BIRTHPLACE
OH YEA IT”S TIME TO PREPARE Y”ALLSELVES FOR A TRYPTYCH
1. SCENE AT MY FORMATION
GIRL POINTS AT GROUND, PROCLAIMING.
–wondering what else could be down there.
The result: I, PEERING (ew!), over her shoulder: a girl out there trying to build up a ’‘’rationale’’’
When I say ’‘’rationale’’’, what I mean is ((Others: What the Fuck do you mean Lace))
I don’t care. I’m past it now. ’‘’rationale’’’ was two sentences ago.
I ask to those who think that it’s necessary to have a general outline of how your life is
structured: why does she:
- She seems to.
- She assumes my want is a choice and not the necessity of me jumping
into the grand canyon.
Her: you’re cute little man.
Me: I know, I retreat into my selfhood like a little hermit crab.
2. SCENE AT THE CHURCH
She, quite desperately, points at the ground and proclaims that it is just a plane of space and I wonder at what age I become Spatially Aware (this is a religious concept to me).
I want to see the flowers bloom. She points at the school system and proclaims that she cant see.
I WANT TO FEEL CUTE IN MY OWN SKIN. I WANT TO FEEL LIKE, OBJECT PERMANENCE CAN FUCK OFF:
I RELATE TO THE WORLD.
She lusts for the sky.
Me: But what of the grand canyon?
She lusts for free-fall.
I’ve been an insane thinking person for far too long. Far too building something.
It mothers a tongue. Blank. A placeholder. It’s my tongue ready to.
3. THE SCENE EVERYWHERE
I THINK THIS IS FUCKING STUPID
I think of my siblings and to myself: churches aren’t much besides when you’re alone. God’s silence filtered through light.
The difference is forty years will change the forest and not the church.
And spatial awareness can sometimes seem to dissolve: object permanence my long lost lover.
AND YES, BEFORE YOU ASK, I REMEMBER THE WILDFIRES.
AND YES, I”M MOSTLY A DESIGN CHOICE.
AND YES, HISTORY CAN BE DESTROYED.
AND I HATE REASONING WITH PEOPLE THAT WALKABLE CITIES ARE DESIRABLE. AND IT”S NO COINCIDENCE THAT I LOVE THE SUMMER HEAT OF ACADIANA.
WHERE THE COASTAL PRAIRIE GRASSES USED TO ARCH TOWARDS THE SUN BECAUSE THERE”S NO SENSE IN LOOKING TOWARDS THE HORIZON.
AS I PLAN A THREE DAY TREK TO WALMART I CONSIDER WHY LAST SUMMER IT REFUSED TO RAIN AND THE SKIES STAYED QUITE.
WHILE THIS YEAR I”M REMEMBERING THAT THE AFTERNOON SKIES ARE DRAMATIC AS ALL HELL.
Explanation:
On August 22 (specifically), I decided I would rip my head to shreds (in a symbolic manner), because spring cleaning is as important as eating. One day I decided that my sweat would drip from my head, so that I might follow it somewhere: intuition tells me the ocean, experience tells me the sky—drainage patterns be damned. What was important was the emptiness inside my ribs, as it suggested a thirst.
In other words: on my birthday in the year of our internet (two-thousand-twenty-three) a wildfire erupted in the pine forests of Louisiana—a culmination of that summer’s suspiciously timed drought. It felt really weird that summer for no rain to come. We’re supposed to be swamp people—it was pathetic.
The only thing of worth I have to report from the wildfire is that a recently burnt pine savannah is actually quite beautiful. The wood is all charcoal, and it’s still standing. And the wind still blows through the trees and the charcoal shifts and squeaks. It sounds like pinging ceramics. It sounds crystalline—it sounds pure.
In essence, this found text (from under my childhood futon) tracks the trajectory of my spiritual development through spatial dynamics. My relationship to society (rationale), ‘unhealthy desires’ (grand canyons), dissociating in public (spatial awareness), history (coastal prairie), Kisatchie National Forest. It tracks these factors up until my rebirth as an artist (the wildfire August 22, 2023) and up to now: where MY ART IS PUBLIC BABY!!!