I keep asking myself if I want to write a memoir. But isn’t that what I am continually doing? Besides. There’s no one to verify a word. The first time a boy wanted to kiss me I made him do it underwater. That’s when I knew I was amphibious. from “Red-eared Slider, X”. Powell, R.,…
I am the imaginative version of Emilie Dickinson – shouting from the top of the stairs. Genuinely happy for any company, desperately suspicious. Scared.
I guess things don’t always come as cleanly as the seasons on the calendar. The goddesses keep their own schedules. Rhythms. Deliberately syncopated.
I feel as though I have fallen into a post-Absurdist rabbit hole of inclusion addiction. The thought of being irrelevant and untethered in this international, intercultural, intergenerational buzz of avatars is terrifying.