Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I?
Can’t fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk.
Well, I think, I can read books.
”What’s that you’re doing?”
the green-headed fly shouts as it buzzes past.I close the book.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
“What’s that you’re doing?” whispers the wind, pausing
in a heap just outside the window.Give me a little time, I say back to its staring, silver face.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing
distillation of blue iris.And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be,
the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle."
—Blue Iris by Mary Oliver
Dear Bicycle Boys,
My stomach sounds like the wind, this morning. It is gurgling and whirling, aching for more than coffee and medicine. I will give it water. I will ask it to practice patience.
Last night was Halloween and my first Samhain alone. My coven is elsewhere, under other sides of other stars. I am a lone witch, these days. A solitary spellbinder.
I lit a candle before midnight and called upon some of my favorite dead people. Hilma AF Klint. Mary Oliver. Georgia O’Keefe. Simone Weil. Ryan. Mary. Beatrice. Sinead O’Connor. Jess. Ursula K. Le Guin. and bell hooks. I asked Dyane to reach my mother and flicker the lightbulb in her spare room.
I set the window wide and let the wind take the flame. I brewed a cup of tea and fell asleep before I could drink it.
My dreams were of greenery and smooth pavement and low-rise jeans.
I woke up in my twin-sized bed. I am not overly tall or big, but I form strange shapes in my sleep. I am sometimes jolted into consciousness, my body slipping off the edge.
One year ago, I slept in a king-sized bed and my best friend slept on the other side of the wall. I had a job. A partner. A piano. A routine. A home that I loved. I would take long baths and stare at the walls we all tiled together on one New Year’s Eve — the night we popped champagne, listened to Nickelback, and mixed concrete at midnight.
It has been six months now of sleeping in a bed big enough for one. Dorm rooms, sleeping bags, couches, and hostels. I ache to stretch. I ache to share.
I ache to wake up and hear my best friend one wall away, to sing to her as the coffee brews, to let our hunger turn into action together. I don’t know when or if we will do this again.
There is no bathtub, here — and only enough hot water to do the dishes.
That once partner is gone, leaving my trust to ruin and haunting my history.
I play the piano at school now. I play for the janitor. She leans against her mop and smiles at me, locking me and the grand piano in until the floor around us dries. I play the songs I used to play for my sisters, the sound floating to them in the kitchen. I play them for myself now, for the simple sake of stretching my knuckles.
I am fortunate to move — to have the gift of change. And yet, I wish for home. I wish for a circle. For a square. For a triangle. For a line, even. I find myself in the loneliness I long wished for. The space to make my art — the time to turn my focus within. But this space and time have opened up a gap in me that I don’t know how to patch up. It has left me with questions that I strain to answer. To articulate, even.
Maybe it’s best to leave the asking to Mary;
‘Now that I am free to be myself, who am I?’
One of my favorite fellow Newsletter writers, Marlee Grace, says that while we may do our work by ourselves, we needn’t do it alone.
And so, I cast spells. I find companionship in friends far away and dead writers and art un-birthed. I look to work that acts as a refuge. I ask for aid and call out for clarity.
Grandmothers, will you help me sew these lines and stitch these patches? Hilma, will you help me find four other women who want to make mystical art and channel subliminal messages? Mary Oliver, will you share your grace in writing through the thickness — your ability to bring levity to the dampened?
And when I imagine them here, with me, when I get really clear on what I would ask of them… I find I don’t wish for certainty. I don’t wish for things to be different.
I must tell you, dear reader, that even imagining you, here alongside me, has been a wonderful antidote to loneliness. I read your responses. I feel you on the other end of the line.
Perhaps someday you and I will share a pot of coffee. Perhaps you can sing me the song of your soul and I’ll hum the harmony the way I know how.
The feelings I’ve articulated in this letter feel small in the wake and reality of what is occurring in Palestine and the displacement and horrors happening there.
My feelings of placelessness are the result of my choices. Many people around the world are experiencing this feeling amplified, due to forces beyond their control.
If you didn’t last week — please take the time to demand a cease-fire here. It only takes a couple of seconds. Your voice and your attention can be powerful.
a postcard from Spain, a beautiful photo, and loving words in the neatest of scripts.
art!! check out some of these favorites from the Oslo National Museum:
the sky at night… it has this kind of glow from the snow:
fabric for miles. I have been shopping around for the best cotton fabric for my next project.
the calendar — trying to conceptualize time.
a small feather in my hand.
excited for the winter holidays. I love any kind of festive energy!
completely moved and affirmed after a conversation with a new friend/soul mate???
the satisfaction in a belly full of colourful things.
the Grey Area podcast. It was my first time listening this week. I liked the host and his thoughts.
the crunch of snow under my sneakers and the kind of silencing effect the white powder has.
silence — a gift to myself.
my heater starting up for the first time — that slight smell of burning?
Palo Santo burned by candlelight, a means to cleanse
women’s balance tea. haha.
Bicycle Boys! I would love to hear your lists. Keep ‘em coming my way. <3
Tunes you heard in the audio voice-over:
intro: Шо з-под дуба - Dhaka Braka
transition: Krakatou - Nicolas Godin
outro: Season of the Witch - Donovan
If you like what you’re seeing, please share my work with your pals!
Looking forward to sharing fresh pots again some day bicycle boy 🥲