Time and time again
Lately postmodernism has nearly consumed my consciousness. Perhaps this is because I’m become more aware of the multiple narratives of my live, or just maybe Michael Oliver has turned us all into postmodern minions. I’ve been painting constantly. I suppose I’m partially trying to escape my home reality. My sister Francis is convinced I’m retarded in the truest sense of the word because my mother told her about my non verbal learning thing. She thinks it’s ok to call me crazy to my face. Not crazy in a joking sense, crazy as in, “This woman should be given meds and put in a straight jacket as soon as is humanly possible.” I want so desperately to find someway to communicate with her, with anyone for that matter. I need someone who loves to talk and listen for hours. We could lay around on a couch, bed, or sidewalk, whatever seems most appropriate. My sketch book is filling up. I need to make a trip to Plaza’s clearance bin.
-Margaret
-Margaret