Music:Loud spanish singing with guitar in a bar
Reading the images of a real artist
Monday, Nov. 10, 2003 - 6:39 a.m.
Cost of the War in Iraq
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Crying for Frida
Second entry of tonight. Go back and read the last one.
How can one write in a diary. How can one capture the slightest smidgen of the multitude of ups and downs. The thoughts, the impressions. I wanted to write about the leaves in the park today. And about foster parents. About the Aral Sea. About ob's father and sandwiches. And I just wrote about parsley. My eyes now so tired hard to keep them open. Emotion welling up and welling up.
I didnt know this was a relationship movie. Frida. Yes, that one, Frida Kahlo. Images floating, colors bright. How there were bright flowers and reds and greens and peacocks against blue walls, little monkeys and blood. But the only one who stood up, (no that is not true, Frida's father stayed with her mother, despite hating eachother sometimes, but at the end when she was ill, he cared for her flowers), ,,, I was going to say that the only one who stood up for the woman he loved was the dull pigeon colored grey haired, with beige wife Trotsky. Who put his life in danger of assassination, to get out of the house with the temptation of fucking Frida and tearing his wife's heart apart. Diego says I dont understand, i dont understand, why are they leaving, why is he leaving a safe haven to live around the block someone might kill him. And Frida replies, because there are some men who put the women who love them before their own safety. Yes he trotsky succumbed to Frida and the beauty of her flowered love, but he took action. Not promises, not nice words and reassurances, but action. He moved out of the house because it hurt his wife.
That made me cry. The whole movie is so tearing apart. The beauty. The women tango together is so beautiful and passionnate. Frida cuts her hair and suddenly I am transported back to Kristina with a K, she looked like that she had mexican blood, short hair so thick and dark on top, shaved at the back to a feminine neck, the strong jaw also the most vulnerable. I was totally obsessed by and in love with her Kristina with a K. And the black woman in Paris, was it supposed to be Josephine Baker, no it is too late in history? What a gorgeous back, the muscles the riples in the shoulders. The genderbending clothes.
Beautiful and the pain the constant pain. Free unstoppable girl running broken and broken and broken. The lost baby. She is like me, in that she doesnt pretend the pain is not there. She wants her dead baby back to look at it and draw it and make a picture for the world of the pain and the love and the loss and the hope. Just drawing her life. But I am not so full of life and have not such a rich culture to draw on of flowers and monkeys and paella and day of the dead. I have Holly Hobby and Santa Clause and the Muppets and The Bay City Rollers.
At least I have cooking. Yes cooking is Mom, and Grandma. It is family and tradition and warmth and geneology. Ending with me. Ending with me.
I cry for Frida and I cry for the world and I cry for me.
And I see all those skinny bellies and I miss ob's soft flabby skin. That is so silly. But it is because it was special and for me and a gift, and her and her alone. I have to be quiet when I cry or my doggie will come and whine worried by the door of the room. I cannot sob.
Even after Frida said that she had two accidents in her life, the bus and Diego, and the bus wasnt the worst, she still had him. He came back. She had someone with her when she was sick. When she died. Even her sister betrayed her but was there. Who will be there for me. What have I built. I dont know. Ob was supposed to come and go through my things when I died. Now who will do that. If I died now it would be my parents and that is just backwards. I am supposed to inherit their shit and pass it on to my children. They are not supposed to be stuck with mine, like we were stuck with my brother's. Maybe my other brother. That would be just too weird. He doesnt even know me, and what would he think of my stuff. He would understand nothing. Nothing. Not the books or the art or the comics or the performances or the fetish clothes or the photos. Nothing. Sorry, maybe the computer. He would understand the computer. But not the files on it, or the website or the diary. Oh well.
It's ok. Most people die alone. Mozart died alone. I should make my will one of these days. I wonder if I put ob as the person to call to go through my stuff, if she would or if she would ignore the request of a dead person, and say "you deserve better" and then it would go in the garbage. My life in the garbage, or picked over by mealy bugs and roaches, like something on rotten.com.
Gee, I should watch movies for fun and relaxation more often. Look how it is good for my mood. Now I shall go and cuddle in Mrs. Chicken with my kitties and be the spoiled middleclass self-employed white person living in North America that I really am.
Goodnight to me, be kind to yourself, and others. Remember that Wench. Yes. Remember you can be meaner than her Mme.
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Goodbye Michael. May your next life be kinder to you. - Thursday, Jun. 25, 2009
*inspired by Chaosdaily