The curtains bellow, the steam heat rattles in my otherwise quiet room. No sirens. A year has slipped through our darkest recesses. Desires abandoned. Physical touch…a fading memory. Living behind masks in silence as tinnitus rings in my ears, piercing higher on my right. A year of insomnia. Each night a kaleidoscope of dreams, inner rambles, blood anxiously pumping, staring out my window in hopes that a slight breeze will enter.
In the midst of the peak the sirens layered one over the other morning till night. The ice cream man’s jingle adding another layer of confusion. Concussion. The deep pain of racism and police brutality, the barrage of psychotic breaks in the shape of tweets. When I landed in LA for winter to escape the confines of my walls, I was struck by the crows. Never before had I seen so many crows as death swelled around us. A black cat crossed my path, time and again. I kept my door open for the sheer fact that I could, what a novelty to have a door to the outside. The cat slipped in a few times, but when it’s eyes met mine it ran. Every time. When I was a superstitious three year old a black cat crossed my path. I ran to escape as darkness descended. I have been running ever since.
In February I returned to Brooklyn. I was filled with a new lightness from the sun baked landscapes of the Palm Desert. Bright pops of color, blue skies and family hugs swept away the debris. I frantically purged and scrubbed and created a new space, a white space, solely for art making. A room of one’s own. My own. A place where the many layers of the psyche can spill on paper. A release. The church bells ring. Uncertainty crackles around us as hope softens the edges. One foot on the floor, then the other. A new day begins. Good morning, sweet birds.
