forty three: iris , virginia, sylvia....waiting longing waiting

Flowers, Viktor & Rolf Collection, Spring/Summer 2003, stills/screenshots

Falling harder

I long for the softest

purest lace of thought

Retire to calm nervous tension

relieving painfully uncovering

snow- coldest touch

I suffer and look directly at them

They stare

Sylvia, Virginia, Iris

Marching and banning your drums

Stones in your pockets

Rivers flowing, the seas, the sea

Seagulls

your brave thoughts

Screaming onwards

Go, go, go

Match your flags

I continue

Sparkling diamonds

Hands apart I have no fear

Hollow blackness and granite silence

I am upside and downwards

Reunion of thought and old feelings

You are my mountain

Embody me, you’ll understand

Or perhaps you never will

Does it matter?

To my knowledge I shall resign from you

Right now

You remind me

I crawl towards your chronic fatigue

Gather your ample skirts

Shake your meaty limbs and overflowing breasts

Standing absently minding doorways

Blurred vision

My flatfooted stumble towards you

Red lipstick candlelight

You will never leave my bed

Around your meek and weakened limbs

I am afraid

I am afraid by entering me you will steal

These emotions are worth nothing

Nothing is

The glare of the screens

the music beating your heart

Forward

For one day, you too, shall die

It won't last

I have barely gathered

What do you want from my body

Solid heavy embrace

Trembling in your selfish presence on behalf of all the others I salute you

You loved me once

Perhaps again you do

Reflective surface of my skin I can see you

From here

the state of the need

your new name

we fly back and fade to black

Leaving painfully

Behind your fingertips and traces of saliva

Silvery red and slippery

The space between you

the clown

The children we shall not know

The trees the stones of jewellery the leaves and spring

Oldest pausing backwards

rewinding

Never reaching, never floating

In Paris or London

Belonging singing praising you

The cities swoon and crumble under the heaviness of your leather boots

Stumbling over her grandeur run and laugh

Accordingly

There are no windows

No doors no exit no entries

The hidden treasures

The space

The floating worlds and slowly cooked ideas

The stew of flowers

I collected in the fields

The coffin of the melodies

The red cloth

Covering

What are you waiting for

For the treasure of stupidity

For the true value of mad rush

the flat fields and meadows

in the corn, the wheat

solo

Knowing unknowing

Rising and skies above

The loneliness pursuing

in shadows

Xmas light decoration

lurking in the smallest

details carved in whiteness

purple shadows and yellow highlights

Waiting Waiting longing longing

the light

Reminds me

I shall be terrorizing you soon

Herself

Do you know where she lies?

Somewhere around here

The children we call women

The women we call old

One day you will be what they all are amongst your mountains of junk food bright wrappers plastic to go containers and Jewel oz co bags amidst piles of unwashed laundry mimicking your relationship to your self one day it will be omitted little how large how big how small you were how thin how fat how thick one day wondering the streets of the city of oz which you create you stumble across the world of you and once upon a time you see yourself floating above yourself and shadows and lights fade and disappear and towards you opens a close up of your worn face and only then with windows or required thought of truth we shall Miracle into the future light of our deaths and only then you require anonymity of your art.

Bright bold spectacular

Working hardly

Perfecting hair

You bring her food

Enjoying the body

Rooted in loneliness

Describing in blood

I understand your Misery

Sometimes silence trembles beside me

I let it

Fuck

the world owes you nothing

the blue stain

the chunky white stroke of your paint

the brushed aside

your tiny world sins heavily

awkwardly you dance

slowly gesticulating

nowhere have I found

these types of unconsciousness

the green of pastures

to accomplish

to shock

to remind and walk

to flirt feverishly vomiting your juices

I swelled

nothing remains whilst you may weep

nothing stings anymore

golden

the troublesome boy

the best of the year

the dry mouth

the liquid

the soup

them sitting beside me

Virginia, Iris, Sylvia

Head in the oven

River

The brain stew

The active birds

Outside

The snow covered Chicago

The unwilling flights of fancy

I AM to be

awaiting

glowing in my own dark

Ah, repelling men, I rejoice

Oh gloomy days

I seek you out

The depressed awaiting collaboration

The contributions are welcome

upraised

unskilled and handsome

tint the nights

of the blankets

the coffee colored stains

the trees in your frontyards

no imitator

you try so hard to learn

words express hardly touching your toes

you burn burn burn for nobody to catch

redeeming and fasting

the true meaning

the blur

the idea

that idea

I want gypsy floated large skirts layers and volume

flowers unmatched all colors mixed

twirl and scoop swoon and return

alert

everyday is your party

Party it up girl

woman you are

refuse to be polluted and shallow

floor length tulle

barely skimming

ashes

number forty two: -----pause-------push to shove---

Matthew Goulish, "39 Microlectures, in Promixity of performance"
A staple book on my desk. Studying with Matthew next semester at SAIC.


Australian Musician, Nick Cave's book. Must read.

One of my old time favorite books on Hannah Hoch. Cut with the kitchen knife.
Maud Lavin. Taking her class next semester at SAIC.

Thank you. School of the Art Institute of Chicago.

Pause.
Stop.
Leave the field. XMas. New Year.
Trip to LA planned.

End of Semester 3. One more long Breath to go. One more.
And perhaps? Qualified? Finally? Terminally?Perhaps? A black hole?
To not fall. To not disappear. To keep enquiring.
Anxiety levels and confidence levels. Up. Simultaneously.

Critiqued to exhaustion. Mental meltdown. I am full. Thank you. For a little while.
Where am I? Chicago.The optimism, the disasters, the tragedies and crime, brothels and World's biggest world's first and world's finest, Modernism, architecture, Bauhaus, Ferris Wheel, The Wizard of Oz. The cold city in all respects, I still love you. The lonely nights, freezing mornings, damp summers, beautiful city I am alone , charmed, exhausted, alternatively tired and excited. What shall we do in the future, Chicago? Dance to the end of The Navy Pier? Twirl in the Halls of the Art Institute, a nod to Degas, ballerinas/ prostitutes, here is Caravaggio, I must bid you respect. Marvel at Chagall windows, I am saddened by the fact that I am not from here. From nowhere, I waltz around, shuffling into the destiny of my own ideas.

Reflecting on my own reflection in the Chicago windows, Louis Sullivan's ornamental voyages and Modernism's Utopian failures, I marvel at the American West. Watching snow falling onto the windows of my large studio, I catch myself crying silently and in mourning. Where shall I find my home?

A movie trailer on my street, a large broken tree branch, slightly hanging, dangerously dangling over the street as aftermath of the recent snowstorm. Walking in the cold, covered in the warmest clothes I have worn since my childhood in Ukraine, I wait for my gourmet bagel with Salmon, cream cheese. I make my Illy coffee espresso and position myself in bed, with the laptop on my lap.
It is the first day of the winter break and I am emptied out.

Hundreds of books to read, hundreds of thoughts to sort out. Conceptual, performative, ephemeral, theories fly around me, swirling around my heart. What am I to plan? Hundreds of applications for teaching positions and exhibitions and residencies.

The pang of travels, unconquered lands...The howl of the journeys, awakens in me, slightly pinching at my guts. Go, go? where? have I not found something to hang onto?
Suddenly, feeling my own foreignness.
Friends, leaving.

Degas, Lautrec.
Invisible labor, class, gender, race.
How far to go? How far to push?
What am I doing what am I saying?
Where do I stand and what do I believe in? Audience.
Where is my stance?

I do not make objects, do I have something to sell to you? I said SELL. This is after all, America.
Sell it damn it.
How about, as suggested, put a price on the clipped finger nail. My cut hair perhaps? Package it nicely?
For your pleasure?
Sell it.
The success.

number forty one: heightened state towards

Katya Grokhovsky, Untitled (Dishevelled Bunny Plays with Metal Sticks) 2010, photos Andrew Green

Performance.
Response to Linda Kaban's performance and Script.
Script.

Title: Americano Americano

You wanna be Americano

Americano.

He's drivin' a jeep


But he ain't in the Army


Gets all his cigarette money




From his mommy




Dressed like a rootin' tootin'
Texas cowboy


But this lone ranger's


Never seen a horse


He wanna be Americano
Americano, Americano


He wants to drive a Cadillac


Now he's chasing showgirls


Smokin' Camels,whiskey and soda


Now he's never goin' back


He's cruisin streets for gold


Dressed in designer clothes


Brother if your too slow




You'd better not blink


Or you'll wind up in the drink


Wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano


Gotta buy a diamond ring


Cause that's his baby's




Favorite thing

Okay,all right,yeah man


Wanna be American


Wanna be American


He's in the land where


Anything can happen


Reach for the stars


Grab that golden ring


Just remember he's Americano


well watch it pal
'

Cause he'll take everything




He wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano


He wants to drive a Cadillac




Now he's chasing showgirls


Smokin' Camels,

Whiskey and soda


Now he's never goin' back


He likes that rock and roll


He's playing baseball


Loves Marilyn Monroe


A coca cola Joe


And a pizza pie to go


Wanna be Americano
 Americano, Americano




Gotta buy a diamond ring
'

Cause that’s his baby's




Favorite thing


Okay, all right, yeah man


Wanna be American


Wanna be American


Wanna be American

Small American flags

(greets the audience heartily)

(to any audience member)

Excuse me, but would you mind bringing over one of those little American flags, from over there? See? Yes, over there. I can’t seem to reach it. Could you please put it in my mouth.

Open mouth. Painted flag. American, Red stripes, Blue stars. White cotton. Large. Aggressively painted. Cheap acrylic paint.

Over her head.

Flag Dishevelled. Worn over a naked female body. Draped over the pedestal. Centre of the space.

Helpless and passively aggressive. Sitting under hot spotlight. Sparkling cheap dishevelled blond wig. Badly cut.

Asymmetrically. Messed up.

Wearing the flag. Off the shoulder. Hole cut in the middle of the large piece of white cotton. Painted.

Aggressively, expressively, energetically.

In contrast, she sits, her legs and feet together in front of her. Heels. Gold leather.

Audience around her. In front of her. Watching. She is watching them watch her. Passively. Powerfully.

Spotlight.

Nearby, piece of white cotton cloth.

11 small plastic American flags positioned on it. Spotlight.

Music. Loud. You wanna be Americano? Loud.

In Italian.

Whisky Soda Rock’n’ Roll.

Music. Loud. She is moving to the beat, slightly with her almost bare shoulders.

Sit on the pedestal. Allow audience to come closer.

Wait a little longer. A little more. Wait and watch them watch you. Helpless?

They cannot see her hands. She suddenly opens the folds of the fabric, draped all around her and points towards one member of the audience. She looks at them, into their eyes as far as she can see.

Point. Choose.

“Could you please, I’m terribly sorry, actually could you please I’m so sorry to bother you, could you please, I’m so sorry to bother you I’m so sorry, actually, could you please pass me a flag. Thank you.”

“Could you please, bring one of those flags, those little flags to me and put one in my mouth? Thank you”.

“Make sure you know your rights, proud Americans!”

I can be free in this place I wake up in everyday! Free!

Under God. I Swear.

Once again.

Excuse me kind Madam/Sir would you be so kind as to bring me one of those little American flags?

Could you bring it over here, to me? Could you put it in my mouth?

You see I can’t reach I have no hands. Thank you so much, so kind of you.

Hold it in your mouth. She is holding it and watching them, watching her.

Watching herself, she is facing a mirror.

She is looking around her. There is a lot of excess of fabric around her, there are white unpainted spots on the fabric.

She spits the flag towards the white, yet unpainted space.

Spits the flag right out of her mouth.

Next person.

She is watching, looking around, watching the audience.

Would you be so kind?

Thank you. Put it in my mouth.

Thank you.

Putting it in my mouth. Plastic and fabric. Which side?

She.

Through the perilous fight,


O'er the ramparts we watched

Were so gallantly streaming?

Once all of the members of the audience have participated.

Oh say, Oh say, Oh say, Oh say can you see! (sung.)

Help me. (whispered.)

I pledge allegiance,

To the flag,

Of the United States of America.

And to the Republic,

For which it stands,

One Nation,

Under God,

Indivisible,

With liberty and justice for all.

With liberty and justice for all.

With liberty and jjjjjjjuuuusttttiiiiiccee.

For all Immigrants.

You want to be Americano? Americano? Americano?

Whiskey soda rock.n.roll.

She stares into herself. She blinks and is blank.

She spits out small plastic American flags and goes on.

One by one.

Does this make you feel uncomfortable?

It makes her feel empowered, yet disgusted. American whore.

Americanized spaces places cultures.

Continuous action of asking and holding and looking and spitting.

Over and over again. Repeat.

Again.

O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Could someone please?

I mean, proud American? Please put it in my mouth.

She is blond. Cheap wig. Red and blue paint.

Cheap acrylic.

Repeat. Again. Once again. Repeat.

If I may say so myself.

You may. Thank you. Thank them.

Thank the audience. Again. Repeat.

I just feel like every day I wake up I’m so glad to be in a place where I can be free.

I’m glad you feel that way.

I do. It’s just great that I have the freedom of speech, and I can stray away from script at any time.

That means I have the freedom to say this…..

(Clears throat.) Well, that’s enough of that.

Please put the flag in my mouth. Opens mouth.

Hold.

Could I have a fellow American to bring me one of those flags? I can’t seem to reach it. I’m much too helpless and can’t reach places so far out over there. Now, make sure you put it in my mouth.

Opens mouth. Hold.

Anyone else care to give it a go? (to another audience member.)

By the dawn’s early light

How about you? (to another audience member.)

What so proudly we hailed,

Continues inviting guests to put flags in her mouth.

She continues to spit them out.

Onto white spaces of her excessive cloth.

Repeat. Again.

At the twilight's last gleaming.

Whose broad stripes and bright stars,

Through the perilous fight,


O'er the ramparts we watched,

Were so gallantly streaming?

Oh say, Oh say, Oh say, Oh say can you see!

Music. Americano. Americano.

O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

You do wanna be Americana. She stays blond and cheap and immobile. She watches the audience .

They are watching her watch them.

Surveying each pair of eyes.

They seem disturbed.

Repeat.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours.

The audience decides not to participate.

Nobody.

She keeps surveying her playing field. She is a creature of American want.

After gesturing towards each member of the audience with her finger, unsuccessfully, she suddenly gets up, clumsily and starts collecting the flags around her. They have all been spat out and are laying all about, displayed on her excessive cotton flag.

She surveys her domain around her.

She forgets the audience.

It is now her task.

She reaches out towards each flag.

I’m going to put this in my mouth. She can now.

She puts each collected flag into her mouth.

Holds it for a prolonged period of time and starts aiming to spit towards the white cloth where the flags used to be positioned.

Repeat. Hold. Again. Again. Holding it.

Spitting it out towards the white uncanonised cloth.

She fails with each flag. Continues the action.

Repeatedly.

You want to dance

You play baseball

You drink soda

You drink whisky and coca cola

You take money for cigarettes form your mummy

You want to pretend to be American

Pretend

You drink whisky with cola

I love you

American. I love you America.

You were born in Italy

Okay?

Americano Americano

You want to be fashionable

Fashionable

Americana

Still have a few things to work out

Very, un-American indeed.

She goes on.

Spit. Put. Spit.

O’er the land of the FREE.

Spit it out and colonize the rest. Un-consume.

Undo the DAMAGE and repeat.

Again.

Undo.

Repeat. Walk away. Gather your fabrics and walk away, stumbling. Free.

number forty: look look don't touch me

Katya Grokhovsky, Dance like a man, Ukrainian, 2010, New Blood IV, photos Andrew Green


Previously fatigued and aggravated.
Stated for your pleasure.
Would you like to look ? Look.

Cold, snow outside, whiteness covering covering wetness softly flowing, I'd like to read and write. Perhaps that is all , but the desire to painfully unwillingly communicate driving me forward with your public with your public. Audience let me talk to you. I never know how, but let me. The desire to stay internally forever blocked and written on the page /screen is overwhelming but the adrenalin of standing in font of you dancing in font of you dancing with you talking with you showing you my work is leading and flying me towards your sun. Sun so to speak.

Oh romantic snow, days before the Fall critique or the second last critique before the last critique of this adventure, I am in bed, nostalgic melancholic, unwell. Thoughts of childhood and mother's care flood my consciousness. broken dreams of broken lucid daily long sleep. Perhaps its all about timing. Right time. right place. am I there? somehow it always feels like I'm a too far or too early for the party or too late or slightly wrong address.Missed, just by a door. Somehow I am left standing at the station wondering where the hell is my train, plane, bus, dogs and feet with wings, de-ttached, for always.

Dancing like a man, she wonders, abut choices. yes, free to choose your gender free to behave as you wish masculine bisexual feminine girly boyish aggressive.makes no difference. it makes all the difference. You have choices. women know. unless they change their gender, literally, they will always be women, lesbian bisexual or straight. manly. always women. and whatever the hell comes with that perception and physicality. Add voluptuous physicality to it all and you get the cocktail.Anxiety, objectification whatever sexualization and embarrassment.

Theorizing my life, how to tell it all be less personal be more personal blood tears sweat. I had sweat. I couldn't cry.solitude lonely solitary stand here at your service generosity and loneliness of private try to be colder and icier stand it endure it leave it be. Dancing in a traditional clothes she is enduring sweating jumping becoming red realizing its hell and its difficult.

Durational looped dancing something of a constant idea . Steps and dance steps. Physicality is what everybody sees, acknowledge it and move on. I wish I acknowledged it ten years ago. Breathe breathe. You are OK.

Keep going...



Yotube, Hopak, extract for the performance Dance like A Man, Ukrainian

number thirty nine: Cold to dull the pain/heat To relax it away

Katya Grokhovsky, Stand like a Woman, New Blood Festival IV, SAIC, Chicago, 2010
photo Andrew Green

Time. Large Yellow ceramic mug..I heart NY. Red heart.
WE are always wanting more. More. Nothing satisfies. We live in public.
Text message. one. another. who are you?
wooden angel. On its swing. made in Italy. 1950s?
woman woman woman. Man.
Let me recover. muscles hurting. one by one. massage. long hot shower. pomegranate body scrub.
Vitas. 1980s Soviet music. let me introduce you to love.
Slavery. Love slavery.
I remember you. Unless otherwise stated . She cares little. Thank you.
For freedom
sky
sweet potato pie.
its a rhyme. family....
small house criticisms. toys. glittered. made in Western Germany. no longer exists.
small mirror disco ball. polystyrene. covered in small pieces of mirror. sleepprettyinpink ear plugs. hot pink. Dolce and Gabanna.. The one.CVS vanishing sent sore muscle rub.
no mess pain reliving gel.
cool to dull the pain
heat to relax it away

In God we trust
Devchonochka....

Please forgive it all
I dance non-stop to your Reflex
Dance it
Creeping through the trust
Trust
Instruction to obey

I will never obey.
I will run.

Book 1 of Absurd Instructions For your Pleasure:
Dilute a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka with a large bottle of pomegranate juice. Drink. Dance.
Opera 1.

Gadalka. Give your hand to me, I will read it and translate your life to you.
See this? You won't make it.

Dance. The gypsy dance. Big skirts, long skirts. Colors: corals, pastels. Home Depot, paint colors. Match the paint to fabric.

Listening to older Russian pop...memories..pain emotions...loneliness.

Let me Thank you:

For : a place to love. food to eat. Air to breathe. Friends to spend a day chatting with into the cold of the frozen Chicago night. Ice.
kitchen. near a warm oven with The Bird. turkey leftovers.
Thanksgiving to you.

Let me make a twirl and look into your eyes.
romanticism all the way. Pushing pushing...

nude? with those?
watching watching. let me undress and see . would you like to see me naked? why yes?

no work about capitalism.
Russian men die young from alcoholism.
women are stronger.
women in heels.

Perhaps Moscow is calling...
Running in high heels in glamorous races
looking for the man
looking for status money
bags full of money
groceries
soup for Andy
bags
let me stand here and think it over

endure IT
since birth.
the birth
the first intercourse
insults
objectification for all of us.
suffer and suffer. Pain you do Like.

do not raise the voice.

number thirty eight: STAND Llike A WOMAN, DANCE like A MAN (UKRAINIAN)

Stills from Youtube: Woman - Glamour Race- Women racing in high heels, Moscow, 2008

Man - Ukrainian Traditional Dance, Hopak.

Stand Like A woman was performed on Sat, 20th November, 6.30-9.30pm, at SAIC, Chicago.

Following that, Dance like a man, was performed on Sunday 21st, 6.45pm-9.30pm, SAIC, Chicago

So you think you can stand like a woman and dance like a man ?

Title: Stand like a woman

Concept:

Growing up in Ukraine, watching my mother wear stiletto heels everyday to work, riding for hours on packed old buses and walking miles of cobbled city streets, whilst carrying heavy groceries in homemade shopping bags. I was amazed at the simultaneous strength, endurance and fragility of the situation and her compliance with it. In Stand like a Woman, I am utilizing an action of standing still, wearing very high stiletto heels and elegant classic feminine attire whilst holding a long metal tube on my shoulders with two heavy, loaded plastic grocery bags positioned symmetrically on it. The bags hang on either side of the tube and are full of cans of Campbell soup. Referencing the never-ending battle of masculine and feminine in life and art, testing endurance, appearance and exhausting the body and mental limits of a feminine structure.

Title: Dance Like A Man (Ukrainian)

Concept:

Growing up in Ukraine, dancing the national Ukrainian dance Hopak moving ever so slightly inside a semi-circle of girls, formed at the back to allow for the boy dancers to take centre stage, I wowed to: Dance like a Man. One day. One by one the boys performed their exciting strenuous routines in front of us, as I watched spitefully. In this performance, I propose to Dance the Male solo part of the Ukrainian Folk Dance, dressed in a traditional male costume. The dance will be performed repeatedly for 2 hours to the same recording of the Hopak, gradually exhausting the body and loosing the grip on choreographed movement, appearance and traditional gender prescriptions.

So on Sunday, transformed, half of my head asymmetrically shaved to mimic a Ukrainian old-fashioned male haircut somewhat, dressed in a Ukrainian traditional male costume of: an embroidered men's shirt, embroidered sash, very wide blue satin pants and comfortable red boots, I danced Hopak, repeatedly and exhaustively. A looped projection behind me of a short clip of female dancers, dressed in National costume also, softly and gently swaying.

No, I didn't fall apart. I felt empowered and somehow-protected. Yes, I am a woman, feeling, as I danced, my breasts' gravity, supported by heavy- duty sports bra, moving up and down. Normally, I would be aware and yes, embarrassed. I couldn't care less. I sweated and wiped my sweat on my sleeves. Sleeves of my authentic Ukrainian- imported bought in New York shirt. I didn't care. The white cotton had no stains. I had absolutely no make up on. Fresh faced and sweaty, I faced the spotlights each time the looped music came on. My gestures gradually became more proud and exaggerated. Instead of disintegrating my movement became learned. I understood very quickly I will yes, get tired and sore, but my choreography will not skip a beat. I became stronger somehow in spirit and one thought kept flying through my head, this is hard and exciting, and yes, I want to be a boy!

The woman on the other hand, on the previous night, disintegrated fast. Yes, yet, she held it to the end. I was extremely aware of how SHE looked and what the audience was thinking of my body, my heavily made up face, my new red dress with no bra, the shape of my nipples showing through. My shoulders and arm and muscles exposed , how do they look? Do I have cellulite under this harsh spotlight? What is the spotlight doing to my face, my legs? The Steve Madden stiletto shoes began hurting immediately in almost ten minutes into the performance. My feet went numb, my calves shortened and cramped. I couldn't move, nor did I need to. I stood and faced the spotlight. The metal tube hurting my upper neck. I have a bruise there. One of the shopping bags full of soup cans fell onto the ground. I accepted and dealt with one bag by leaning and lifting it as if not to drop my load. No. Not to drop my load. I cannot drop my load.

The woman took a long time to dress up. She required nice hair, nice makeup, shaved armpits and shaved legs, good pantyhose, new shoes and new dress, good perfume and face mask and creams and nail polish. We know the trappings, yes. She pained me quickly and I became sad and alone. Lonely, standing solitary for audience or not, standing, standing.Thoughts flying through, slowing down. I moved ever so slightly often to keep circulation going. 2 hours is not that long but it can be a lifetime. I stood and nobody told me when to finish I had no sense of time. The blurred faces were spots of colours I cared little who was there. Yet my mind raced around the globe. I pined for home and softness. I thought of harshness of my life, travelling, working, studying...alone. Family on the other side of the world. Always. I pined for home and felt like crying. I don't know if I looked good or not. I suffered and wondered Why? I kept going. Endurance. I know it. I thought back to Ukraine, my childhood. My teeth being extracted with no anaesthetic whatsoever. Yes I am comparing performance to teeth being extracted but the endurance of holding on to the dentist's chair for as long as it took, for the nerves to be taken out with needles, inserted into my live flesh inside my mouth full of blood, tears streaming down my small face,..... open wider...you have very small jaw..open... the corners of my mouth bleeding bleeding...I am standing and slowly bending my knees to help my back. Mama...mama.... I am on a pedestal...yes I am brave yes I can endure but the little shy girl inside me...with those big open cherry eyes and wild forever tangled golden brown hair cries out in bewilderment........ I wanna be a boy I wanna be a boy...

shaved head free movement running running


wheat fields and corn

so small
so free