So you've found the experimental kitchen... I'm calling it the tiny tree kitchen. I might come up with a better name later... we'll see. 

Here I plan to weave a digital web[site] like some kind of pixelated spider... I'll plant seeds for future dream projects and post writings that I don't plan to share with the art tastings newsletter. 

I have to whisper this one... I don't want him to hear. He has a habit of placing a sheet of tracing paper over me and copying the lines. I hear it crinkle each time his sweaty hand breaks from the surface and moves to trace another piece.

And now... I can't remember what I wanted to tell you. Shhh... I hope you'll listen very carefully because, like I said, I must whisper.

Yesterday, as I was walking down the street, I was stopped by a couple men in a pale red pick up truck. The driver waved at me with a pistol and told me to get under the car behind me. They would be here soon, and you don't want to get caught in the cross fire. He said.

I crawled under the car. In front of me, a woman with a machine gun laid down on the open grey pavement. She anchored her elbows and clicked the trigger. As the bullets sprayed, her body vibrated, and a wisp of smoke rose from the muzzle like an incense stick. I swayed slowly side to side. (To dodge the bullets, of course.) When it was over, I got out from under the car. My phone, which had been in the thigh pocket of my leggings, had a bullet wound on the back. It saved me. I thought.

Are you still listening? Oh good... I hope I wasn't too loud. There was something more important I had to say but I can't remember what it was. I hope I remember soon because my language is going to change. I am becoming a strawberry. I signed the papers last Thursday. I didn't tell you? I'm so sorry, it's been too long since we last caught up. Shhh... I must remember to whisper.

Anyway, I am going to be packaged and sold in a jar with sugar and sodium benzoate. Don't worry, they will put a nice label on me.

I'm looking forward to the change despite the fact that yesterday I witnessed a young woman like me in the checkout lane of the grocery store pick up a jar of strawberry jam she bought. Her hands were partly full. It slipped from her fingers. I watched it skip on the plastic of the counter. It seemed to suspend in the air for a moment. Then it smashed on the floor. The juices and chunks of fruit sprayed over her ankles and brown leather flats. Little shards of glass everywhere. The checkout lady handed her a big plushy roll of paper towels. As she wiped her shoes, she picked up shards of glass and wiped some more. The shards cut the exposed skin on the tops of her feet but they didn't bleed and she did not seem to feel it. At least not right away.

Ah yes... I remember what I was going to say... but I cannot tell you now because he is watching. He has sharpened his pencil and he is ready with fresh tracing paper. I can hear the rustling of the sheets, like the compressor of a fridge. I'm going to lay down now, but I hope we can see each other again soon. I like this quiet space that we have between time. Do you promise to come back? Good. I will see you soon...