A wise woman once told me many things. Many things, great and small. And as she told me her opinions and observations, I took them with a grain of salt, letting my mind drift off to more fast-paced places. I realised just after that I should have shoved her words down my throat like some famished seeker of something. Because I found out, you see, older ladies have borne the weight of the world in times when things were even more impossible for us frilly, whimsy lady beings.
It’s hard to be me, you know. It’s hard to take care of a body. I don’t like going to the toilet because peeing is dreadfully boring. I scavenge my kitchen at weird times of the day for a barely acceptable assortment of ingredients. Creating a pitiful meal for the critter that I am.
Well well well, look what the cat dragged in. Good for you to turn up again, be it through text. Are you finally going to bring up why you acted like an absolute [redacted]? Or are we just reminiscing about those good ol’ times? Are we just going to coil around the elephant in the room, like oblivious little snakes — endlessly cutesy but disgusting.
Reframe; I shall be a beacon of light for anyone who wants to receive my shine. I shall send all the emails, I shall check all of the to-dos. I shall go to the gym looking exquisitely crisp and I shall be a good friend for those in need. I shall be the wise sister and the hot lover. I shall be a loving mother, a visionary teacher, that kind stranger helping you cross the street, but also a politically informed citizen. I shall be super human. Tomorrow. From Monday onwards.
I'm heading for better stuff. Like, I’m planning on climbing some big ass mountains and you only own a pair of flimsy slippers, you know what I mean? I'm going to shake up the blue skies somewhere else. My thunder will be received better in other places. And just so you know, I don’t need ashes to rise again. I hope that soggy brain of yours reaches that conclusion sooner or later.
Do your best, or worst — I can't be arsed.
I give you a theatrical kiss on the forehead.
Gosh [redacted].
I feel better now.
– – –
Text by Amanda Payne.
The exhibition title, Education of the Girlchild,is borrowed from Meredith Monk's piece by the same name, The Education of the Girlchild.
