Five more minutes, 50 years, or somewhere in-between. We just don’t fucking know, and yet, I’m sure it’s somewhere in between.
If I had five more minutes to live, and that was all, I suppose I’ll have had a nice cup of coffee. I’ll be found wearing my purple tie-dye camel toe tights ( i never wear them outside of the house), nasty acrylic fiber fuzzy white (now grey) Christmas socks with rubber grippies on the bottom, white robe over white t-shirt and the gigantic navy DKNY homegirl puffy coat. Hair piled in a bun on top of my head – as I do it before going to bed. At least I put panties on, fresh out of the dryer.
If I die in five minutes, I’ll be in a god-awful get up and one could surmise it was a bit chilly in the house for me. I have the landlord’s abandoned high school football blanket gathered up on my right and a sleeping bag heaped against me on my left, space heater pointing directly at me — though I turned it off a few minutes ago.
The sun is up, sky blue with few clouds. Through the haze of my near-sightedness and the slats of the shades, I can see the shape of the pine tree across the street. It looks still out there, barely a breeze.
How did it come to this? This cold house. (No need to retrace my steps). Finally, one of my paintings hanging over the couch. Another in the bedroom. Four wrapped in blankets leaning against the wall.
Five minutes is up and I am still here. That leaves me with another 50 years or somewhere in between. It would be really cool to live another 50 years — though I still feel like I have to do everything now — before it’s too late.
The bottleneck of ideas jams everything up. The dance of traffic, slow flow. As the edges move along, eventually the entire body of it moves. Just this week, I offered up the edge. I made 74 tiny pieces of art and I am giving them away. A small submission of gratitude.
So long 2020, so long idea tangle.
One idea births another. While looking for one thing, one thing I needed to complete my tiny art project, another idea piled on, and before I knew it, I bought a bag of yarn that I will now bring back to JoAnn’s. I got an idea that I would make God’s Eyes to give away as reminders of the Great Jupiter Saturn Conjunction in Aquarius on the Solstice. The twist of color on a cross of sticks a visual tangible talisman to focus on the big picture while taking solid physical action toward the life I (you) want, as well as to (my) childhood, the laid-back 70s where all I wanted was to make stuff, be Paul McCartney and/or Mike Nesmith, and ride my bicycle.
Dream big, kid!
I remember the grape arbor, Easter time, making God’s Eyes. I had questions: Why do they call them God’s Eyes? If God is everywhere, does he really need eyes? If God is loving, why is he so mean? Despite my questions, I loved the Gods Eyes. Fingers, hands, eyes busy, tracing color making patterns. Something to hold.
Orange, dark yellow, avocado green. The color scheme of my childhood.
I go back there, childhood place time, loving on that little kid who was me, and little Jonathon who was my best and only friend, and my little sister K who had a lifelong obsession with ending my existence. Stabbed me with a fork when I was 4 or 5, prong-mark scars on the palm of my hand now faded — I think she was going for my face, my eyes. The bite though my winter coat on my back that broke through my skin and left a mouth-shaped bruise despite the cold weather layers, the baseball bat to my chest, the surprise karate chops to the sides of my neck that knocked me out cold, the time she held me under water in the neighbor’s swimming pool til I blacked out, the angry reckless driving, trying to recruit/kidnap me to be a breeder for her Nazi Skinhead cult, dabbling in black magic and sending demons my way, and trying to shoot me with our stepfather’s gun (lucky for me he kept the bullets locked in a safe box), and axing my car.
These days, I send love to the past and to my sister. Something, someone hurt her, and even though I was her big sister by 18 months, I did not could not understand. I was simply there, an easy target I suppose, with my hopes for a confidant, a pal, a sister.
Now, I write this, knowing that any minute could be my last — and also knowing that it’s a miracle I am here to begin with.
Sitting on the sofa, couched in coats and blankets. Bag of yarn on the floor, sticks on the table. I want to remind people of childlike hope visions impossible dreams — all the lovely wisps of something better. And now I have an iceberg of ideas piling up, growing, imperceptibly inching along.
Canvas, paint, guitar, pen.
Do I really need the string? What am I trying to unravel?
journal entry – 12. 27. 2020