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Photograph by Edward Holley.

…for the art of it


Random Thoughts on Boxes

“Excuse me young man, oh I’m so sorry, I mean, ma’m.”

“Get over here and stop playing,oh no, I’m sorry, I though you were my son.”

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“Prove to me you are a girl.”

“I’m sorry, this model call is for cisgender women only.”

“Ooooooh, if you were a real boy, this would really be fun.”

“Who is the adult in charge? Not you, little boy, the real adult.”

These are all things that have been said to me at one time or another. Some may seem offensive, but I never thought so. Funny, yes, but not offensive. I accepted a long time ago that when I do not have on tight clothes, make-up and high heeled shoes, that I am very easily confused for a teenage boy. Not a man, a boy. This has resulted in very interesting conversations, and a widening of my definition of what it means to be a womyn. I enjoy stereotypical “boy-things” such as, sports, wrestling, playing in mud, catching insects and chasing girls with them, building things and having the satisfaction of destroying said things, and wearing clothes that do not cling to my body.

So why am I saying this? Well, as a child I wanted to be a boy. What I did, what I liked, who I was did not make sense in the world I was living in, as a girl. How can I be this thing that I have no connection to. Well, I can only be what I am, and if what I am has a vagina, and XX chromosomes, then I guess that is what I am. Things I can not change without the help of modern medicine did not seem worth changing, so suck it up and try to fit in. This is what I told myself. This did not work for me.

Can I be a womyn with a beard, hairy arm pits, hairy legs, narrow hips, small breast, muscular pecs, a six pack, a desire to fuck more than be fucked, an equal love for science and art, and actually think they are, kind of, the same thing? Yep, sure can. There is no need to expand or break out of the box, just turn it into a unicorn and ride it. *glitter

Oh, all of that to say, I did this photo shoot on film with Vincent Lee Smith, and it made me think of boxes, and then I decided to go on a tangent about what I think about boxes.


Photo by Vincent Lee Smith

Photo by Vincent Lee Smith

…for the art of it

Sketchbook No. 5

Pattern #1

Photo by Ken Beach

Photo by Ken Beach

Grazing follies, falling foolishly before me.

Accepting, I foolishly fail me.

Solar Plexus, perception, a “could be.”

What we want, not always our reality.

Our truth more dynamic than our dreams.

Yet we thrive off of the lies of fantasies.

Without you there’s no me, now we’re both deceased.

Grazing follies don’t warm beds, they fill vacancies.

Get numb to be done,

wash, rinse, and repeat.


…for the art of it

Have you ever felt used?


Photo by Ivan Oelrich

This revolving door has opened to you without question, and allowed you to play freely. Swinging on the handles you gleefully laugh, and I admire your childlike discoveries, and provide safety for your play. I kept you close when you were dizzy with joy and could not discern if you were entering or exiting. This revolving door did as you expected and continued to revolve, continued to evolve to your needs, for your needs, rotating with each breath of change, rolling with the punches. Punched, kicked, slapped, face planted into me, you slide down my fingerprint streaked glass leaving your fingerprints for passing strangers to know you were there. You are out and in and out again, before I can replace the shattered pieces of mirror implanted into your face. You return with new scars and this revolving door excepts them back into rotation. Disease returns when the system is weakened. Steel bones, don’t make the flesh impenetrable and your penetration is deep. Steel bones may not be broken, but you are hot and they can melt. Steel bones have nothing to do with broken glass, but can keep the door rotating and push the shards of broken to the side so that you can step back in without injury. You deserve a 1,000th chance. There are unlimited turns through this revolving door, so you return to this revolving door. The yellow caution tape and “closed for repairs” sign is not a deterrence, is a welcome mat for you to wipe your feet on before entering again. Maybe one day you will step into the lobby and check in with security, sign your name in the guestbook, and take a tour of the building. Did you know it is still heated by a wood burning furnace? Will you ever venture into the greenhouse in the back that is fragrant with sage and roses? Is the 360 degree penthouse view ostentatious? There is no elevator, but the climb is worth the exertion, worth the increased heart rate, worth the feeling of accomplishment on each and every floor. This revolving door does not lock at midnight, come in at 12:01 sex smeared and glowing, tired and crying, selfish and needy, spiritual and enlightened, broken and hurtful, damaged and neglected, this is your safe space. Between in and out your decision is not your destination here. This revolving door, a passing thought, it doesn’t matter where it leads.

-Namii 2015

…for the art of it

Beyond Words


If I could write you, you would not be a poem you would be a novel, full of fields of flowers that we would roll around in, moist with dew and lost in time.

Sandy beaches would absorb us in its rip tide, we would return to the source and be birthed into ecstasy.

A mystery never to be solved and the greatest love story never told.


If I could write you, I would use led on cotton instead of pen on paper so that the words would slowly fade over time and I could rewrite us compulsively, impulsively adding new comprehension to torn edges and weakened fibers.


If I could write you I would need to be perched on a mountain side to absorb the full breadth of your existence and the magnitude of your unwavering love that only a birds eye view could contain.


If I could write you I would not need you the way that I do, and that thought alone is enough for me to never write a…


All photos by Jim of NatLight Studios in Palo Alto, California

…for the art of it