I spilled some cranberry ginger ale on a white blanket and my first instinct was to put it in the shower instead of the washing machine. Maybe I should do all my laundry that way.
Grow up with a mother who values peace above justice.
It’ll teach you certain things about conflict. When to be afraid. Obligation. Self-worth.
'If you love him enough, it makes it okay,' she says and
I remember being sent to my little-girl room so I wouldn’t hear them argue. Cats on the wallpaper. Dread.
Always his way, never his fault.
I want to believe her,
but no amount of love can make that kind of pain worthwhile.
I ask the blackest question. Sisyphus smiles upon me from his eternal curse.
And she smiles and says yes and that’s when my heart breaks wide open.
If only she loved herself as much as she loves him, I thought with finality, and then
drowned quietly in the tide of her sacrifice,
Done with school. Let’s go hiking.
Tomorrow I have to give a talk about “my art practice,” which means that I have to show all my work from the whole semester, and talk about my inspiration, execution, and thoughts for the future about the body of work as a whole.
The thing is, I have ongoing senior project art, and then I have “hey I recently acquired a can of gold spray paint and a crapton of coffee filters, let’s make something and call it art” art. I think both impulses are legitimate when it comes to art-making, but it’s hard to talk about my work in a unified, cohesive way because I rarely feel unified and cohesive.
I don’t know why I’m ranting about this because it really isn’t that big of a deal.