SARA LONG
Birthday with the Ferns
They say I am the Corn Goddess (my heart is yellow as an ear of corn) and that I am The Virgin (the Maiden who yields to all yet is penetrated by none). I am supposedly a great caregiver, the saddest moon sign, and very sensitive. I’ve noticed people enjoy your sensitivity when you are taking care of them and in your art, but not so much in other areas. I guess I am too critical but I swore my last mushroom trip that I would be more compassionate to myself - I can see where they are coming from though – I recently saw a Fairfeld Porter painting in person and went into a pretty dark self-hating spiral because I’ll never be able to make pinks that vibrate like his. And that I get along with bulls, but I’ve spent a lot of time with them (I even see them in the rocks in the ocean) but I don’t know if we are the most compatible. I’ve heard that I’ll fuss over you if I love you and watch your caffeine intake like a hawk (if I was your girlfriend, would you let me dress you, I mean help you pick your clothes out before we go out?) I was born when the year is starting to exhale, letting go of its heat and wildfire smoke to make room for the Libra (my worry stone). My astrological sign is my mother’s last name which translates to the“floor or ground” and the figures in my paintings are all on the ground. I also sleep on the ground. Maybe I am not ready for what’s there when I stand up because the ground world is enough for me right now. I tell the ferns all this and they think it’s silly and suggest I relax because, after all, I am just one of them.

*quoted are Joanna Newsom, Starhawk, and Prince.
Into the Heat
The surface of the liver is soft and porous, and if held, can tear and shred due to its fragility. I won't fall apart if you hold me, even though my skin melts into the air and the air is absorbed into my skin. A swamp. That day the heat was so wet, holding as much water as my body. The line between flesh and air blurred as the humidity rose. Soon, our boundaries will be indistinguishable, like the liver, the edges not certain and always changing.
We Psychic Sleep
We sank to the bottom of the ocean, heavy as anchors, then floated to the sky, light as feathers. Light as a feather stiff as a board, light as a feather stiff as a board. That is the same in-between space that we have been going to every Sunday night, down the ramp where the Persian rugs welcome us to rest so that Bluebirds can fly out of our throats, sunflowers grow from our stomachs, and waves crash in our hips. And it's the place that always plays that song, "do you believe in magic, in a young girl’s heart?"
Best Friends at Houda Point
The sleepy sky hung low and grey when the two friends reunited for the first time since the accident. The woman had driven 11 hours, dodged ancient redwoods on the dark windy road, to behold and embrace her friend’s new shape. See, last year the old Cypress was struck by lightning during the big storm and had to have one of her arms amputated.
The tree leaned over a cliff above the local surf beach and for over 20 years the two friends had spent hours sitting quietly together watching the little bodies bop up and down in the waves below. They would look at the surfers swarm the parking lot when the tide changed, suit up in the open doors of their pickups, and scurry down the rocky stairs to the little cove beneath. The woman would tell her friend how surfing is just like painting; most of the time you don’t get it, but once in a while you do, and it feels really good when you do.
On the day of the big homecoming, the woman approached her friend, at first cautiously, and then ferociously. As soon as they hugged, the sky let out a big yawn and turned cobalt blue, like God was above, a puppeteer, with light on their strings. The woman had always felt more connected to her friend than to most others. She was an outcast, and the birds, waves, and trees had always taken her in when no one else did. The Cypress was not just a playmate for the day, but was part of who she was. A best friend.
Moving Still
It started so hopeful, I was smug with love, "my man and me," hummed from my lips as I walked down the streets, my chest a little closer to the sun. Years later I'm left with the faint echo of that song, la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
It's always playing in the kitchen, in the heart, and as I move around the house, the song changes. In each room it sounds different, but even when I am outside on the front porch having a coffee, I can still hear it, la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la
Yoga Nidra
Today I cried for hours. Yes, some of those moments were for missing you and re-reading our story, but most of it was about her.
She picked dandruff from my hair like an adoring Howler and bundled me in blankets by the fire made by her perfectly crafted hands. She told me she loved me and that I was her lifer. I cried into the flames trying to hear and accept love, to receive this gift. I kissed her black lips hoping some of her ink would mark me ‘hers’ into the night.
Long past the sun’s set she took me to the desert in the only way she knew how; through a painting. I walked around the gallery and all the paintings were of large canyons, dried grass, and gaping skies. I stepped into the biggest one and the vast purple night held my hand and whispered, follow me. Cobalt blue and cadmium red wrapped around my fingers and led me to a cave and before I could even settle my eyes on her scale I was swept up by a giant eagle. I wrapped my arms around her soft feathered waist and took off leaving a dust storm in our path. Up in the sky I could feel it all; the yellow earth, pink voluptuous canyons, and the smell of stale flowering sage preparing to die.
Ahead in the distance I could see dark green…life! As we approached, it looked like a collage where someone cutout a “tropical paradise” picture from a travel magazine and glued it to Death’s Valley. She started to descend and the smell changed to a familiar wet bark, much like the fog soaked Redwoods I grew up in. I roamed this paradise but felt I didn’t belong. Sexy ripe fruits tempted and flirted while pools of holy water gathered in pitcher plants. Was this the love I had been pushing away my whole life? It was so plentiful, obvious, and easy, it wasn't a struggle like the desert. Suddenly I felt the need to throw up and asked her to take me home. Maybe I’ll visit paradise again but paint it with my own colors – my warm desert colors.
Seven of Discs
How will you measure your life, by time or by love?
Time passed hard
And the task was the hardest thing she'd ever do
But she forgot
The moment she saw you
But stand brave, life-liver
Bleeding out your days
In the river of time
Stand brave
Time moves both ways
In the nullifying, defeating, negating, repeating Joy of life
And it pains me to say, I was wrong
Love is not a symptom of time
Time is just a symptom of love -Joanna Newsom
I have been pulling the 7 of Discs card a lot over the past year, like a lot a lot. This card represents growth and waiting. The Motherpeace image is of a pregnant woman surrounded by pumpkins, meaning, be patient, there is nothing to do but wait, there is no way to hurry this birth, no way to see inside for certain. One must wait for the pumpkins to fully ripen before picking them. But time is passing hard, maybe the hardest thing I have ever done.
Live your Dharma!
I know a painter who had to be hospitalized due to lead poisoning from oil paints. He almost died from using cadmium red! That’s not how I am going to die, no, I am going to die in the elements, specifically with the giant Redwoods, the ones I married. I will die in a big storm, it might even be in the local paper, “Big Storm Wreaks Havoc on Locals, One Dead from Falling Redwood.” I will be squashed and dried out like an old lizard underneath a desert rock. Preserved. Then you can take my leathered corpse home and live with me and tell me things you were scared to before. Like the old man, Carl Tanzler, from Key West Florida who became obsessed with a young woman named Elena. When she died at 20 of tuberculosis his obsession deepened. He said that her spirit would come to him when he would sit by her grave and serenade her corpse with her favorite song. He also said that she told him to take her from the grave. Tanzler attached the corpse’s bones together with wire and coat hangers and filled the face with glass eyes. He replaced her decomposing skin with silk cloth soaked in wax. He put a wig on Elena as her hair fell out, dressed her remains in stockings, jewelry and gloves, and had sex with her dead body. The whole town didn’t mind, in fact they found it to be quite romantic priding themselves on taking in the rejects, outlaws and the riff-raff of society. But see, if the circumstances were more consensual, I wouldn’t mind if someone did this to me, in fact I’d request it. I have trinkets from past crushes sprinkled around my apartment and smell them sporadically to get a hit of romance when needed. The pages of that book you gave me are drenched in your sweat and incense. Once in high school I picked an old Now and Later wrapper from the trash that a crush threw away and held onto it for a year. Lockets of hair pass through my fingers like fast money trading between hopped-up bookies at a horse race. I used to be ashamed of this part of me, like I was this creepy pathetic witch who lived in her dreams and projections. But as my yoga teacher says, “Live your Dharma! Even if you do it poorly.” I am an observer and absorber, and sometimes that little obsessive creep witch.
Ancient Light
One afternoon the light was coming through my window. Usually I’m not home to see this light so it felt like a God send. The light was devastating. He was warm, glowing and made everything in my apartment feel sacred. The memory of what that moment felt like is seared into my constitution. Laying on my bed in complete silence as the burning light crept across my hips, now onto the books, oh now back onto my hand. Holding hands was a bold but wise choice. It reminded me of when we held hands on our way to buy oysters. Kumamoto, Kumamoto, Kumamoto. Say it right, Sara, don’t embarrass yourself in front of the seafood guy. You were so bright and funny that day. You were tapping your fingers, patiently, waiting for me to finish my painting. The painting of me in your studio. The painting of me among your precious things. Your rug. That was so hard to paint, I hope you know. The painting of the torrid light. I think that same light came to visit me the afternoon I was on my bed. Come to think of it, both times the clock read 3:05 PM. Or maybe he was an ancestor of that light. Ancient light. Ancient Eyes
The Female Search for Love
“When is the last time you got laid?” “You look good, fresh, did you get laid recently?” “Don’t you just wanna get laid?” “I would go crazy if I went more than a couple weeks without sex, I don’t know how you do it!” “What’s wrong with you!?”
I just finished bell hook’s Communion: The Female Search for Love. She says, “As women increasingly develop their awareness and consciousness and to the extent that men resist doing the same, a sociological situation will prevail where many women will in fact not be able to find men of their caliber and consciousness with whom to share their lives…Many women are finding celibacy a better alternative than being victimized in abusive relationships.”
“The best kind of sex, the sex in which there is the least amount of pretense – the most gratifying and satisfying sex – is the sex you do with the person in your life with whom you are the most open with.”
Sometimes that person is yourself.
The Bloody Orgasm
Sometimes I like to take Kratom and clean my apartment. My baby really needed a deep scrub so I downed a glass of the green and started buzzing. I was having the best time blasting jams, wiping down cabinets, and making quick little jokes to myself. I drank more and more and more to keep this feeling from ever going away…and then I got really fucked-up. I felt hyper, jittery, I was hallucinating, unsettled, nauseated and out of my mind. A little like the beginning of a bad mushroom trip. I laid on the floor, ate an old baked potato, and watched Seinfeld trying to calm down. I fell asleep after a while and woke up to Jackie Chiles preaching, “That’s totally inappropriate. It’s lewd, salacious, outrageous!”
I slipped into bed and tried to fall asleep, but you know when you fall asleep on the couch or floor and then you get into bed, it’s hard to get back to sleep. Like you already hit REM and now your body is confused. I tossed and turned for one hour, two hours, three, and almost four. Maybe a hidden Kratom glob had been released into my blood. I masturbated to relieve some of this tension and I was approaching climax when my diva cup lost its suction and the whole ounce of contained menstrual blood came gushing out. Everywhere. A bloody orgasm! I couldn’t even enjoy the aftermath of Tourette like squirms and ticks. I rushed to the bathroom to clean but I was so tired and sick from the Kratom that I could hardly wipe-up the mess. In the morning, I woke to bloody footprints all over my apartment, which is strange because I just finished the last episode of the new O.J. Simpson documentary a few days before. Maybe the real Jackie Chiles (Johnnie Cochran) came and visited me that bloody night, in my dream, and left me clues to this forever mystery. "If it doesn't fit, you must acquit."
First Stage Old Soul
When I was a kid my mom had one of her spiritual mentors, Jose, do a soul reading on me to see how old my soul is. There are five phases of the soul: Infant to Old. Within each phase there are 7 stages. I am First Stage Old Soul. The Infant Soul learns about physical existence, life and death, and a need for nurturing. The Baby/Child Soul learns about culture and community, a need for structure, and belonging. The Young Soul is learning free will, self-determination, and taking charge of one’s own destiny. The Mature Soul is learning co-existence, taking responsibility for relationships, and honoring differences and otherness. Lastly, the Old Soul is searching for balance and completion. The soul will focus on true self-expression and self-actualization.
Most of the time I only use this information as an ego boost. But once in a while weird witchy stuff will happen to me which makes me feel something ancient and deep is looking over me. Like just now, I was painting, trying to think of a title for this big piece I’m working on. I started writing down name ideas and was about to write this one down but actually wrote something entirely different down. This new name that came from a primordial-space-land was perfect, and unfamiliar. It made the whole painting make sense and made it about something I didn’t even know it was about.
Dental Meditations
A bird just shit in my hair while I was on my way to the dentist. I feel this is a psychological test (considering the last time I went to the dentist a few weeks ago I sat in someone’s urine on the light rail.) Or maybe it’s karma, I live in the Karma House, after all. Maybe it’s karma for purposefully sitting next to a dude man-spreading all over the train. I sat next to him, fists up while muttering, “I’m gonna get this guy.” He looked at me in disgust as I squirmed and stretched out trying to assert my space while knocking knees. Maybe it was the lady upstairs saying, “yo Sara, chill the fuck out and stop wasting that precious female energy on this dud.”
Who cares why shit and piss follow me…the dentist chair has been transformed from a torture chamber to a place for meditations.
Ovulation
I was at work for the old man and went to the bathroom for the millionth time because he is so boring and if I didn’t have an interruption from oil stock updates I might die. I’m on the toilet pushing out the few drops I’ve managed to reserve for this bathroom break. I’m really taking my time here. I smell my underwear just to see how things are going. I notice I’m ovulating by the goop in my underwear. I just start playing with it – engaging with it, rolling it around in my fingers like a booger, testing its tactility. I AM FERTILE. I AM WOMAN. I guess I don’t realize how deep play time got until I sit down to “talk” with the 95 year old and notice a dollop of ovulation on the tip of my nose.
“Just a dollop of ovulation” in Julia Child's accent.
The Chariot
I’ve decided to step away from Tarot for a bit, I had to. I am gullible, a believer, a child with big eyes. Over the summer, I lived in my dreams, my projected fantasies, my daily tea leaf readings. I felt unstoppable and heroic for abandoning the mundane realities of waking life. I walked through the streets smug with a smirk on my face that read, “oh you poor mortals trudging through the shit sludge of daily life!” But that shit sludge is life. It is the various markers on how I plan my day. Without a plan for the day I have nothing. Getting excited for what you know will happen and know how you’ll feel is a real gift. I know more or less how I’ll feel when I paint. I’ll get ecstatic, insecure, anxious, guilty, optimistic and on and on. Making a plan for myself to feel these feelings is, “winning one’s own way.” The Chariot.
“The Chariot represents groundedness and the ability to accomplish tasks on the physical plane. It also traditionally symbolizes a victory of self-discipline. This control is not prohibitive and stiff, like the Emperor, but involves bringing unconscious contents to the surface of consciousness for the purpose of accomplishment. She is not the mother, but the daughter in character, 'not a goddess of procreation but of creation...the worker, the maker, and as such connected to soul, to soul-work.' You are the one who confronts monsters and turns them into allies.” -Motherpeace Tarot
Moonlight Cathexis
Yesterday I was working on a painting and just feeling blah, it wasn't exciting to me. I literally yawned every time I looked at it. I started thinking about how you were telling me Agnes Martin waits to be inspired to paint. Then I was in bed thinking of that process: of painting, waiting to be inspired, feeling frustrated with the wait (oh the wait!), trying to keep busy during the wait, and some of that "busy" is making shitty paintings that break you down and make you feel so small and insecure and like you know nothing in this world.
I was laying in bed with all these thoughts and the moonlight was coming in through the window. It was a nice moment of stillness. And all the frustration and disappointment and all highs and euphoria with painting led me right here. Where I can lay in bed bathed in moonlight and think about how the cold blue light makes the plants come alive with their shadows on the wall. And how my skin color melts into the cobalt sheets. This moment was my painting and it was in my head and that felt really nice.
Cumming/Crying
I’m at work now, for the old man, and he does this super annoying thing where if he’s talking and you’re not 100% listening, he’ll snap, “HELLO!” It’s like sorry dude, you’ve been talking about oil stocks (we’re even watching oil stocks on TV!) for two hours, my brain can’t even deal with how boring this is. When he goes on and on like this I space out. Today I thought about making out with a past emotionally unavailable crush, a color I made for this blanket I’m painting (cerulean, raw umber, and white), the idea that sometimes when you masturbate you get really sad and cry and thinking of a painting called “cumming/crying.”
I think he is catching on to my spaced-out vibe and uses desperate but effective tactics, “I think women get raped so much because men are inherently hornier than females. It’s just a fact.” Touché. But it won’t work this time old man. I’m gonna stay in my sweet lovely dreamy head for now.