The Point

With Mom in her Hunter’s Point studio– aren’t you happy for her? A studio in San Francisco, and pathway to the Venice Biennale. The females in our family never cease to churn ambition within ourselves and each other.

First stanza

Why did you come? You seek to mourn, confess?

   You better leave before I smash your skull.

Little sister, you’ve made me love you less.

   Get out the door; you’ll feel my fist in full.

Come back, Robbie, come back from vengeful hole…

   She stands right there, the reason for this war!

Remember shelves? Remember that first pull?

   I recall you, the precious vase I tore.

      The joy at Tallis ‘state does not exist offshore.

I, Idiot.

For you:

Sorry for not writing back / failing at Facebook communication / not being a Skype member / living in the Sculpture facility (when all I do is brood, rather than make decent work) / displaying cyclonic behavior, kind of, and for being less than the friend you really deserve.

You’re all the best supporters and home-folks any kid could ever ask for, and this is what you get in response. I’ll do my best to make it up to y’all.

Because I love and miss you, guys, I really do. With my whole raisin of a heart, I do. Exactly thirteen nights and I’ll be cocooned/burrito’d in my Californian bed. Texting you guys. Demanding meetings. And such.

Shit’s been crazy. And lonely, as it always is over here, somehow. Sculpture, Roman Drama, Praxis, Art History, Everything whirring around a little fish– where’s the fish gonna go? Will it join the amassed flux upon awkward encounter? Mark Doty, Mark Doty; he would know… and so would Joan Didion, and Rebecca Solnit, Orwell, Carson…

A video still from my latest Sculpture project. For those of you who read it, yes, I did use large (and heavily edited) chunks of the script I wrote during my last few weeks of high school...

Like everybody else, during every minute of conscious movement, I think of things that happened in the past… people, mostly.

Tijuana 2007. Left to right: Frank, Priscilla, Jonathan, Edward, Chowyu and Grace.

Taylor and I in the Prom bus. April (?) 2010. Miss you, Waterhouse nymph.

Left to right: Priscilla, Grace and Sam.

At Mitchell Park. Same night. Left to right: Marc, Sam, Chowyu and Grace.

And amidst this nice sweeping flow of memory, I feel like this:

Uh. Yeah.

I often think sad thoughts. Well, yes, so does everybody else. Dark and melancholy things. “I’m not sulking,” somebody once told me. “I’m brooding. It’s sulking in style.” Funny. I like it. And so goes the change of mood– very abrupt. Maybe it’s a being-young thing, or maybe I’m just PMSing and/or suffering some other hormonal femme-symptoms.

Anyway, before I get too involved in this… I take temporary leave of you.

Thirteen nights.

Thirteen nights.

Love you all, miss every one of you. I pray for you guys, and I hope you sometimes pray for me, too. Because something’s stirring up, and whether it’s positive or negative, I don’t know what it is and it’s making me anxious.

See y’all later.

– Grace