drafts

and drafting

when i write to you, i write in drafts. drafts are likely thought of as beginnings, as incomplete things. we seem to want them to eventually resemble ends, which is to say: something that is no longer a draft. is this what we make of them? is this what we want—ends? 

when i was sad, and very lonely, i looked for meaning under rocks. there were walks through museums when i was hungry, desperate attempts to make sense of things that didn’t make sense. i took pictures to remind myself of where i was. i want to say, simply, that it wasn’t all in vain—the drafts, and the drafting—that the hunger, though some time later and not in full, was met. 

1

A slightly adjusted (and expanded) paragraph from a recent cover letter

The process of growing seems to include a lot of undoing, accepting, and trying to remain soft—to repeatedly return to being soft. As I do so, I find myself with a camera and a pen: no longer tolerant¹ of being on the receiving end of a gaze that cannot be reckoned with, but instead a person who decides to pull focus; someone who asks questions, and continues to tell the story. Creative expression is something that I have long cherished, and have come to rely on as a form of survival, a means of communication, and connection. In its best and most raw form, art is a haven. These are the places we go when we’re mapless. They’re often the intersection where we find others who are also looking for something meaningful: ways to feel less alone, routes that lead us back to ourselves, towards understanding our lives. Expression as Roadmap, as Root of Compassion, as Antidote to Shame.

The last time I felt mapless was  ________________________________.

I want to say  ______________________________________.

Cameras are like _________________________________.

Highlight this if you have nothing to say. 

Pens are like ______________________________________. 

Softness is like _____________________________________. 

A draft is a __________________________________________. 

2

The other night, while lying on my side, I went through the photos on my phone. I looked through all the relatively recent ones that I took of myself in a mirror, and called them “reflections.” Later I put them into an album of that name, but first I just wanted to see them, to see if something changed as I moved my finger on the screen. It was a process of beginning with what was taken “today” and scrolling backwards (which on a phone is upwards) into different days. The one constant was a mirror, or a window, or a reflective surface that had slipped into being a mirror. Everything else about the photos changed: the colors, the lighting, my clothes, the way I stood. Most changed was everything not pictured that existed behind it, behind me, but with me—the situations. I am in bathrooms mostly: at clubs, in cafes, bars or restaurants with people and music or nobody waiting just outside the door. I’m also pictured reimagining solitude in my room, in other peoples’ rooms, or walking down familiar streets. In some photos, I remember what I was thinking, and especially what I was feeling, or trying to feel. In most, it seems possible that I was trying to catch a glimpse of myself, an answer that I hoped would ground me in what otherwise felt like a merry-go-round maze of Situation after Situation. Something to help me remember where I was, when, and why. Outside the frame was a world that was ever-moving, and unpredictable. Inside the frame was “me,” unmoving for a second. 

3

an edit of an old poem 

I am soft
spread over gentle
rolling landscapes

easily set on fire

will burn a hole in your arms
if held too tightly

I wrote this poem about four years ago. Records show I posted it in March of 2019, but I know I wrote it earlier. I remember hesitating to post it, as we do most things. Does it fully represent what I mean, or what I’m feeling? I wondered. 

It might be true of my feelings today. But…not tomorrow. Will I be as confident tomorrow? As fiery? As tame? What is maintainable, and am I just phasing in and out of seasons? 

I think I decided that by nature of being a poem, it could be interpreted differently, read as “various” in various seasons. A reader could be placed somewhere on the spectrum of either gently spreading out and unfolding, or burning holes in the arms that held them with too rigid an expectation or limitation. And that was enough. 

4

I have messages on my phone that I have not responded to. Some messages have drafted responses in my head, others are paired with half-written sentences still sitting in the bubble / text box where we write things; unfinished, and therefore unsent. Does the draft alone define itself? Maybe what I’m asking is if anything can ever be finished, polished, or complete. Maybe I’m interested in what appears to be incomplete. How many messages are we writing every day? To how many people? Are we living inside all of them? I am encouraged, excited, sad, exhausted, inspired, and perhaps living inside many, many drafts of things said and unsaid. 

P.S. a small note to remind readers that I’m still accepting “April notes” until the end of next week, Friday: April 21st. See the previous entry Speaking in first and second, for more details.

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Swallow is a documentation project that was born in Tokyo on March 25th, 2022. Happy one year anniversary! (*balloons released*) Some entries with audio narration and other mediums will be nestled behind a paywall beginning this month. Paid subscribers are granted full access to Swallow and all of its mediums, projects, and receive the newsletter more frequently. It’s like when you crack an egg and get the full yolk (and keep the broken egg shells).

1. not a fixed state, but a fluid one —