i hope your text is a metaphor
what the hell blanca?
you do not live alone, you belong to all of us. you are hiding HERE
remember.
love,
Auriea.
On 2007/05/09, at 1:28, (?))))___ <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> wrote:
today my life has been a nahual thing.
i just don't like life anymore.
i dislike humans.
right now, even matisse doesn't satisfied me.
right now, even my son is not a reason to live.
yesterday morning i had a very disgusting conversation with a
public institution about the rights of equality of my little
family. i'm a single mother. i have no paid work. in few months we
would have to leave my rented home: no other place to go. and as i
am a single mother in a catholic country, me and my child are
bastards... (how can women think that they can be independent from
man? how dare they... ?)
i have artistic projects. many ideas to develope, but not time to
sit down and make one of those things nowadays artist have to do to
have some money to do their ideas.
so... i thought to comitte suicide.
not in the tragic way:
just as maurice blanchot's statements.
i have my life,
my life belongs to me,
no one can tell me if i have a right to choose the moment of my death,
i have my right to choose it,
it is part of my freedom as a living being.
i don't like life if i can't be as free as i want, so i give up
life and want to become wind.
free wind.
i really desire to become wind.
i arranged things to be alone in my house, in my home, with all my
sculptures, paintings, things...
i wrote a letter to my sister, defending my right to decide when to
die; i wrote to my love to say to him how much love i have in me
from him... and i tried to explain to my son that his mother was
going to do an act of freedom, a poem becoming wind.
i had my pills, my rum, my music-to-die, henry purcell, to go right
to heaven as queen elisabeth...
... all very artistic, and symbolic, as a soul lover of sublime
life...
and then... that "thing" called "mother" opened the doors of the
forbidden place and discovered me in a very suspicious mood.
and then, everything happened so quick that i just have the memory
of a surrealist play: in a minute my house, my home, my place of
working my sculptures and pictures and writings was full of
policeman and nurses. even my father was around, looking at my
diaries, after 1 year without talking to me !!!
i was lied in bed, drunk, in one of the most lucids moments of my
life.
a policeman had the duty to make me speak and check that i was
concious.
stupid all, they came when i just had 4 pills and 2 rums. they came
too soon !!!
the questions that that policeman asked me were so absurd that just
a blackadder-fan could answer.
maybe one day i will write a play of that questioning... to show...
again... how stupid a human being can be dressed with an official
uniform, etc...
in a moment there were about 14 people in the home of me and my child.
a hidden home of creativity.
it was funny, some of the urgent health service didn't know what to
do... so they began to look at my pictures and one of them said:
this is beautiful...
i laughted.
i said... it may be beautifull, but i'm nobody, so it is nothing.
and he insisted, but it still is beautifull...
i laughted again.
another funny thing is that my father, who doesn't speak to me for
a year, was explaining to someone how hard was my life, and he was
telling old things of my life, without any idea of what was my
present.
oh, yeah... the policeman said to me that comitting suicide was a
crime, as euthanasia !!!
great, great, great... !!!
... but unfortunately, it wasn't the moment to discuss maurice
blanchot's writtings with an asshole.
i went to hospital in an ambulance under the threat of comitting
suicide, when i was just a little drunk... because i did not have
time to go on !!!
i spent the afternoon in the emergency room.
i looked at people, and i felt that i don't belong to this world.
i lied as a whore when the psiquiatrists asked me a lot of stupid
questions... (i had several theatre lessons, they have been really
useful evetuall)
the most disgusting thing of all is that state thinks that my life
belongs to him.
it is a crime to decide when you want to die.
( ... )
life and death belongs to the people.
even mothers has the right to explain to their childs the poetry of
acts, the freedom of life.
( ... )
thanks for reading,
good night, good luck,
good nahual.
*
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