Welcome to my blog! On here I share 1) my personal artwork, mostly in the form of writing, 2) my opinions and observations of the artwork of others, and 3) some random thoughts of my own that don't really fit into either category. Feel free to take a look!

  • Taylor Louise

I have to admit. A part of me died.

When I had to leave that South American man and that new sexual experience that was free of shame, fear, full of a new tier of adulthood, a new window of life... I died.

When I left a world of baila and reggaeton, where I enjoyed glasses and bottles of wine whenever I wanted without being accosted... swimming with my hair woven into 20 inch braids with full confidence that they would dry as I laid out in the sun... I died.

When I had to leave the places of that life and that plane of experience and exploring, where I was closer to myself than I had ever been...where I had felt the highest highs and the lowest lows...where I tried my hand at meditation, at stillness, at being... I died.

When I left that world for this one, a nation full of leaders and a people devoid of morals...a nation of global epicenters, greed, ignorance, unrest, racial disparity, and the hypocritical clamor of “freedom” that sets this paradox of a nation apart... I died.

Here I fight for life. The air doesn’t come easy to me. I choke it down unpurified, clogged with blood, screams, torture, smoke, smog. I choke it down and swallow. And accept and adapt.

And my golden skin lies hidden underneath long sleeves. My eyes lie sunken into my face full of sleep but devoid of rest, of peace.

My mind races, makes patterns, searches for solutions in a world where that does not lie solely up to me.

But today I realized what gives. And it’s because a part of me has died. All those months ago I laid her to rest so that I could survive here. Here where my theoretical death pales in comparison to the bodily death of hundreds of thousands and the emotional death of all who mourn for them. I wonder what will be left alive, untouched.

In the back of my head and in my heart, I hope the world I left remains wondrous.

Even that world was fraught with disturbing history and a reality of inequalities. But I can stomach those more than those of this land. There I can escape. I understand that as my privilege.

So we leave little bodies scattered all over the place: the deaths of our former selves.

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  • Taylor Louise

Updated: Apr 17

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  • Taylor Louise

She is distant to me, she is close to me. She is foreign yet familiar. She is an enigma, she holds the world in her hands, my world, and her world, the rules changed for us halfway through living in it.

In theory and in practice she loves me more than food and sleep and has gone without both for my sake. In theory and in practice she has uprooted homes, displaced paternity, and stared into the jaws of institutions for my sake.

I have always tried writing of her but have always fallen short. Even the theoretical cannot contain or touch her essence, her godness. To this day she hasn’t read much of what I’ve written. But she knows I write. She supports me yet she gives me privacy.

She carries the wind on her shoulders, to fly and to breathe (life) with. She steps on the clouds each day after opening her eyes. She carries a beauty, which she selflessly portioned out from her infinite supply--allowing some to make up myself and my sister. She contains light and lightning in her toes, in her eyes are multitudes of realities, understandings, visions, and choices.

In her breath is wisdom, vitality, grace, deity. Her lungs are power and flowering soundwaves. Her skin blankets all who encounter it, her hands are ready and willing to serve and be served.

Has anyone looked at her like this? Like a lover. It’s what she deserves.

For so long I’ve done my best to acknowledge her and to honor her as a mother. She has a few who honor her as a sister, a companion, a friend. Then there are those who honor her as a mentor, a teacher, a guiding light, a standard, a beacon. But I know that soon there will come someone to hold her the way that I long to be held.

I know then that we will walk out the process of being loved at the same time. We will have to learn surrender and trust together yet separately.

She has not been able to go before me in this way.

Step by step by step, we walk. The three of us: my mother, my sister, and me.

Who will receive us? Who will accept our womanhood in all three of its dynamic, billowing, undulating-like-waves-crashing stages?


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