A friend sent me a link to the work of Charles Sheeler, said to be of the "Precisionist School," of which I had not heard but which appeals to me as I like geometric lines and New York in the 20s and 30s. I then quite accidentally fell onto this self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, who evokes in it the semi-constant pain she experienced from a literal impalement she suffered in an accident early in her life. I love the fit between the two.
The rod going through her is not far off from how I view the disease of alcoholism at times. It runs through every bit of your thinking, manifesting itself in all sorts of creatively seductive thoughts, marked by an astonishingly selective amnesia.
For example, my drinking and using were very tied into my hunt for sex and intimacy, it is a reality that I had hundreds of encounters and was almost always dating and/or in love with someone--even if he wasn't in love with me. My disease will selectively remember the excitement and passion all that entailed, blocking out all the very unpleasant drama that came from mixing relationships with addiction. Specifically, it forgets that the loneliness you feel when you are with someone can be far more desolate than the loneliness you feel when you are alone. My disease will also try to reframe the serenity I've become accustomed to as a form of boredom, a lack, a deficiency.
I remember how I felt when I saw a particularly attractive personal ad that specified "no PnP" (Party n' Play). I remember thinking that one day I would sign on again, when I was somehow sober (although I couldn't really imagine that) and let him know I could now meet his requirement, And yet, now, the idea of filling out personals and answering them fills me with dread. I want the result, not the process.
In my fantasy world, God should have directed the right man to my blog, and after reading it for 6 months he should be saying: "Okay, I've fallen in love with your writing and your art, I live a few miles away, let's go on a date. Oh, here's a picture. As you can see, I'm quite dashing as you'll find out, a great kisser."
Basically, I am LAZY. Did Frida Kahlo stay home and after she got a steel rod through her and weep at her terrible fate? No, she went out and had a crazy ass decades- long affair with Diego Rivera, taking lovers of both sexes while she created an astonishing oeuvre.
Don't cry for me, Western Hemisphere. What I need is a good slapping.
MCO 2008
Hmm, Sheeler's work is unfamiliar to me but I like this pairing with Kahlo. Consider this a psychic slap delivered with great affection. Love will find you when you least expect it. At least, that's what some creative friend has told me in the past. Besides, the man of your dreams could be reading your blog at this very moment.
You know that my adddiction is food. I relate to the way you describe your addiction as being seductive and a liar. When I get stressed or depressed, I have to work at not succumbing to overindulging in chocolate or ice cream or any number of foods that promise to make me feel better. Different substance but the same deceptions.
we come to our senses as we need i suppose. this is the theory i subscribe to and actually do hope it is real. serenity and boredom share many traits, with the exception of the driver. ego drives boredom. and although ego is an integral part of who i am, many times it leaves a nasty mudprint as it trapses across the corridors of my life.
i think you would get plenty of responses with a personal ad requesting a good slapping....