🐷

Strip down to nothing, on a whim, in the rain, on the banks of the Gowanus canal, and dive knee deep into the mud. Laugh, soak, and feel it all. My people don’t shy or scoff at mud, we wrestle in it. We constantly seek something to wallow in, a sty to make home, and we find it every time. I’m not fucking stupid. I know how mud is made.

In the dream, running through the houses on Eastern Parkway, everything is familiar. Apartment to condo. I enter without asking. I exit on my own time too. I place trust in the concierge. Arriving confused in the crowded lobby, I’m led up the stairs to a ladder, handed Dawn dish soap, and given a simple instruction, “Shower.” On the edge of the Brooklyn Museum’s rotunda, I strip naked again. To clean myself in front of an entire city. The muddy water runs down the curves of the building onto the flat, hard cement below and as naked as I feel, nobody is really watching.

A lot of life is naked, but more is clothed. Vulnerability and power rarely equate as we’d like them too, but they do in the pig stye. Soft bellies, loud oinks. Pigs are greedy fuckers. Constantly moving and craving and it makes so much fucking sense to me. Corn cob. Dirty shoe. Caviar. Eat until shot. I think they know that’s coming. I think that’s why they live like that.

I need someone to pig out with and I am not interested in regular people. Only true piggies. Pigs can run seven minute miles. Swine ooze their time with whine and wallow. My own sounder to feel safe, seen, heard, and loved. Our own mud to cool us down.