inamih

it's okay if you don't understand something the first few times it's explained to you. it's okay if you have to google every word in a sentence. it's okay if you need to spend a few hours learning the context behind a complicated situation. it's okay if you need to read something, think about it, and then come back to re-read it.

i get it. giving up is easier, and we are all broken down and also broke as hell. nobody has the time, nobody has the fucking energy. that is how they win, though. that is why you feel this way. it is so much easier, and that is why you must resist the impetus to shut down. fight through the desire you've been taught to "tl;dr".

embrace when a book is confusing for you. accept not all media will be transparent and glittery and in the genre you love. question why you need everything to be lily-white and soft. i get it. i also sometimes choose the escapism, the fantasy-romance. there's no shame in that. but every day i still try to make myself think about something, to actually process and challenge myself. it is hard, often, because of my neurodivergence. but i fight that urge, because i think it's fucking important.

Sadhguru: When we say Krishna, the essence of who he is, he is an irrepressible child, a terrible prankster, an enchanting flute player, a graceful dancer, an irresistible lover, a truly valiant warrior, a ruthless vanquisher of his foes, a man who left a broken heart in every home, an astute statesman and kingmaker, a thorough gentleman, a yogi of the highest order, and the most colorful incarnation.

Krishna has been seen, perceived, understood and experienced in many different ways by different people. For example, in Duryodhana’s words, Krishna is a “smiling rogue if there ever was one. He can eat, he can drink, he can sing, he can dance. He can make love, he can fight, he can gossip with old women, and play with little children. Who says he’s God?” That was Duryodhana’s perception

Krishna’s childhood lover Radhe, who became so big that you cannot talk of Krishna without Radhe – we don’t say “Krishna Radhe,” we say, “Radhe Krishna” – she said, “Krishna is with me. He is always with me wherever he is. Whoever he is with, he is still with me.” That was her perception.

Krishna leela

at 17, maybe you would have wanted to be famous. maybe you would have wanted to kiss every woman and come home late at night and call the dawn to heel like a dog. to meet taylor swift and ask her to collaborate on poems and french-kiss in the rain. to wiggle your fingers at jealous ex-lovers while you lifted the hem of your ballgown and got out of limousines. a life of rooftops, spinning and glittering.

these days, it isn't that you're tired, but that you have learned the weight of carrying things. you have had the good times. you have laughed at the bottom of a pool. you have had your hands on the paring knife. you know the cost of it, like a carcinogen. these days, you want a life like a stone fruit. these days, you want a life that lays gently on your skin, rather than piercing through.

you are going to get a little condo with your friend. the two of you fantasize about basic things: how it will feel to cook in a friendly kitchen. the serenity of picking out wall paint colors. putting plants in the sunlit corner. you want a place that never rings in anger. where the only echo is jazz music. you want a peace like holding your head under the water.

ah. maybe your younger self would be devastated - you got boring?

she doesn't know yet. she has lived her entire life terrified, running. she has grown so accustomed to the threat that she has fallen in love with the scythe. she thinks passionate and violent are synonyms, that anything lovely has to come with a bad side. she thinks life has to break like a wave - that you need to swallow the ocean in order to stay above the foam. she doesn't know about the boat yet. she doesn't know about spending hours at home, quiet, your hands folded, finding peace. she doesn't know about weightlessness. she thinks everything good is everything sharp. that the pain is what makes something satisfying.

one day she will make cookies from scratch. one day when she breaks a plate, she will be the only one around, and nobody will start shouting. one day she will slip her fingers under the sand, and it will make sense to her. the life assembling in little shards: oh. i've been afraid of a quiet life at home because i've never had a quiet home to come to before.

and you stand there reading the little plaque next to pictures of people who aren't really like you because they're rich and they wear satin but they are like you because they had to watch other people paint their pictures without getting to paint them by themselves and you think about the fact that something like 80% of "fine art" on the walls is only made by white men and how so many of these pictures are of white women and how many are of naked women and how many are of bloodshed, and how the women are all looking at you and watching you and there are so many discussions about what kind of a person is she

but she isn't in this painting, is she, she's watching like a ghost behind you, saying a man told my story and you know what that's like because her facial expression defines her personality (what if she was just happy? what if she was holding back a sneeze? what if she is a kind person who relaxes into a frown when she's not focusing?) and on trains and in public if you hunch too much or let your "resting bitch face" show (it means you're not-smiling. you don't even have to be frowning. you know people who think they have "resting bitch face" and really mean they don't look delicate and pretty when they're relaxing; their facial expression isn't even intimidating it just isn't lovely) like congratulations that's your whole personhood

oh it's lovely to be in art circles and of course you've had some similar conversations because you do your homework but when you point out that maybe it doesn't actually matter if the mona lisa is smiling, that maybe we need to look at something other than her lips - people tell you that you just don't get it, so maybe you don't, but your skin crawls because you picture someone taking a picture of you and saying is she coy? is she clever? what do we see? and you think. well, i'm hungry, and stressed, and i've got those rent bills incoming

oh, wildheart. i looked up at you and felt something tear me asunder. the ripple of space and time, to press us closer together. i think i have met you in a past life. i think i am perfect for you in this life, or that i could teach myself how to immolate and love the burning. the atmosphere cannot contain angels. i am going to give myself wings and come over and kneel at your altar. i will reinvent superimposition so our shadows can hold hands in space.

oh light. in this world i am too many weird limbs and bad eyesight. in this world i will wrap myself in the blanket of a tree and whisper myself into a new something. light and fast and sleek - something closer to you. something worthy.

i feel you as a compass. harness of direction. like everything else is moving and you're the voice of stillness. one of these days i am going to draw a map of myself and you will fill up all the branches. have i ever belonged to someone like this; so ragged and quick. like my heart knew your heart before either of us resolved ourselves out of the blackness. like i hatched with you in me, already imprinted.

it's not that your father never played catch with you, but you also didn't like when he did. something about a hard ball coming quickly towards your face doesn't seem exciting. not that you'd ever say you don't trust him. you trust him, right?

it's not like he never tried to teach you anything. or never tried to parent. on rare days, a strange person would walk in your father's skin. bright, happy, magnificent. this version of your father was so cheerful and charismatic that you would do anything to keep him. and this is the version of your father that would laugh and gently coax you try again. this is the version of your father that would break down the small elements of a problem and point them out so you have an easier time with them.

as a kid, those days happened more often. but somewhere around 11, you started being too much of a person, and he was often cross about it. when he'd try to sit you down to learn something, you spent the whole time with your shoulders around your ears, nervous, uncertain. terrified because you didn't immediately understand how to navigate something. worried you will run out of his goodwill and then you will have the Other Father back, and you will have ruined a good day for your entire family. something about you being visibly afraid - it just made him angry. he would accuse you of not wanting to learn and storm away.

on tv, it's not like there's a lot of versions of men-who-are-mostly-fathers. they can be good dads, but usually their stories are not told in the household. so it's normal that your father is there, but he's never around. you know he was in the house, somewhere, it's just not that you guys ever... "hung out". he just seemed to get kind of bored of you, annoyed you weren't made in his perfect image. frustrated with how much energy it took to raise a kid. over time, you kind of adopt a bittersweet band around your throat - he knows nothing about me. he says at least i never abandoned my family.

and it's technically - technically - true. he was there for you. sometimes he even made an effort and made it to the big moments; the graduations and the dance recitals. he grins and tells everyone that he taught you. it almost erases the days in between, where he complains because you need a ride to school. the weeks that go by where he doesn't actually ever speak to you. the times you say i am struggling and he says figure it out on your own. i can't help you.

and that's fine! that's all fine. you can call him if you are having a problem with your car. or if you need a ride to the hospital. he loves playing hero, he just doesn't like the actual work that comes with being a father. and you've kind of made your peace with that; because you had to, because you don't want to live your life like he does; the whole world at a managed distance, a little rotating and controlled orb he can witness and take credit for but never truly love.

Despair

I have a fascination with death. Not how it happens, not what happens after. I have a fascination with how death is handled by the ones left living.

I talked at length about it in the Egyptian gallery with you, surrounded by bodies misplaced. "Most of history we learn through the way we treat our dead." Which is true, I think, for the most part.

We have written and oral history. We have the skeletons of buildings and cultures left behind for us to interpret. But before that, before the corpses of civilizations we're still able to uncover, we have our own.

The oldest body ever found is argued to be 230,000 years old. Hundreds of millennia, a culture so lost to time and decay we can't hope to uncover significant artifacts.

Our bodies become the artifact. The way we were buried, where, with what, with who. Was there care put into our final resting spot? Was there effort put into the ends of our lives?

Most often, there was. Our bodies tell our descendants our status. Our injuries. Our community. Our loves.

Perhaps they'll debate. Perhaps they'll misinterpret. But millennia later, your body might tell someone how we lived. How we loved. What we cared about at our core. What we thought would help us after death. What we thought we'd want to continue our comfort. What the living needed to let us pass on from their lives.

You tell me you still think about what I said.

Many people talk about becoming a tree when they pass. It is a beautiful notion, one I've considered. A natural, living reminder of a life lived. A place for their loved ones to share a connection with. In a way, the continuation of a life; albeit in a different form.

But I don't want to become a tree. I'd rather become a forest.

Maybe it's a notion toward the state of our world. The lack of top soil is one of the prevalent factors of our declining environment. The way we've stripped it of the nutrients of decay.

There are ways to decompose naturally. In the ground with nothing but a natural shroud is the oldest and easiest way. A new, human composting method has been created for an urban option when the easiest is unavailable. An alternative to cremating. One that can give back to the earth.

My body might not be one that tells the story of my time alive on this planet. My body might tell a joke, or rest peacefully, or ideally decay away. My DNA will dissolve into nitrogen and an assortment of other elements. I will become no different or better than the dirt that lies around me. What was me will become something else entirely.

The new, updated version of my Dream Library print is available here with 3 background colour options!