the feral collection

september 2022

the word “feral” amorphously surfaced for me over the summer, somewhere between a mental breaking point where i was confronted with the absolute absurdity that i was mourning the abrupt end of my relationship with my best friend of many years and a heat wave that somehow somewhat continues and causes a depression deeper than any lake effect winter in upstate new york. there is something that hanging out at the bottom of a well can do for a person that causes them to learn spells, whatever it takes, to find height, grasp onto the edges of the stony ledge, nails dug in, growling their way out, onto their back in the grass to breathe fresh air. or maybe that’s just how it feels to survive.

through the process, i laugh. cackle, really. tell jokes. tell myself stories. share them with whoever is around. i dance. i play music. i take off all my clothes and bask in the sun. i’ll talk to anyone. i kiss, i dream, i fuck. my heart grows so that others can see it, i think. or maybe that’s just my art. or maybe it’s healing.

there is so much pleasure and connection that is shaken loose, like an attic door that’s been closed for too long, when the walls of sanity are breached. i don’t know any other way to make this world make any sense but to go back to basics. to disown all of the ways our insides are being commodified everyday, to forget every schedule item and seek nature. to listen to our bodies, our emotions, our instincts. and to relate them to others’ bodies, emotions and instincts. in order to make whatever sense, together.

before we can rebuild, we need to understand what is broken. what is on the ground. what we must burn.