inventory

I was walking on westminster, an afternoon in spring, when he pulled up to me in his truck. rolled down the shotgun window to tell me he was not okay. he had just received the call. the car in the creek, I would learn much later. he still came to my opening that night, then told me later how nice I looked in my dress, one of the few times he ever commented on my appearance. we laid in bed that night with all our clothes on, quiet and still. I watched him stare at the ceiling until he couldn’t anymore.
months later, I ruffled through a pile of his folded t-shirts to borrow while he was still in bed one morning. holding up the large baby pink one I wanted, I felt the air leave the room when he told me it was sam’s. he promptly got out of bed just to pick one of his own for me, and as I stood waiting beside him, not a word between us, I wanted to cry. so embarrassed to be naked, touching a dead man’s clothes.

I stood in the shop, remembering every minute in there at once, feeling every minute in there at once, and cried. I stared out the window one last time, that window I would always peek out of, hoping I'd see his truck and know he was somewhere near. what a beautiful day we were having, before we knew it would be the last. I made two of the hardest pieces I've ever attempted, with a fucking killer team who made it possible. a glass fountain for the birds.
the hot shop kept me here. every time I thought about leaving, every time I regretted coming, I rushed into the shop. grabbed an empty bench, taught myself to punty and work alone, burning in the process but remembering why I came in the first place. I’ve had my highest highs in this space. blowing glass feels something like sex. feels something like love. except it never turns around and stops wanting you. glass was something I could lean on, could still trust when everything else shattered.
I could feel myself growing with the material across months, weeks, days, even hours spanning a single slot. my partners pushed me, challenged me, counseled me, cheered for me, fed me, cared for me. there’s something so distinctly intimate about the relationship between blow partners, something about the comfort in very close proximity, the telepathy that grows over time, the shared embodied learning that allows me to deduce when their skin is burning from sight alone. my god, nothing compares. I don’t know when I’ll blow glass again, and that cuts deep. it’s been years since I’ve been in this position of not knowing, not having. glass has been intensely formative and integral to my life over the last few years.
when ashley showed me the email, the texts, I just couldn’t stomach that those hours were our last. this space was THE reason for coming. for giving up 445 hart w diane, lone wolf w jane, home cooked meals w chi trang and erics. I have been suffering in this place, in this program, in exchange for this shop. for my time in the shop. to now have it be taken when I feel finally ready to try all the intimidating processes I didn’t yet have the confidence or repertoire for before. thank fucking god I made those beautiful giant rondels. thank fucking god we ordered mcdonald’s and ate dinner together in the shop one last time. my god I am devastated to lose that space. our shop, my shop. all those moments in class, busting my ass. all those hours alone, busting my ass. all those hot nights and TA’ing and assisting, busting my ass. big ladling nonstop, til my wrists hurt but was too proud to admit it. my stubborn ass refusing to ask for help until I couldn’t fucking turn a pipe right bc my glass was too much and too off center, or until blisters bubbled up from my skin because I hate wearing sleeves and hate asking for a shield. my partners knowing all this, and knowing when to save me without me asking them to. I am fucking devastated. that hot shop is more home than this bed right now. I grew and hurt and cried and burned and screamed and laughed and danced and sang more in that single room than any other place in this whole fucking state. my god, what am I without glassblowing? what’s left of me if you strip me of my ability to make? everything is simply going to shit, and with it my self worth. what was it all for? I wasn’t ready for this. I still had so much planned. I still had big dreams to realize in material. but this is how it ends. w my fucking heart on the floor, in pieces.

to whom it may concern,
I ordered these the same day you left. something about you sleeping on twins and never owning white sheets stuck w me. happy (early) birthday! hope this isn’t just a box of sheets and shards when it gets to you.

when we sat in your truck after I can’t remember which fight, after the waitress at harry’s kept interrupting when you were trying to apologize. I asked you to hold my hand because we never did that enough, and because I was never sure how many more chances we had left to. I told you, I don’t know if I want you to leave or just come up, and without a word, you took your hand out of mine and put your car in drive, slipping into a spot right in front of my door. you looked at me, and we went inside without a word; I got straight into the shower. minutes later, I heard the bathroom door open, heard the rustling of clothes, and for the first time, you pulled back the curtain. I laid down my pride and embraced you, wishing we could’ve stayed forever in this space between wet skin and quiet forgiveness.

the beach with diane
too cold to swim but still couldn't be happier
the thunderstorm
cold sheets of rain
soaked in that strange lil seaside restaurant in narraganset? new port?
riding shotgun no panties under my drenched dress, your dry hoodie keeping me alive
holding your upper arm the whole ride home bc you needed your hand to drive stick
diane asking about each of your sculptures
you talking about how the divorce affected you for the first time

he comes and goes. tells me he loves me, profusely, even though I won’t say it back. he seems to think he remembers more of our conversations than I do, and to a degree, he’s right. I asked him about his dad. memorized every word he said about him. he was kind to me when I was too high off some lines with a stranger in the eddy’s bathroom. I hate to love waking up to him. he invited me to his baby shower, and I told him I wouldn’t go. for the life of me, couldn't.
we didn't speak of it again. when the weekend ends and he leaves me for the city, everything feels like a punishment.

Now you know, that I’m not all that you thought I would be
Grateful I showed the real me
Yeah it shows
When you look in my eyes, it breaks all my bones

screenshots as evidence, more trustworthy than memory
bc information is presented as a screenshot, I alter my memory to conform to its details, almost without question. it is more true than anything I might remember.

art making as archival, as process, as research, as materializing sensation/inducing sensation
the web as a material, as a space to materialize the ephemeral
my obsession with lists, with order, to document

killing your darlings
a lot of seconds
short life expectancy
floor models
process of failures
things only beautiful bc they’re temporary
objects that flirt w non-existence
something going wrong shows you something new

betting on losing dogs

hurts more when it’s a friend because it’s like, oh haha being your friend wasn’t enough but having sex and being vulnerable wasn’t either haha ok bye

I know I don't handle rejection well. I know I don't handle not getting the things I didn't really want in the first place well. but this was not one of those things. I think this was one of those things I wanted more than I was willing to admit. I think I pretend to want a thing less so that when it rejects me, the landing feels just maybe a little softer.

I was thinking about you on my drive... a reflection: I think you are objectively an extraordinary human. You bring a light into the world that is undeniable. You make the world a more beautiful place, just by existing. This is not me tooting your horn, I think this is objective truth.
Sometimes, we extraordinary people go dark, and lose the ability to perceive our true value and power. We feel small and stupid and stuck and broken + imposter syndrome up the wazoo. in your case, you keep crushing at a high functioning rate, and the world is rewarding you for it (one example: a RISD scholarship opportunity is brought to You, without you seeking it) but you think it’s some kind of fluke.
The world is rewarding you because even when you feel like you’re just a shadow of yourself, that shadow is 1000x more luminous than the average person. You are so special Kim, and frankly I’m astounded that I hit the jackpot so early and happened to be in your middle school class. I’m so proud of how far you’ve come, and I’m so excited for what’s next. I love you.
And again, this costs me nothing to tell you - this is genuinely what I think about you, and your effect on the world (extrapolated from the effect you have on my world). Even if you don’t feel luminous right now, I’ll keep reminding you of your light until you’re ready to believe it. 🐉🦅

move to la
teach glassblowing
hms bounty / run into 2019 tinder date

over the last 48hrs, I submitted my master’s thesis, alongshot.xyz; won a grant; moved to another state; danced, cried, and graduated on zoom.