Instagram story viewer> @anaffy> Tagged
7.5K
followers
2108
following
If you’re so smart, then why aren’t you kind?
✨✨✨
@sheer_awe stan account 🤙🏿
POSTS STORIES REELS TAGGED
Maybe there is no such thing as a detail. What should be dismissed as irrelevant to the whole cosmic shebang? What should be excluded as fringe to the privilege of being here? Maybe shapes & textures & shadows are voices, palpable as any human’s, if the heart is so attuned. Maybe love is how we wield our openness. Jung said, “Religion is a defense against religious experience.” Maybe so much thinking & labeling & defining & striving keeps us from our soft, sensitive selves, from getting too close to this ambiguous, unfathomable life. Maybe perfectly good mustaches are flying around in the air. Maybe.
19
FUTURE TENSE is going on tour. ❤️

I’m calling it The Wear Red Tour.

Wear a red dress or red lipstick. Red shoes or a red sweater. Red underwear if that’s your thing. Wear whatever makes you feel a little braver💃🏻

These won’t just be readings. We’ll laugh. We’ll probably cry. There will be an interactive writing moment at every stop because I want you to leave with more than a signed book—I want you to leave with new words and a new idea of what your capable of. To remind yourself of the person you’re becoming! ❤️

After years of writing these poems, I can’t believe I finally get to sit in the same room with you.

I can’t wait to see you very, very soon, friend.

❤️ Wear red.
📖 Bring a friend.
✍️ Write what matters.

Tickets for each city are in my bio, or coming so so soon! 

What city will I see you in? Tag the friend you’re bringing with you. ❤️
46
Lord, bring me the silences of childhood, wherein I grasped the easy bliss of being present, just by being attentive to a color or a shape. Lord, teach me the unsurpassable wisdom of radical nun Sister Corita Kent, who said of art-making, “I realized that anything that was any good had a religious quality, so that it didn’t matter whether it had that kind of subject.” Lord, if a bumble bee lands near me, stop my wrist from shooing it; let me stare a little longer at the yellow thimble-sized helicopter you invented. Lord, keep my mind pliable, my spirit wild, & my body ready to intervene an injustice. Quicken me toward what makes me whole, even if I fight it. Give me the good sense to take care of my own wheel & not climb aboard the ride of others’ spirals. Lord, what is humility, that it should be hidden so deep inside of suffering? Why need I understand the geode only through its shattering? Lord, can I call you sunlight, penny, sweet potato fry, my sweet Angel tall as a wall, my friend handing me marigolds after a home cooked meal? Lord, thank you for this survival, for twenty-two year old Shira exiting the mental hospital into my grown, waiting arms, two decades later. 

I wrote about this threshold, the spiritual ritual of this pixie cut, death, art, & continuing in my Substack. See you there. Linky link 🔗 where links link.
69
Well, babe, here we are, on the 17 year anniversary of you deciding on this precious, smelly, singular city. It’s no surprise that just a few years after your move, using your gift of ode-ing everything in sight, your love of this place would coax a Western Mass river-rat to its glittery embrace, and to yours. You milk this neon cow for all she’s got! You stay at a museum! A gallery opening! Nose to a painting! Examining the cloth of a hung up quilt! Asking which is my favorite, Gio’s favorite, Jessie’s favorite! Inviting everyone to press their noses too! What’s the point of just looking? Cmon! Fall in love! You sniff-sniff the art, the passersby, the bouncing dogs, the sudden green. 

With you, I’m not just watching fellow riders on the subway—I’m watching whole lives, asking questions about why that ring, why that scarf, how did these elegant choices get made this morning, and where might they live in this city, and where are they going? Oh, and bless us, lucky us—you don’t just notice, YOU WRITE IT DOWN! Your songs of this city (“King of Kreations” “Omen to Get Your Ass Up” “Love on Flatbush” etc. etc.) give us your entire eye, your blushing heart, your precise way. 

Your generosity, your mudita, is boundless. You froth over, language-first; and have gifted so many folks reasons to feel proud to be New Yorkers, queer, radical, Black, Midwestern girlies, artists, poets, and everything in between. 

Congratulations on this award, my love. I feel, at my back, your ancestors cheering you on—your Dul and Delcie, your grandmothers and their mothers. I feel, too, the bounty of students and friends and teachers who are unsurprised and hollering, “Yes! Go Ang!” and thanking the stars for getting this one right; and thirsting for more, more, never enough of your gifts and gleam. Out of 622 applicants for this grant, your name rose and rose and rose. It will keep rising. 

Thank you for choosing the pen in this life. For being patient enough to follow the slow pull of the exact word. For teaching us how to better look, listen, and, most importantly, love. Hear me say it twice. You are our laureate. You are our laureate. 🤍
13
back to up