Long distance

𝄆 long distance, not reallyさ : [ we are ] finding ways to engage with volume and uncertainty & rage & pain // [ we are ] learning that letting our hearts break with [in] our fragile, fragile bodies is a vital way through :: & like any kind of practice, it must be repeated 𝄇 でしょう / صح ؟

I am no longer in Tokyo / or, I mean: I’m not there right now, and haven’t been for ten months. But I feel like I am there. And that’s because of people.

In late October, two of my visual poetry pieces were published in Tokyo Poetry Journal Vol. 15: Visual /// Visionary Poetry.

even your words wore a suit & Birds and bread and honey

14 in. x 12 in. 8 in. x 14 in.

even your words wore a suit (L) Birds and bread and honey (R)

a).

Both pieces, even your words wore a suit, and Birds and bread and honey had a buyer. After the release event in Tokyo, we were put in touch, and I asked them to directly donate all the proceeds to Salama, from northern Gaza. Salama is a writer also, and in more ways than one, a visual poet. If you’ve been watching his stories, you’ll know the strength and the warmth of his heart. It is winter in Palestine, and as I write this sentence, it’s Day 434 of the ongoing genocide, year 76 of the ongoing nakba. Let us interrupt it.

ii.

even your words wore a suit, and Birds and bread and honey have special stories, especially now that they are here for you. If you are able to contribute up to 5,000 yen (or, $40 U.S. dollars) towards Salama’s urgent relief fund, fill out this order request form to request an art print of your choice. I want to reciprocate your engagement by offering these works.

iii.

After you fill out an order request, I will contact you to go over details and availability before an order is completed. Please note that additional shipping and handling fees may apply, depending on our geographic locations.

b).

For a while I didn’t know that some of the work I was doing had a name, until Zoria Petkoska, poet, editor, curator, and friend, told me it did. I imagine there are many people who don’t know that their practices, inclinations, or feelings have a name or a place, until someone tells them they do—inviting them to be a part of a larger context. Which is part of why I write to you. I think this is a vital note :|| because finding ‘a sense of belonging’ is like finding an elusive vein in your arm. It’s never not there // you realize it was always there.

i.

The genre of visual poetry is Zoria’s specialty: her corner of curiosity. And she has worked with such passion and integrity to edit and curate this volume into existence; pulling from the fibers of Tokyo commuter train social fabric.

c).

In October, I watch friends’ stories from the Tokyo Poetry Journal release from afar. I see a poet ripping the kanji for rain, ame 雨, into pieces, with bells jingling in their hand. Another poet yells, Fuck Genocide! into the mic.

Our era capitalizes on our perceived sense(s) of separation and isolation. It relies on the disintegration of our imaginations, the disruption of our innate selves, and our subsequent path-taking towards disrepair. But it is precisely our imagination and our “otherness / difference” that includes us into the context of other people: we belong because of the things we are told keep us ‘apart.’ :||

I am inspired and moved by the poets and artists and people inside & outside of Tokyo, who give life to the pluralisms of expression, and I am honored to be featured in this volume alongside them. Art/life can be made of love and people and integrity and truth.

Acknowledgements:

Zoria, thank you so much for making all of this possible. For inviting me and other artists/poets to join, and for facilitating interactions with new people, who were able to be connected to Salama. I’m not sure if you realize the ripple-effects of all that you do. As one of those ripples, I want to tell you about all that you give and inspire.

Tokyo Poetry Journal, thank you for being you. I am sad not to be in Tokyo right now, but I am so happy to know you exist the way you do. Thank you for being real. And for handing our pens a mic.

My friend, Chika, thank you so much for making this a reality, Chika. That you happened to be in Tokyo at this time feels like a small miracle. Thank you for printing my work, for placing it on the walls of berry, and for attending the poetry event. I kept receiving messages from people saying how happy they were to meet you. Receiving your voice-messages about how much you felt / what you felt about the poetry performances is something I think about often.

Silje, I am so moved by your poetry and your friendship. Thank you for bringing so much honesty to your work. I still remember the very first time I saw you perform on stage. You pull back the sheets so we can remember a secret, bare place in our chests.

Salama, thank you. There is, what some have named, a “gulf,” between Gaza and the rest of the world, in that many of us in “the global north” have much to understand and learn. And hardly the right words/right of words to speak when often we could be listening or moving differently. You have reached out to us, across this gap, with your words, your images, and your testimony. Every day you share your love, your pain, your life under the threat of death—you say your smile is your resilience. And we feel it. We do what we can, and it will never be enough for what you and your family have suffered, nor what you are suffering. Know that we hear you, your voice and all that you give, and that we will keep trying.

السلام عليكم

Love,

Jes

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