Chaos morning and a lot of work to get done today and it completely slips my mind to take my medications, one of the aspects of the diligent mental hygiene I must employ to navigate your world. It doesn’t occur to me until about 5 PM during a dust devil of kinetic energy from troubled humans on 8th Ave.
“I knew something seemed different…like before…” Eric says. “Do you need me to help you remember?” Maybe. Probably. Do they have an app for that?
And did the woman in the hall really mutter “little bitch” to me earlier or did she skipped-my-meds mutter it? (Meaning it’s something else’s idea of a prank?)
Saturday. Humidity. Walking for exercise. A man with hospital bracelets collapses in the street. I help him get back up to his feet not unlike all the times I helped lift Abuelita when she fell, though this man is three times her size.
He crosses the street and collapses again. I pull out my phone and call for EMTs.
“Mind your own business” snarls another New Yorker.
“Well he’s got a toxic sweat and I can’t do this all day” I shoot back.
Later when I tell Eric about the sweats and sores, but that the man didn’t smell drunk or seem on the nod, he assured me I did the right thing. Especially given the hospital bracelets.
When we get home that night we learn from a friend that Alan Vega is dead. Fuck.
This was our wedding song.
I’ve been sleeping a crazy amount – I haven’t slept so much since I was on Seroquel, or maybe Geodon, though I would be awake all night with that one.I don’t know if it’s sadness, or a sense of “now what”, or my body just crashing after having to respond to the erratic, round the clock sleep patterns of someone with senior dementia. It’s still strange to come and go as I please, to not juggle schedules with my Dad watching her or have to hurry back, though being out too long gets overwhelming. Eric and I have been out twice, once to the Underground reading salon Lydia Lunch was holding at an absurdly posh hotel downtown. And once to a Pagan street festival on Astor Place, partly to walk around and partly to sit at the Temple of Thelema booth a while.
The talk of this particular festival, however, were a group of fundamentalist Christians who decided to show up and protest it. They stayed relegated to their little corner, harassing anyone who got within earshot while disinterested cops leaned against their squad cars making sure no one escalated it beyond that. What did happen though, is that someone produced a bucket of multicolored street chalk, and a bunch of us began to create occult themed art to cover the street between the police and the protesters. And of course THAT I was in on!
Even though I’m not known for backing down from a fight or an argument, there was something very exhilarating about responding to these people’s vitriol not by arguing back at them but by simply making art right under their noses. Don’t hate, create. When all the chalk had been worn down to nubs I stood up to return to our booth and overheard an exchange between one of the fundamentalists and someone who had decided to argue with them.
“These people are all deeply miserable” said the Christian.
“What?” I interjected. “I just got to make art on the sidewalk in front of you guys AND the cops! ¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡¡ COÑO I AM FUCKING OVER THE MOON!!!!!!!!!”
It’s been a week now since Abuelita crossed over, she took a nap after I gave her something to drink in the morning and when I checked on her a few hours later she had. She had been calling to her husband the night before. I haven’t felt a lot like being online. Talking, writing, repeating the same things. Memories come and go. Waves of sadness come and go. Songs she had me sing to her, or sang to herself. The first time she ate my rice and beans and realized someone else in the family knew how to cook, much to her delight. Her sense of humor that could go from macabre to bawdy to childish, much like my own. I know she wanted to be in her own home to the end, and she got to be, and I was terrified of her being in a nursing home, anything from news stories about abuse in nursing homes to jokes on The Simpsons looming in my psyche.I may be exhausted and sad, but I know Eric and I looking after her, allowed her to remain in her home, to die as she Will.
Rosalina Torres Gonzalez, in LVX/RIP.
I started by putting this little lovely on shirts and hoodies. (The original drawing is also available as a giclee print.)
I keep seeing this ad on tv for some car or something that goes “At 20 you wanted to be an artist but now you realize that was silly and you just want to be a consumer whore yuppie and buy this horseshit car”…or something like that. It’s like who are you talking to? Why do you keeping blaring within earshot of me saying this nonsense? Either speak to me about a commission directly, or go through my gallerists or stop wasting time with this sabotage. No seriously, who is this directed at? Who at market research went “despair and abandoned dreams, there’s a selling point!” Who?
I want to be high again
Enmeshed in anise flavored vines
Barbed pleasure hooked together
Forever and ever and ever and ever
I want to maintain this high
Insisting one must always separate the artist from the art, that one must hail so-and-so or such-and-such as “great” no matter what they’ve done, even at your own discomfort or detriment, is bizarre to me. As bizarre as demanding that no one else be allowed to like something because you personally don’t.
It also might be bizarre to me because I don’t separate myself from my art, I’m very much in the process of making it.
I’ve been drawing, and getting the apartment to smell like mint and lavender. Anointing the cracks in the walls. I think Eric told me a story about someone eating morphine-soaked rose petals, or maybe I dreamt of doing that. Decrepit decadence.
It’s been too rainy to get a natural sunlight photo before I had to drop it off, but the real painting is going to be on display at Art On A gallery by tomorrow night.
I now have a moratorium on social networking for a bit, unless it’s doing art/music related stuff or communicating about art/music stuff .I’m all increasing my negative symptoms…this isn’t solely because of social networking but there’s only so much you can see the same things or ideas repeated ad nauseum. Especially that dead eyed fucking rapist-swimmer with his shit eating grin I see everywhere and his toxic gene pool of a dad. So if something stress inducing’s gotta go…it can’t be feeding and bathing Abuelita now, can it? She needs me.
I could write a big entry about something or other but really Eric just got in from the clinic. It sounds like it was nuts there, so I want to make batidas. It’s been a creatively forceful period for me/us.