I do not want to be blood and earth. Blood and earth is fallible, sore throats and coughing and running into walls.
I want to be theory and chalk. Theory and chalk is neat, logical, things lining up and meeting in myriad beautiful ways. Chalk is so much cleaner. Except when it gets on your fingers, but that is a blood and earth problem, I think.
Leave chalk alone.
I’m the blood and earth sister here. Give me something physical, sensuous, something I can hold in my hands and mold with my fingers. Give me something to shape and form, something rooted and composed of a thousand layers of shed skin and refuse and ground-down stones and the lives and deaths of a million creatures.
And be my sister, my theory and chalk sister. Give me your dreams, and I will give them form; give me your patterns, and I will lend them purpose. Without you, my blood and earth devolves to shapelessness, and without me, your theory and chalk is blown out in a breath.