I love amorphous vantage points, places that look like they could be anywhere. If I toy with my perception, I am in a jungle, my garden is a fortress impenetrable, guarding against the fake rain and the fake people.

I am my own housewife, lover, witness, best friend. I build a violet firewall, I avoid static,misinformation,  interruption and interference. It's the spring equinox, and Persephone is resuscitated and returned from the underworld.  Hope jumps through the canyon like delicate insects, and flowers begin to congregate beneath the floorboards. I wonder if Hollywood is actually Hollow, and I trade my overhead lights for candles. An invisible exhibition. I try to bring the northern lights into my bedroom, built on a slant, tipping gently under cherubs. In that precarious place between sleep and waking, I imagine I have wings, and I clean the skies.

I was born homesick in my own body, as was my mother, and hers, and even hers: But I am working backwards. Bent over, hip deep in grandiose omnipresent recall. Light filaments unfold in my spine and my genetic code shifts for the better. My vulnerability is beautiful to me, and when the avalanche of lies I am plucking out of our world seems inconsolable,

 I face forward, 

And

I tell the fucking truth.