I am sitting on the cusp on Sunday, 3/9, about to unwillingly “spring forward.” Thought it might do me (and probably only me) some good to recap recent notable events (but not in order of significance)…
Sunday 2/23 -
Went to see the Frida Kahlo exhibit at the DMA - last day the exhibit was open, so I had to make a mad dash downtown. So worth it. There was a lot to breathe in there. Well, did I breathe it? It is visual art for God’s sake, but obviously it’s the valuable kind that sinks deeply. That infiltrated my soul, even if I didn’t understand it all in one hit. But of course, I’ll only get the one hit. So did I “breathe” it? The right word may hit me later. I did my best to take it all in amongst the massive crowd (other procrastinators).
I saw the chronology of a painful, brave, beautiful life. Infidelity, illness, abortions, and scandals, scandals, scandals! There was such a life force that reverberated through all of the colors, weirdness, and shapes. And a defiance. She is very alive. Frida Kahlo surpassed death in her art. (I wish my damn phone would stop autocorrecting Frida to “Friday”).
Sometimes I ask myself if I am extraordinary. I feel naked and absurd writing this sentence, actually admitting I have this thought. Regularly.
If I “could” EVER be extraordinary at just one thing - would I actually be able to?
Are there people who are, as a total being, extraordinary? I’m not sure. Are there levels of extraordinary and if so, where could I ever land - especially considering I am so isolated?
I feel like I occasionally try to induce the wrong people into “caring”. It’s like I decide certain people are interesting based on XYZ criteria, and just hope they find me equally interesting….
But sometimes they are actually… not. Not my selfish ideal person. Not my projection. And maybe I am not the role they wanted me to be either, so that’s gross on at least 2 levels.
Source of problem: I feel as if I can’t relate to people who haven’t lived through extreme and bizarre circumstances who have also SURVIVED with a sort of flair/grace. That can be hard to find. They are the ones I want to study… but better I stick to dead artists.
So back to that day. I left in a Lyft (I am petrified of driving downtown, ugh) after indulging in a very unexciting-but-better-that-nothing chocolate muffin at the cafe. I thought about what I saw. Comparing myself to a genius is unnecessary and stupid, but I thought about how she lived - she had lovers… but also faced unbelievable betrayal. Still, I thought - the lovers are people who will, for better or worse, never forget her power. And they are now dead as well. Funny how that works. But her art is alive. It’s even funnier how that works.
I am someone who walks around and thinks. And scribbles thoughts furiously (literally/figuratively) in notebooks. Sometimes I pry pieces of glitter out of the unfiltered rubbish. It’s all proof of a life. A life of observing, wandering, treading water…. And trying to make the best of what’s left over. Sometimes not much.
There were two women seated near me after I had my post-exhibit snack at the cafe having a conversation - picking apart a man. “The last time I seen him was February 15th, 2024.” The woman doing most of the speaking seemed to be confused about whatever this man is/was. The last thing I heard her say before I successfully punted my muffin wrapper straight in the trash can from a couple of feet away (the extent of my athletic abilities) was a resigned sigh - “This always happens.”
Yes, “this” indeed always happens. Females (and males? But what do I know about them…) overanalyze, pick apart breadcrumbs. I don’t know what “this” she was referring to. It could be anything or nothing. A mixed signal maybe. Which is no signal at all. “This.” It always happens. She sounded really sad. It leaked over to my table. I tried to beam a “FORGET HIM” over to her table, knowing it would never reach her, knowing I was probably being creepy for listening in… but in my defense it’s not like I had a wiretap and she was right there.
So that means I’m normal. Right? Or wait… no. I wanted to be “extraordinary.” Just admit it your blooming delusion! But maybe don’t water it, Caitlin. Just water your kindness and pop the bubble you live in. Somehow. Even though you sometimes feel dirtier outside of your soap bubble. I feel like a lot of relationships (romantic or otherwise) are really just trauma exchanges and what makes them seem bearable at first is the sham affection.
But what do I know? (Other than that.)
More later.
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