When You Meet a Lesbian
Women’s Studies 103, circa 1988
When You Meet a Lesbian: Hints for the Heterosexual Women 

When You Meet a Lesbian

Women’s Studies 103, circa 1988

When You Meet a Lesbian: Hints for the Heterosexual Women 


On Internal Racism & Interracial Dating

Tryna by spoken word poet, Alok Vaid-Menon


Letter(s) To My Mother 

Letter(s) To My Mother is a multimedia project that consists of a knitted armor made out of steel wool and connective threads made out of unsent letters written by me to my mother. It’s a selfish and confessional endeavor that blurs the line between public and private information; the hidden and the obvious; protection and pain. 

While working on this project, I often think about Sharon Olds’ poem, “Still Falling For Her,” which she has written for her own mother.  


She Reminds Me
A love letter to the her who reminds me of.

She Reminds Me

A love letter to the her who reminds me of.


Art Inspiration & Hero 
Félix González-Torres, Letter accompanying “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers)

Art Inspiration & Hero 

Félix González-Torres, Letter accompanying “Untitled” (Perfect Lovers)


image

Voila! Moment in Remembering Art

I went to dinner with a friend last night and was asked about my favorite object at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. To my own surprise, and probably to his disappointment, I was blanking out on a satisfactory answer. Would I be true to myself if I picked Woman Having Her Hair Combed by Degas, or Woman by de Kooning, or the collection of Georgia O’Keeffe’s photographs by Alfred Stieglitz? Have I visited these pieces enough to make them mine? 

On my train ride home, I mentally walked through my favorite galleries at the MET — jumping back and forth between the Modern/Contemporary section and the Impressionist rooms. It was a voila! moment when I remembered the glorious Assyrian Lamassu that stands at 10 ft tall guarding the gates of the Ancient Near East gallery. How could I forget!

I remember my first time encountering the Lamassu; I was scared, in awe, and uncomfortable. This huge alabaster creature was towering over me without an ounce of mercy in its eyes and posture, not caring about me, nor I about it. Yet the more time I spent with Lamas (my nickname for him), the more I felt protected under his wings. His firm stance, his colossal beard, and elaborate headdress grew on me with every trip I made to the MET. 

Last night’s dinner was a reminder for me to visit Lamas again and check up on how he is doing for it really has been a cold winter in New York. 


(Photo by Rain Embuscado)
What We Talk About When We Talk About Us
Here is where you showed me Brooklyn and made me fall in love with her. 
The first time we met up for breakfast, you told me the reasons why you can’t ever leave this part of town. Brooklyn has a strong hold on you and you wanted me to be a part of the spell. You brought me to Bedford Hill after the first night we spent together. We sat across from each other on a cold December day; you wanted me to experience the softness and quaintness of a Brooklyn morning with the murmurs from people chatting about things we deemed pretentious. We were excited to blend in with the scene because we sounded pretentious, too, with our talks about my art, my moving to Italy, and my shyness in admitting that I wanted to be with you at this wrong time and wrong place. 
You held my hands then and asked if I wanted to try long distance relationship through the winter and spring. We would meet again in the summer when Brooklyn is at her best under the July sun. We would have rooftop parties and backyard BBQs. We would have whatever I wanted of Brooklyn — and of you — once I came back from Florence. 
Fast forward to two years later, while standing on line at Bedford Hill, a friend asked me if our relationship ended on amicable terms, and I wanted to close my eyes and forget. We would never sit across from each other again at this coffee shop. You have permanently shunned this place knowing that it’s my favorite getaway. I have done the same with your local favorites in fear of seeing you mid bite with the her who had replaced me on your bed. 
Since the night I moved out of our apartment, we have passed each other once or twice. It amazes me still the power we have within ourselves for a collective erasure of the past. Sitting at the yellow formica table now reminds me of the hows and whys we have fallen in and out of love. I can still recall our lives together during those last few days when the only things we could hold on to were a small apartment and the memories of our firsts. 
I wake up now and again with green bruises on my chest. A woman told me that it’s a way for the body to release toxins. I hope she is right because I am willing to let it all go now.

(Photo by Rain Embuscado)

What We Talk About When We Talk About Us

Here is where you showed me Brooklyn and made me fall in love with her. 

The first time we met up for breakfast, you told me the reasons why you can’t ever leave this part of town. Brooklyn has a strong hold on you and you wanted me to be a part of the spell. You brought me to Bedford Hill after the first night we spent together. We sat across from each other on a cold December day; you wanted me to experience the softness and quaintness of a Brooklyn morning with the murmurs from people chatting about things we deemed pretentious. We were excited to blend in with the scene because we sounded pretentious, too, with our talks about my art, my moving to Italy, and my shyness in admitting that I wanted to be with you at this wrong time and wrong place. 

You held my hands then and asked if I wanted to try long distance relationship through the winter and spring. We would meet again in the summer when Brooklyn is at her best under the July sun. We would have rooftop parties and backyard BBQs. We would have whatever I wanted of Brooklyn — and of you — once I came back from Florence. 

Fast forward to two years later, while standing on line at Bedford Hill, a friend asked me if our relationship ended on amicable terms, and I wanted to close my eyes and forget. We would never sit across from each other again at this coffee shop. You have permanently shunned this place knowing that it’s my favorite getaway. I have done the same with your local favorites in fear of seeing you mid bite with the her who had replaced me on your bed. 

Since the night I moved out of our apartment, we have passed each other once or twice. It amazes me still the power we have within ourselves for a collective erasure of the past. Sitting at the yellow formica table now reminds me of the hows and whys we have fallen in and out of love. I can still recall our lives together during those last few days when the only things we could hold on to were a small apartment and the memories of our firsts. 

I wake up now and again with green bruises on my chest. A woman told me that it’s a way for the body to release toxins. I hope she is right because I am willing to let it all go now.


Haiku 
The sun makes me feel all poetic today. 

Haiku 

The sun makes me feel all poetic today. 


Fox News

I could not resist the urge to compile screenshots of Fox News and their head lice segments. 

Selfies have become a clear medical concern for America. Please take selfies responsibly. 


That of you 
That of you caught  this of me in the  midst of us breathing  mouthing whispering  my lips to your ears  the what of love  My hair upon your  neck back arms  spine curled to the countours  drawn by your finger tips  That of you kissed this of me to rest.

That of you 

That of you caught 
this of me in the
midst of us breathing
mouthing whispering
my lips to your ears
the what of love

My hair upon your
neck back arms
spine curled to the countours
drawn by your finger tips

That of you
kissed this of me to rest.