Grandma made us go upstairs on our way out of the house. She opened a door to a room. A large puppet was standing behind glass, her mouth open on a waxy face that made you think it could've been a corpse. My sister screamed. I walked in, hiding my eyes. Grandma said look around, look at all this. I moved my hand. We were in an attic. Nothing here was familiar yet I knew each thing by heart. Each one was old and smelled like dust and skin after a day under a mean sun. There was a small window, too, and a doll. Perhaps several dolls. My uncle gave me a pair of his ripped up jeans. I wore them. I started spitting little blobs of skin and flesh. They came out of my mouth in a hurry, the little ulcers. I pulled a large piece of plastic out of my throat. It was the shape of a sole, transparent. I thought, how have I swallowed this, and : was I dying. I was most certainly dying.
i do not yet understand how the pieces of my multi-dimensional family puzzle are falling together. i am having difficulty organizing my work because in spite of the apparent differences in themes, mediums or colors there is an interconnectedness between each piece and thus they are indissociable from each other. i am filled at times with hate and at times with tenderness. i seldom feel lightly. i never not feel. the pain is constant, and comes in various tones.
(papa playing football, watercolor on paper, 2018)