I am getting married in three days. We are eloping, which everyone, except perhaps our moms, thinks is a fabulous way to do it. By the time you read this, if you are reading it on opening day for Dime and Honey, I will have been married for three days.
What doesn’t seem like a major shift on the surface, because we already live together and we have already made a private commitment to each other, is truly a deep sea dive of an emotional and spiritual event. I am grateful to have the right to marry the one I love, and I wish this same right be open to all humans on the planet. It is thrilling to live in a time when the societal understanding of love is catching up with what people have always known. It is thrilling that Love is making history.
We can’t do this life thing alone. I wouldn’t want to do it alone. Life is one big collaboration. In Human I Love You, we will look at the intricacies of living in love with others, whether that other is sleeping next to you or living in another city. How do our most significant and intimate relationships support and challenge our creative practices? I imagine this space for sharing these stories to be expansive in approach and tender in the revealing.
As Human I Love You debuts, I offer up a love poem in honor of Marc, who loves my whole being, and I his.
Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover Lover
You are not so much that downy alpaca scarf in charcoal and earth as you are a mile. Yet you are both.
I plugged my extension cord into you. I thought you were a generator who would help me project the complete approval of the complete oeuvre of the complete and awkward beauty of the director of fins and antlers in an epic film festival on our apartment wall in counter chronology. I thought there was an answer in electricity and as always your inquiry is delicate.
What up with the freak out?
You are a table. That gorgeous Noguchi rudder table that was just reissued and already I have left rings on the surface of your boat that sails through our living room using those overlapping watermarks for navigation of the starry and starless nights a wandering. I slide over the rail and swim with slippery phosphorescent creatures who say they like our style.
The silver in your beard I know to be one long thread I know to be woven into your man fibers woven into your springy chest hairs woven into the mysterious fascia that meanders through and around your bones and blood, is one strong thread. I tested it out on a really heavy painting above our bed and you did just fine, no sweat.
A feathery glowing fern so green you and I could die sprouted in a little cottontail on my backside. You said oh baby she is cute, we should call her fernie. You water her every morning while you shimmy around to Nina Simone and JJ Cale in the subtle dawny light always wanting for my joy.
Do you like it like that?
When sprigs of prairie sage sprouted from your ears I did not tell you I burned them and the sweet ashes fell on your shoulders and you thought that peculiar. You asked me if I had been sneaking cigarettes. No only cinnamon and smudge.
A birthmark on your face I thought to be chocolate was a birthmark on your face I tried to lick was a birthmark on your face I thought to be an entrance I thought to be a window I thought to be a door, a finely crafted sliver of the oldest wood with the the oldest soul from the oldest tree and engraved into the sliver a delicate little note you asked a charming little tree sprite to write for you in a smoky little language like French but sexier that said:
Baby, what took you so long?