sorry, beatrice.

Two swans turn into four swans. As if each swan yearned for time but time just multiplied into other swans. In a moment, everything will try to be red, and it will look like fall again. The trees take care of their own salvation, wrote Charles Wright. But we keep cutting them down while they are kneeling. Fifty-three falls doesn’t seem like many chances to save the trees. Maybe salvation is the leaves falling off, the moment of detachment, the first drift in wind. Maybe memory takes care of itself once we stop trying to save it. The fact that they’re not the same leaves returning and falling each year means God moves around. Maybe God too is in search of salvation. I have cheated, I have looked ahead. In a few more paintings, the swans will no longer resemble swans. Then we are all cheaters. We are born knowing our endings. Once I waited for my mother to tell me what the blood meant. In my memories, my mother never speaks. So I still don’t know what the blood meant. We have seen blood so many times, yet it still surprises us. Maybe the blood was telling us we were fine without beauty. That we were fine giving birth to time. In a few more months, I will no longer be able to bleed. The bed will be already locked. I can’t wait to change my point of view from flesh to wind.

the trip (2019)- dir. eileen myles