womanness is a/an:

visual exploration
poetic investigation
personal practice
erotic expression
performance of self-authorship
visual-verbal love song1
pursuit of a new archetype
living metaphor
nocturnal poem2
archive of female overflow
map of intuition
experiment in open research
question of feminine writing3

1Mann, Sally. Hold Still, Little Brown and Company, 2015, pp. 208. 2Paz, Octavio. “The Kingdoms of Pan.” Translated by Helen Lane. The Double Flame: Love and Eroticism, Harcourt, Inc., 1995, pp. 18. 3Woolf, Virginia. Un lieu à soi. Translated by Marie Darrieussecq, Denoël, 2016, pp. 176.



waning year/remarriage/wilding
a topography in fifteen chapters

tantric currents
Theater of Love
self study 1-21




Consider an axis of values that emphasizes:

  • Becoming over outcome
  • Human over product
  • Free and open sharing of ideas and creations
  • A process of ongoing revision and evolution
  • Exploration with intention but without fixed destination

CHAPTER 4: SOFT TERRORS








1Paz, Octavio. “The Prisoner.” Translated by Eliot Weinberger. An Erotic Beyond: Sade, Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1998, pp. 4.

2Paz, Octavio. “The Prisoner.” Translated by Eliot Weinberger. An Erotic Beyond: Sade, Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1998, pp. 4.


3Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. “Heat: Retrieving a Sacred Sexuality.” Women Who Run With the Wolves, Ballantine Books, 1992, pp. 364.

4Lana Del Rey. Chemtrails over the Country Club. Interscope Records and Polydor Records, 2021.

5Joni Mitchell. Hejira. Asylum Records, 1976.

6Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. “Heat: Retrieving a Sacred Sexuality.” Women Who Run With the Wolves, Ballantine Books, 1992, pp. 363.


7Paz, Octavio. “Metaphors.” Translated by Eliot Weinberger. An Erotic Beyond: Sade, Harcourt, Brace & Company, 1998, pp. 19.

8Estés, Clarissa Pinkola. “Heat: Retrieving a Sacred Sexuality.” Women Who Run With the Wolves, Ballantine Books, 1992, pp. 365.
I’m driving to the desert, late December. Open roads. Soft light. Take out coffee, black and burning. Singing duets with Blue. The sum of all parts: ambient perfection.

Coyote filling my ears. Coyote as the windmills fade. Coyote Lane as I turn one step closer to my destination. I drive past places I’ve been before, people I’ve been before. Beingness rushes through my rearview in a blur. There we all danced barefoot to the piano. There he wrapped his arms around me like new wilderness discovered. Always ghosts. Or rather: “The furrows of ash left by semen, blood, and lava.”1 To escape and return, to love and release. Two sides of the same coin. Snake tails in my mouth. “The bodies, facing each other like wild stars.”2 The loop of life and love itself. Sacred and secret liberation, my backseat full of cameras and watercolors and drunken dawn.

What is the dance between reclaiming the self and allowing it to be consumed? “There is a powerful saying: Elle habla por en medio en las piernas, ‘She speaks from between her legs.’”3 I drove my soul a hundred miles into dry earth just to sit beneath the planets as they recrossed the signature of my birth. Birth, rebirth, and abandonment to the darkness. My photographs lost their shape and returned to me weeks later all in blackness. Nothing came out the way I intended, nothing looked the way it felt. All my light is changing. A throne in the corner, rescued from a heap of demolition and oiled by my own hand. Incense trails. Heaps of silver. The shape of my own body beneath my touch. Wild waking visions and the nothingness of depths. “You're in the wind, I'm in the water.”4 I offer myself up to all those regenerative gods: tears, saliva, desire’s fluids, soft terrors, winter rain, bath waters, slipping beneath the surface of ocean foam, moon tides, the smell of roses. I love these places where the metaphor sits in stubborn contradiction, where it resists our reductive minds. I took myself into dry depths and emerged once again in overflow. “No regrets, coyote, I just get off up aways.”5

I once thought sexuality was a possession to be sought (or stolen, or borrowed, or kept, or—), when in fact it is a vast, infinite landscape one can only ever journey into. Perhaps, if we’re lucky, even live within.

Eroticism as the imaginative metaphor of body wisdom. Obscenity as medicine. “From old Hebrew, Oh, meaning a wizard, sorceress.”6 I’m always gathering little clues, patient but persistent until inevitably they reveal themselves. Tricksters. “Creation, invention: there is nothing more real than this body that I imagine; there is nothing less real than this body I touch that turns into a heap of salt or vanishes into a column of smoke. With that smoke my desire will invent another body.”7 The beloved from nothingness, from dust.

My hair hangs long over my breasts. My hands feel charged, I can watch the energy waving through and out and onto. A discarded string of Christmas lights. Too many books to count. Lately I feel electric. “And then, over all the land came an eerie silence, and the smell of crushed flowers.”8