When did I decide to live. Oh I decided to live. An accumulation of 30 some odd years. I was sitting with a friend drinking. Getting drunk. Drunk. Drunk. Drunk. How can a woman with self-respect stay with a man who touched her? She said. Pondering. A simple bruise, so slight turns purple and black, so little and grows and grows to form and take over. The pain so quiet, seething but hidden. It begins as a child. Culture takes a hold. My daddy said LISTEN Always listen and do as your told. Everyone is insecure, deep down. And then that man so gorgeous comes there. You are everything. All that And a bag of chips. Ya, and then that hand grabs you by the neck. And then the next thing you hear is no woman’s ever made him that mad. Ya, ya, ya. Those words. Oh but by then you are trapped. Ya, ya, ya. It’s a story told over and over again. Living is learning. And I won’t give up. And No one ever will make me. Ya that’s it. Only I can make myself.
Then I saw myself. 34. Oh, but why do we do this over and over again?? Ya, ok, I got it. Women are told it’s their fault, So keep quiet and shut up Bitch/ you are pmsing/ crybaby/ dramatic/ drama queen. I look at my friend. It could happen to anyone. Ya, I decided to live, that’s for sure. Or wait Was it when I painted this or when I painted that or perhaps when I painted this? I can go on and on and on and on .On And On. The pseudo intellectual explanation of my art. The pseudo intellectual explanation of myself. Devoid of the questions I ask myself everyday. The personal part that becomes the political. The mutability of identity. The manipulation and the irony of the female form becoming An amorphous blob. Men stare. They steal our image. They steal me. They can take. I was taught to give it to them. I’ll take it back now. Thank you.