I still believe

(In fire)

The name of the (2007) zine came from the name of a song, guitar & violin, that went

“Guess I’ve been putting things away

& I forgot what I needed to say

I’ve been forgetting important things.

Like the reason I breathe

Like the reason I breathe”

You were probably there the night we wrote it, on the Trumbullplex roof. That line about friends staying at yr house from out of state. That Summer, that terrible apartment on Hubbard where my floor was covered in beer bottles & I was dating that beautiful woman who loved my fuck up ass so much, when I washed dishes at the barbecue place.

Of course you were there.

& now, your fucking gone.

I wish I had fucking come to see you like I wanted to when I found that box of old letters, I wanted to get the fuck out of town anyway. I remembered how traveling used to fix everything. Instead I sent you a message on fucking instagram.

& I don’t have anyone to grieve with because I stopped talking to all of them.

wrote this in a 2002 zine & it’s still true but I’m trying.

I’ve been writing too much lately, nothing public yet. I’ve mostly been going through old writing. I keep thinking I should write here, because there’s some new people here (hi!) & like, every time I feel all lonely & claw-y & like i have a million words, I think I should write here, but usually when I feel like that it means I should be with my body. I’m trying but it’s painful.

A few years ago I read in this zine called I Will Rebuild My Trust In Myself that said “everything is a ritual, even taking a shit”, & I’ve thought about that ever since. My chest had been tight & I have been trying to open it up because I know if I don’t feel my feelings I’ll drink, or the stories in my brain will get too wild because they are trying to distract me. But it’s like a Chinese finger trap. You cant force yourself to let go; you gently trace the perimeter; you start feeling from the outside in; & my skin was crawling. & then one day. Whew. What made it happen for me this time is I watched a video of post office Datura while taking deep breathes & taking a shit & my chest & throat opened up & I cried on the toilet.

I have all these half written things in my notes. This long thing about acupuncture & grief- & now more grief. About the Oceans in my lungs. A lot of it is younger Parts of me venting.

I read an interview with Dorothy Allison after her passing that a friend posted about how basically you have to write about the things that scare the shit out of you, & I want to do that, but I can’t yet. I need to build my capacity for the kind of terrifying writing that I need to do & I think the world needs.

(The Cats are getting braver because I’ve shown them secure attachment hahahaha.)

I wrote an artist statement recently for a portfolio of some of my zines over the last 27 years. It was really fun to make when it wasn’t making me fucking insane! I learned how to make a pdf, which is cool. It really gave me more of a cohesive narrative (hahaha) of my life & the different Parts of myself, & how they interact & overlap.

I haven’t written an artist statement since my first semester of art school, when I was nineteen & my artist statement was pretty much “I’m too punk to write an artist statement” & I failed the project. I was nervous to write another one. So much imposter syndrome. I was surprised at how fucking good it felt to write, & I wanted to share it with y’all too.

“The bones that I sit on are pressing into the bed. There is a brightness in my chest that I mistake for anxiety at first: wires get crossed with trauma. Our neurons get used to taking their familiar well worn paths. Then, I realize it is actually excitement. The familiar sound of my keyboard clicking, my zines scattered around my bedroom: the different Parts of me are all here, in conversation together, & working towards a common goal. We are learning how to share this body; we are learning how to feel at at home here.

From the time I was a child I have written about being at odds with my body because I have lived in a culture that is at odds with my body from the time I was a child. I have been going through old writing because I am trying to tell you who I am, and I cannot tell you who I am without understanding who I am myself. Many selves, the common themes threaded: the numbness & tingling; the binging & purging; the ripping open & the sewing back together.

First of all, I write about healing.

I write about coming home. To a city; a body; a Self,

Again & again & again.

My zines have changed over time There was an immediacy to my early punk zines, no times for edits: we needed to have it ready for the show; the protest; the zine fest out of state. We had to have it ready for the End of the World; we romantisized apocalypse so we didn't have to grieve what was once there & wasn't anymore, like an extracted tooth; I run my tongue along the gaps. I still do them cut & paste style, with scissors & glue sticks, but I also use a computer & spell check now. I wish I was as fast as I was when I was 19. Monday is the Inaugeration; LA is burning; a ceasefire was finally announced, & its not enough. There are people who need my words.

 

My disabled body has taught me slowness though, so I take a moment to come back to it.

To the bones that I sit on.

To the ache in my chest.

Home.”