You kiss me and name me fighter jet,
I lean toward the instability.
I turn, fast,
I’m harnessed chaos,
an agile, lean and nimble
frame.
Vapour in my wake,
that cannot shake,
derail or dissipate
my arc,
because
I contain a blaze.
28.7.20
Kin
I hold you
tight
in quiet
desperation,
let me in,
absorb me
through your
skin,
so we can
meld and
merge and
mix
‘til we are
kin.
6.8.20
Liberation
When I realise
we decide
this
life,
it feels like
everything
bursts open,
and emerges
from my chest
an
uncaged
heart.
6.8.20
Sun
Women contain universes,
multiverses
yet undiscovered.
Complex
emotional
ecosystems,
elaborate,
intricate
terrain.
And if your flame
ever dims or
flickers,
remember
you have the sun
in you.
5.8.20
Fantasy
It burns within,
this flame
you lit
that makes me
pulse, dream
vivid
fantasy
of us,
a fusion
whipped up
in our
communion.
I always
want.
8.8.20
Fruit
We built
foundations
long ago.
Once shoots,
lovingly tended,
now grown.
Formed
intricate roots
to nourish
splendid,
rarest
fruits.
6.8.20
Spring
I want to unzip
your skin
and slip inside,
feeling all the
corners of your
consciousness
as I
sink
into you.
To drink from the
endless spring
until I’m
hydrated,
sated,
surfeit.
4.8.20
Loam
You smell of
aqua,
fresh yet
earthen,
like dewy
loam
that ushers
crispest cress
from its
depths,
my home.
7.8.20
Soak
It surrounds you
like an aura,
clearest
water,
let me soak
and stroke
and swim
in you
my
glowing,
infinitely flowing
pool.
6.8.20
Want
The want,
so deep
it aches,
a hot
consuming,
buzzing
glow.
I can’t contain
its fevered
shape,
from all of
me it
flows.
I know,
I know
its threat
to me
will simply
overthrow,
but open-heart
is all I know,
I yield,
devoured
whole.
23.8.20
Because I Will Fly
I stand on the edge
of the cliff,
looking at the jagged
jaws,
the rocks raw
below.
You survey,
scrutinise,
and then resolve,
to poke,
to prod,
to press.
And it isn’t fear,
exactly,
but a vivid thrill,
because
we both know,
deep in our bones,
that as I tumble
I will
fly.
4.8.20
On Uphill Battles
Any worthwhile pursuit necessarily requires passion, grit and determination. Most likely for years, probably decades. On my shittier days, that slog can feel endless. As if, no matter the dedication, the care, the sustained effort and love, I can’t get closer to where I want to be – to projects that feel fulfilling and uplifting; to getting paid properly; to work with inspiring, boundary-pushing collaborators; to getting the recognition I so crave; to not be called ‘green’ when I’ve been doing this for 20 years.
This feeling of perceived stasis is terrifying, but mostly it’s exhausting. Because who has the energy to continuously bash their head against a wall without the guarantee that eventually your skull will crack? And truthfully, there isn’t ever really a guarantee. Just a blind trust that somehow, eventually, the passion and grit and determination will get you somewhere, to that place in your faraway vision where it feels like you’ve arrived.
And yet, do any of us ever arrive? Should we even try to? Maybe the most compelling thing about creativity and meaningful pursuits is that you’re never truly finished, there’s always a place more bold, more innovative, more challenging beyond the horizon of today. And the intense desire to discover and delve into that shimmering landscape propels you forward, despite the setbacks, whatever the expense. Ideally, what halts your continued growth is just death.
On the grim days, I hate the seemingly insurmountable effort required to move. I resent it, I resent myself for wanting it, and I wonder what it could all possibly be worth. But there’s also an enduring glimmer. Most days it’s a glowing beacon in sharp focus, but when I am in the dark it’s more mysterious, peripheral: a tiny, glinting reminder of just how beautiful creating feels, how spinning magic from air is possible. So for now, and for a while once more, I’ve graduated from despair. But when the dim encroaches, I’ll always let the glimmer guide me.
On Being Exposed
It is a visceral feeling to be vulnerable, open, to lay your heart out. As children, we are less afraid, less knowing and wary of pain and heartbreak, less worried about powerlessness, because we rely on others for everything. Trusting as a child is an absolute necessity. And so our guardedness is learned, fostered over the years through the inevitable tumult of adolescent friendships, in love discovered, explored and lost, in familial and societal expectations, in the precarious process of finding your footing in this fecund but oft unforgiving world.
The existence of this grown protective shell is not without benefit, some of what life throws at us requires a thickened, weathered skin to continue our wanders without serious injury. This, we learn. And yet, we must unlearn it too. We must discern when protection or vulnerability may serve us, and courageously move toward the thing that feels right, even if our judgement or execution falters occasionally. We get better eventually, incrementally.
Being vulnerable means having the audacity to show you are a complex, nebulous creature, with traits that span the beautiful, exciting to awful and absurd, in perpetual ebb and flow. And what glorious human capacity that is – for love and wonder, for silliness, for absolute agony – it is life, true connection. When you open yourself up in that way, you bare and stand to lose it all. But, almost always, you don’t, you won’t. Allowing ourselves to be cracked open, our innards and viscera exposed, may be terrifying, but the spoils are so, so worth it.
On Boundaries
Boundaries are complex beasts. For years, decades, I’ve believed I had a healthy relationship with boundaries – an assuredness about what and where my boundaries were and the ability to draw them clearly and kindly. I have recently come to realise I was very wrong. A few simultaneous events drew my attention to my lack of defined boundaries, and strangely, how my flimsy, blurry boundaries were causing different relationships to play out in curiously similar ways.
I’ve never thought of myself as a people-pleaser, certainly not someone who shies away from confronting or robust discussions. In fact, I’ve always felt like a boat-rocker, a little gnome collecting far-flung idea-treasure and meticulously integrating it into my life. And yet, I saw in myself this surprising but totally understandable fear. Fear of letting people down, fear of creating conflict through my own selfishness, fear of rejection, fear of hurting others, fear of damaging a group dynamic because of my individual needs or actions.
These fears were all nurtured in my family context, which I internalised so thoroughly that they became invisible, seemingly-intrinsic parts of me. Sacrifice your needs for others. Don’t be selfish. Share. Be welcoming and generous. Open door policy. If you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all.
Of course these fears are also inexorably coloured by cumbersome gender expectations, adding bitter flavour and depth to the existing tumult. But I have begun to see and acknowledge the fear, and I relish the opportunity to reframe my relationship with boundaries. Yes, it seems terrifying to create delineations. But I think that fear is worth confronting, for empowerment and fulfilment lie beyond it. That looming, seemingly insurmountable wall becomes easier to scale with practise. So, I determine to practise. To reflect on my needs, to openly, honestly and kindly draw my boundaries, and trust that the people I love and that love me want those boundaries respected. Maybe even revered.
On Traits and Flaws
It seems poetic to me that our best and worst traits almost always exist as two opposing ends of a continuum, indelibly linked, like a glistening, resilient strand of hair. It took me years to realise that the parts of me I most cherished – my passion, my grit and drive, my curiosity, my open heart, my vulnerability – grew from the same seeds as my more challenging or ugly characteristics. Passion manifests as anger, harsh and righteous; grit and drive as dogged determination, entitlement and a pejorative ambition; curiosity as greed and excess; my open heart as intensity; and my vulnerability as profound neediness. It’s all too much, I’m too much. Women being too much is dangerous, as it always has been. There’s no doubt in my mind I’d have been burned at the stake 200 years ago, a persistent wave-maker no matter the era. We have to tone it down, and so I tried, for years. I eventually found beauty in a painful, reflective process. And much peace through inquiring about those traits, through observing and understanding their roots, I believed I could harness the too much in ways that felt healthy. Certainly it cultivated fertile ground for calm and serenity, talismans I treasure on my travels.
But I found a catch that tugs. Despite my devotion to celebrating and worshipping my powerful traits, I have continued to apologise for their corollaries. Of course, one pole cannot exist without the other, they are anchored together in the depths of our hearts and minds, natured and nurtured into maturity. And what I’ve learned is that the darker end of the spectrum is not stark, the strength and fragility, the glorious and profane intertwine like roaming, tangled tree roots. Inseparable, in remarkable equilibrium.
True peace and acceptance is in finding a way to be the me-est me, and trusting that what will be projected outward is my complex, nuanced, warm, love-drenched, thinking, joyous core.
On Manifesting
For as long as I can remember, I’ve had what felt like a bizarre power: this strange ability to manifest my dreams. As if I can see their form in my peripheral vision, or I can sense their shape and flavour in some tactile, tangible way, and I know in my bones that this vision will come to fruition. It already feels real. It has happened enough times that the feeling is a recognisable, though not always completely trustworthy, intuitive presence. Like a reassuring guide on my trail, holding my hand as I step, eyes closed, over each stone.
The reverse is true too: sometimes ideas don’t feel real at all, and I’m unable to even imagine the universe in which they exist, which often means they never will. Just a sense of emptiness, a lack of shape or shadow.
There’s a trap with manifesting, because from the outside it looks easy. Which it isn’t, not in the slightest. But when only the wins are externally visible, it may resemble luck. And make no mistake, luck plays a part. But luck can only be a springboard if you’re ready to dive, and being ready to dive requires a great many belly flops before making that exquisite pike. The mundane reality of it is the trying and failing over, over and over again, but eventually, slowly, the cogs move, whirr to life. And somehow, as if by an alchemical force, you have spun the banal into magic.
I think the real power of manifesting is a fearless belief in your mission or vision or dream. It’s allowing yourself to tune in, to listen to it, to get a sense of it, to let it take its form, so that when you stand back, the light hits what you’ve envisaged and brings it into focus. A sculpture of the future, an organic form that you know, innately. Once you have that belief, once it has taken hold and you can see it, you are capable of pushing every fibre of yourself toward it. And when it already feels real? Well, then you’re just walking, in motion, toward exactly where you’re meant to be.
On Anger
I’ve had a long and complex relationship with anger. It was a creature I battled when I was young, a presence I was aware of as I grew, and a facet of me that I focused on understanding into adulthood. But I have been so focused on knowing and managing my anger for so long, and have so thoroughly learned to distance myself from it, that somewhere along the way I stopped recognising its emergence or existence at all. Which is kind of a terrifying thought, because surely anger serves a purpose? At its most powerful, expressing it is cathartic and may even be healing, should the recipient of the force of it understand or welcome it. At its worst, it can get messy, which was the spectre that goaded me to continue on the path of distancing myself from anger for so long. Being mindful, owning my emotions and zooming out to get perspective always felt like the positive, wholesome things to do. But I find myself wondering if that is healthy or even right. What if anger is the thing you need to traverse to find some clarity, or truth, or answer? What if anger is the best way to express your perspective? What if anger helps you meet someone, in courage, on some distant, desolate branch? What if anger sets you free?
This relationship with anger – truly, a fear of it and what it can bring forth – must not be serving me. For all my circumspect, for all my gentle prodding, for all my mindful curiosity, I have lost my sensitivity to anger, to what it feels like, what that brewing inside me means. It has been replaced by cold detachment, and an inability to articulate the ebb and flow of feeling – a concept so absolutely foreign to me that this realisation hit me like a wave. I know feeling. So, not feeling means not me. Which means I must find a way back to anger, a way to recognise it, feel it, observe it, express it, dig into it, ride it, emerge from it. I want to navigate through that craggy terrain, because I think there’s freedom, glinting there, on the other side of anger’s expanse.
On Being Earnest
Oscar Wilde knew a thing or two. More than a decade out from my year 12 monologue from “The Importance of Being Earnest”, and without a very nuanced understanding of it at the time, I find myself valuing earnestness so highly. Cultural works of the past decade, from music to art, film and beyond, have ushered in a cool irony that feels apathetic and ultimately hollow. As if people are afraid to truly, earnestly enjoy or believe in something. Because not caring, not giving a fuck, is cool? This feels so thoroughly misguided – how can you throw your whole self into making something, which is so wholly necessary to make and finish work, without an underlying, unflinching belief in it? Those making art that feels truly groundbreaking have always been fearless enough to bare their ideas and souls, to face the backlash, because they have conviction in their vision and won’t compromise that for anything. I admire that so profoundly.
Brit Marling is a hero of mine. Her work, be it acting, writing or show-running, has always created worlds that are ambitious, spanning and curious, regardless or in spite of budget or production values. Make no mistake, these worlds venture into some weird territory. Giant, mind-reading octopuses? A second planet Earth? An underground tree that is like an earthly-internet? Strange movements that, enacted in a group, transport you to a parallel universe? These ideas seems insane, but her vision and earnestness are so pure and potent that I can’t not take those leaps with her, trusting that she’ll take me to a place where the puzzle pieces all slot together, somewhere exquisite. And so she does.
This is everything I hope to achieve in making art. I want to move people, to tap into some intrinsic, existential part of them and usher those emotions up like a groundswell. I want people to trust that this journey will steer them through an unexpected, nourishing, profound and exultant harbour. And the simplest building block I have is an unwavering belief in what I’ve made, to hope that honesty shines through to create a real, maybe even indelible, connection. But only vulnerability has that kind of power. And earnestness feels like a beautiful way to be vulnerable.
On Loving and Being Loved
My perception of love has been blasted open in recent months. I have a beautiful, communicative, supportive, nourishing long-term relationship, complete with the millennial trappings of world travel, international moves, multiple university degrees, seemingly perpetual job-uncertainty and existential climate fear. In this chaotic world we have created an oasis together that sustains us and acts as an unshakable foundation to springboard off into exciting, wild opportunities. I feel eternally grateful.
Each facet of my life deserves its time under a critical, research-focused microscope, in pursuit of uncovering and interrogating the values by which I live. This matters to me on a deep level. I want to be an embodiment of my values. I want to be a living, breathing exemplar of what I believe and hold dear, and who knows, maybe some part of that will resonate with others. In that spirit, I have recently turned my critical thinking to something that flew under the radar for a surprising and kind of embarrassing portion of my life: monogamy.
For whatever reason – being brought up in a progressive yet traditionally nuclear family, being surrounded by excellent monogamous role models, being nurtured by a system that seemed wholesome and good – I never questioned monogamy or considered its structure in any way restrictive or unhealthy. Not only did I not question it, I didn’t see it. It was utterly invisible to me, a framework I had unknowingly, unconsciously chosen. And for a long, long time, it was wonderful. Then I met someone whose very existence challenged that dormant paradigm. And my life went topsy-turvy. The intensity of this new connection forced me to look monogamy in the face and inspect every lovingly arranged layer of what I knew, what I had always presumed to know. How could something so profound, so wholly unlikely, so spectacular, not deserve to exist, to breathe and grow and flourish? What is life for, if not for exploring such life-altering connections? In what universe could I forgive myself for not diving head and heart first into it?
I had made my choice before I realised. Because who I am, at my core, is someone who wants to connect deeply with other humans. I find the meeting of minds and emotions and experience and ideas and beliefs an intoxicating and potent soup that nourishes the most essential parts of me. It is my inspiration for music, poetry, words, art. It is my energy and my muse. I truly think it is the most beautiful thing we can do in our fleeting time on this planet.
And so I find myself crossing a visceral threshold into a new world. One that feels full of possibilities, where each new encounter is an opportunity to delve into some new and magical chemistry, and trust that the flavour of it will be as rich or subtle as it organically should be. Being able to let relationships go wherever they want, like a wandering, blossoming vine growing towards the sunlight.
On Fear
Our lives are shaped by an incalculable series of decisions, and I think how we conceptualise and react to fear feels critical to this process of decision making. We’re taught to turn away from fear, and evolutionarily, that has been very effective and advantageous for humans. But I wonder how valuable our instinctive fear is today, in an age where we have tamed the earth so thoroughly that it is finally turning against us once more. For as long as I can remember, I have feared things and chosen to walk, or run, toward them. It’s not clear where this desire (or habit?) came from, maybe early attempts at facing fear paid off – like playing piano for hours to crack that really difficult combination of notes despite my fingers’ perceived blundering, or feeling the unmistakable, unbridled horde of butterflies in my stomach before a performance and going on stage to sing regardless, or choosing to learn to program, despite knowing it will force me to feel like a fumbling, hopeless baby when I feel so capable and assured in my other endeavours.
But fear rules the lives of many. It rules their hopes, desires, dreams and fantasies, their capacity for imagining a fulfilling life and their ability to manifest that life. It traps you in the details rather than feeling ablaze at the vision. Living fearlessly is a muscle you tend to each day. It’s listening to and pursuing what is nestled deep in your heart, even if the world makes you feel like that’s unreasonable, unattainable, greedy, or outrageous. It’s choosing to face the thing that feels insurmountable, understanding that there’s a chance you will stumble, but you’ll pick up, brush off and continue nevertheless. It’s endeavouring to create a spanning, adventurous, exceptional life because surely that is what the accident of our birth affords and begs of us. It is imagining the view from lofty heights, and that inspiring you to fly.
What never felt natural was allowing the fear to stop or rule me, because what kind of life would that cultivate? The kind of life where you don’t face fear feels infinitely more existentially terrifying.