On Digging

For the longest time, I’ve been trying to sift through the mess of things I have accumulated in the room that is supposed to be my studio/clinic/whatever in the five years since I’ve become a mother and the only real use the room had seen was during the war in Gaza.
Every time I start at it, full steam, and then I stumble into a memento of something or other really painful, another lost opportunity or whatever. And then life keeps happening and somebody gets sick or work takes over, and it gets forgotten. I’m really trying, though. There are quite a few things I would like to throw myself into, that I cannot do without a proper space for my work.
I would really like to finally break through with all of this digging, rather than throw dirt on my own work every time I put down the shovel for a minute.

Anyway, I found some old poetry (maybe not proper poetry, but certainly not prose) I wrote. Here’s a small selection. Bear in mind that I feel more comfortable flashing my tits at random strangers than letting people who know me read my poetry.
But it’s only when you’re really chickenshit scared about something that you have the opportunity to be brave.

—-

Here we are talking about bald men
And I’m pulling my hair out
Over bald men
Duality is so confusing
I feel drawn yet I am not to follow
All at once with having all I need
How do I know which way to go
How do I keep from going in all directions

—-

If I had a lisp
I would speak all day
I would never ever shut up
I would make myself a public figure
A celebrity of sorts
And spread my message amongst the masses

—-

You, my dear, are a handful
Peter Pan, Wendy, and the crocodile all rolled into one
You turn tables into clubhouses, closets into spaceships, refrigerators into fearsome monsters
You citizen of Disneyland
You commander of things and people large and small
You marzipan piglet
You chicken-cat
You princess
You prisoner
You pumpkin
You gefilte fish
You upside-down, kicking and screaming refugee of a hot bathtub
You backwards-writing, chatterboxing computer child
You grandma’s look-alike
You daddy’s little girl
– When are you coming back?

———-
That’s all I’m sharing for now. If I get over the crippling fear, I might share some more.

So let me finish on a different note – my inspiration for digging today:


I don’t know about you, but I think it’s beautiful.

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