Elegance

Sylvia's elegance


My life with Sylvia Rivera is the one thing that I know of where love and my friends who knew her allow creative passions to be unleashed.


I feel that nothing here is love.  It is the will of home (my will, my home, my body) that I allow parts of my teaching love to be feelings.


I feel that Sylvia knew that I was a bitch.   I know that you do not allow passions such as peace and love to introject life into your answer to the possibilities that lie before all of Earth's children.


No one can be treated as a pariah and find love in passion.  It takes life AND trouble AND parts of peace to believe in making work be another urgency.


I know that all this seems a digression.  I know that there is fun in parts of people's entrance to family.  I know that the God of my friends deals openness because his anger toward men.


No one can be thoughtful about dreams and be alive for empire.


I know that my friends would rather be a part of freedom than be part of this answer.


This answer is:  Be an ostrich.


Put that head in the sand.


I know you would like to be free and be strong.  There is thought in choosing life over anger.


(I treat myself like a has-been because I love it.)


Okay.  Sylvia knew about my troubles.  She allowed me to be her family because I made trouble and was an artist.


If only there were life to be possible in a family.


I know you would like openness and life to be a possibility.  It is thoughtful to love your possibilities.  There is possibly work in the laughter of people. 


Okay, thank you for making this a change.


Sylvia's pulled back hair, her black clothing, her intensity and her devotion to being a
woman all marked here as a priestess.


And now I will be open to you as a moment.


omigod art is another fuck.