Longing II, A Confession (and two new collages)

 Here's a flash fiction piece that didn't make the cut for Totem Beasts. I had decided last minute to pull it because, as I was reading through the proof, it hit me that it didn't fit in with the surrounding work. I tried to identify what the problem was: was it not crafted enough? was it too confessional? (I winced when I read it.) This begged the question, what is and what is not fair game for art? In fiction, we craft a guise that separates us from our work; we artfully do it for poetry as well. Some guises are thick, others thin. This piece was literally wearing a slip. It was half dream, half life and both haunted me. What to do about this? And then I thought of Frida Kahlo. In her work, she is completely exposed; she exposes her mangled body, her miscarried child. I thought of Yoko Ono in her performance pieces where people are invited to cut off pieces of her clothing. Is this risque or freeing? I think it is a type of confirmation; by declaring a vulnerability you begin to own it, and it will haunt you less.

But isn't just writing it down, getting it out of your head, owning it? There's something about leaving stuff up there in that realm that makes it less clear. Creating from experience, pain, clarifies these things and promotes growth. Publication is a means of showcasing it, and I wouldn't deny that ego is involved. This isn't necessarily a bad thing. Ego says this is me: it's a pronouncement, a declaration of self; it is expression, a chronicle of experience, and I suppose this is the interface where catharsis can become part of a larger canon. I say can, because actually becoming a part of that canon depends on other qualified individuals like literary or art critics who have expertise in the field and know what has and what has not been done, who know craft and impact. But that brings us back to square one, and being fearless, experimental, honoring oneself: I doubt very much Frida Kahlo and Yoko Ono had critics on their minds (or at the forefront of their minds) when they were creating the work. It's more a thing that must be done, and that's what we need to remember. Where and when we birth it to the world is a different topic entirely.

Longing II


There was a stairway to the third floor apartment, and I ran up and down it for exercise. I thought perhaps you were watching me. You were playing a game on the fields below; it was some kind of timed obstacle course. I saw you during your run; you hurled yourself over the finish line with the crowd watching you, and I thought, yes, I do that too, hurl myself at things.
 

I found out eventually that you and your wife were our new neighbors. While you were at work I befriended her, and we planned to have dinner, despite the fact that she could barely speak my language. Was I just trying to get to you? Get on your good side? When you finally arrived, you were dressed only in a towel. I hadn't seen you in years and then, suddenly, there you were, dripping wet, the hairs on your chest, wet, wet. 



There was that time, years after we broke up and after you broke up with her that I knew you would walk through my front door. I had just moved into that dingy apartment in Brighton, and I was standing in the foyer looking at the painted grain of the wood, and I said to myself, he's going to be here at some point. And then you were. You called me wanting to return a book of poems, and we went out for dinner. Your hair was cut and you were wearing a ring. I don't remember anything about the ring, only that it was there, on your hand, some gem, and I thought perhaps she had given it to you. You had transformed into a man, and yet you still lacked some facial hair; there would be parts of you that would be forever boy. You had already made up your mind to move to LA and besides who would want a woman still dripping fresh with longing and need? She's as desirable as a wet piece of laundry.

Is this the part I need to rectify? Your opinion of me? How I see myself through your eyes?

Above right: multi-media collage "Emergence" by Laurette Folk ; Left: multi-media collage "Garden Bed"