My divorced parents both gave me blankets this year for Christmas. Last night I dreamt I was Elon Musk’s mistress. I loved him. We fled Ukraine together. With a few other people. Our pent-up anxiety over escaping was worthless after all — the guards at the border let our entourage through without fuss, saying: ~we’re not like the other countries.~ At first my friend was his mistress, but with more time spent, attraction grew. I remember his softness and smell, that he barely brushed his teeth but his breath was still somehow sweet even though it could also stink. Claire Boucher was even there sometimes, with her own entourage, picking up and dropping off babies. I felt her kindness was sincere. She had zero distaste towards me as E’s new lover. A position we all knew as fleeting as true. I rarely went to him, but he’d come to mine most nights. Mine being some adjacent room. Don’t recall anything graphic or inherently sexual about the dream. Emphasis on the effort we made to be together — the coming and going from each other. Before the whole affair, we were in some other estate, flying around high ceilings, hiding from something, preparing for some large event or move. There was a strong sense that someone was coming soon who would halt and change everything as we knew it.


(since cutting back booze last summer dreams’ve become more and more obscure and memorable. most bizarre of 2022: this guy I knew shoved a stick of dynamite into my mouth, woke mid-shriek / pre-explosion. some same-old recurrings: big waves about to crash, rushing to lock a door to keep an intruder out, flying away — feels just like breaststroke.)

pre-war Gramps

Donald Winston Avey on Kodachrome film. 1930s, Cincinnati, Ohio. Kodachrome was released in ’35, so must have been the latter half of the 30s. This was high school graduation, I believe. He enlisted in the U.S. Air Force shortly after and was deployed to Italy. According to his scribbles in newspaper margins, he wished he was deployed to France, where the women were reportedly more fond of American soldiers.



A story about my maternal line ~~~ This is my great grandmother Martha Gayer. My mother’s mother’s mother. She died in 2008 at the age of 99, but I didn’t know she was alive at the time or when she died. I was never introduced to her. She lived alone in a psych ward in Iowa, estranged from most of the family. My grandmother hasn’t said much about her or anything to me. All I was told is that she was mad. /// Martha’s mother, Alvina Tanck, migrated alone from Dägeling to Iowa in 1907 in her 20s. Alvina was born from the rape of her mother—the rapist: her mother’s brother-in-law, one of my grandfathers— and deemed ‘illegitimate’ from birth. The farm in Iowa was her fresh start. She had nine children, including Martha. /// I wish I met her. But I can kinda see her smirk on my face.

You don’t understand music: you hear it. So hear me with your whole body. When you come to read me you will ask why I don’t keep to painting and my exhibitions, since I write so rough and disorderly. It’s because now I feel the need for words—and what I’m writing is new to me because until now my true word has never been touched. The word is my fourth dimension… My unbalanced words are the wealth of my silence. I write in acrobatics and pirouettes in the air—I write because I so deeply want to speak. Though writing only gives me the full measure of silence. And if I say ‘I’ it’s because I dare not say ‘you,’ or ‘we’ or ‘one.’ I’m forced to the humility of personalizing myself belittling myself but I am the are-you… I am before, I am almost, I am never. And all of this I won when I stopped loving you… And every thing that occurs to me I note to pin it down. For I want to feel in my hands the quivering and lively nerve of the now and may that nerve resist me like a restless vein. And may it rebel, that nerve of life, and may it contort and throb. And may sapphires, amethysts and emeralds spill into the dark eroticism of abundant life: because in my darkness quakes at last the great topaz, word that has its own light…

Am I one of the weak? a weak woman possessed by incessant and mad rhythm? if I were solid and strong would I even have heard the rhythm? I find no answer: I am.”

-Clarice Lispector
Água Viva