The woman with a hole in her heart.
Could the hole fit a camera?
This morning I scribbled this while he watched cartoons and she slowly dressed. Weekday mornings are tough, particularly in winter.
Housework. What else is there? When you’re the one with your finger in the dam.
There is no rest for the weary and always something to do.
Single mother, single income, working class, creative class, meritocracy, meritocrazy.
There is no rest for the weary.
If seated, one is chained to a screen or worrying about your kids being chained to theirs; but you’re too tired to make cookies or play tag or build a volcano. Volcano! What a thing.
A while back I wanted to speak about balconies – Lefevre mentions them – and it’s always resonated. The hand holding camera as a balcony between the home (the self) and the world. Am I at home with my camera? Is holding it, using it, housework?
A while back I got into containers. (Camera as container?) Not into, but in to. I notice them everywhere.
At home, I’ve started thinking about the organising structures or anti-structures I create when doing ‘housework’. Piles, clusters, loose configurations and rough collections.
I am a magician, an alchemist, a sculptor: cloth, ceramic, metal, wood, glass is transformed through my power. I make what is used… new and clean and ready.
And I’m just wondering
in order to assess reality
must you first escape it?
The tracks of thoughts run from the head into the mouth or hand.
And the home is head, the hand a balcony.
Ideas settle in my throat, on my tongue, emerge as spit, hit the pavement.
I raise my camera.
