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making art

I find it hard to talk about my art practice. It feels as if I’ve forgotten all the words and I suddenly need to hide. And stay hidden. Forever. It’s the thing that makes me feel incredibly vulnerable. Not the doing of the art but the talking about the art.

For me, art is an exploration of things I cannot yet explain. It’s a way for me to make sense of things, a way to organize my thoughts, it’s a process of piecing things together without knowing what the end result will be. It makes me feel more exposed than anything else in the world.

At the moment I’m in this weird liminal space where I find myself to be terrified of the idea of sharing anything with anyone. But at the same time I’m more or less consistently putting stuff online. I’m just not telling anyone about it as if it’s like I’m doing something that I’m not supposed to. I have not yet identified why I feel the way I do. I suppose in a way this is a sort of a time capsule that I can come back to and reflect on the past.

We shall see…

 

 

 

Something to note too: this draft stayed as a draft for quite some time, didn’t think I’d put it out there, did think about deleting the whole thing.

 

What is all this?

 

 

 

Love,

Tiina

 

 

 

 

 

 

my mind is playing tricks on me

FUCK

 

i woke up last night

spent hours awake

went downstairs to brush my teeth

twice

my bathroom is not downstairs anymore

please

send help

i’ve stolen a life of someone else

or i’m trapped in a wrong dimension

i keep seeing glimpses

of the person i’m supposed to be

she’s somewhere else

someone else

and i’m stuck here

made myself some coffee now

put in some milk and sugar

i hate sugar

fuck sugar

i like my coffee black

i should have listened to myself

when i told myself

to never do cocaine

and it’s a good thing i did

because i didn’t

this is all a lie

HAH

 

Kuva otettu 29.9.2018 klo 13.28

Ok

bye,

Tiina

and then there was light

 

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A couple of things I often think about:

  1. Consciousness. What is it and how does it happen? How did it form? What is the purpose of it?
  2. Death. What is it that ends when something dies? The assumption about death seems to involve the assumption that time is linear and is only one thing. I’m not so sure.
  3. The universe. Is there a such thing as infinity?

 

There was a dead spider on my coffee table.

 

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Something about the encounter sparked my curiosity.

If you think about it, it’s an odd place to die. On a coffee table. I’ve often imagined what it would be like to die and I have to admit all of those scenarios have been quite dull and ordinary. In my mind I have died on my deathbed as an old person, slowly swaying into nothingness. I’ve died in an accident, a quick crash and that’s it. I’ve died in my sleep, I’ve died wanting to, I’ve died, I’ve died, I’ve died.

But never on a coffee table.

 

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If something exists, has it always existed? So is existence of a thing a coming together of other things? Nothing would be a singular thing but rather a gathering or a collaboration of stuff.

Do the things come together for a reason?

Or is it an accident?

And where do those things disperse into in the event of death?

 

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On a slightly related note: I started writing a song today. I haven’t written one in a long time and I’ve never let anyone know about them. This time I’m not going to be afraid and I’m just going to perform it to a camera, nothing fancy, just me. The song isn’t ready yet though, so I don’t know when you’d get to see it.

Nothing seems to make sense.

 

Love,

Tiina

Darker days

 

I am a still pool of water

stagnant and slowly turning green:

I’ve forgotten

how to be.

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The rainfall

doesn’t help,

I need an earthquake

to rip the ground open

to release me,

to let me

travel free.

 

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How do I find

the strength

to break

what I thought couldn’t be broken?

Where do I find

the trigger

to release

the silenced pressure

of being?

 

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Is it courage

we are lacking here?

The silences

between speeches

have grown longer and longer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still Space

 

I used to make my bed every morning.

That’s just what you do,

right?

 

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I’ve learnt

to think

for myself.

 

 

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Chairs in bedrooms

were never meant to be

sat on.

They are where

galactic giraffes

make nests at night.

 

 

 

 

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I’ve learnt

to ignore

the hoover:

I want to bring the outside in

and

I refuse to get rid of spiders.

 

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There isn’t a clear path

to the most important things in life.

That’s how I think

about my coffee.

 

 

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I’ll probably

just

wash one cup

and leave the rest.

As per usual.

 

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There’s no space for me here really…

 

 

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My coffee table

is too busy

for a cuppa.

 

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I don’t remember

the last time

I saw myself clearly.

 

 

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The dust

in my shower

reminds me

of how we all die in the end and none of this really matters.

 

 

 

 

Love,

Tiina

The Memories We Hold

I am a magpie. My mission is to find pretty things to bring into my nest. I spend a lot of my time scavenging through charity shops, second hand shops and eBay on a hunt for objects. There is something extraordinarily precious about things that have a history, a memory, that they hold.

I bought a deck of cards while visiting a local vintage boutique yesterday. It was a bit of a risk, I didn’t think to check if it had all the cards in it. Luckily, it did, and I got to relearn to play patience once I got home. The cards smell of old paper and leather, and the smell and the playing took me back somewhere. It wasn’t a singular memory, but a feeling or an atmosphere. I was taken back to my childhood, to a rainy summer day, to my best friend and to the house she used to live in.

It was the feeling of time passing by unhurriedly. There is nothing else to do, nowhere else to be and there is a lingering smell of rain coming through a window that we forgot to close. It didn’t matter.

Sometimes I get stuck into feeling like there are so many things to do and to be and to achieve. I forget that, actually, there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. There are no routines I’m stuck to, no plans that I have to do, no schedules. Nothing. I never have to become anything. Fundamentally, I already am all the things I will ever be.

Nothing more

nothing less

but me.

 

Everything I am and what I’ve accumulated is a compilation of other. Of memories. Of things that were. Of time.

 

 

Love,

Tiina

 

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I Wish I Felt Free

In this yearning for
poetry
I have found myself
hurting myself
trying to love
myself
putting myself
in a box
I can’t open
the lid
I can’t breathe

 

I 

became

dead.

 

 

In a moment of clarity I found infinity within myself where vanity hadn’t tainted its purity.

Am I as worthless as I believe myself to be?
Surely
it can’t
be
so
but
why
can’t
I
see
it
why
am
I
so
stupid
and
lazy
I
can
never
do
anything
right.

I wish
I
had
worth.
I
think I do.

 

The only time I stopped
crying
today

was when I was under water
in the bathtub.

Submerged
inside
my mind
there is a pond
in a forest.

I’m trying to write
about
it
make
it
into
somebody else’s
words.

If someone else says it
it seizes to be my reality
it becomes poetry
it becomes acceptable
when I obscure my ugly inside
it becomes unreal
and it will
feel
like it was only invented
by someone
with great imagination.

 

I wish I felt free.

I wish
I’ll
have
the strength
to cook
spaghetti
today.