Fragments

Everything I write is grief. Everything I will ever write is grief.


Everything haunts me and this is why I write.


I must bear the unbearable.


If I can't destroy this grief, then I'll confront it. I will write about it and other people's grief.


This blog--an archive of loss.


Constant fear of death, of the body's stopping.


It occurs to me that I would be like this even if my father was alive. At least I was spared the indignity of being a failure in his eyes. He didn't have to witness my decay.


What are these but the words of a woman waiting to die?


Notes on Louise Bourgeois--> you deal with the past by making art about it. The art purges the past from you. The only way to deal with the past is to reconstruct it, go into it. Then, you let it go. Art as a path to freedom.


Edith Piaf at the seances with her friends, trying to bring Cerdan back from the dead. Singing him alive. The spectacle of her grief. The "peanut-crunching crowd" flocking to her concert at the Versailles the night he died. The grotesque voyeurism of it, but the catharsis, too. She sang for them, sang a loss they understood.


The death inside me gives me life.


These fragments are my life's work.


They'll say of me: what a waste.


Always on the verge, or in the midst, of an existential crisis. Always Esther Greenwood in New York, losing all my illusions, confronting a world I cannot bear.


Notes on Martha Graham--> "Dance is communication." Freedom comes through discipline. Everyone is born with genius, but some only have it for a few minutes. The house of the body holds the divine spirit. The only competition is the self, the person you know you can be. "A dancer's world is the heart of man."


I'll never be young again. I never was young.


All I can do is write and survive, write and survive. I have the determination to keep expressing all of myself through language even though nothing I write is enough. I could write every second without end, and it would never be enough. How to say things only ever said in my mind? How to make a life of them? How to live consciously and with intent? By that, I mean doing more than survive or skim. I don't feel engaged with life. The fear is so powerful. I am all fear, there is no space for anything else.


No matter what the religious and non-religious say about death--that it's either a homecoming or a drop into the abyss--I can't stop fearing it. Wittgenstein said something like we don't live to experience death. We will never know death because to know it we'd have to be alive and conscious and death is the antithesis of that; it's the destruction of it. None of us will know death, then. We will be dead and that's beyond us, that's outside our perception. Needless to say, this does not comfort me. Nothing does. The terror only grows and my life shrinks. Everything I do is to mitigate my anxiety and my fear of death. In many ways, my life is a prison, but the bars are both my catastrophe and my protection for they keep me safe and allow me to survive.