shall i tip-toe back in to this room?
this quiet confessional, all text and light? beaming beaming.
throwing words. tears. longing. sorrow. my sad vomit. so sad i vomit. has that ever happened to you? have you been so sad that your body rebels against you?
my mother's death has sped life up in certain ways. slowed it down in others. the world is an entirely different place now.
i was driving in the dark winding roads back home from work one night and suddenly i said to my self, out loud, "her death is going to impact my life in ways i can't even begin to imagine and it is going to go on like that for years." this is a fact. this is one of the few truths i know and i'm not sad about it. i don't ever want this to stop hurting. i want it to hurt forever. i'll find a way to let it polish me.
there is too much to catalogue. all that has happened. all that is still happening. all that will continue to happen...
for months, i've been recoiling from using this space in certain ways. i needed it to become more artistic, more invested in blogging as a particular form of writing like fiction or poetry. roz thinks it could be Performance. i like that idea. but it remains that i have no clue what i need this space to be anymore. i have no clue about of a lot of things these days.
i'm taking german and pottery at my local community college. i spend a lot of time listening to Rammstein and Bauhaus and Patti Smith, deciding on some level to go ahead and let the goth-girl in me flourish for awhile. let her have her say. my dear friend sent me a tube of bright red lipstick. i've only had the guts to wear it outside once. i think i need to go blonde. and every chance i get, i read Anais Nin's Diary. i'm on volume 2. i see myself in her pages. i know that world. i know those longings. i know those struggles. i can catch a glimpse of the girl behind my reflection... the one who is trying to wake up, trying to talk, trying to Become... if only the outside expectations would stop choking her out. if only i were strong enough to bar them from my life and heart.
but it's safe to say that, with each day that passes, i give less and less of a fuck what people think of me or who they would like me to be... the performance they want, the image they prefer. Lea, Freya, and i talked about feminism while we installed the new show. Lea said "some stories need to continue to be told and i take it as a personal duty to tell them". this made my heart jump and shiver. it made me feel thankful.
this is post 971. i will get to 1000 before i make any decisions about this space. i will let this space twist up on itself, writhe around on the floor, fight to become whatever it is that it needs to become. or else i will kill it. we'll see what we see. but there are no more rules. there are no more requirements about how often i post or what i post. i believe words can work magic. i will be patient, for 30 more posts anyway, and see what finds me.
these texts are an archive of my life in the San Francisco Bay Area from march 2007 - march 2015. it stands as a record of close to a decade of my life, charting the struggles i faced as an artist, daughter, and lover. messy and chaotic at times, eloquent and poetic at others, these texts are an index i am proud of. it was here in this electric box that i learned how to be honest about my experiences and the person i needed to become. it was here that i first learned the truism that words make the world and how to trust such a beautiful, rife, hard fact.
thank you for meeting me here in such tall grass.
my artist website is here.
my artist website is here.