July 2021

I have spent the last 3 years or so unfocused to allow my interests to wander so that my passions might be revealed. It was a leap of faith, as I am not a trusting person by nature, anymore. I wouldn’t say that I’ve “found myself” so much as I found that I put myself last.

I’m sure I’m not alone in this. I see now where there are gaping holes in my discipline, where I am intimidated to push forward. Chasing your dreams is no whimsical task. Building the strength to push into a future of unknown hardships is intimidating.

I’ve sacrificed so much and failed before. But at the same time, while I might have bruises on my ego, or less than I’d hoped to have gathered, I have few regrets and have made progress all the same.

Honestly, so much turmoil could have been avoided if I wasn’t caught up in making steps and allowed myself to mull over my desires. In 2019 I vowed to ‘remain’, to be still, and in 2021 I am just starting to reap the benefits of that mantra.

I still don’t know what exactly I want. That’s the crazy thing. But I do know that there are parts of me that need to be creative. I need to write. I need to paint. I hope that my path forward has room for these pieces of me, & I hope the world has a desire to embrace my talents.

I fear what so many creatives fear; that my work put to word or canvas is not “good enough” for praise. Perhaps social media was the wrong place to be sharing my work all along. What I no longer wonder, however, is if I have talent. And that’s a heavy burden lifted off my chest.

I’ve always struggled with making friends. I’m not sure what I do wrong, but the computer has proven just as challenging a place to forge connections as any playground ever was. I think my poetry itself was born out of needing to express myself to someone else. Anyone. Literally. But I can’t tell when a person is just who they are or when I’m interacting with a person set on making their given name a ‘brand’. Not that a fault them either way. It’s the nature of what these places have become. And that’s not entirely any one person’s fault.

I’ve become a bit of a walnut, however, because of it. I don’t want to share my new work, and I’m intimidated by the process of publishing. I’m at a crossroads because I’ve loved the freedom of my own space but can’t bridge the gap to making it lucrative in any capacity.

This rat-race mentality is why I deleted a successful poetry IG and left game journalism/blogging. Even though I was able to make a small income, it was never enough to justify the time and money necessary to invest in making myself simply *visible.

For a long time this made me feel so bitter. I couldn’t afford the time or $$ to invest in a program at any of the colleges or retreats my favorite modern poets are involved in. & the friendships I’d try to build in these communities would fade just as quickly as they blossomed. And my art being ripped-off on Poetizer by my discord “friends” in the unofficial group really pierced my heart. Not to mention that the admin hardly crediting me for the group prompt felt like bad form and makes me feel like we’re not friends at all. Which considering that we’d been talking online for years hurt my feelings.

The time to remain seems to have come to an end for me, but where to go now? If you’ve made it this far, thank you so much! If you feel the same way I feel, let’s talk. If you have advice, I am humbly all ears. I want to shatter the looking glass & make your acquaintance. -♥ Paige

Paige Six 2019


Today is my daughter’s last day of homeschool. It’s also just a couple weeks before she’s officially a teenager. I wonder if I could have made more of this time… all of it, but especially the last year with her home. We haven’t spent this much time together in a long time. While the pandemic which spurred this stint was not by any means on our terms, it’s still been a blessing to have had it.

It feels like the bustle of the hustle blinded me. I take things slower now. I don’t want things to go back to the way they were before. I don’t she does either, honestly. Now we must strike a balance. I hope she is treated well in her new school. I hope that sending her back will be a decision we are happy about. I hope that college doesn’t take me away from her too much as it did the first time around.

Here’s to hoping!

Paige Six | 6.17.21

I can’t say that I’ve embodied the paradigm of enlightenment. My emotional intelligence and compassion has a long way to go before I can even truly embrace that kind of love of myself. However, looking back at old journals, talking others in text, vox, video, or in person, and especially my recent time on reddit has given me some clarity to reflect upon how far I’ve come and what I had to do to get here.

Let me catch you up briefly on my life as it stands. I’m enrolled in college, growing some beautiful marijuana plants, and starting an Etsy. My husband and I have a 3 year and a 5 year plan and home ownership is on the not-so-distant horizon. I’ve lost about 8 pounds, and am going to approach a healthy life along with a healthier lifestyle. I’ve learned not only how to tidy and clean but how to declutter which has transformed my life in many ways beyond the satisfaction I feel about my home. I’ve spent over a year with my daughter all day every day and I am grateful for this rare opportunity that I had with her as a mother.

So when someone asks me for help; people (friends and strangers alike) calling out to others for hope while they’re struggling with weight, finances, or even just depression I want to tell them what I’ve done, but what I’ve done is so internal and personal that to give a step-by-step process would seem vapid—it always does! But if I could put it into some sort of poetic expression it would be this:

Everything you need is already inside of you. You are the world. You are the universe. And you’re not unhappy because of the lack of love which you do not receive but because there is a lack of love you are not yet understanding how to, or are not able to, embody. The passions and the care that lacks, that creates a void within, you have to find a way to fill that yourself. You must care and have compassion for yourself and those who treat you well. You must cut those who do you harm, and leave spaces that don’t serve you.

I don’t know if it will help you today. But through my journey this is what I’ve learned, and I hope if nothing else that it helps give you hope, today.

Sacred Love Versus Profane Love
Painting by Giovanni Baglione

My husband told me that once he knows the right decision has been made he closes the door to the past. I couldn’t be more opposite, truth be told. I think that if I have a destiny it’s to be a star-crossed lover wandering the corridors of the endless past’s could-have-been. And this is why I write poetry so effortlessly—not good poetry effortlessly, but to say that poems flow out of me as small stories, but I can never find it in me to map out a book. I can’t narrow down quite what I’d have wanted it all to be. I think I like the murky waters, the crabs that burrow and wait for a toe to snap. The snakes and the algae making microscopic nets to feed the plentiful small the creates a ‘whole’. I think we’re so arrogant to call what we have within the range of human grasp ‘whole’. We’re no different from cladophora’s long green hairs matting the floor of a clear water pond until it is a marsh, meadow, forest floor.

We are all dust, and we are all something more and something less before that. Isn’t it beautiful? This is the story I tell when I write a poem. I tell the story of how I should have been a better mother, how I was the best mother I knew how to be. How I loved what was never mine, how I long for what is lost to me. I write about my fortune, how the broken pieces always fall into place like autumn leaves cover the floor and protect the sleeping earthen soil, all her yellow, purple, and especially green. I write the emotional alchemy of existing in a moment and how the true-self betrays the same self. How I try to wrangle what is changing and alive in me. How I try to chase the moments worth living with a pencil and how I bleed all over the page how the moments that almost killed me could have saved my life had the star’s aligned… or rather more likely had I said the wrong thing just right.

I fall to the ground a seed, just like any of you. And I grow into something that is to blossom, to bloom, to be consumed and to become something else, metaphorically and physically. I age with grace because these seasons are mine to admire. One Spring will be my last and I might not make it to the Winter to bloom once more as witch hazel medicine that tends to Summer’s burns with psalm balms in the shape and sound of a poem vibration from my limbic soul out my lips to the ears of whoever chooses to listen. No, I too will have my curtain close. And from there no matter how my poems are received, regardless of if they are cherished or perish along side me—no matter how many children I have to live on and remember me—I will be gone. From then until the end of time. And from the edge of time, who knows? I don’t. -Paige

Aladdin 1992

Dear 6,

     I write you to allow myself closure. The truth I’ve never revealed to you is how after years of atheism and searching for answers it was only upon meeting you that I almost believed in God.

     I’d spent my young years with my nose to the grindstone and had very little time for fun and frolic. I have always been restless, a wild-child in my soul diving into fiction to suppress these desires. I’d sacrificed education for hourly wages necessary to keep the roof over my head. I exposed these truths to you in shame to be comforted by the thick tusk of your shoulder.

      The musk of your natural body still intoxicates my senses. The deep sienna of your skin against the champagne color of my wrists trembling as you placed upon its thin wafer layer a first kiss. Where did it all go wrong? Was it how our bodies didn’t quite fit the way our minds melted like wax and our conversation flowed like wine? The awkward communion of the first sacrament of our union…

     This I won’t forget: your deception and how its reveal decapitated the holy body of our bond at the slender curve of its neck.

     There are two instances in my life that are traumatic blessings: the birth of my child at the age of 18 and the loss of you at 28. To the other side of this continent you reside with a whole fraction of my soul. I write you this letter in hopes you might know. But I send nothing to you, our communication will remain cold.

Save you discover this letters, until which no bars will I hold.

Yours,

3.14

*For him whose name meaning is heart, and the associated lucky number is 6.

*six pm | 2021 {notes on poems

Photographer: Paige Six

At the wake of 2021 I would like to share with you one of my favorite poems. It’s helped me to reflect upon my life and motivations time and time again since the young age of 18 when a stranger shared it with me. I hope that as you continue to grow, as you learn to form better habits, and as you take time each new year to reflect on your life that you find this poem an appropriate companion piece. Personally I find it rings true in 2021 as ever it did in 2008, as ever it did in 1927 when it was written.

Desiderata: Words for Life by Max Enhrmann:

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.

Happy New Year!

Paige Six | January 3, 2021

Photographer: Paige Six

*a poem I fashioned after a particularly poetic comment I’d read on YouTube:

This beat takes me straight
to another time and space,

hiking high through
the north of Norway.

Over jagged mountains
across the strange valley,

where trees were twisting
aspiring ballerinas dancing,

held still by cement
of frozen ground.

There’d been a fire here years ago,
however we’d have never known

had we not felt its heat,
a tangle of limbs contorting,

hot breath whispering in
willow circles escaping.

We spent three nights hunkered
down in a hut tucked between

the heartbeat beneath a clavicle
and a cascade of icicles,

surrounded by silence and snow,
it felt like finally reaching my home.

-six pm (and Kris Wagner)

In case you’re interested, this is the video to the song that inspired the note where the comment was found:

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Photographer: Paige Six

You having sex in the morning, your love was foreign to me

It made me think, maybe human 

not such a bad thing to be…’

But I just laid there in protest, entirely fucked….

it’s such a stubborn reminder; one perfect night ‘s not enough

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(𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 *darling,

𝙸’𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚢𝚕, 𝚒𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘̇𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 — 𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎.

𝙷𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗, 𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚖 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎n 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚊𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚎. 

𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚜̣ 𝚖𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚐𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚙𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝; 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚜̣ 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚘̇𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 —

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— 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚝𝚖𝚘̣𝚜̣𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚜𝚑𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕.

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𝚃𝚑𝚎 ‘if‘ 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚖𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚋𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚌𝚘̇𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚌 𝚛𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢:

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚖𝚙𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚝—

—𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍.

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𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸’𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚢  𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝 —

—𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚠. 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢.

𝙱𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚎 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚘̇𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜̣𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚜. 

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜, 𝚋𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚑 𝚑𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚞𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎. 

æ𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐—

—𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚘̣𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 

𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚜̣.

𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎, 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝙸 𝚜𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚘̣𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚘𝚏 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜—

*

—𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎’𝚜 𝚊 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

𝙸 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚒𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚢. 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑.

*

— 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗’𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚜̣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘̣ 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚗

𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚢𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎.

𝙿𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎. 𝙰𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚘̣𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘. 𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜. 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕; “𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑”. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑? 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚜𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚠—

—𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕, *darling,

𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚔𝚢 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

six pm)

*

“But I’m a constant headache, a tooth out of line.

They try to make you regret it, 

you tell them, ‘no, not this time.’

It’s just a constant headache, a dead-pet device.

You hang me up unfinished, with the better part of me 

no longer mine…”

*

*

 –six pm *3:15

(Song Credit: Joyce Manor)

Photograhy: Paige Six | 2017

I don’t do drugs very often, but I smoked the other day for my birthday and totally had a philosophical and maybe even religious level of an experience. I’m mourning my mother and I think I’m trying to connect with her particles here in spacetime. I was meditating on religious art, and iconography, and how we inherit these beliefs which are all that stands between us and insanity when we’re approaching moments of *true fear. I was just about to read her prayer for the first time, and my sister called (she was the only person to call for my birthday) telling me that she was planning on making me this pie that I’d be craving all week. Life is strange, and I can totally appreciate those elements as poetic inspiration. How else do we explain them?

I had a religious experience once, when I was 14. I started to question it when I started to understand how the brain works. I don’t know what the answers are, but I do think I’m starting to understand the difference between faith and reasoning, and I hope to find that there is a way to have both. Because I find true solace in the imagery of my mother’s prayer cards. I think it’s important for people who are at the mercy of forces well beyond them to have something sacred in which they can lean on when faced with truly harrowing experiences. I don’t think we need proof of God for that to be important to many people. I also don’t think you need to believe in God to find solace in iconography, or any beautiful art, place, or person. I miss my mother dearly, and I would give anything to commune with her again.

And finally in lighter news, Abraxis Nothing who’s a fellow and talented poet over on Poetizer shared his feedback with me on *ad nauseum, “[…]to paraphrase (rip off? riff off?) Claude Shannon – ‘information is surprise.'[…]”. I have never received higher praise. I did post the poem here in my Poetry segment, however I played around with the fonts on Poetizer and I think I like that version more. I’m not sure yet.

Paige Six | 11.24.20