Tell me the world is broken without telling me the world is broken.

Inside the little box that holds my rose quartz face roller are also many of my children’s baby teeth. They roll around inside when I pick the box up. It’s hard to find good hiding places for things around here.

It’s 2:22pm on a Sunday in this life and it’s hard to find good hiding places for my feelings. I think what I am supposed to do is pretend to be unaffected by exterior forces. I think where I am supposed to be is somewhere else, screaming at white-columned buildings made to fool us into believing we live in another time. I am in my dark bedroom on a sunny Sunday, hiding under a light blanket.

I walk the halls of the Brooklyn Museum with a friend. We glide along the sides of The Dinner Party triangle, taking in the many ceramic vulvas of history, their woven and gilded placemats, table settings for the centuries-dead. We watch a film in a small dark room, snow falls in ultra-slow-motion while the resident of a remote island picks up pieces of my trash on a beach.

I am interrupted by crying from the other room.

I am the snow falling in slow motion.
I am a table set beautifully. 
I am trash washing up on a beach, forever.
I am the grabber, the bag, the waterproof boots.
I am a light blanket.

The Dinner Party by Judy Chicago