02262025
the garbage of our rooms
we haven't met here in a long time.
i had to be sure it was vacant.
how can you be sure? there's much more to vacancy than what meets the eye.
i changed when the room was built.
say more.
if this was our room, the room we came to, and i need the safety of this space, exactly that- how can i ever be sure it's vacant in order to find safety?
(was it ever about the person? or just the space? the fight for it*)
and the most radical way i have found to be sure, the closest way to slice it at the root, is to change when the room was built. to realize that i built the room, and then invited you in. the room was mine for a burp before it was ours. so the room itself goes into the chapter 'before everything' instead of 'during everything'
i know this room is vacant because i've uninvited everyone.
except you.
otherwise i'm eternally a breed apart.
except with you.
did you wanna braid my hair first, or should i braid your hair first?
stop. i think this might be important.
we're talking about clearing a specific room. we're talking about framing spaces.
and walking up to what we do in a freshly vacant space we've built soundly.
so what happens now?
im leaving the space open except for a simple oak table and chair, a antique Spanish style urn with a dried bouquet of flowers, and a piece of sheer white cotton partially covering a western facing window.
so much of this journey began with skinny legs and all by tom robbins. ha-again. this is the second chapter that book has had a profound a(e)ffect on.
this journey began with toolboxearth's seven veils collection.
rip mr. robbins. a big kiss on your dead forehead.
the journey of clearing out this room.
and i want to bring us back to this room,
not when i made it
not before i invited you in
but to the place in time when i found it
before everything
before totality
in order to show you
what the room looked like
before
before i saw us
in order to show you
what the room looked like
when i found it
when it was still so full you couldn't see through it
when it could do nothing as a space except idly store
when the growth of mold around the plaster holes
i had punched in the walls
acted as our timeline
the timeline we blindly
made
and all we forced
in this unframed space
and i want to bring us back here
to the unframed, previous version of this space
to show you
because we must remember
to step outside of it
{whatever your 'it' is}
is necessary
in order to create recognizable distance
between the two versions.
(youknowwhatimean? if we just say 'then and now' it's just two dots on a piece of paper. the work is locating one and wrangling it, dragging it along with you as your golem, until you find the other, and lassoing them together. the work is remaining completely present the entire time drawing the line between the two dots of 'then and now'.)
and sometimes it's too long of a stretch,
a direct line between the two,
and that's okay
find an island:
sitting on top of our garbage piles
in beach chairs under pastel umbrellas
the garbage of our rooms
once we began to clear them
once we began to move our garbage
once we began to realize we
HAD TO
use the space
differently
once we began to realize we had to give our demons
a use
final thought:
hoarding as an external eating disorder
there's just such a specific way to approach
((im so sorry i startled you on the street. but also i think you see what you want to see. and i hope you see less fear.))
(is it specificity or truthocracy?)
sitting quietly,
as a impossible task,
with specithocracy,
