People are subscribing to my Substack and I don’t know why. In a plot twist I did not see coming, my art business has taken off so instead of writing, I am hustling to do shows, exhibits, retail, marketing, and six thousand other things that go with being a small business owner, in addition to the immersive and subversive task of creating which is what got me into this position in the first place. It’s a blast, though, and uses the same brain space that writing occupies.
A strange brew burbles in that brain space. Free-form puzzle-making and the interplay of darkness and light suspended in midair meets folklore, panpsychism, and history. Metal remembers pressure, wood remembers touch, bone remembers everything (a loose interpretation from Clarissa Pinkola Estés that I read on TikTok). This is what happens when a post-menopausal woman decides to just be herself. Someone at an art show asked me where I get my ideas and I didn’t know how to answer. So I said, “Untreated ADHD?” She turned on her heel and walked away.
People ask if I am a witch, which is a word used by Christians to justify murdering women. Witch originally meant “wise.” All the good words get co-opted, like spinster (a woman who made enough money spinning wool that she did not need to marry) and cunt (if you go back far enough its means create). I’m not citing sources because you have Google.
Here’s the thing: it’s all connected. The universe spews stardust and light and heat and we all came from it. Even Neil deGrasse Tyson says so and he’s a cunt. I won’t make the argument that a dead thing cannot create life because we will get into some serious scientific weeds. It’s a matter of degree. Even rocks have an electrical charge and conduct heat. Where does sentience begin and end? Given the wide range of observational skills in humans, is it any wonder that some of us hear voices in the wind or feel our hands sink all the way into the heavily ridged bark of an old tree until they merge? Or fall into a trance state while walking the shores of a Great Lake? All those stones talking at once is overwhelming.
Anyway, I fear you will be disappointed here, or perhaps sporadic musings from a crone living her best life is what you’re looking for.
Old wire thing with chandelier crystals and a Swedish ivy plant start that came from the White House garden before it was ripped out and paved over by you know fucking who.
