I've got the flu; rest is prescribed, take to the bed.
I didn't get
the grant; amnesia I prescribe, go back to sleep.
FORREST BESS THE NOBLE CARBUNCLE 1960
Sickness is the perfect
excuse for depressive behavior. Body, pillows and duvet are glued together.
They roll over my mattress in a 24 hour-long contemporary dance admired only by
my green eyed cat. I should get up and go get it, get the life, the dream, that
which I left everything back in Peru for. But that won't happen today, it won't
even happen tomorrow. I'm actually pretty sure it will never happen.
I was never an optimist,
and people therefore think that I must be negative. But I’m neither, I’m merely
realistic. From a young age I could discern my mother’s biased view for my
work- and I call work any tangible product of my creation-. I knew her critique
was not sincere for it was tinted with love. I knew only the real world could
decide, those out there with enough knowledge and sharp eyes were the ones who
would monitor my future. It was simple, either I was talented or I wasn’t.
I was raised in the way
men where probably raised back in the 50’s. I never learned about house chores
because I was expected to be so successful I would always have money to spare
and pay for someone else to do those mindless jobs. I learned how to cook (by
myself) by the time I was 26. I was going to be powerful, why would I need to
know how to sow or clean a bathroom? School, that was all that mattered, we learned to value ourselves through merits and grades. Hobbies rounded us out, they were not suited paths. At my age my mother had already traveled
the world flying to business meetings. She had been married and was in
the middle of a divorce with men lining up at the door. Me? I still can’t pay
for a cup of coffee without ogling my dad with puppy eyes.
I tried rebelling, but I
could never rebel enough. I didn’t want to be a businesswoman but was too
afraid to go to art school. I went to Communications School; so basically no
money and no happiness. Now after many years I can call myself an artist
(because I have enough credits to say so) and I find myself, living in Chicago,
poor, sick, unhappy and alone.
It was me who made the
bad choices; it was my stubbornness what brought me here. I left Communications
to become who I thought I was, an artist, a real artist. One of those artists
people travel to see; like I had done many times before. I’d start over and show
my family how wrong they were, how talented I was and how I’d fit right in.
I didn’t fit in. I’m not
untalented, just not talented enough. I’m not dumb, just not smart enough. And
that’s not being negative; it’s just being realistic. Now the girls I grew up
with either have the man and the family prospect, or they have the career, hell, some even
have both. And even though I’m a closet romantic, I always knew mine was the
career path, I wasn’t ugly, just not pretty enough. I would let my
work do the talking for me, but apparently my work is as shy and scared as I am. Maybe if
I got it drunk? Nope, I already tried that, and I still couldn't get it intoxicated enough. So here I am “de mal en peor”. I exchanged mediocrity for nothing, “y me quedé
sin soga y sin cabra” because, let's face the truth, I’m never enough.
Having nothing left
to lose but my self-pride I now leave this for the mass media wolves to destroy, or even
worse, to remain untouched.
MEMOY
