FIFTH MEDITATION FOR FUTURE GHOSTS

I am dying. People will not understand. There is no proof of my existence. Only this: Lucia Joyce and Alexander Calder. From now on I am not a woman, not a girl, not a memoirist or a confessor, or a…

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I am dying. People will not understand. There is no proof of my existence. Only this:

Lucia Joyce and Alexander Calder. From now on I am not a woman, not a girl, not a memoirist or a confessor, or a body, but a spirit. Sacred geometry, phi, Vitruvius. We see perfection in the harmony of Mondrian or in Garbo’s face due to proportional symmetry. The grace of mathematical proportion and the sui generis beauty of imperfection. This is not a work about my body. But some will say this is a work about women’s bodies and the intersection of patriarchy and bodily ownership. I cannot care what they think and be simultaneously unfettered in the process. Say what you will. I am my own wife. I am my own mother. I am my own daughter. I am boss and soother.

Like Hilma af Klint, wait twenty years after my death to examine my work. Spiritual geometry resides in the folds of the body and the God of the camera eye. Let me hide in the shadows. If I choose not to provoke but to seduce or soothe, I am Judas in lingerie. There is a Tesla coil growing out of my head. And my limbs are deciduous and bruised. I am evaporating. I am evaporating. I am gone.

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