This piece is about time and loss. Comfort. Choice.
The moment we have is all that we have. we must live our lives in the omnipresent awareness that this is the case.
it is a tragedy that our lives are built of such structures so inviolable and FINITE.
… our only choice is to live
that these moments are full, that we live hard, live with passion and kindness.
it’s the metaphor running through all of my work…
we are doomed to live in linear time
we have to die.
the moments that we can choose to form well
become infinitely more precious.
the girls are holding each other in the face of the annihilation of the moment, and in the terrible sadness that it is gone, now, and gone and gone.
When someone asks how it is that you are miserable, look at Johnny, he’s got cancer and both his parents have just died and have you smelled his breath? It’s tragic. How can you be sad, look at your life, you have everything?
I have always thought, well, I’m sad for Johnny too now. And I’m guilty, that’s for sure. And I’m sad for the kid I taught when I was on teaching prac’ that was so wrapped and trapped in autism she couldn’t even see, and I’m sad for the old woman I saw all covered in makeup and perfume for NOONE
and I’m sad for
the aboriginal kid I saw today,
who’s father’s shattered alcoholic face was buried in her sweet golden hair.
The hell in the wall.
I’ve never been able to understand social mechanics. It seems that people will have an intense dislike for me and I can never work out why. I slip through the fabric of the social menagerie and seem to offend people every step I take.
Some of us have been crippled by life’s great turning wheels, and yet there is no solidarity. Someone will ask me a question and I feel like beginning my sentence by explaining that they might not be able to hear me because of the pane of glass between us; the separation of experience and memory and the inadequacy of the tools that we have for communicating with each other.
I don’t get it, I never have. Most people only exist for me as a collection of unexplained actions that happened to occur within my field of vision. And yet I am DESPERATE to communicate.
It seems like my every action is driven by the need to explain, the need to bridge the loneliness and by so doing stifle the despair. Is that in itself an offensive thing? What is it about me that I need to change?
It exists everywhere in equal proportions, a universal silence under and inside the endless chatter.
Existing through books is not enough. I guess I’ve always known that. C.S. Lewis said that we read to know that we’re not alone. But it doesn’t really work like that; we read and find that we think or feel along similar lines to another person, yes, and so we are relieved.
But… of course only and forever…
It’s one way. I think that that’s why I am always giving my books to other people, – it touched me, can it touch you too? Are we alike? In this, if in nothing else?
And time is so slow so slow to me now. People seem to me to be moving in stutters of motion and talking in riddles, though that in itself is nothing new.
No, not anything new at all.
watercolours on high-cotton yield 300gsm paper
Available for purchase