in progress...
sometimes icecream feels like a warm winter day in Alabama, in January and I think about the blonde angel sitting in mexico painting to heal, and healing to paint. Not for the cancer, but for herself, and the cancer happened to be both real and metaphorical. and metaphysical. I keep thinking about shards of glass and tire tracks. She made her own wings out of shreaded canvas and wire. She slit the cloth with splintered glass and didn't notice her tender finger's blood because bleeding doesn't matter when you are making wings for your own death.