It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. I mean, it doesn't matter if they don't like it. But also, it doesn't matter if they DO. I can play with the words in the dish, broken blocks, cracked chipped pieces of thought that slip off accidentally. I can gather them in a dish and swirl them around with my finger. It's like painting. And it doesn't matter if a few tears spill in with the mix. I'm not baking cake, after all. I was up all night -- first reading, then crying -- like there's a big gash that goes right through the middle of my belly. And this one I didn't ask for! (Is that why I tattoo all over myself?) Carol was right. There are all the flagrant (and some not so obvious) injustices that we have to and do suffer against our will -- but this I choose. If I'm going to suffer, it's going to be my own kind of suffering.
But shit! I don't HAVE to suffer. Well, but I do. The gash is there. I didn't put it there, and it's not fair, but it's still there nevertheless. And all I can do is feel it. I can't fill it and I can't cover it over, and these other forms of pain I choose are just distractions -- hitting your head with a brick so you won't feel your menstrual cramps. (Which I also, by the way, did not choose.)
But certain things I have chosen. My bloody ripped up lips. The acid boiling up from my stomach. The guilt and loneliness from blowing off friends. The pain in my flattened feet from being too heavy for them. The constant worry over whether or not I'm going to have a heart attack. These pains are of my own doing -- and they're an escape (temporary) from the REAL INESCAPABLE pain which I DID NOT CREATE.
OK. Fuck. Here I go. This really sucks. But -- Goddamnit! I don't want to be weak! (Butcha are Blanche, ya are!) And what's so disgraceful about being weak? (read "human")
I'm skirting. The more I rant the further I get from the essential truth. I felt it last night and I've been feeling it all day, but somehow putting it down on paper makes it too real.
Go away and stop looking over my shoulder! Whoever the hell you are, leave me alone! I'm doing this!
I'm crying in this café and smearing my ink. Ruby just brought me more napkins from the counter. She's looking at ads for bedding in the newspaper. There's a yellow cab parked across the street. I'm hiding my face from the other people in the café and assuming that the people out the window can't see or don't care. Ruby doesn't know what to say, and really there's nothing she CAN say. We're waiting for our mandarin orange spice tea to cool off before we sip it. I'm busy pretending I'm not here. Those voices? They're just like all the others in my head. A guy just put some coins in the pay phone and dialed. In a minute he'll say something. The minute just happened. He ran into a dog with his car. Red bulldog named Dolly with that phone number on her tag. He's in a hurry.
I don't know how to feel real emotion. I don't know whether I'm done for a while or just turning it off because it's easier to block it out. Yeah, I live in my head, my day dreams, my fantasy world. I used to love to go to bed at night so I could fantasize about all kinds of illicit situations -- my favorite one for a while was when I was about… hmmm… 9 or 10 years oldm -- the naked woman lay in the back of the station wagon on her back and the man was rubbing her and lying under her breasts. He'd pick them up (her breasts) and fit himself under them somehow. And I think all this was taking place in the church parking lot. Why? Probably because that made it more illicit.
And of course there were the trips in the car hiding under the blankets -- MomMom beside me thinking how sweet and innocent I was -- and there I was -- staring at pictures of queens and princesses in low-cut ball gowns and staring at their cleavage and imagining what the prince and/or king would do to them.
The bishop in church always said how sweet and innocent we little children were -- but I knew different, and thought, "If they only knew, they wouldn't love us anymore."
And how mortified I was when Ellen told Mom about my nasty interpretation of the Paul McCartney song --
Somebody's knockin' at the door
Somebody's ringin' the bell
Do me a favor, open the door
And let 'em in
meaning "spread your legs and let the penis in." And how I thought I was going to throw up when Mom found out because she was disgusted -- absolutely disgusted. And maybe she loved me a little less after that.
At first, Mommy loved that I looked like her. And played school like her. And was quiet. And didn't like sports like her. And loved dolls and pretty things like her. And wanted to be -- like her.
Until my brain revved up. Until I started wondering… asking questions. (But never to her.) It really all took her by surprise because I was too smart to give her clues before then. Because I KNEW that she would love me less if she knew.
When I was 17, my therapist told her I wanted to get caught smoking with Fran in the attic. Did I? Or was it just exciting to be getting away with something? We didn't think she'd come upstairs. When she caught us, she reacted so strongly. Was it because she took it as a rejection of her? I wasn't her little perfect mirror anymore.
I always thought they loved me for what I DID, not who I was. If Will failed at art, he woouldn't lose love, because they never really encouraged that anyway. He never HAD to be the best!
Ellen -- PLEASE make sure Lauren knows she'll be loved even if she isn't "good."
Not everything we call art is beautiful. Not to me. I mean, a picture can be perfect and not be beautiful. It might be complete and be exactly what it is meant to be and still not be something I'd ever want to look at again. I might have created it myself and be satisfied that it fulfills my vision and then turn it to the wall so that that vision won't have to be experienced by anyone else. I think art can be extraordinarily ugly and still be art. Most of the time my life is extraordinarily ugly. But I'm trying. Trying as hard as I can to make art out of it.
I don't know when I'll ever write poetry or prose again. But combining words with my paintings and collage makes sense to me right now. At least you don't hear me whining like I was a year ago! I'm working, so I guess that's something.