I closed my eyes and let the words fold around me. There was something feral in that phrase, something unashamed. Kylie always had a way of naming storms and making them sound like celebrations.
Two summers earlier we had met in a cramped art studio where the skylight leaked and everyone smelled faintly of turpentine. She painted with the same abandon she spoke—fast, unapologetic strokes that left raw spaces in between. I watched her once, fingers stained a palette of blues and greens, and thought she was inventing herself as she went. She would tell me later that she wasn’t inventing anything; she was remembering.
I thought of how she’d painted her wall and thought: maybe we all get to paint something ridiculous across the rooms of our lives. Maybe we can invent murals that loop the sky and the sea and call them home.
It struck me how simple and radical that was. To feel oneself—fully, insistently—required a focused bravery. So many of us drifted, asking the world for signs we’d already been holding. Kylie’s revolution was tiny and domestic; it was making coffee with attention, answering letters on time, calling her mother before guilt could build a wall between them. It was saying no without polishing the disappointment into an apology.
Kylie's life did not obey neat outlines. She collected moments the way some people collected stamps—carefully, obsessively, each one with its own story. There were nights she disappeared into the city for three a.m. conversations with strangers, mornings when she’d show up with flowers she’d filched from a grocery store because they matched the color of the dress she was wearing. She loved like someone who believed the world was infinite and there was room enough for everybody’s edges.
Weeks later she came by, dripping paint on the floor, cheeks pink with something like triumph. She smelled like turpentine and citrus and possibility. Without ceremony she sat at my kitchen table and traced her finger across my list. “Keep this,” she said. “Add to it. Cross things out when they stop fitting. Don’t be afraid to change the rules.”
I Feel Myself Kylie H 2021 (FRESH)
I closed my eyes and let the words fold around me. There was something feral in that phrase, something unashamed. Kylie always had a way of naming storms and making them sound like celebrations.
Two summers earlier we had met in a cramped art studio where the skylight leaked and everyone smelled faintly of turpentine. She painted with the same abandon she spoke—fast, unapologetic strokes that left raw spaces in between. I watched her once, fingers stained a palette of blues and greens, and thought she was inventing herself as she went. She would tell me later that she wasn’t inventing anything; she was remembering. i feel myself kylie h 2021
I thought of how she’d painted her wall and thought: maybe we all get to paint something ridiculous across the rooms of our lives. Maybe we can invent murals that loop the sky and the sea and call them home. I closed my eyes and let the words fold around me
It struck me how simple and radical that was. To feel oneself—fully, insistently—required a focused bravery. So many of us drifted, asking the world for signs we’d already been holding. Kylie’s revolution was tiny and domestic; it was making coffee with attention, answering letters on time, calling her mother before guilt could build a wall between them. It was saying no without polishing the disappointment into an apology. Two summers earlier we had met in a
Kylie's life did not obey neat outlines. She collected moments the way some people collected stamps—carefully, obsessively, each one with its own story. There were nights she disappeared into the city for three a.m. conversations with strangers, mornings when she’d show up with flowers she’d filched from a grocery store because they matched the color of the dress she was wearing. She loved like someone who believed the world was infinite and there was room enough for everybody’s edges.
Weeks later she came by, dripping paint on the floor, cheeks pink with something like triumph. She smelled like turpentine and citrus and possibility. Without ceremony she sat at my kitchen table and traced her finger across my list. “Keep this,” she said. “Add to it. Cross things out when they stop fitting. Don’t be afraid to change the rules.”
