and for several months after surgery, I was able to progress with my physiotherapy and was even able to start painting more and more. However, for the last month, my right shoulder has dropped and have been unable to do anything. This has been really scary and disheartening but tomorrow I see my physiotherapist, who has been away, and on Monday I see my surgeon so hopefully they can offer some answers and help me get back on track because I’m scheduled to be operated on my left side on April 10 and this has made me a little anxious about whether I’m making the right choice. I’m actually still reasonably sure I am because on my left side I have some signs of arterial compression which can be quite dangerous.

Despite the emotional turmoil of the last month, I have been struck by how resilient my mental health has been through this experience, compared to last year when I was suicidal and despairing. A few things have changed since last year; I started reaching out to people more for help when I am too sore to get things done myself, I’ve been meditating a lot, I’ve been reading lots on self-compassion and focusing on not shaming myself for doing what I need to be happy. The biggest part of that ability comes from one simple realisation:

I am that cripple girl.

My disability affects every aspect of my life, every decision, every night, every day. Though disability is not visible on the outside, though my face does not crinkle in pain with every movement I make, it is omnipresent in ways that someone who is able-bodied could simply never truly comprehend without living in the reality that is my body.

Over the last three weeks, I hadn’t been posting about how bad things were because I was afraid people would see me as whingeing. I had been so positive, so excited, so productive until just recently and I was afraid that people would be disappointed with me, exasperated with me for not just getting better after surgery. But for many disabled people, there simply aren’t easy answers because bodies are more complicated than we currently understand. Over the last month, I hadn’t been reaching out to my friends and family and talking about how I was scared, scared of how the surgery seemed to be causing new problems for me, scared about going under the knife again in April, sad and unhappy because I haven’t been able to do most anything while I’ve been having these problems.

But then I realised I had to call my friends, I had to start writing again, I had to start talking about my experiences because this is the reality of my disability. Because there are no straightforward answers. Because this is hard and I need support through it. Because this isn’t my fault. Because this could happen to anyone. And when I reached out to people, I was met with nothing but compassion.

Because I am that cripple girl, that’s just my reality. I’m also that artist girl, that queer girl, that kinky girl, that comedian girl, that kind girl, that weird girl, that short girl.

I was talking to my therapist the other day, a new one I started seeing to figure out why it’s taken me so long to work through the hurt done to me by that ex-lover. The conclusions we’ve come to is that my ex-lover triggered deeply held fears I’ve held about myself since childhood and my adult insecurities about being disabled. My therapist said that he believes that some able-bodied people struggle to sit with the reality of disability, because they can do things and the idea of not being able to simply do those things is horrifying for them. It’s easier for them to judge you rather than to sit in compassion with your experience. He described my ex’s response as emotionally lazy, he said that being disabled is hard enough work without expelling energy on people who are not kind, that disabled people in particular need to surround themselves with people who are thoughtful and compassionate.

Compassion is not the same as pity. Pity is “you poor, sad thing”, pity is looking down at a person and thinking you could never fall as low as them. Compassion, however, is standing face to face with someone as an equal and realising how easily their struggles could be your own. Or as Buddhist nun, Pema Chödrön put it:

“Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It’s a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.”

― Pema Chödrön, The Places That Scare You: A Guide to Fearlessness in Difficult Times

I am that cripple girl. It’s simply a fact of my reality. It makes my life really hard in a lot of ways which I reserve the right to talk about, to emotionally struggle with and complain about. I am that cripple girl and sometimes being trapped in this body of mine is the stuff of existential horror. But that’s only one part of my life, one part of me. I am that cripple girl but if you think that makes me sad or pitiable, the only person that says anything about is you.

My Website

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Hey guess what? Over the last couple of months, I’ve been able to slowly update my website, after it lying dormant since 2012, as I slowly get somewhat more able-bodied post-surgery. I’m not finished yet, there’s a couple of things yet to come but it’s mostly there! I’ve tried to combine many facets of myself there and this includes the overlaps between art, comedy and smut. So it’s VERY much not safe for work, there’s a LOT of nudity and sexually themed art, you have been warned.

It is such a damn good feeling to be improving enough that I can actually start building my profile as an artist again. I have to work very slowly but I’m able to do it and so putting together this website has been so good for my goddamn heart.

Anyway, blah blah blah, check out my stuff at jngaio.com if you’re so inclined and you can also follow me on Instagram. Viewable on phones but significantly better on a desktop.

Good News

(This is cross-posted from my Instagram where I have been most active lately. It’s not a poetically written post but it contains happy news about my thoracic outlet syndrome and I think this blog needs a bit of that.)

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Succinctness will never be my talent but my health stuff is going amazingly well and so I wanted to gush about that.

Before I got surgery for my thoracic outlet syndrome, I was feeling trapped in my body. After years of incorrect diagnoses, shitty experiences within the medical system and my disability and pain increasing with every year, I was feeling utterly alone, utterly dejected.

Four months after surgery (where the surgeons found I had the worst compression they had seen) and I’m actually starting to see real, tangible progress from the physiotherapy I’m doing. I’ve started lifting a half kilo weight and more amazing than that, two months ago I started doing a gentle rowing motion with a very gentle theraband, this was a HUGE deal because before I had surgery, even after a year of physiotherapy, I couldn’t do the row without pain. I simply wasn’t able to do it. But I’ve been doing it for two months now and a couple of weeks ago, I graduated to a tougher theraband, at which point I got tearful in front of my physiotherapist. She apologised for how long and slow this process is to which I responded “no, the thing you have to understand is to me, this is nothing short of a miracle. Before surgery, the idea of being able to do this exercise felt like dreaming too big” and it did… it seemed as out of reach as the idea of me walking on Mars. But it’s happening, twice a day I do twenty rows and it’s hard, my body has a lot of shit that needs correction… but it’s happening! It’s really happening! I’m improving!

Yesterday I drove almost two hours and I was only in mild pain afterwards. Today, I painted for almost three hours and though that was definitely pushing it too far and I need to not make that a habit just yet, for the first time in perhaps seven years, I wasn’t a broken wreck afterwards.

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Here’s a portrait I did of an Instagram friend in 3 hours. Ok, I was actually pretty sore the next day but I’m still excited about being able to paint for longer than I could before surgery

I will always have thoracic outlet syndrome, I will always need to keep on top of my physio and practice management strategies. But that’s ok because for the first time in such a long time, my hard work and discipline pays off! Do you know how much easier it is to keep pushing onwards when your hard work gets results? Do you know how much easier it is to look after your body when it isn’t in pain all the time? Do you know how much easier it is to get through the day when you can take a quick drive to the shops without it hurting? My brain feels so much clearer and my heart is opening with the joy of it all.

I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that the surgery for this poorly understood and rare condition actually worked for me. I am, in honesty, still in shock and every day, when I realise how much easier life is for the able bodied, my heart goes out to everyone who struggles against impossible, invisible enemies, myself included. I never believed I could be this lucky. Perhaps in a year’s time, I’ll be using a rowing machine at the gym. Perhaps I’ll be painting every day. But even now… I’m better than I had thought I could possible be when I lost every shred of hope last year. I am so lucky, I am so incredibly lucky.

(P.S this post is public because when I desperately needed TOS success stories, I couldn’t find any. Down the track I would like to make a website about it or something but currently I’m just focusing on my own healing. My second surgery is booked for April 10, I am still pretty nervous because it’s major surgery but I am not terrified like I was the first time.)

Suicide and Love

(Trigger warning for discussion of suicide and disability, this is actually a positive post but it’s still very intensely emotional stuff.)

Earlier this year, I stood on the edge of a train platform in New York City and nearly jumped. I had been struggling with suicidal ideation for the last two years, my chronic pain had pushed my brain into a clinical depression that was almost relentless and I had experienced several major mental breakdowns, the accumulation of which, coupled with a traumatic event, had left me feeling utterly useless and hopeless and so I stood on a train platform and contemplated jumping. In fact, the only thing that stopped me was the thought of Wes, one of my partners, having to pay a fortune to have my mangled body shipped back home. Sometimes I am still blindsided by the horror, the sickening realisation of what I nearly did.

Lately, my life is really incredible. My arm has been slowly improving and I’m getting back the things I thought I was losing forever, my ability to paint and write and drive and just… just live with some freedom of movement, without my body feeling like a cage that is shrinking smaller, smaller, smaller. I had lost all hope that I could ever be so lucky and so I feel my luck with an intense gratitude and a deep, heartbroken sadness and compassion for everyone who is currently lost, and scared, and hurting and may never be as lucky as I am.

I am also intensely aware that I don’t want anyone to think my life is only better now because my arm is getting better and frankly, that isn’t true. My life actually started getting better before the surgery, it started getting better on the night when, back from New York and in an abject, miserable, broken state, body trembling and eyes red from crying for days, I screamed at Wes to help me, to please help me, please why wouldn’t anyone help me.

He called suicide hotlines and they were not helpful (this is not a criticism of that resource, it’s just the advice that was offered was… ok it wasn’t useful so maybe this is a criticism?) and so instead he called my mother and with her advice and the help of some of my friends and lovers, Wes organised for me to go on suicide watch. For the next several weeks, I had somebody by my side every day and through that process, I realised how loved, how very loved I was. I realised how important love and community and kindness is and my life started getting better.

Then I started meditating, and reading books on shame and daring greatly and grief and finding Buddhism, and practising self-compassion and loving kindness and learning from the wisdom of an ancient philosophy that someone called “positive nihilism” which suits me well as it’s is all about love, connectedness and how to navigate the facts that suffering and change are unavoidable truths.

And I went on SNRI antidepressants as we came to realise that though my reasons for feeling unhappy were valid, nonetheless my health had pushed me into a clinical depression and my brain needed some assistance climbing out of that. And I was already getting therapy and that helped a little though not as much as the support of my friends and family because the mental health support system is overstretched and besides I was tired of the dehumanising process of being a problem to be fixed, that was in fact part of what was hurting me so badly.

And I went through loss, I had two important relationships fall apart at the exact same time and felt the ache and hurt and heartbreak and confusion that comes from conflict with those you love and then I practised self-compassion and honouring my heartbreak and sadness and letting myself move through all the stages of grief and anger and loss and letting go. I am still moving through those but the process of doing it with a great deal of compassion for myself is strengthening me further as heartbreak doesn’t have to harden me or destroy me, but instead can soften me to the pain of others. And as my compassion grew and therefore my sense of connectedness to others, my life started getting better.

And I started letting go of shame. I was shaming myself a little less for not earning money and struggling with mental health problems and I was valuing myself a little more for the contributions I was making in the world. And I realised my principals are entirely about kindness and that made me feel strengthened and driven. I decided I was going to be ferociously kind and I started to get more in touch with my anger (with unfortunate mishaps along the way because I’m still working through trauma and anger and it’s messy stuff) and I started to get more in touch with my pain. And my life started getting better.

Earlier this year, I stood on the edge of a train platform in New York City and nearly jumped. Sometimes I am still blindsided by the horror, the sickening realisation of what I nearly did. I saw oblivion and what I went through had the trauma of a near death experience. And now I look back, I can see that during that time, I felt utterly alone, utterly worthless and utterly helpless because I thought that my disability made me unworthy and meant I could not live a full life.

So though my life is definitely made -significantly- easier because of the surgery and the fact that I’m one of the lucky ones who might be able to get better, I want to reject the toxic notion that the only reason my life is better now is because I am starting to become more abled bodied, more “normal”. Yes, it’s true, I’m happier because I’m seeing that I can start to follow my biggest dreams again. Yes, I’m happier because life is fucking easier. This is true. But it’s not the only truth and not the only possibly positive outcome.

Because it may not have been the case. It was entirely possible that the surgery wouldn’t work and the thing I realised, before I went under the knife, was that even if my body didn’t improve, I could still live a good, full, rich life, it’s just I’d have to work a whole lot harder than most people and I would need to surround myself with gentle people who would not resent me for the things I could not do or be. In fact, I’m still disabled it’s just… less than I was.

So I really want to say this with as much emphasis as I possibly can… if you know someone who loudly complains about their pain, please think twice before you shame them for “whinging” because you don’t know what it feels like to be inside their skin. If you know someone who is engaging in acts of self-harm and suicidal ideation, please don’t dismiss them or get angry at them for the state they are in. It’s so hard to look straight at pain, it’s so hard to look at people who are suffering because the sheer existential horror of it scares us and so we’d rather look away in fear and disgust. But I need to say this with as much emphasis as I possibly can, the only reason that I am alive today is because of the people who didn’t walk away, didn’t angrily chastise me, who instead sat with me through my pain and reminded me that I could have joy. The only reason I am alive today is because of the people I gave love to and who loved me in return.

Let me say that again. The only reason that I am alive today is because of the people who didn’t walk away, didn’t angrily chastise me, who instead sat with me through my pain and reminded me that I could have joy. The only reason I am alive today is because of the people I gave love to and who loved me in return.

Disabled people and the chronically ill can have amazing lives, do amazing things, make the world richer, kinder, wiser. But so many of our struggles are invisible and so much greater than you may perhaps realise so please, as much as you can, strive to be patient and generous and kind and to realise that though someone might have more struggles than you, it doesn’t mean they can’t have brilliant, beautiful, valuable lives. Please, I implore you, behold the pain of others and of yourself with gentleness and kindness, not pity and anger.

My life started getting better when I started being kind to myself and surrounding myself in kindness. That was the thing that saved my life and made me want to stick around in this world for as long as I possibly can, love. Just love.

Smash

Holding itself together is Life’s main job. We create ourselves out of the bits and pieces of stuff lying around and then spend the rest of our time desperately grabbing at the detritus of ourselves as time rapidly and indifferently happens and our bits and pieces crumble into dust and atoms that we can no longer grasp. It happens to us at different rates, those who have health problems in our youth perhaps witness the horror of our helplessness a little earlier than most. And sometimes there is an ugliness residing within those of us who have young broken bodies because we see the dumb bewilderment and despair on the faces of people who only experience physical suffering in their elderly years and our sympathy for them is tempered with the bitter knowledge that they never had the wisdom of experience to comprehend our own sort of agony when we needed it. So they are as alone in their pain as we are because we hate them for suffering at a slightly different frame rate to us. We are not as compassionate as we think we are and admitting that about ourselves is perhaps the most compassionate thing we can do. Hold my hand, tell me you love me, but don’t pretend you understand and I will do the same for you. Suffering is universal yet painfully solitary.

I am furious all the time. Furious at my mortality, furious because when I scream “help!” nobody can because that’s just not how it works, furious at myself for being so deeply involved in this, for not being Zen enough, Buddhist enough to rise above this. Sometimes I can sit with this. Often I can’t.

Holding oneself together is a full-time job, a hard job. Lately my edges have felt particularly crumbly and I haven’t been able to hold my consciousness above it, instead it is like I want to succumb to the violence of disintegration and in fact contribute to it, like I can no longer endure this laborious process of paddling my kayak upstream but if I paddle while going down with the current, it will be fast and glorious. But then everything will be over quicker which I don’t want because my belief systems have me close to certain that there is nothing over the waterfall but for empty oblivion and despite everything, I adore being alive. In fact, that’s what makes it so fucking hard, this goddamn mortal shell. This moronically limited mass of meat, fat, bones, genetics, electrical signals and emotional baggage. Biological machines are by their very nature imperfect, life has a desire to exist but there is no law of the universe saying it has to be easy.

Today is one of those days where I wake up sore. It’s perhaps been been months since I’ve had a proper sleep because my body is failing me again. I woke up with no fight in me, I would probably fall into one of those depressions where you sleep all day but for the fact that my body won’t allow that sort of escapism. So… I don’t know what have been doing with myself today. Drifting. Wearing my ugly grey dressing gown and filling the sink up with hot water to do the dishes. Trembling with frustrated fury.

I screamed in rage and hurled a glass at the ground.  What had been a functional object of substance, of density and mass, shattered into tiny fragments. For a beat, I felt horror and shame but one of the luxuries of being home alone is that you get to be crazy when you need to and so I started taking photos with my phone. Then I grabbed another glass, launched it at the kitchen floor and delighted in the eruption of my colourful cup from Kmart.

I luxuriated in the madness of it, of wasting resources, money, of creating the loud and ugly sort of sounds that might disturb the neighbours, of watching benign objects that I had comfortably lived with exploding into dangerous slivers that can get stuck under the skin and draw blood. It was the most fucking beautiful thing I had made in years. A moment of violent intensity glittering amongst the mundanity of domesticity. I broke two more glasses and then I stopped. A cacophony of clucking, the neighbour’s chickens must have been startled by the sounds. Maybe I smiled.

I felt better. The light and colour through the glass moved me and I took more photos, dodgy documentation that is not the actual experience. I felt better. I cleaned up. I resolved to feel no shame about this, to strive not to hide the ways in which being broken breaks me but to accept this non-acceptance as part of the price of existing. To write about these things and share these things and allow myself to fall into these things, do not be afraid of the mundane ugliness of it all but to find the poetry in the misery.

For a brief while I had a lover who used the word “catharsis” a lot. He understood something about that which has stuck with me. Broken glass is fucking beautiful.

Discovery

“Slow the fuck down you raging dickhead!” a red-faced, bald man screeches angrily at his bull terrier as it drags him towards the water. The water in question is Edwardes Lake, a brown, soupy, polluted puddle in a pretty little park in Reservoir. I’m here by accident.

Today has been one of the days that are so common in my life right now, when my arms are too sore to do much of anything and I find myself at a loose end. I drift through these days feeling listless and without direction. I’m bored and feel boring. There was a time, pre-injury, when I felt inspiration to be endless and I channelled all that through my arms but the last five years, this has led to physical pain. So I’ve learnt to suppress inspiration when I feel it and mostly I’ve avoided going to galleries because the first wave of excitement I feel is always quickly followed by anguish and a desire to just… not exist.

It used to be that I channelled all my existential angst, dread and joy into making. It used to be that my arms served as a conduit for the intensity of how I seemed to feel pretty much everything. Now this quiet depression, this gentle fog, this numbing of emotion has been a survival strategy.

But it’s so tedious. So I try to find something to pass my time and often end up exploring the surrounding suburbia on foot. I think it takes a slight edge off my desire to travel and I get a thrill from making discoveries such as the house that has a cat tree in every window, old crumbling chimneys, or the time I found an abandoned Bunnings Warehouse full of incredible street art that was demolished by the time I came back to photograph it a few weeks later.

Today, as I walk around the lake, my first discovery is the inflamed man with the enthusiastic dog. My second discovery is a turtle. It is sunbathing on a log with its long neck stretched out as if it is attempting to get a tan and there is something about this image that causes the fog to vanish in burst of happiness. Mood dramatically altered, I continue my walk, often stopping to watch the varied bird life and to think.

I think about how I have spent the last five years mostly just passing my time, waiting for my arms to get better so I can go back to being the self I once was. I realise that I have let a lot of time slip past as I’ve waited to get better. I think about my hopes that I will someday be able to paint prolifically again but how I can’t let the present go to waste while I wait for a utopian future. I think about how in this protective fog the colours are less spectacular and I feel like a dusty old book that nobody wants to read. I think about the people around me who laugh and cry and glow with their passions and I want to glow again. I am becoming increasingly determined to find a way glow again, not sporadically as I currently do but with a more sustainable regularity.

I reach a point of the park where very tall trees stand and sway in the hot, dry wind that is suddenly central in my awareness because of the enormous roaring sound the trees are making. I stop to listen and watch the water ripple while dramatic, dark grey clouds swirl slowly in the sky above. After a while, I sit down and start to collect tiny little pinecone things which I have decided I will form into a word. It’s hardly an original idea but I decide it will be a fun creative exercise and that I am going to start challenging myself to find more constructive ways to channel inspiration without hurting my arms. Little things, humble things, things that might help me to find myself again.

While I am collecting the little pinecones, Wes calls me on the phone and we have a discussion about what word I’ll write. Wes suggests “graffiti”, I ponder over “mistake” but eventually I decide I will write a small sentence documenting a moment that meant something to me today.

I try to assemble the pinecones into letters but the wind is so fierce that they keep blowing away. An old man wanders over, eyeing me suspiciously and asking if I need help, I thank him, no, and decide I need to find a more sheltered spot. Eventually, I find a place that is safe from the wind and I write my message, albeit awkwardly, due to the curved and slippery surface I am working on. I wonder who might see my message and what it might mean to them. I think about the ephemeral nature of site-specific works and how it relates to art and the search for meaning in defiance of mortality. I think about how important context is and how the necessary choice of installation space will surely effect a viewer’s reading of my message.

Then I take a photo with my phone and go home to share it.

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