die Wahrheit

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Ich will ins Zimmer mit dich sein, wenn du weinst.





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now

i have learned too early maybe how short life is. i am afraid of the brevity. i want to be an old woman in my bed. i do not want to be cut short. i am afraid of being cut short. i want the death (and life) of Louise Bourgeois- 98 years old, warm in my bed after a day of work in the studio, spitting images and loves at the world all the way up to the end. i want to work with that fire. i want to be a slave for decades to it.

everything is memento mori to me now. i am making myself a sweater with a skull on it. i never really cared for skulls as an image much before but now i am strangely attracted to them. i think of vanitas, our eye-blink existence, and want to claim every single shred of joy and sweetness i can. especially those bits found inside the swivel of sorrow. they are the most nourishing, the most poignant and necessary.



my sweater doesn't look like this but maybe i will attempt to make something along these lines as well. i love it.

come see me at slingshot today if you're around and we'll talk about art. or we can crochet together. i'll be sitting in the huge window at 890 valencia in san francisco.

ahh

anytime someone says God has a plan it's never a plan anyone is very fond of.

in fact, that statement is in no way a comfort and i really wish people would just stop saying it to me. all it does is make the person on the receiving end feel completely alone, completely helpless... completely hopeless too.

i understand they're really only attempting to comfort themselves when they say that. and i can be sympathetic to that. and if it does work to calm the speaker of that horribly inept sentence, then they should just repeat it inside their own head, to themselves, where no one else has to hear it.

because we have plans too.

the same plans everyone has.

we have good, wholesome, beautiful plans.

simple plans. simple times. simple hopes.

don't tie my hands behind my back so i can't hold those dreams anymore. why can't i just be allowed to hold them just a little while longer? don't take my hope from me. i'm someones daughter. i'm someones child. just let me hold on to the remainders of my daughterhood. just a little while longer. the good remainders. the ones i want to keep. the ones that are long hugs and back scratches. the ones that let me feel like i belong somewhere. the ones that make me feel like i do have a place to call home. is there any place in the world that feels more like home than when your parent hugs you? is there really a person on the planet that doesn't long for that feeling to claim them again? that feeling when you were little and you were held up high. held up and laughing. held up and protected and warm.

i'm just so angry. everyone who is going through this is angry. but i'm not angry at god. i'm not angry at anyone. i'm angry about the threat of time, the loss of time, and all the things that i haven't gotten to yet... as if a parent even needs a very big reason to feel proud of their child.

it's such a slow, horrible fear.

such a dawdling anguish. the spin of sorrow and regret and not knowing what to do.

there are so many days where i have no clue what to do with myself. i try to write it out and plug this in to the work... but i just end up feeling as inept and ridiculous as that damn statement.

fucking cancer.



the only sentence that feels at all close to the reality of all this is i just want my mama.


most days i just feel like begging.




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i'll probably end up deleting this.