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



2(is there anything more hopeful than the belief that we will arrive together at that promised future?)

3Ernst, Max. “Preface, or Loplop Presents the Bride of the Wind.” The House of Fear: Notes from Down Below, Leonora Carrington, E.P. Dutton, 1988, pp. 26.

4Ferentinou, Victoria. “A Witch in Search of Myth.” Visions of Enchantment: Occultism, Magic and Visual Culture. Edited by Daniel Zamani and Judith Noble. Fulgur Press, 2019, pp. 154.

5Breton, André. Anthology of Black Humor. Translated by Mark Polizzotti, City Lights Books, 1977, pp. 335.

6Breton, André. L’Art magique. Phébus, 1991, pp. 27.

Carrington, Leonora. The Stone Door, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1978, pp. 30.

8Also: “the divine female will always be about the masculine, but from a place of self.” Also: “it might be messy, but it’s sacred.”
I wrote that my body is not a resource to be pilfered1 but of course that’s not true. Women’s bodies are, in fact, seen only as a resource, something to be drained, devoured, discarded. We think nothing of ignoring internal/external seasons in equal proportion. We all ravage our own wilderness unfeelingly. Is it enough to divest from this belief structure on my own? I’d like to think so but what of the established tide of the world that still beats against the shore of my beingness in the rhythmic wave of more, more, more

Writing is a simultaneous act of preserving and conjuring. Right now I am writing to a future you, a future me2, and also using my words to map a specific existential place and time. I am documenting and reauthoring myself simultaneously. “She warms herself with her intense life, her mystery, her poetry.”3 An hour into our conversation she said: I am calling on the forces of the world to nurture me and something in my breath skipped, slid, shook through my lungs. I wrote her words on a sheet of yellow memo paper beside my computer, not to remember them——I would never forget them——but to pray beside them, however briefly.

The urgency with which my body consciousness is demanding a new creation myth feels beyond the scope of my ability to comprehend, let alone deliver. My mind leaps wildly. How can I know what I don’t know? How can I become what I don’t even understand? But that is what this moment demands: impossible, essential feats of women’s survival. My mind is trapped in what is, my body already attuned to the liberation of what must now be. “Women as active, enchanted subjects: artisans, alchemists, witches, priestesses and magical creatures who resist male authority and reclaim their infinite forces through transgression and revolt.”4 Eating the egg laid by the serpent. Electrocuted one day and a descent into madness. The capacity for “solitary conception.”5 I wake every day into the weight of this revolt. Black seeds circling my neck. Hands turning to silver. I won’t back down but you see, some days I feel as if I cannot possibly carry it one step further. To be an illogical creature in a world that worships logic, what of this? To be an empathic creature in a world that wants to feast greedily on that feeling state, what of this? Motherhood makes visible the metaphors of the female body but we all live them from first breath: let me give you my heart, my words, my fullness, my hard-won wisdom, my dawn depths, my life-giving blood, my tears at the site of your unfeelingness, my tongue against your lips, the mysticism of my tangled hair, the awake of my eyes, the moon moving through me, the storm of planets, transcendence, creation, let me hold you while you touch the darkness, the devouring Queen of the Night and those demi gods of morning. And tell me, what will you give me in return?

What of nature at rest? What of this process of urgent, invisible renewal? How do I locate the deepest source of these waters that run through me and let them pour across the vast landscape of my body, let them overflow into yours? All that is sacred is kept from easy sight and so here amidst the darkness of urgent, internal renewal I find one of the most sacred constellation points of my identity. Woman as magic. And magic: “implies protest; imagines revolt”6 But you see, all this magic, it’s not for your wonderment. It’s not for your entertainment. All you slumbering selves, stay out, you’re not welcome in this place. “Anybody who knows may enter.”7 Or as she said to me in a January now past: “The man is coming into the temple of the divine female. If he has forgotten his prayer book, she will send him back out.”8

Out. All of you. Do you understand me? And don’t return until-. Until. Let it take a hundred years, a thousand. I don’t care. I’ll still be here with snakes in my hands, with night on my lips. I’ll still be here conjuring new horizons across the oceans of my body.