Artist Statement For Photos Not Yet Developed:
artist statement for photos not yet developed:
its cliche to run around taking pics of gravestones. yet i do it anyway. i take pictures of the same things over and over again.
exit signs.
yearning for loved ones.
the balance between processing emotions, grief, and running the other way. grief.
bring your loved ones closer, steal flowers from the neighbor’s, write their name in the prayer book of a god you don’t believe in. because its comforting to think you can help from where you are.
give grandma the memorial bench. its the thought that someone cared enough to, not the money and lavish treatment received. i miss her.
i miss people i never met. yet i feel my mother and father’s grief, i feel the holes in their heart, the weight of my mother’s sobs on the staircase, the night my grandfather passed.
i miss my grandma.
she’d be so proud. i’ll bring her a book. i know she loves me, she’s probably praying for me and doesn’t approve of who i really am.
but her love was infectious. it was strong. she was so proud of everything i did. i wish i had more time. i took her for granted. i still wish i could surprise her with flowers. go out for dinner with her. read her texts.
my heart starts to hurt. exit.
More Posts from Eastsidelovers
rush week
she’s really drunk. she loves her boyfriend, and wishes she was a man.
she’s adamant. she wishes she was a man. she used to wear a binder everyday, but then she met her boyfriend.
and her boyfriend wouldn’t love her if she was anything but who she’s pretending to be.
“i wish i was a man,”
“you know, i used to have these thoughts a lot before i realized i was trans.”
i’m stone cold sober.
“i’ve been ignoring it for years, wait do you want a white claw?”
i walked into this party with a shaking body, but i put on a happy face and talk to my friends. but they know its an act.
i chug my drink. i want to be drunk.
“are you alright?”
a lot of people have asked me this lately. i used to be good at hiding it. there must be something in the way i carry myself, or the lack of light in my eyes when i smile.
“yeah, just really fucking depressed. i don’t want to be here but i know i should go through the motions.”
i feel fine, but my body won’t keep up. i’m getting migraines a few days every week. i stopped getting my period. sometimes all the lymph nodes in my body swell up. sometimes i get so dizzy i can’t walk straight. (i started writing again)
i don’t have the energy anymore to keep up with a room full of laughing friends. my body language falters, the smile in my eyes is gone, my apparent apathy // disenchantment comes through.
but whatever.
“you’re so cool. you shouldn’t be sad, you have so much swagger.”
she’s medicated and four beers in.
i should join a frat. not sure i could do another cult though. i gotta stop going all in on an institution.
i don’t know how to end this. just kept getting worse. i wanna sleep.
last thursday night, i spent hours researching hrt. i told my best friend. i was 87% sure i wanted to do it. he said, “can i play devil’s advocate?” and i said, “yes,” and he said, “are you sure you want to do it? its a permanent change.”
i laughed.
(i say shit without thinking. i will always say yes to him without thinking. i won’t think about the consequences with him. that’s what happens when this shit is indescribable.)
i get where he’s coming from. but i feel weird, wasn’t it painful to watch me struggle for years to insist i was a girl when i so clearly never quite wore it right? do you really think this is something i’ve decided overnight?
you don’t need god, you need a single general admission ticket to a semi-rowdy crowd. you need the bass pounding in your chest, the push of bodies all around you, dry mouth, shirt stuck to your back with sweat, screaming along with strangers you have never met and will never meet again, that is healing you cannot get anywhere else. you need to take a minute to realize its safe to be yourself, howl along with the crowd. i don’t know how we synchronize up like this.