I did want to bring my daughter with me today.
I ached on the train and around me swirled Mother, Father. Mother, Father with daughter or son in tow. A unit a repetition together on the move. Some were; a child with a parent, lead by a distracted person out of practice with a child.
This is the time in my life I have waited for, the time when we go on excursions together.
I think maybe viewing this work would have been too terrifying.
He shimmies away to sit by a screen. Quiet, quiet no questions for me.
What shape is this problem?
What answer does this line give me?
Frustrated by curators cleaning up, looking for order and white spaces around things.
I want to know how often she worked, what was the space like? Was she interrupted by family obligations? Was she a cleaner?
Obviously a hoarder with a show made of her clothing from over her life. I wonder how true this is. Everything that is written makes sense.
That what is there else other than mother, other than children? When there are these there is no else. I remember recollecting a time, perhaps when I was six, when I started realising that Mum and I were not the same person. That I was separate from her and I had my own start and finish.
I remember ths shape of this realisation, soft like a rolled up pair of socks because sometimes I would wear this thought that I am her. Other times I was still this thought in me, horror sadness and awe; "Can it be true?". This thought is no longer with me other than memory.
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