I was told that when a succulents’ turgid leaves start to die, you pick them. When the leaves are dying, the succulent starts to send most of its nutrients to the dying leaves in an attempt to revive them, leaving the healthy ones to wilt. If there is one thing I have fashioned these past chapters, was to pick off my own dying leaves, in order to let my healthy ones thrive. A woman on my hour bus route read her Macy’s receipt for the duration of my bus ride home and the question in my head wasn’t that if she was okay but more what a fascinating skill she has to be able to focus on something long enough. Growing up, my mom would always serve me peas on my plate even though I hated peas. I don’t know if she forgot every time or simply didn’t care. Till this day, not quite sure what I hate more – Peas, or that she never remembered. I always want to pick the strand of hair off of someone’s cheek on the bus but I have to remind myself I am not their blood and have no right to. I always wonder if when people tell their friends they were just thinking about them, if their friends truly believe them. When I think of my time at art school, overly ambient is the first words that come to mind. As my professor showed slides of artists and their work, I watched as my peers wrote them down in their notebooks, some writing each artists’ name and some selectively writing them down. All while I was too busy watching them to write down any of my own. I ate a few dates once and had mistaken the mold on them for sugar and I guess that’s how life should be looked at. I met a boy who asks me what I see in things – in the visible mass of condensed water vapor floating in the sky, in grains of rice left behind, in hair formations on the shower wall that I have left there too lazy to wash down the drain. In the third grade, my mom had moved me to a Jewish private school in hopes I would be surrounded by more of my kind. I had told her to put me back in public school because I had felt more Jewish there than I did at an all Jewish school. Maybe it is because when we are less surrounded by something, that we cling onto it a little harder. When my car got broken into earlier last year upon returning from five months of travels, and my storage device with all my photographs stolen, I was more heartbroken that they had stolen the bag with my journal in it. They had stolen my words, and that had kept me up at night. I wish someone hadn’t told me that every time you think of a memory, that memory starts to fade. It leads me to not wanting to think about my favorite memories just to keep them the way they are. In school, my work was always aroused and born from zoning out, figs, and my own female form. I spend more time thinking about words than actually writing them down.
A girl once asked me why I take such delicate photos of my patience.
I’ve been holding this chapter hostage for the past year and a half. Not quite sure if it is because I deemed it unready, or if it is because I simply wanted it all to myself.