yesterday was grey and cold. the rain came and went, came and went. all day all day all day. most people stayed hidden away in there houses or cars and so the gallery was all mine. this is our last week in the beautiful space at 890 Valencia. only a few days left to languish, to wonder, to relish. i sat in freya's antique armchair and worked on the sweater i'm crocheting. i brought bread, bananas, honey, and tea with me. i made myself Elvis' favorite sandwich for lunch and drank large mugs of english breakfast tea all day. i read passages of George Bataille's 'The Impossible' out loud, listened to his words pouring out of my mouth, a woman's mouth, tasted them, watched them change... how much more physical (erotic? disturbing? vile?) the writing is when a woman is speaking it.
on page 39 in The Story of Rats, he writes:
( ...I write the way a child cries: a child slowly relinquishes the reasons he has for being in tears).
i live on the other side of the tracks of that statement. not at all like a child keeping her secrets close. at least not lately. not in my journal. not in the strange, pain filled prose i've been spending so much time with lately. i embarrass myself, say too much, say it sloppy and wrong and ugly, say it without any concern for eloquence or winning an outside love... in writing i do not cry like a child, i cry like a woman who can no longer grin and bare it, no longer accept the unacceptable, overrun by sorrow and anger. a woman who must rip herself in two so that the world that has built up inside her comes rushing out, painfully and fantastic and unexpected. kate describes this as Vomit and i like that. i love the way she thinks about writing. i love the way she does it. i love the way she offers herself, not at all like the secretive child Bataille's character describes himself to be, but Other. not corralled. not reigned in. sharp edged. corners to bang your hip against, slice your cheek on. writing that throttles both writer and reader. rebecca achieves this too. oh, the gorgeous, talented, searingly intelligent women i know! i read their books and i scribble in my notebook and curl up in the huge quilt that Art sometimes is and i live with all these words.
words make the world. they absolutely do. a world builds up inside me and i feel the urge to rip myself in half and let it all come rushing out. i feel like the passed 2 weeks have been the first "real" writing i've done in at least 2 months. and i am underground with it. spilling, spilling, spilling. i have no clue what kind of writing it even is.
every day, i am someone different.
ich bin ruhig.
ich bin nicht ruhig.
ich bin nicht traurig.
ich bin traurig.
6 comments:
Such a powerful post here, Angela. Your words slice through me.
Ah ah ah, doesn't matter what kind of writing oh you are writing that's what matters and reading and doing the good hard work of being a writer. This is how this is how this is how the world is made. You are exactly right and perfect and going forward like an arrow. I am in awe of you and the joy you find in your Art.
love,
Rebecca
elisabeth, thank you! i'm so thankful you still come round my way. :)
rebecca!!!!! thank you my dear sweet friend! you build up such a grand golden fire in me!
<3
i say spill out, and spill out some more. For me this has always been the best way to heal and find my footing to simply let into it.
It is such a privilege that you share your words with all of us.
joetta, thank you so much. your assurance makes me feel so much better in so many ways. and yes! it is SUCH a privilege to have this space, to speak, to maybe even embarrass myself, and to make these connections with others. absolutely a privilege. :)
Post a Comment