In that same class, we had to write papers about our obsessions—the themes and topics and imagery we found ourselves writing again and again. I said that I wrote about music, about punk and other subcultures. About rape, abuse, and mental illness; drugs and booze and cigarettes. I said that most of my characters were outsiders in some way. Most were troublemakers with a distrust of authority figures, most were queer. I said that magical elements often popped up in my stories, even if the story was rooted in real life. I said that I wrote about love—finding it, losing it, trying to make it stay.
If I were asked to write the same paper now, well, things are pretty much the same. Whether I’m writing fiction or non, poetry or prose, yes, the same things still pop up. And there are other things, imagery and themes that wind up in most of my writing. I write wild girls and lonely boys. Tears. The body and the heart. Adventures. Trains and the circus. Diners, moons, tarot cards, whiskey and smoke. America. Rust. Loss and sorrow and heartache. Memory. Ghosts and ghosts and ghosts.
Sorting through my Fargo Life magazine booty from last week’s adventure. Many from the forties are well-lived and/or taped library discards, but a few are in startlingly good condition. A fine treasure and well worth the trip.
Slowly getting into my old/new groove of zine making and overall output for people to interact with+buy. My online shop is so neglected and full of cobwebs- I’m gonna open a fresh new store very soon with shirts, zines, packages, and other items that will actually be in stock lol. Also I’m so sorry to folks over the years who’ve asked me for tattoo drawings that I’ve kinda just flaked on- as my art practice evolves so do my habits and work ethic. I’m getting my shit together as we speak.