reading Barthes, 3 month mark:

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*the text referenced here is Roland Barthes' Mourning Diary.

i am something that i cannot describe. my heart is Chicken Little.

es regnet.

der himmel ist grau und ich bin sehr traurig.




my phone rang last night at 8:30 and the screen of my cell-phone had my step-father's name lit across it. i thought of the time difference between california and tennessee. i answered the call. my voice went small. i've recently stumbled in to a string of bad days. i hit the 2 month mark of life without my mother a few days ago. the 12th. and viewing shitty apartments drenched in cat piss has not been much of a help.

he asked how i was doing and i said "okay" just like a little kid. so small, voice quavering. "you don't sound like you're okay" he said and that's all it took to break my ridiculous dam. FLOOD WATERS OF BIBLICAL PROPORTIONS. i cried and yelled and hit the wall. these actions are completely out of character for me but having a dead mother is pretty out of character for me too so...

i cried hard and woke today with swollen eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed about having exposed the particulars, the details, the swing and shift of my life that boggles my mind sometimes... everything is so up in the air. i have no clue what to do. i have no idea what i'm doing. when i said "i just don't know what i'm doing anymore", he said "yes you do. yes you do." and when it comes to this, this pounding out of words, this creation of images, this land where i writhe in the grass, not roll - writhe! - yes, i know what i am doing... it is everything else that is such a huge and horrible question mark. such a looming fearful confusion. it's normal, the data says. the stages of grief and all that. but in a way, it is so much more. i am mourning so many things at once.

this morning, i ignored my alarm clock and finally woke up at 11am. as soon as i saw the time, i thought "yep... i'm depressed."

of course i am. i think that makes me absolutely normal.



kate zambreno let loose a small portion of her work book of mutter on her blog this morning. what a gift to receive after a night like last night. i needed to feel this kind of connection and the permission it extends.

i have spent the majority of my life feeling so alone but nothing like this. the depth of this aloneness is astounding. it shocks even me. i was once a baby. i was once inside her body, growing there, warm, safe, in the right place. that was a long time ago. it's been a very long time since i have felt those things and i feel so far from the possibility of feeling those things again. but i know they exist and that i must somehow manage to be tough, to be practical, to put one foot in front of the other and make the hard calls, the uncomfortable choices.

i've missed one day of school this semester. one day. not bad. and i haven't missed a day of work other than going to say good-bye and be present for the funeral. i have not called off. i have not spent an entire day in bed. i've stayed committed to exercise and am still a non-smoker. it's been 5 months now since i quit. i am not in a dangerous place, i'm just on the horrible roller coaster, i guess.

reading kate's excerpt lets me know that i am not as alone as i feel. not nearly. this strange club we find ourselves in... girls and women without mothers. writers and artists without mothers. children who lost their mother way too early. it is a strange club indeed but i'm glad it exists. this lineage we build, the lines we draw back and forth to one another, the words that make the bridge, the words that burn the bridge, the words that re-make (re-mark) the Self, the words that define a person and a family and a world... we make a new site for ourselves in text. we find each other there. here. in paragraphs and pages and diaries and novels and even computer screens.

i am absolutely grateful for this. i am so grateful to have a place to be. writing/art has saved my life so many times. so so so many times. it will not fail me this time either. it is my mode. it is how i live.

kate writes, "i cannot mute my violence." this is a pain beyond compare and the fuel that moves the pen.

i dream lately of becoming a creature akin to jean genet. i dream of getting rid of all my possessions save for books and notebooks and art. i dream of moving in to my car and being a haphazard vagabond. i go to class and i learn a new language and the rest of the hours of the day feel like half-truths. on campus and in my notebook are the only places i feel like i am being myself.

chicken little...

the sky is falling.

yes it did.

yes it is.

yes it is.

yes it is.

heart break break break

okay. enough. i'm sick of this: death everywhere.

one of my favorite artists of all time died today. another genius gone from the world. another one. and i am angry and sad. very angry and very sad. all my angry confusion about all sorts of other, far unrelated things, surges to the top of my head and locks up my throat and all i can think is this isn't right this isn't fair just like a little kid. she herself would tell me to shut the fuck up.

i bet you anything she figured out the meaning of life in the wee hours of the morning and that's what did it. once you attain perfection, you go. and there she goes. 98 years old. fire on top of fire. burning intelligent searing honest woman. i miss you so much already.

i was convinced you were immortal.

i will tack a spider above my bed.




"spider"
louise bourgeois

and so it goes...

by late afternoon yesterday, i found myself in a fragile mood. a fragile place. and i grabbed the keys to go lose myself in the throng for a little while. i lost myself looking at clothes at macy's for awhile (didn't buy any but tried a whole bunch of stuff on) and then went and looked at curtains and bedroom stuff at Target. Target traps me and i ended up staying there almost until closing time. i left with a curtain rod and 2 pairs of funky socks. funky socks have always made me happy. especially striped ones. and always knee highs. but on the drive home, i found myself getting tearful and feeling like a scared child. these things creep up unexpectedly sometimes... but they are inevitable. for all of us.

it's just the weight of the past, i suppose.

the weight of the past.

there will always be the big WHY. always the mourning for things that never were or things that left too soon or things that should have never been.

the death of an ideal.

the death of an ideal is a grievous thing. the grief is massive and can span years.

but we (i) can create new dreams to take their places. better dreams, better hopes. most of the time, i think i have an idea of how to set about accomplishing that. some days... not so much. yesterday ended up being that kind of day. but this morning i woke feeling so much better. not scared, not so unsure, not so tangled. i am drinking good coffee and i put up the new curtain rod and curtains. a deep plum. maybe eggplant. a deep, dark, dusty color that is warm and gorgeous.

it's nice to know that things can be deep and dark and be warm and gorgeous as well.

something i read yesterday...

"...The description itself does not reproduce the object, it rather helps us to restage and restate the effort to remember what is lost. The description reminds us how loss acquires meaning and generates recovery- not only of and for the object, but for the one who remembers."

from Unmarked by Peggy Phalen, page 147


All these paintings and drawings are descriptions. And just as the above statement asserts, my "description" of, my portrait of Sylvia Likens will not bring her back.

But the act of drawing her, the act of describing her, even partially, is a way to help me remember her even though I didn't know her. It helps me remember what happened. This act of remembering, this seemingly simple act of drawing her likeness of a sheet of paper, is a gesture toward recovery... not only hers, but mine,

ours.