I am holy trumpets

 

 

I am piano keys and the bellows of an accordion. I am the folds down the center of pieces of paper. I am pressed flowers.
pressedflowers I am bookcases stacked to the ceiling. I am clunking cans tied to the back of a horse carriage of newlyweds. I’m the banging symbols between a monkey’s hands and the holy trumpets played in biblical history books. The real historical biblical stories. The bible of God’s love. Not this self hatred, white God’s unlove. I am the rain on top of our tin roof on this cold night when I see my breath and count each rain drop. The night when the only warmth is our arms around each other until morning. I am the shatter in a broken window. I am words and I am literature. I am the rock dust bed resting beneath our feet inside of the abandoned warehouse where we used to drink 40’s as kids….and I, the blood on Giovanna’s knuckles when she punched that window that made the wholeness no longer whole but rather shattered. I am the lick that seals the envelope and the words of the unsent love letter.

 

 

I have no choice but to write and sometimes I don’t find any fucking solace in this. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it other than do it. An author, a poet a novel, a certification, degrees, a memoir, a story, an honors student, a community college dropout, a published writer, or a facebook post-I couldn’t tell you what will suffice as the truest satisfaction of what feels like me as art. What will be the moment that will denote me having made it as a writer? Other than the moment I call myself a creative. An artist. A writer. When I finally said “I am a creative” is the moment when I had arrived. Since then, it hasn’t been for anyone else but me.

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Author:

I am a 26 year old Japanese American queer cis female who is from the bay area and currently lives in Portland, Oregon with her pitbull named Yuki. She is my pride and joy. I have been sober since 2014 and started to work in the sex industry in December 2016. We moved to Portland about 4 years ago in 2013 and have been learning how to thrive in this grey, wet, yet charming environment of Portland. Three things attracted me to this magic nook on the west coast. Tree tunnels (as I like to call them) that tower over roads swallowing you into a tube of nature, people’s tendency to look you in the eye and ask how you’re doing (with expectation of a genuine answer), and tea houses/coffee shops are a past time here. They say this is the city where 20 year olds come to retire or the city of refugee weirdos who just didn’t quite fit in. My diagnosis of Portland is the city that embraces those who love to isolate and be awkward so if hiding out in your room to geek out on your blog or simply drink tea in your room all day is your thing I suggest you check out what the fuss is about in Portlandia. Although Portland is whimsical in it’s own right it has a major amends to make to it’s citizens of color. It’s been here that I’ve learned the most about activism and politics unfortunately as a result of the city’s non acknowledgement of all of their citizens. The citizens here although progressive in it’s own way participates in it’s own subtle yet powerful microaggressions daily. The city is vanilla to put it lightly. When I am not day dreaming of sunnier days you can find me in a tea shop rambling in my journal about the romantic fantasy of hopping a train or living out of a van, admiring baby doll heads and crooked picture frames, watering my indoor plants desperately trying to learn how to have a green thumb, geeking out on astrology charts, obsessing over Michael Jackson and screaming all his songs, flooding my earphones with Princess Nokia to CocoRosie to Mac Dre to name my top favorites, going to strip clubs, crying, praying, attending pole dancing class and learning a variety of ways to make my beautiful backside bounce, holding hands, blowing bubbles, dismantling the patriarchy, writing a story, a poem or working on a zine. My blog has no rhyme or reason but you may find some of those influences as themes in within my posts. What I do hope to do with my blog is expose myself vulnerably if nothing else as an act of leaving behind a documented record of my human-ness but the truest hope, dream in fact, is to help someone out there to feel less alone. I hope that through my ability to candidly share my rawest sense of self I can help build an online community of witches, activists, freedom fighters, freaks, mermaids, pretty boys, studly girls, theys, and thems.

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