For the longest time I’ve kept a jar of sprouts growing on my counter. Sometimes several jars, splayed out in various stages of growth like a science project. There is something beautiful and wholesome in the fresh greenness of them, but when I go to rip off a section of the deeply matted roots all I can picture is a rat king. That unfortunate tangle of fur and tails, trapping the desperate animals together in a Gordian knot.
It reminds me that there is always death in new growth, the other half of the cycle. The creeping vines of inevitability that encroach gently and relentlessly on the jungle ruins of your life. The jumbled chains of lovers, looking over their shoulders for a kiss. The beer you drink that you turn into piss in a bodily alchemy, to join back in the water cycle. Life tangles.
It isn’t morbid necessarily, but a raw scrape you keep butting up against. A strange artifact of courting leads you to bring up the dead relatives. Kept alive in the way all remembered things live forever. You read poems about your dead friends. You send pictures of your cat in a thousand playful position, each time holding your breath. You talk to the dead. You talk to yourself.
Every year I take a picture for my birthday, trying to capture something of who I am in that moment. Well, the project has evolved – at first I just wanted to make myself look good. Now I’m focusing more on telling a story. Maybe that’s part of my evolution now too, that I’m less preocupied with my own tenuous beauty. Either way, 27 really sucked. But like most ordeals, there was also a lot of growth. Thanks to all of my friends who took part in this year – I love you more than I can say.
boshai 