Your lips are sitting on your face like fruit. Sort of like they aren't attached all the way but resting. Really soft. God rubbed a little curdled milk into the cupid's bow. I like it. I think they could go bad. I like it. They could be bitten into, minimal work exerted. Eaten up off the face in total. Hide of petal. Skin of fruit skin.
I am holding a lake's placidity in me, there's no misery.
Thought is jagged, but i'm still.
Used to be treated like a rag.
Wrung n hung.
I forgot. Had an urge to ask you what I did to you. But I know I don't want to give you that. Give you satisfaction of inquiry. Mostly. More importantly. And in conclusion.
I'm reading about Sofonisba Anguissola
I've always been exactly the same
I thought the realization would bring me some comfort
it really just leaves things feeling pre-determined and embarrassing
This is it
2 more hours and then I can eat.
"5am to 7am, algebra with the mathematical Sister. 8am to 10am, religion, especially Christianity with the scriptural Sister. 10am, art. 1pm to 3pm, French and Russian with the French and Russian Sisters, if any. 3pm to 4pm, physics with the physical Sister."
"In the arts the inferior art gives
disposition to the matter to which the higher art gives form ... so
also the generative power of the female prepares the matter, which
then is shaped by the active power of the male." If, as these statements
suggest, the epigenetic process of procreation is applied to
the creative process, then the artist acquires the potenza of the sperma
while the marble, bronze, or paint takes on the function of the
katamenia. Such associations make the woman artist an oxymoron,
for if katamenia is passive materia, then it/she can only receive or
reproduce a male engendered form or idea. "The truth is," Aristotle
argued, "that what desires form is matter, as the female desires the
Like... we're just an oven
to hold a man's created soul / heat
so it won't escape
but the procreative act, it came from male parts, male process
so there's no soul in the application of paint from the hand of a woman
Nothing she paints rendered alive, emotive
it superficially mimics the beauty a man knows to make intuitively
simply a physical limitation
a law of nature
a lot of men don't know they still think like that
still believe it really blindly
or at least feel it
and the feeling that gets passed on is more dangerous
maybe in the center of their belly. it hangs on, like a hook in a mouth, to their dantian
Like homeopathic hate, woven in.
I hate Vasari so much
I really obsess on that hatred of him and not really intentionally
I try to fantasize about men being together with some feeling of fondness but it is difficult for me
I could pass on what's woven into me, too
I imagined a girl pulling herself across a big room, hunkering down, like she's too heavy to move herself, like her back is housing a big hidden rock boulder, a lot of gross groaning and heaving, some occasional guttural and very ill-fittingly energetic grunts like the ones female tennis players make when they get a big heavy deep hit on the ball
I love those
I think about those court noises a lot