Fragments

Always mourning the past.

Everything begins and ends with my father's death.

I am stubborn about not healing. I want the open wound. Perhaps I define myself by the wound.

What I consider the main point of this blog: to show that grief is ongoing, not finite.

I can't believe I am fatherless. It still shocks and stuns me. As much as I write and think about it, I cannot accept it. I never want to be comfortable in this identity. I never want to be okay with his death.

I live in fear of seeing fathers, of the words "father" and "daddy," of seeing men with their daughters. It all reminds me of what I've lost, what I'll never have again.

I'm not bearing witness to my life. I waste time. I waste life.

Speak heartbreak

To forget the past would be like cutting a vein, an artery. I need the lifeblood of the past. It keeps me alive and kills me at the same time.

On Francesca Woodman's photography-->dissolved the borders of the self, melted to shadow, to ghost, nothing but smudge, outline, trace of human, unwhole.

I love odd, experimental books that expand the possibilities of the written word. The page becomes a canvas, anything is permissible. I want to write books like that.

I feel incapable of realizing my visions and that is my greatest shame.

Grieving is my life.

Aren't all writers, to some extent, recluses? Hiding away within the walls of their books?

Revel in loneliness

If I at least find the strength to write these fragments, that's something.

I desire to sleep and sleep but the dead sometimes visit and to wake is to know they are dead again.

I read but rarely absorb or retain the words; I wish they'd puncture me.

Our obsession with Frida Kahlo's body unsettles me--the gore of the trolley accident, the rod skewering her vagina, the gangrenous leg, the corsets and back braces.

What always struck me was Frida Kahlo's last words, her declaration that she hoped never to return to life. The devastated feel that--we understand the need for it all to end.

Grief is like an actual physical ailment, a bone pain, a marrow pain. Always throbbing.

I know broken.

On Carole Maso's Beauty is Convulsive: The Passion of Frida Kahlo--> Maso writes that she felt she was communing with Frida as she wrote the book. Perhaps, through writing, we do commune with the dead, we somehow make contact with their spirits? I'd like to touch Kahlo, Woolf, Plath, Woodman.

I love this grief like I once loved you.

I've reinvented myself in the image of my wound.

Nostalgia is strongest when the present is a struggle.

I'm just a girl writing in her journal, writing where no one can see it. But I think it's powerful. I think it matters.

I don't want narrative, I resist it. I want fragments, experiments, language trying to be more than language, stronger than silence.

Sometimes, I think this writing is divine. I think I'm touching something holy.

Writing is my scream before the waters drown me completely. It's me breaking the surface, waving my arms, saying that I was here.

Live, live. Before the silence takes me.

This writing is automatic, a gut reaction, a survival instinct.

Writing as a way to mark territory. The territory of the text, the page.

Anna Kamienska--my love, my heart.

Kamienska found God. I found Kamienska whose poetry is a kind of holiness.

Give me Kamienska for the rest of my days.

Anna Kamienska--> "I believe in a hair of the dead/ left on a brown beret."

I don't have his hair. It's gone forever.

How do you give when you are empty? I give words. They are all I have.

I write to transmit my heartbreak, to communicate my wound.

Write before you are lost forever.

I resist impermanence.

Antonioni's La Notte--> it captures the distance between people

The pain of becoming.

What grief does to a life.

I have been destroyed. I have not survived or recovered.

The voice of loss--that is my voice.

 Writers that inhabit you, that fuse flesh to word.

A fragmented life needs a fragmented language.

A deep, blooming pain.

So this is life? I reject it and embrace it simultaneously--the contradiction of being human.

 I believe in the power of the unconscious, the beauty of our own depths

Derek Walcott interview--> "the sky grew drunk with light" // the sea "is a form of silence[...] an echoing silence" // He grieves Seamus Heaney, simply says "He was beautiful" and cannot say anything else // "you can't have several places as home. There's only one." // reads "Farewell" by Walter de la Mare

In an interview, Anselm Kiefer was asked, "And what is it that touches you at the core?" He responded, "I can't touch the core."

Smells that remind you of childhood

Art as a way of protecting yourself, of coping with your sensitivity, using it in some way.

I have the sense that true artists have the deepest minds, so capacious.

On Krzysztof Penderecki's "Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima"--> its dissonance seems to capture unspeakable horror

You will forget. Death will make you forget. What was all the living for if it only disappears? Ephemeral art seems to be the truest kind, mimicking life itself.

The torment of inarticulateness, of having thing to express but no outlet for them, no open valve.

Times when I feel the unreality of my life, that he isn't here, that death is not only possible, it is promised. I will, one day, cease to be. Everything I am will vanish.

Kate Bush's Hounds of Love--> an album with all of life in it

It's not just his death that terrifies me but the fact that he left so little behind. It's the lack of a trace, a residue, the reality that we vanish and the world continues.

Perhaps everything I write after his death is a eulogy, an attempt to bear witness to his life, to our life together. All my writing is a lament, an elegy.

My life is a struggle to make room in my mind for things other than his death.

I believe in a giving wound.

On Hans Fallada's Every Man Dies Alone--> grief as a political catalyst. Grief transformed the Quangels from passive victims to active resisters; it politicized and radicalized them, pushed them into a collision between the individual and the state.

What does grief do to love, to how we love, to the depth of our love?

How are we implicated in the grief of others? I'm specifically thinking of our identities as Americans and the grief we have caused through wars and other forms of national and international violence.

Sometimes, I write something and it makes my chest tingle, not because it is good but because it is true, it is what I wanted to say.

I'm obsessed with the hole, lack, absence, with what can't be spoken, the unnameable, the unrepresentable.

For me, A.D. means "after death." Life starts at zero. You measure time according to the starting point of that traumatic loss.

Maria Falconetti's anguished face in La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc will always haunt me.

I want to write viscerally, almost like a child, with no judgment of myself and no awareness of external standards. That's what youth gave me--joy in creation itself.

I'm concerned with the body, with the pain, pleasure, fear it feels, how it ceases, how it survives.