this is just the beginning. i have been exploring how i can present this project in one piece. the options are endless. the object on its own has power.
what it needs is a new point of view!
and in case you were wondering...
they don't smell too bad
and working with them is oddly comforting.
we are all similar, i am not alone.
thank you.
Posts
Great work floor! Looking forward to see the final piece!
ReplyDeleteI found these two story/poems I wrote last year at a strange place in my life... when Flor started this project for some reason it made me go back to these two particularly and they make me think about being vulnerable and being a woman and shame and expectation and glorification and and and... here they are.
ReplyDeleteGreasy Eggs
There was a man at the car rental place who looked like he had been forced out of his messy bed which was probably laden with a 20 something Italian whore wearing far too much make up, perfume, and week old underwear. I can see her as he left begging him to fuck her once more, like a good dirty Italian girl. Even through his hair that was teeming with a lifetimes work of olive oil, rental car exhaust and enough really trashy cologne to kill a small child he was nice enough. He forced business laughter at my aging fathers jokes and looked at me several times. He looked at my lush overgrown chest-while licking his lips strained red from last nights debauchery- through his nervous cackle-not like he wanted to or would rape me but more like he was going to eat me. Like my breasts were made of fine whipped cream, the kind you can eat without hope agenda or hesitation for breakfast lunch and dinner.
I think I looked like a diner to him, a little disheveled, pudgy around the edges but just welcoming enough- knowing that inside is goodness, greasy home cooked frozen food, pre-packaged and fried up with enough anger and heat- and, if your really lucky, a surprisingly long and entertaining stay. My womb was serving breakfast, dead wasted runny dirty, swimming in butter, kinda burnt, just American enough eggs that otherwise would have been gone bad. He could have had his regular breakfast from his whore in Italy but lets face it here she is 6 to 1.
That morning I vomited.
ReplyDeleteI vomited the coffee I had just drunk
I vomited bile coated in cigarettes
smoke. That morning I bled, heavily
from my young wilting uterus.
That morning- when I bathed, I
searched for answers in the bottom
of the sewer stenched bath.
I studied myself, the way my body
contorts and changes. I studied my embrace
of the constant and forgiving form of the water as it
joined the tears melting down my face. I made
Empty promises to myself as I touched
each tile on the bathroom
wall with my eyes.
I thought- This is too good to miss-
I lied.
That morning, when I vomited I was shaking,
Shaken violently by a dream i had
about adequacy, failure, and intent.
When I bled that morning it
felt good. To watch the thick blood stream down my thigh,
highlighted by the hollow buzz of ceramic encased by grout-
to taste and hurt made it real.
Like locusts after a century of famine,
that afternoon, the cramps came
to me
uninvited. With force,
they groped and clawed-
crawled into every orifice of my open body
and ravaged me.