Normally my being black makes my being American complicated, but in Paris I found myself perhaps saved by my nationality, by a particular foreignness, with my blackness possibly somewhat overlooked.
I’m standing in the grocery store balancing cloves of garlic in either hand. They are for my vagina.
“Creating some kind of art…is as close to leaving your brain behind in a jar as you’re going to get.”
Mom said, “I just feel like…I just want to turn right, and the whole world is turning left.”
I was a seemingly innocuous, privately neurotic, stone-broke girl seeking hiatus from the soul-sucking world of fine art, writing, coolly inebriated boys and waitressing.
She said this in the bed of a boy named Jeff, who wasn’t really a boy.
“I suppose I am really unaware of my writing process because I never really plan on writing anything, it just kind of happens.”
Rosemary’s Baby entered my life at the same time as my growing awareness of the power and mystery of place.
What is it we wear
when there is nothing left
but rigid names for impossible
I write this to you because I wonder if we can ever overcome what we are: prototypical comfortable liberals with radical pretensions.
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