Dear beautiful reader,

September was a busy month for me, leaving me not much room to write, but I’ll keep this letter portion short as I’ve written about that briefly in my poems below. 

It’s finally “spoopy” season as they say, and as someone who usually suffers from seasonal affective disorder, I usually recoil at the first sight of pumpkins… but for some reason, this year, I’m excited for the change of seasons. The air feels crisp and carries with it, a fragrance of newness. I’m excited to cozy up with Komey (she has the cutest little leopard knit sweater), though I’ll miss riding with the top down in my convertible.

I also recently started my largest painting to date named “Dia de los Muertos,” and I’m currently rushing to finish it before this year’s Day of the Dead. Are you working on any creative projects currently?

Oh, one wonderful thing about the fall/winter months is— only the hardcore swimmers swim, leaving me more lane space. Yep, I’m still having a Love Affair with the City Pool, but this time, a way nicer one in West Hollywood!

Alright, well, that’s it for me. If you like any of these poems or if they resonated with you at all, please write me. Pleaaase. I’d love to hear from you.

Mucho luv & hugs,
Amy

Word count: 1,812
Pages: 10

Clues

When I was busy propping 
my life on display—
fashion and beauty babe—
I once sold my chair on 
Facebook Marketplace
from my old historic artists’ 
loft in downtown.

The girl came in, 
and suddenly her walking slowed
as she marveled at the 25-foot ceiling
and all the ways I had 
decorated the space—
“Are you an… a-artist?”
She said practically mouth agape.

Leaning against my teal velvet sofa, 
I smiled and shrugged,
“Nah, I’m an influencer.”
I waited as she looked around some more,
“Well, here’s your chair, 
if you want to take a look at it first.”

The way I fell in love 
with my second lover—
for the way he jumped 

his departure from corporate PR
to enroll into one of the most prestigious
art schools on the west coast 
starting all over again at twenty-five

Many sacrifices were 
made on both ends
I cried and I cried—
do you know what it feels like 
to come second place
to ArtCenter?

One too many taco dates, 
$1.25/each,
for the boy had no money 
after that crazy tuition fee

But it’s a good thing I love tacos—

and people risking it all 
to follow their dreams.

How serendipitous that 
I broke up with him
right as he landed the job 
of his dreams:
to be a concept artist 
for one of the biggest 
video game software 
companies

In hindsight, 
it was easy—like breathing—
cheering you on,
even though at times you were a 
big meanie,
John

How all the life force got 
sucked out of me
Analytics, analytics, 
SEO, 
ad revenue, 
click-through rates
I, now a monkey
dancing on the pier

over a blank canvas timeline
splicing color after color, 
transitions, 
the layers of painting a 
cinematic masterpiece
or expressing my individuality 
through chic garments,
glam rock glitter on the face,
fun fonts 
and aesthetic shots

harnessing the power of storytelling

And there were clues.

The store owners at my first retail job at 29—
right before I went to go sell my soul
and then remembered 
it could
never 
be bought—
the wife, an ex-corporate 
designer at Warner Brother’s
and the husband, 
a hand-sign painter, 

“A lost art,” he said as we closed 
the store together one night
My one co-worker, Emilee, 
a graduating illustrator at… ArtCenter
“Oh, my ex-boyfriend went there!”

I eventually quit.

A few months later, 
after seeing myself draw 
in a hazy vision
given 
during savasana on a 
sweaty yoga mat,
I would find myself at the front steps
of the Armory Arts Center
in Pasadena.

Just a few miles from the 
very famed 
ArtCenter.

My love for Kahlo, Cobain— 
tattooed all across on my arms.
O’Keefe, Maholy-Nagy, Kadinsky.
The first places I frequent,
when I explore a new land,
are always
the portals for enrichment:

Museums.

I’d stand there and wonder 
what it would be like
to go from:
staring at the wall
to being

on it?

Sigh.
A girl could only dream.

And there were clues.
And there were clues.
And there were clues.

Sold

September was a month for selling—
my old life away
I sold nearly my entire closet
“Oh my god, do you have enough to wear?”
My mother asked.
and almost three bookshelves worth of shoes
In this long, arduous hike to
becoming both anew and returned,
I hadn’t touched any of my influencer garb
because in my artist’s clothes,
they now somehow reeked on me.
So I shipped and shipped
everyday to the post office.

All I needed were my sneakers
and oversized vintage t-shirts
With every slap, stick-tape, seal
Lighter and lighter
I grew

It was only when I had a dream—
they told me to sell my etagare—
that I hesitated.
Each evening,
in my living room,
she glistened and gleaned just past five
when the sun rays shot all across the apartment loft

But
I know to listen to my orders,
when given so I
posted it online, hoping
to find it a good home.
I even printed a flyer in my apartment’s
mailroom,
as I taped it up,
strangely I found myself wanting to cry

I first saw her in my friend Bambi’s place
over six years ago
She said, this? Oh I thrifted it in Palm Desert
A postmodern 1980s gold etagare
in the style of Milo Baughman
She got a steal because
when I went home, online
it was worth over $4500
Vintage, one-of-a-kind
so I sighed as I looked at the basic bookshelf,
mass produced, in my own living room
dreaming of the day I could afford
one myself

Years later,
when it popped up
on one of my favorite vintage Instagram resellers,
I immediately snagged it
for $1650
The owner, a tall blonde lady, came
to hand deliver it.
The job done, she glanced at my old bookshelf,
“Major upgrade”
I smiled in agreement

The first big girl furniture purchase of my twenties
if you don’t count Los Angeles’ exorbitant rent,
that is

For about ten days, no serious buyers inquired.
Then I had another dream—
chop the price in half.
I listened once more

I found one, a friendly Asian man.
I even offered another discount if he came this week.
“Moving out?”
“No, I just want it gone. For my art.”
He hired a handyman who came
to pick it up by the end of the week.

If you pay for the bubble wrap,
I can bubble-wrap all the glass shelves for you
before he comes.
He Venmo’ed me the amount and a little extra
“Thank you, Amy!”
With more slap, stick-tape, and seals,
it was a goodbye ritual.

Every evening,
I thanked her,
for the gift of joy
and the gift of—
see it in my head,
then hold it in my hands.

When the handyman came,
he was a middle-aged man, slender build,
dirty dust hands from construction,
Dad’s age. He smelled of cigarettes.
“Do you speak another language?”
“Yes! Arabic.”
“Cool. Which country is that?”
He awkwardly shifted, “…Iraq”
“Oh, cool." I never met someone from Iraq!
“I used to work in weel-shur boo-lefard.”
“Weelshur boolefard?! In Iraq?!” My face contorted in seven shapes
“Noooo. Here,” He pointed down, “LA.”
“Ohhhhh. ‘I was like, there’s a Wilshire Boulevard in Iraq?!’”
Contorting again
He tried to stifle his chuckle.

For an hour, we worked together
on my living room
floor, passing each other the duct tape,
to transport this huge
thing
in the back of his pickup truck
I sweated, with the ache of a torn meniscus.
“You don’t have to help,” he said.
“I know, but I want to!”

“So moving out?” Handyman Ariq asked.
“No, I need more room for my art! Come.”
I showed him all my paintings.
He said, “Look like a photograph.”
“They were! I painted them.”
“No I understand, but I mean YOUR paintings look like photograph.”
“Ohhhhh!
Wow! Big compliment! Thank you,” I beamed.

When we finished,
he dusted off his hands for the first time
and shook my hand goodbye.
“Please get her home safely, Ariq!
Nice meeting you!”

When he left,
I opened the envelope of leftover payment
and slowly unboxed the brand new knee brace
the buyer happened to find me
I think he was a doctor, or worked
at a hospital, because
who else would offer a brand new knee brace
on such short notice, too?
I pulled it up on my aching leg

A wondrous trade.

I felt a pang of sadness,
but then Irene and Angela texted me—
“Yay! Room for new things!”
“Wow, the space looks so pretty!”

The next morning, I awoke to my new
living room configuration—
My art easel housing my
five-foot, largest painting to date
and a wooden stool.

A job well done.

Lighter and lighter
I grew.

Bugs

My new friend Angela,
she found a bug once in her soup
so ever since, she always looks for bugs in all her soups
“What’s this, guys?” “Is this a bug?”
possibly a piece of pepper.
It’s extra protein, babe, I joked.
But most of all, if you keep looking for bugs,
you’ll find them— everywhere.

The Great Masquerade

It must be me—
I must be the only person in the world,
who doesn’t have this love thing right.

That’s what I thought, at twenty-one.
For loving him was foil in the microwave.

I thought, everyone else, they know how to do the waltz 
and so gracefully, too!
And it’s just me, that keeps tripping over our two left feet.
So I’ll learn how to—
waltz, tango, salsa, the cha-cha-cha.
I declared one day.
I’ll become the best dancer the world has ever seen!
Buried my head in the books.
Never missed a week of therapy, sometimes doubled up.
Ayahuasca, tapping, reiki, non-violent communication.
the works

It’s me, it’s me, I declared to my psychologist.
I’m the only person in the world who’s got this thing all wrong.

I want to go dancing in the grand ballroom,
just like everyone else, I said.

So I diligently learned all the steps—
years later, even became a dance instructor, in fact.
Then when I finally hit that grand ballroom,
ready to show off my new skills,
I looked around. People in their sleekest suits and poofiest ball gowns.
I stopped in my tracks.
This was never about dancing.
Everyone, instead, was wearing their finest masks

to the Great Masquerade.

Mom and Dad— their soft, aged cheeks touch in their posed selfie.
But they haven’t slept in the same room 
since their forties.
Which came first? 
Mom’s abuse to Dad, or Dad’s infidelity?
The chicken or egg, I guess.

Vladimir and his wife—
Choreographed lack of passion.
Pedestalization of a rusted man
Oxidized past revitalization— 
and all that for a shiny piece of paper, what?

Ornate details and resin translucent gems,
marriage and kids, pseudo-senses of accomplishment
when life is now only dead-end after dead-end.
But they make one of a hell mask to the Great Masquerade!

I thought it was only me.
I thought I was the only person in the world.
White hot, I fled the ballroom, hand on my stomach,
hurling.

I was not the only one.
Instead, I was the only one who came without 
a mask 
to the Great Masquerade.

I was the only one who was honest.

Because this farce they seem to call a “life,” is like discovering Disneyland’s
attractions with all the lights turned on—
puppets frozen in mid-action, the magic turned creepy in dead silence,
the metal bar far lower than you’d expect
on Space Mountain to hit and potentially crack one’s head.
Disenchanting and depressing.

So— if you need me, you can find me!
dancing in the meadows with my puppy, sun on my face.
Tango, salsa, maybe even a little twerk.

Because I refuse to wear a mask to the Great Masquerade.