My body is one of ice hardened by the sting of the wintertime, one so thick and weary I sometimes feel like it has been repurposed as a skating rink. Paralyzed in this pitiful state, I feel no blood run through me—only small cracks, mementos of my hiemal hell.
But I know under this ice, there are mounds of water weeping to be set free. I count the days until spring, when I can form a river from my chest, pulling hydrogen, hydrogen, oxygen from epidermis, for my body was made to run and be free.
A transparent painting I make of myself, sprinkling bits of soil and grass. I am not pulling brush strokes from the air, sir. this canvas has always been my own. It’s all just a painting to me, all of it. This river is nothing but art.
The Inspiration: "A novel, like a letter, should be loose, cover much ground, run swiftly, take risk of mortality and decay." - Saul Bellow. The second week of January is "Universal Letter Writing Week." UNIVERSAL. But since we are a monthly chronicle, we are expanding that week to span the entire month of January!
The Commitment: Write some letters! Get caught up on correspondences. Reconnect with long-lost friends. Send ridiculous postcards to random little kids you know. Its also Handwriting Month, allegedly, so lets dig out that cursive you learned in 2nd grade.
ps. the stamp goes on the top right.
Please send all letters addressed to me to:
25 NW 23RD Pl., STE 6, Mailbox 234
Portland, OR 97210
Oh you didn't ask? Well now you have it just in case.