The Value of Artists in Post-Election America

Relax It's Only Flesh

Artists are creating and collaborating and sharing their work with the world as an act of protest against a society that too often discourages people from having pride in who they are and what they stand for. Whether or not your art is political in nature, it’s a political act in and of itself to create something that is a declarative representation of your voice and perception of the world.

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More Than Water

I’d made a habit of telling you what hurt. I always had a new problem for you that needed solving. A fresh catastrophe from which I needed rescuing. I think it gave you something to spend your time on. I think it gave you some use.

But then I found a thing I needed more than water. Afraid to die of thirst, I’d take too much and lose my air. I’d come back for you to drain me dry and squeeze me out and press me flat. Still, I’d plunge back in to soak it up, and you’d be there on the shore to watch it end.

I could’ve done with a little faith in your encouragement. Maybe my drowning made you feel justified in never bothering to swim. But in drifting this way, I’ve lost sight of the shore and I’m filled to the brim and I’ve learned how to float.

So now that I don’t need saving, tell me, what will you do with your day?

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Where New Years Resolutions Go Wrong

It’s a new year, which means we’re all hella determined to become new people. The mess of 2016 is wiped clean. It’s a blank slate, a fresh start. We create resolutions as a way to begin to lay the foundation for becoming the best versions of ourselves, who we think we should’ve been all along. But what is it about resolutions that make them so damn hard to stick to?

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She’d go to the edge of the peer by the water every day. She’d go there and just try to remember what happened. What the fuck happened and how did it get so bad.

It brought her back to late summer and everything she liked about one season falling lazily into the next and the possibility of it all. It wouldn’t get better, but it would end. And what would come wouldn’t be easy, but it would be new. And it would be cursed, but it would be hers.

It would be bleach white and she could decide what mess to make of it. She did sloppy so well, from the bun on top of her head to the shoestrings tucked into the sides of her sneakers. Everything about her was untied, but she learned early on how to blow in the wind.

She’d go to the edge by the water because maybe it’s not worth it. Maybe it’ll get better. Maybe she’s out of time. Soon the wind will shift, as it does, and she’ll be carried on the same breeze that brought her.

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