I don’t live in my country, I left. I cannot bear the thought of ever living there again. My little town is beautiful, but it is full of all the things that makes me remember that I’m a failure. Also my parents are there, and they are too much to handle on a permanent basis. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but I cannot stand their eyes on me all the time, the way they scrutinise my every move, my every choice.
I love hiding down here on the continent. It allows me to live and to breathe. If I’d stayed home I don’t know what would have happened. Best not to think of that.
Being far from home helps me dull the shame I feel almost every second of the day. Sometimes I feel like I should get into a fight with, and wrestle my shame, until it lies there dead on the ground. But then I get worried about thinking violent thoughts, and decide to stroke it until it purrs and falls asleep in my lap again. Oh god, let it sleep for a while this time.
The idea of doing something cutesy and perfect just to be accepted puts me off. It’s not like I’d want to shit or self mutilate or fuck on stage, but I would want to wear leather and scream and bang my head in a Polly Jean kind of way. And then I want to pick up my guitar and sing “The Lady” like Sandy Denny. I want to move through the spectrum of all my colors.
The other day I went to a gallery, and saw some photographs by Emmet Gowin. In one of the photos his wife was standing in a barn pissing on the floor. I am in awe of that kind of shamelessness of expression. Gowin photographing his wife is the truest art I have seen in years. I went through the exhibition three times.
Sometimes I’d like to just not give a fuck, but I’m worried that I’ll go to far. I have no sense of proportion. Maybe that’s why I’m not a real artist. I worry too much. About everything.
One day I’d like to go home to my little town, lift my skirt up and piss in front of them all.