My dad died.
My sister visited and kept visiting. An avalanche of panic. I found poems under grief. I tried introducing myself to San Francisco as this artist who gets shit done. For the first time ever, I discovered I was the most normal person in the room. My nephew decided he hated me. His way of mourning. When I asked him why, he said it was my hair or socks or my laugh. Then he turned four and liked me again. We can hug now. I wrote myself into a squeezed pinball and created so much muchness That after December's final performances, I overdosed on activity And puked three times that night. You took me on one last road trip, Down to San Fran where I'd just been, To San Diego where I never'd been, Up to Vegas, the first place you took me out of town For our 2011 birthdays, when I was sure I hated Vegas. I don't love Vegas still but I'm not good at hating anymore. I cried a lot during sex. When you asked what was wrong, I blamed it on my dad. But then your skin hurt my fingertips. I got my first tarot reading. Before that, I was unsure about our state of connection, Then she said, "Inability to communicate," And squeezed my heart on a bench in the salty coast air Of our school building's 6th floor zen sanctuary. I knew we were in trouble. I wore a mask. You pulled it off. We tried to work it out for a week. Every time we talked, the wall between us widened. We saw inevitable. My family looked at me with worried eyes. They wondered, does this begin new spiraling? I made several plays. And books of poems. And visual, audio, performance art. I recreated me. And found my skin worth getting to know.
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Heidi KraayProcess notes on a work in progress. This page serves to invite you into the way I work, with intermittent posts to show you the hows and whys on the whats I make, as well as prompts and ideas I bring to certain workshops. There will also be some raw, rough content found in notebooks written years ago, previously posted on: Archives
January 2021
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