A catch-all, a breeding ground, a graveyard?
“Fragment” is an attempt at self-discovery and expression through multimedia and writing that honors the stickiness of the artistic process itself, especially when creating work about oneself. The project currently lives on this page as well as on Instagram, with a potential future iteration as a video piece.
I begin in mostly half-sentences. Fragments. I look at the words and the images until they find their way next to each other or disappear. Creating something often feels like trying to capture an ever-shifting force you can’t quite put your finger on. Moments of clarity mostly just give way to confusion.
This project is about leaning into that uncertainty instead of shying away from it. It’s about working with the immediacy of feeling and the raw meat of the stuff before you try to shape it into a thing. Fragmented because it’s not yet whole.
“Fragment” is an attempt at self-discovery and expression through multimedia and writing that honors the stickiness of the artistic process itself, especially when creating work about oneself. The project currently lives on this page as well as on Instagram, with a potential future iteration as a video piece.
I begin in mostly half-sentences. Fragments. I look at the words and the images until they find their way next to each other or disappear. Creating something often feels like trying to capture an ever-shifting force you can’t quite put your finger on. Moments of clarity mostly just give way to confusion.
This project is about leaning into that uncertainty instead of shying away from it. It’s about working with the immediacy of feeling and the raw meat of the stuff before you try to shape it into a thing. Fragmented because it’s not yet whole.
I was going to talk about desire until you called, and then you said,
It was nice to talk to you.
All my dreams lately are the unspoken things spoken. Rearranging until we find the perfect equilibrium between the explicit and the felt. I missed you, I want to see you.
I said, I don’t believe in meaning.
And you said, That’s not true.
Three chocolate bars and a small bottle of Listerine. You wanted to stay.
It was nice to talk to you.
All my dreams lately are the unspoken things spoken. Rearranging until we find the perfect equilibrium between the explicit and the felt. I missed you, I want to see you.
I said, I don’t believe in meaning.
And you said, That’s not true.
Three chocolate bars and a small bottle of Listerine. You wanted to stay.
When I finally get out of bed and am standing in the
kitchen, barefoot with my big shirt and waiting for the Moka pot, I know that
the music will sound a little better than it did last night. Before I get the
speaker, I reach my arm out and make circles with my wrist. It’s the kind of
happy dancing motion I sometimes make on my walks when I really want to feel
the wind, when everything tastes sweet and I have to dance like I’m the only
person walking on that wood-paneled pier. I have a craving before I put on the
song and there’s something about life in this moment that I can scrape off a
stone wall and put in a jar. Stuff that can supersede pain and disappointment.
I’m going to rub it between my fingers until it goes away. I’m going to listen
to music until I get restless. I don’t know where it comes from or where it
goes. It is independent from the good things and the bad things.
white skirts. blushed cheeks. arugula. you are sitting in
the grass and everything is perfect. this is not a fantasy. you have been
there, you could go there again. shuffle shuffle. it’s all random so at least
make it peaceful. drip drip. bubbles. your memories. smeared like oil on the
glass. massage the material. the thing outside of yourself that is really in
you. are you thinking too much? are you succumbing? are you a good person or do
you just want your pleasure too much? is it ever really about two people or is
that love? that fluid.
in industry city the birds are chirping and I can hear the hum of some machine but not the big machines. the ridges. put your finger on them and between them. carve out what’s in the concavity. do you feel your teeth resting in your mouth? the texture of your own experience--don’t tell anyone because they won’t be able to see it and you’ll be disappointed if they try. get on the stage and remember your childhood. you cried at the end of curious george when the credits were rolling. every memory is linked to another. my quivering lip.
in industry city the birds are chirping and I can hear the hum of some machine but not the big machines. the ridges. put your finger on them and between them. carve out what’s in the concavity. do you feel your teeth resting in your mouth? the texture of your own experience--don’t tell anyone because they won’t be able to see it and you’ll be disappointed if they try. get on the stage and remember your childhood. you cried at the end of curious george when the credits were rolling. every memory is linked to another. my quivering lip.
