Sara9870

Sara
2005-02-07 19:00:34 (UTC)

for sara

had an interesting weekend i guess. christina is graduating
from yale and had a thesis show. i never really understood
her stuff, but this is really liked. they were pieces of
trees, debarked and painted. but almost imperceptibly. and
each so different, but somewhat identifiable as a tree. or
a part of one. and it was almost sad. this disconnected,
fragmented, almost like abortion of possibilities and
possibility itself, at the same time. i am still thinking
about them. and how it sort of reminds me of my story. my
story is still in its concept stage. but i want to work on
it. i am interested in it.
i was talking to mark on the way home from connecticut.
sometimes i wonder if we are having two different
conversations. but some things i say, i just need to say
them out loud, so i can work it out in my own head. and he
does help me, even tho he isnt trying to and doesnt know he
is. for example, when he said "this could all be fake" it
was such a facinating twist of words and concepts, and it
became something that totaally changed my story. of course
he didnt realize what he was saying. or, when we were
driving back. last night. he said he very much liked
christinas stuff, and the other stuff in there, but what he
didnt get was why it was good and other things were bad.
some art, anyone can do. if anyone can do it, why is it so
special. and i remember asking christina that question when
i was much younger, maybe 14, that time she took me to the
MOMA. and it took me a long time to understand, that art is
a message. or it should be. and there is so much that comes
before what is actually the piece of art. and i told him, i
think its like anything , almost any job. anyone can do it.
-they are these contained pieces. like contained moments.
living and breathing things. they are alive. but completely
separate, and different from eachother but each meaning
almost the same thing. so there are the same kind of
strings underlining them. connections. fragments
fragmented. -
i dont know how other people feel. if they feel like they
can do anything. i feel like i could if i wanted to. not
ANYTHING but somethings, most things. i could go to law
school or be an astrophysicist or a research scientist or
any kind of teacher or any kind of office job. if i put my
mind to it, i think there is alot i could do. there are
endless possibilities for everyone, and we all have our own
reasons for choosing what we do, choosing what we choose.
but once we makea decision, we cut off all those other
possibilities. that is what making your own life is. my
relationship with mark cuts me off from potential
relationships with other men. but possibilities open up all
the time with him. my life with him gets more complicated
and intricate and interesting as i know him and live with
him longer. he surprises me. i think there is a whole world
between us that we havent even begun to see yet. sometimes,
there is a day or two that goes by. like this weekend. like
new years. and in that day or two i find myself very much
more in love with him than i was before. where he shows me,
shows me so i can see and feel it, that he loves me.
so with the abortion of other possibilities, newer more
intricate and delicate ones form. like the leaves of a
branch, trunk splitting off. and its only the tips, the
leaves, that bloom, blossom, give it its fall beauty,
gather sunlight to feed the entirity of the plant.
so concerning the story. she feels lifeless and empty
because she doesnt feel like she makes any decisions, and
she is swimming in possibilities, or possibilities that
have never happened or presented themselves- but maybe that
can be what she fantaisizes about- moments of decision.
frangmented, seemingly disconnected moments of decision.
but they arent disconnected. they are all the same,
underneath the details. underneath the colors. the texture.
the clothing. the guise. its all the same. she is stuck,
stuck somewhere. and she loses it, loses her descions. or
thinks very deeply about them. very deeply think about what
to make for dinner. living out her life in metaphor. trying
tounderstand. and i think, at the end, she aborts the baby.
but there needs to be strength in her somewhere, to do
that.i dont even know really if that is what she does. but
the possibility needs to beseeded there. i want this story,
to be the story of the vision i saw in the garbage can. but
she can see it, the same way i did, she cna see her life
from very far away- the entirity of it- all the
possibilities- but she cannot live it. there is nothing
that is bringign her back there. she does not know what
will happen if she has the baby. will it bring her back
there? to life? orshoot her out evne more, make her even
more disconnected.
somethings will bring her back. when her husband
says "Ducks" for instance
they will have known eachother for years.
he has me on record. he has me stored in his memory for so
many years. he can superimpose my personality and
everything he knows about me onto my face. i could send in
a double of myself, and for a long time he wont know the
difference. im saved. saved inside of him. he would
eventually sense something was different. i think he is
starting to sense that. but im good at pretending.
sometimes when im with him i even forget i am pretending.
sometimes i think i still love him. sometimes im so
thankful when he comes home. sometimes i dont want him
to ,i just want to sit at the table on my own. ok, this has
turned into musings for my story. i hope i somewhat get a
draft out before i have to send in for brooklyn. i want to
get in. somewhere. i want to go to graduate school. i do.
ok, time to pee. this was good.