3:59. Danica just asked me to write something. I think of her drawings.
I am horrified but fascinated by her administration of time and money, the fragile listing of life and love with thin pencil lines, with a clock and the unconscious belief to control it. I stare at the lovers face, trying to detect pain. But I see only pure lines that hurt. Painful lines I wish I could cut off. Now, at this moment, they cross my upper chest and make love my impossible option sine qua non. Nothing can be called love if it is not accountable for with the graffiti ingredients of conflict, misunderstandings, and jellybean stupor. Ten days ago, H- my lover - threw a metal object on my head. I wasn't able to record it and give now some sketching here – in exchange for a drawing and a book of Danica. Verbal and physical violence of all graduations is sometimes H's way of expressing and controlling love and fear. Certain administrators would call such paperless action domestic abuse. I was sitting on her bed without expectation, without preparation, defenseless. Accusations of having responded to travelling desires pumped in excessively by a corporate club – 20 $ at the door – the night before in Chelsea were mounting. Jealousy is H's primary medium through which she imagines me. Suddenly, a metal brush hit my head in an angle, in a speed that would be worth calculating. Nights later, pain still increased and oscillated with dizziness and questions over how much a medical consultation would cost without health insurance. This was – actually still is - my ecliptic point or concern were love and money were to be currently materialized. The options received in my inbox accumulated:'Drop the bitch,' 'Get rid of this psycho,' 'Move on,' 'Where is your self respect?,' 'What will be next?' Her 120 dollar /hour therapist doesn't call it domestic abuse, she calls it 'May be, he is passive aggressive'. I should call it concussion, see a doctor and move on. Unable to do so, I just study Arabic, my way of controlling time and life. I record that meticulously. 'My first 500 hours of basic Arabic.' She is even jealous of my ability to be able to speak to an Arabic woman. At this point, I am only friend with a pencil, lots of video tapes and my study materials. I spin off my study sheets as objects of exchange . I'm hoping to do so soon with Danica. I want a drawing recording love.
6:15. I wonder whether this will do for Danica. I know that this page wouldn't do well with H, my lover, who I'll go to see later, always unsure of what kind of treatment expects me there. 'Record it!' There is an illusion of control in thin lines, in electronically coated surfaces, in digitally promiscuous materials and in the advise of change. 'Masochism… Coldness and cruelty … Venus and furs/by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch' are written vertically high above my head on my wall. I still suffer some light headache. I wish I could hold on to Danica's numbers, price and event listings. Itemizing pain is a way to love living and keep loving.
9:48. I just woke up with a nightmare: I was traveling in a bus somewhere in Greece with everybody smoking, including kids. I complain to the driver but the driver smokes as well and doesn't react. I take the cigarette out of the hand of the first kid and address the driver. No reaction. I return and the second kid smokes. Now, everybody else is lighting up cigarettes. I can't breath. I scream. I wonder when they will force me from the bus, into this abandoned landscape. I wake up and miss H. She doesn't answer her phone. An air of panic. I left her house with the regular thoughts to never return. I fell asleep to forget, to be oblivious, to be satisfied, to be wanked by some deficit of love and attention. I wake up and don't understand why I didn't call earlier. I don't understand why moods change, why permanent disappearance is no option. Dogs barking, neighbors voices. Here is my page of a moment of failure to control love with a keyboard. 9:56.
The Writer's Trade
These essays are part of a project in which Danica Phelps traded drawings with selected writers, who, in exchange, contributed an essay dealing with an issue raised by her work.
All the essays and drawings are published in Every Day Life, Danica Phelps. Grinnell College, Faulconer Gallery Grinnell, 2005.