fear is a driving force which causes you to leap before you’re ready and fall into the chasm you were trying to, carefully, bridge. fear isn’t faith or trust or, most importantly, love. fear is a stake they drive through your heart so you may not feel your way into answers anymore, so you may act based on instinct, based on survival instinct and run from the lion in the woods into an open field where the cross-hairs of a cold, cruel rifle that hunts for sport wait. at least the lion throbs with life, kills for food, for his own basic survival.

fear does not like roses. fear cannot enjoy their beauty in sight or smell or touch or taste. fear has no time for roses.

fear is people telling you “time is of the essence” and they may as well be standing behind you chanting “jump jump jump jump jump jump jump jump” while you’re on the edge of a cliff and don’t know how to swim which, here, is an irrelevant skill, really, because what lies at the bottom is not water but rocks and you don’t want to jump you want to climb down the cliff and that, too, is not without danger but, at least, death isn’t certain. at least you can feel your way down the side.

they want you to jump. they want to stop chanting. they want to go home.

roses, instead, are love.


i felt the ground open below me and i fell.
i felt myself falling and falling but calmly so
calmly that i sighed and began softly to fly
and the hand which had torn open the ground
was outraged for how dare I not cry and cry
and give up and die, and how dare I find myself
when the hand had made such great attempts
to lure me into dark forests and turn me around.


I do not want to walk your straight lines:
I wish you’d keep them
and build yourself a box
into which you can lock yourself
which you seem to so enjoy;
I want the curve of the moon
and the roundness of meaning,
a neverending circle
of infinite possibilities.
Oh, you can have certainty!
I do not care for that
but for its counterpart in the shadows
we are taught to ignore
that is bursting with life.
we are rigid, you fail to see, when we die
and I am not ready to give up
the fat, fertile drops of rain
and the messages they contain

{to a man who tries to tell me to stop reading opinion pieces (and engaging with art) because he doesn’t do that and cannot bear to have me challenge his barren worldview. those of us who recognize the indispensability of art will never stop engaging with it and never stop creating it and finding ways, new ways sometimes, to express our own subjective perspectives to enrich the world and to say things that need to be said, that have to be said. may we always, always, always challenge those who denounce the importance of opinion and art. they are the oppressors of the world.}

for our future, for our art

We need to remember that we have no right to tell others what to do with their art, with their voice. During the final stretch of this [adjectives withheld] election, I saw magazines and brands and celebrities and artists speaking out. It was amazing to see them voicing their support because they have purchasers of their goods or their art or their performance at stake. And, usually, following posts endorsing a woman candidate for president, this woman saw a slew of comments attempting to silence them, telling them in different ways, in many ways, to shut up; telling them that their opinions are not wanted, that they should stick to tasks supposedly assigned to them (such as entertaining the masses with their movies or fashion or books or something else the consumer wanted to consume), and that being exposed to their thoughts is not one of the reasons they are being “followed” on social media by these people who want to be the ones to determine who does and does not get to make public their opinion (or have freedom of speech. Basically if you’re a public figure of any kind—except a politician [or not, as in the president-elect’s case. my head hurts: the irony here is astounding.]—, these people think you’ve lost that most basic of rights.). When you kill freedom of speech, democracy dies.

We need to remember that it is every person’s and every artist’s responsibility to use their voice for what matters. It is their responsibility to use the platform they have to speak up for continued progress. Know the courage it takes to do that. Know that the speaker is likely aware of the fury that suppressors of free speech will unleash. Know that they are familiar with the possibility that they might lose “fans” because of this. But they do it anyway. They speak for themselves and they speak for those who cannot, for those whose voices will not be heard, for those who don’t have a voice. They speak because the issues confronting us are important. Because our lives depend on it. Because our future and the future of humanity depends on it.

In social media, the way it has grown, the mini celebs that have come from it, many of us, most of us, have such a platform that we can use in whichever way we choose. It is a matter of choice. And we cannot take that away from anyone, person or brand or company.
Those who are against it might watch fewer movies, buy fewer books or magazines or paintings or clothes. But to the ones expressing their thoughts and support and opinions it matters more that they take a stand, that they pick a side. Because that is of value to them, that means something to them. You can read into it—if you know how (and many people I know astonishingly don’t)—and you can understand something about values, about courage. And, it is possible, you might even understand something about art.

I am tremendously hopeful when I see those who know they have something to lose by being vocal against hate, against racism, against misogyny doing it anyway. It tells me that, at least to some, there is more than just popularity and money at the heart of all this. That there are in this world responsible artists (many writers, actors, musicians, singers, fashion designers, artists of all kinds were, are, with Hillary Clinton), and even companies, who have been given an audience for their voice by us, the public, the people who form their following, and they are using that voice. That, friends, is what a voice is for. That is what our voice is for. And we have no right to silence it.

Always remember the truth in what Martin Luther King, Jr. said:

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.


[you are the medium] 

It has been happening lately that when I try to find an answer to a subjective question, instead of looking in the outside world (which feels hopelessly insufficient), I start to write about it and tend to find exactly what I’m hunting. Maybe it’s the inner wisdom we can tap into if only we try, if only we listen, if only we pay attention. The process is not without some pain but you’ll find the pain is a tiny price to pay.


A longish while ago i was on a train when out spilled a little poem about killing the king and the queen who live layers & layers below the flesh. I read it often, realising over and over again that sometimes the words for which you’re searching outside, words that you hope will speak to your soul, are patiently simmering within, waiting for you to give them shape.



cummings sept 3

on this day 54 years ago left human existence to illuminate other unlit realms with his distinguished inextinguishable spark E. E. Cummings who lives forever (or “beyond the clock”) in the heart of every person his magical poems touch. who knows how many worlds he has kindled with his words. who knows how many entire universes would not exist without his poems.


i thank goodness
for cold grey wet dreary
days like today
for days like these
do not employ naked sunshine
and golden warmth
to somehow lure
me towards the outdoors
and days like these
let my favourite thing to do
be the ideal thing to do
which somewhat invariably
involves sitting at odd angles
in a large comfortable chair
to my dear heart’s content
without pseudoworrying
that i am missing some little
selfimportant snippet
of weatherglorious or actionrare
i don’t even really care a damn about to begin with.