Air protects and reminds me constantly that breathing is a significant part of existence. Impressions, films, drawings, feelings, passions, memories, the defiance of pain and the acceptance of infrequent joys is a greater part of why I continue to believe in life.
When the day begins, I hear voices in the wind that aren’t there. When the afternoon sun rises high up in the skies, I am sitting next to Christina Rosetti on her couch, from which she scarcely rises even when visitors are announced- when the sun goes down I will be guided through the Hyrcinian gloom by the light of strange luminous birds. This is why I believe in life.
Beauty is heightened by indifference. I wonder why this paradoxical preference? Also each one of us has a pink lung that breathes the same air. So what then is beauty?
Near the fallen trees, I look. Orange butterflies are still alive and amid all the flaming blaze, I feel that this earth remembers me. This earth with all its lichens and seeds and me with the blind wish to keep walking.
The universe is dust. It is beautiful still with pulsating tides, scoured river beds, shipwrecks and reunions, eclipse of stars and scattered peepholes in the sky.
I just write down and erase. Rewrite. I question my rewrites and erase again. Then I forget what I started off with and it is suddenly a different thing. Forms become formless, desires become cold Keatsian Urns and the material universe collapses into a ball of paper. Rewrites are wonderful.
The clock strikes. I see the genie from Arabian Nights. I am bottled inside a glass jar with tainted polyester resin and electric wire. I am a flaming piece of art in a museum where people gather and appreciate all that is not. It gets funny after a while. They argue why polyester resin is better option for art than epoxy resin. They deviate and converse about how human conflicts, angers and alienation could be congealed in time. They are in the quest for meaning. Grappling with half-truths. They will finally figure something out.
I am a capricious sculptress. I am hovering near Kafka’s spirit somewhere in Prague. The bearded figure of Sigmund Freud is hanging by the hand. There are giant babies with slot machine faces crawling up the Zizkov TV tower. Bright colors, vivid ceilings and the faceless knight- illusory dreams. I haven’t been to Prague, except on tourist pamphlets.
What happens to the future of the Saiga Antelopes in the next decade or so? When I was younger, it didn’t seem to matter. Now, as a mother I value life, I treasure the environment and I worry about the mystery of these Antelopes. The mother Saigas died first, followed by their calves. Motherhood is a scribbled revision in the margins of a life preordained. Motherhood reminds me to celebrate my womanhood. It is empowering and the birth of an un-fragmented I.”