Monday, April 9, 2012


I wonder if Frida had a laptop, and shows on Hulu, and she was trapped in bed, would she continue to journal and paint or procrastinate into a zone of junk viewing. I have been laid up, intermittently, for a week now, on and off, from the pinched C5 nerve, as it turned out it was. I am still having trouble picking anything up. Crossing my arms. Sleeping normally. I am supposed to be working on this talk on toxicity. I am trying to reread The Piano Teacher. I should be thinking about Valerie Solanas, whose birthday is today. Instead I'm a bit drowsy from Percocet. Yesterday John and I worked on the Pupa#1, she is a large woman, we made her out of duct tape and foam and tomato cages, and soon we will make the silk costume for her. She laid on our patio table last night as we stuffed her. Strange thing to do on Easter Sunday. Especially hanging from our shingles on a wire hanger. She will be the large one, the most biomorphic, there will be two slightly smaller cocoons on each side. Like two criminals. She looked like a corpse or mummy. I am reminded of a line from The Book of Mutter:

My mummy.
My mommy.
She is wrapped up so tightly.