Cinnamon

A letter for Cinnamon:

I like the burnt orange color of Cinnamon and the way it smells. I know some people don't like Cinnamon by itself, but I do. I like how it's spicy and bitter if you taste it, and how you can pretend smoke cigarettes with cinnamon sticks. I like how when you think of it, it's sweet, and when you put it in your food it makes your food taste cozy. I like how it's aggressive though, and how it's tart. Cinnamon is everything. I like everything about Cinnamon. 

I miss you, Cinnamon. I hope it's pretty on the other side of the world.

xoxo,

Evil Tiger

Miyazaki Exhibit

When you walk in, you enter through a green hallway of dangling fabrics. No photos and videos are allowed so few things will show up when you check online. I wonder if I'd do that for my exhibit. Maybe it preserves it so you don't find ugly pictures all over the internet of people turning his work into their own perversion of the art. I think that's fair. I also think it's fair to want people to take this chance not to look at his stuff through a screen. So maybe I won't describe it to you. But maybe it's inconsiderate for those who can't afford those tickets. Art was never meant to be secret, but as a viewer, before you draw inspiration from something, maybe you have to try to understand it for what it is. I think the cosplay of Miyazaki's character's makes for a different vibe; it's nothing like the vibe of the real thing. I would hate for someone to dress up as my characters. Leave them be? I made them in a special world, a special way. Your replica of my stuff is a whole separate thing, and my grandpa said something interesting to me the other day. I like renaissance still lives. Part of me wishes I could paint them, but that's not what my art looks like. "You don't have to be the artist." That's what he said, and he's right. You can appreciate something without having to own it.

Slavic Rave Music

Is it good or are you deeply under the influences of drugs, alcohol, sleep deprivation, impulsivity, and rage? My answer is yes. Indo-european hardball music, usually running at around 150-175 BPM, is most attractive to me for my complete lack of understanding of plot and its addictive speed. Feels like I might be exploring a different dimension. It can be aggressive, and the language can have abrupt caesuras which have the potential to cause a total miss, but overall the strong beats, when well maintained and caesura is avoided can be dangerously seductive to the mind.

In an artificially lit room - A poem

In an artificially lit room

In an artificially lit room

Under a burnt yellow buzzing and humming light 
And a ceiling tiled with white drywall squares
An exit sign hangs above me and I stare at black locks and numbers growing up on beige metal boxes crescendoing from left to right
A fire extinguisher right by it as well
A hall permeated with a piss mixed with trash smell
I take off my leather boots and twirl and skip to the sound of silence mixed with Mr. Saxton muttering in a nearby classroom
The stained carpet is soft against my toes covered in black mesh that reaches all the way up under my navy red and white polka dotted dress
Hugging my waist as i skip and plié
My ratty unbrushed hair drags across my back
Tangling and threading itself through my zipper
Wrapping bows around buttons, barrettes, and fabric
My arms weave worlds around me 
Barely catching up to the rest of me which moves like a marionette caught dancing in the night
Strings pulled by an invisible emotion tripping into new shapes
Twirling red navy and white 
Invisible ribbons and sashes and rabbits and ladybugs cross roads in my mind 
And butterflies are born from my black coiled hair
They flutter through a soft layer of dust snowflakes which fall slowly as though air was warm milk and they were pieces of sugar swimming towards the bottom
Soon though the winds of my limbs swoop them up again into spiraling specks only slightly seeable in this artificial light

Magic Shoes

I went to this funeral. It wasn't a funeral. I mean a woman did die, but it wasn't a funeral. Forgot what you call it. I brought my book, and I went up to the attic where I found all kinds of treasure. I walked through this gallery of old lace, well worn pink and yellow dresses, fabrics and ribbons strewn into one another, weaved delicately and laying on the ground, atop the bed, and in vintage drawers. I opened a music box. A ballerina popped out and I found a pair of magic shoes. A shiny plastic cover over glittered red high heels. There were sparkly stars and ruby rhinestones sealed under and glued to this small pin. I don't have anything quite right for my magic shoes, but I'll find something good enough one day. I put them in my pocket, and I read my book.

Barrettes!

 I know my favorite red bow barrettes are in my top bathroom drawer but I used to have pink polka dotted ones. There were two sets of them, both with white flowers. Lost them years ago. Though in my the mess on my top closet shelf, there was one of them. Loose in my pile of potions, packs, stickers and nail polishes. The metal part used to poke me sometimes, and as a child I tore them out often, but now I like to wear them, my barrettes. Not to keep my hair back, but to wear them loosely as I used to, only this time not to rip them out along with strands of my ragged black coiled hair. I'm still very much like myself. My small self.