oh, crazy life, crazy morning, crazy mourning, crazy minutes speeding by so fast! 3 weeks until finals. 3 weeks and then it is summer vacation. this first semester back on a college campus sped by at an unbelievably quick pace. between studying and working and working and looking for an apartment (still! though i think we may have finally found something this passed thursday. fingers crossed!) my head is reeling. i begin to stretch out the length of my long mornings on days i am able. days like today. the man is out and about and i am here, still in my polka dot pajamas, still sipping tea, still jumping back in bed with my notebook and pen, over and over again, refusing to let this part of the day come to a close, refusing to think about going to my retail gig this evening, keeping anais nin's diary within easy reach.
for as bad of a blogger as i've been, i've been an excellent writer in private. every morning i wake hungry for my notebook. every morning i move my pen along. and every night i've been curling up with anais' diary, turning page after page, copying entire passages in to my notebook to ingest, digest, roll around with as i sleep and dream and wake, as i become whatever it is i'm becoming. this Next, this Now.
there is a threshold waiting, breathing against my cheek, a crossing of sorts that needs to be made... and i have no clue how to do it or where this crossing even is. all i can think is that i must read as if my life depended on it. i must turn pages pages pages and be the best disciple i can be. all i can think is that i must become smarter, i must learn more, engage with words and textures and the wind on the other side of my window. i must be brazen and learn to stop caring so much about certain things- certain pleasantries, niceties, polite blah blah blahs that just get in the way, hurdles made of fear of abandonment, fear of hurting someone else, fear of being a disappointment, all the fears i was taught to have. i think of it more and more and it sickens me: the fears that get plugged in to children. but it is from this place of repulsion that i must jump forward in The Work. somehow i must catapult myself to the next level with The Work. all i can think is READ READ READ.
and in a little under 3 weeks i'll be installing a bit of work in a group show at Project One in the city. more on that in a few days but i'm super excited about it! i'm telling ya, life is nuts right now!
ich muss zeihnen! ich muss schrieben! Und ich muss den ganzen Tag studieren! ich habe ein Prufung am Mittwoch und ich habe veil zu tun! es ist verruckt!
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 28, 2011
dream sequence:
.
There was a knock at the door. I opened it and she was standing on the other side, tall and thin and smiling under her long wild pile of frizz and curls. She held out a yellow bottle of mustard and, giggling, said “I just thought I’d better return this”. I leaped right out of the house, laughing wildly, and hugged her with such hunger. We swung back and forth, laughing and hugging. We fell over in our joy and hugged and giggled on the floor of the wooden porch. We laughed and held on to each other so tightly. So much love. I was deep in happiness in spite of knowing in the dream that she was dead and none of this was real. I didn’t care. I kept laughing and hugging her. Just one more minute. Just one more minute. I didn’t care that this moment was imaginary, I needed it. One more minute. We were both wearing a dark pink lipstick. I looked at our feet and we were both wearing dark pink high heels to match. I laughed even harder at the sight of this and hugged her tighter, tighter, tighter. My aunt stepped into the doorway from inside the dark of the house and with a straight-laced seriousness said, “Angela, no. You need to stop right now. That is not your mother, that is a demon”. My head tilted back and my arms went slack with annoyance. Her words and my despair pulled me from my dream. My mother’s body went limp below my embrace and I was so fucking pissed that my moment of joy was stolen from me. I knew none of it was real and yet here she came with her religious nonsense. That malicious conspiracy of hoogabooga bullshit.
.
There was a knock at the door. I opened it and she was standing on the other side, tall and thin and smiling under her long wild pile of frizz and curls. She held out a yellow bottle of mustard and, giggling, said “I just thought I’d better return this”. I leaped right out of the house, laughing wildly, and hugged her with such hunger. We swung back and forth, laughing and hugging. We fell over in our joy and hugged and giggled on the floor of the wooden porch. We laughed and held on to each other so tightly. So much love. I was deep in happiness in spite of knowing in the dream that she was dead and none of this was real. I didn’t care. I kept laughing and hugging her. Just one more minute. Just one more minute. I didn’t care that this moment was imaginary, I needed it. One more minute. We were both wearing a dark pink lipstick. I looked at our feet and we were both wearing dark pink high heels to match. I laughed even harder at the sight of this and hugged her tighter, tighter, tighter. My aunt stepped into the doorway from inside the dark of the house and with a straight-laced seriousness said, “Angela, no. You need to stop right now. That is not your mother, that is a demon”. My head tilted back and my arms went slack with annoyance. Her words and my despair pulled me from my dream. My mother’s body went limp below my embrace and I was so fucking pissed that my moment of joy was stolen from me. I knew none of it was real and yet here she came with her religious nonsense. That malicious conspiracy of hoogabooga bullshit.
.
Apr 25, 2011
Apr 24, 2011
Apr 23, 2011
red
.
lately, to go to The World Outside i wear red lipstick. i've bought a second tube so that i have a bit of a choice in the morning. both are bright and alive.
the attention a red mouth brings can be very disconcerting. it's very strange. people approach me like they do SALE signs in store windows: with hunger. and yet it feels like the most natural, true face i have, the most honest face i've ever worn. without it, i feel naked. like a naked liar.
.
lately, to go to The World Outside i wear red lipstick. i've bought a second tube so that i have a bit of a choice in the morning. both are bright and alive.
the attention a red mouth brings can be very disconcerting. it's very strange. people approach me like they do SALE signs in store windows: with hunger. and yet it feels like the most natural, true face i have, the most honest face i've ever worn. without it, i feel naked. like a naked liar.
.
Apr 22, 2011
what it is to Make Art:
.
Henry states in seventy-eight pages of his book the most tragic of all truths: "Life does not interest me, what interests me is what I am doing right now (this book) which is parallel to it, of it, and yet beyond it."
-Anais Nin, Diary Vol. 2, p. 89
.
Henry states in seventy-eight pages of his book the most tragic of all truths: "Life does not interest me, what interests me is what I am doing right now (this book) which is parallel to it, of it, and yet beyond it."
-Anais Nin, Diary Vol. 2, p. 89
.
Apr 20, 2011
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 14, 2011
Apr 12, 2011
Apr 11, 2011
Apr 8, 2011
gift
.
... but there has also been so much resilience. we have grown strong under the weight of certain things. there is a magic we contain. it's just so hard to reach it sometimes. nevertheless, a call to action: to not go quietly in to the grave. i am grateful to watch someone teach this lesson. i'm grateful to know someone who still thinks about teaching their children lessons like this even after they're all grown and out of the house. i'm grateful for the chance to watch this lesson be taught. i tell myself: watch and learn, little one. watch and learn.
... but there has also been so much resilience. we have grown strong under the weight of certain things. there is a magic we contain. it's just so hard to reach it sometimes. nevertheless, a call to action: to not go quietly in to the grave. i am grateful to watch someone teach this lesson. i'm grateful to know someone who still thinks about teaching their children lessons like this even after they're all grown and out of the house. i'm grateful for the chance to watch this lesson be taught. i tell myself: watch and learn, little one. watch and learn.
Apr 7, 2011
proof of life
.
what is it about this act? so similar to diary keeping, to writing... like letter by letter, i go stitch by stitch, a call to arms, a cry for warmth, stitch stitch stitch repeat repeat repeat and lay me down to jam the hook, twist the wool, twirl round and pull. stitch, stitch, stitch, all lined up like assassins, like teeth, like a stack of letters in the box.
i've been nerding it up with my new sweater as you can see. i finished it last weekend and wore it to my german class monday morning. it sent a flag up to the little goth girl in the class and we had a sweet little conversation about knitting and crochet during the break. lovely... that sort of quick affirmation, an immediate recognition of self in the eyes of another. we see things in each other... an odd, unspeakable mirror. that's what we are. a hall of mirrors.
.
what is it about this act? so similar to diary keeping, to writing... like letter by letter, i go stitch by stitch, a call to arms, a cry for warmth, stitch stitch stitch repeat repeat repeat and lay me down to jam the hook, twist the wool, twirl round and pull. stitch, stitch, stitch, all lined up like assassins, like teeth, like a stack of letters in the box.
i've been nerding it up with my new sweater as you can see. i finished it last weekend and wore it to my german class monday morning. it sent a flag up to the little goth girl in the class and we had a sweet little conversation about knitting and crochet during the break. lovely... that sort of quick affirmation, an immediate recognition of self in the eyes of another. we see things in each other... an odd, unspeakable mirror. that's what we are. a hall of mirrors.
.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)