A place where you can be human.
Here I sit with not one fake mother fucker in my face.
I’ll humbly admit that there are some days I shift.
I’ll suggest something I don’t agree with
and when I become conscious of my falseness,
I retract it as quickly as I can.
It’s just much easier
to be elsewhere in my mind
and follow suit with my mouth.
Being aware of me at all times
is quite a bit of work.
I assume it is for most day dreamers.
-Saschia Johnson
I need to know about the artist not the art. The art is great, but I prefer to learn the artist because for me that’s what makes the art. Please bare with me while I try and find a new book on the lives of artists and their art that I enjoy enough to write and learn more about.
It’s a calico
and stalks our yard
with spiritual confidence
Sometimes I lift the curtain
to get a better view
It freezes
we eye each other
And it’s quite entertaining
Especially when I should be writing
When it tires of our connection
It disappears behind the bush that divides us.
Tomorrow we may do the same thing
I’m not always looking for it
and it’s not always looking for me
-Saschia Johnson
Love notes
Encourage me
To keep going
Send more please.
Mid sleep checklist incomplete
Dreaming of writing this
While skating and collecting snowflakes in my pocket
I’m with my old boss looking for the next word
It’s underneath the ice and as long as we keep moving
they’ll appear
Slowly we place these words one after the other
What we build here makes complete sense
Door hinges break without salt so we sprinkle liberally
And we have to crack the window so my mom can hear her alarm
It’s in the next house along with my mom
The moon’s out, it’s big and the night sky makes me weak
So I sit on the porch watching it glisten hoping that in some way
it’s speaking to me.
Beautiful words and picture. Lovely Sunday thoughts
Sleepy from nothing. Just sleepy. Maybe from thinking. Or maybe I ate the wrong thing but I’m too sleepy to care enough to figure it out. My brain is foggy and my eyelids are heavy. The future is weighing me down but the past doesn’t bite too bad anymore. I could have just adjusted to the bites. But it’s no problem. I ate my veggies and naked chicken. I did eat a White Truffle doughnut. Shame, but I made sure to eat it early. I tried to reach my 10k steps but I’m just so tired. It really weighs down on me. Is this complaining? I think it’s complaining. I’m happy with my life I tell ya. I love it very much. But this sleepiness just won’t shift. Is it depression? Have I not gotten enough sun. Maybe it’s my period. It was probably the doughnut.
-Saschia Johnson
By: Michael Morlock
curled up on the floor, surrounded by toys, crawling under your daughters blanket just to try and be close to the things you love the most, and it’s still only you, alone, smothering beneath the coloured comforter, neck at a harsh angle, face burning against the coarse carpet, willing and wishing for something, anything to come fill you up, but you’re still empty, like the crib, like your cupped upturned hand, like the passing days with no child or partner to hold on to, to help you hold on. vision is rope. and the further you try to make it extend the more frayed it becomes. 20/20 summed up when all is said and done is 40. that’s only a few more years from now and the rope seems pretty thin and faulty on certain days. days frequently named “too often”. “all the time” in the parlance of childish over-exaggerated speaking. if there are even words. not just mumbles. whispers. thoughts which never quite reach the mouth to find their way out and you no longer comprehend the difference or the fact that these things only are spoken in your head, and you wonder why no one hears you anymore. did they ever? if a person falls for longer then a short rest, do they make a sound anyone can hear over the raucous din of their own lives?
will we even notice the passing of one another as we travel on our journey? or do we not recognize the ones who’ve lost direction until it’s too late?
loneliness burrows deep, undermines the roots of trees, the foundations of structures, the will of even the strongest souls.
so much of life is the slow dirt crumble waiting for the cave in.
Jayne.press