2004

I am on intimate terms with me and my pain. Stuck in bed for two days with lumbago, I enjoy thinking about how the world goes on without me. I cannot move. It tires me just to get up and walk to the terrace.

We are all stuck in this same place and time, thinking about the future, years to come; incredulously getting to know each other through this thick space and time. Mysterious soul, when all is uncovered and said, I don´t want to become your illusion because I know you will convert me into your disillusion.

Fragmented like a mosaic, our lives are little pieces. Lady Di could be a heroine, or a model of goodness and grace.  The only thing I know is that I don´t know anything ,which leaves me fairly vulnerable to whatever may come.

You organize it, give it shape, some color, a name, perhaps. You desire it, offer your life through trembling hands, you run from it, hide it, hate it, anguish over it, and then when you have gone and given up, you come back, accept it, and give it away.

It hurts like sandpaper across my breast, turpentine in my nose, and paint in my lungs.

My stains are here to stay. Stained woman, have no fear, everything is stained. We are sustained  by columns hard and soft, the tree loses its leaves, my mind comes undone…

This noble human face. Bulls turn into Pink Goddesses and the sacrifice has been made.

Your words were stroking  my bleak destiny, my fear of aging comes with its own Manual de Instrucciones.

Pure pleasure to witness one color lying next to another and the dark defining lines and empty space. The dirtiness of smoking vs the cleanliness of color.

Shuffle pieces around, put the moon here in the sky or over there in the river, through the trees or in the mirror. Interesting Perspectives: everything is connected. I am almost always on intimate terms with myself.  We sacrifice sacred tendencies while we claim to be the superior species. Dali´s clocks tick away; the immigrants become ants, they rush towards the surreal time.