My mother always used to gnash her teeth at her belief that I identified somehow with Frida Kahlo. I never have, although I adore her paintings and her story. No, but since losing the ability to paint I have identified with Beethoven. Yes, I still make art, and lots of it. No, it's not painting, and sometimes that loss makes me weep. I used to think it was great to be an artist rather than a something-with-a-shelflife -- like a dancer, perhaps. It is a cosmic joke that the very most important thing around which my life was formed, the core of my very being - became impossible. It's sad to me, yet interesting in a way, too. Interesting in the way it was once when I was in an emergency room watching my blood spread rapidly through some wadding: that is, I can always find something to think about or watch or turn over in my mind as I search for odd perceptions, but I would never have chosen to be in that predicament.

I try to ignore it, but sometimes it makes me sad. I don't mind being sad, but I get annoyed with myself if I ever feel envious. That I should not feel.

*sporks self* Cheer up, dopey.

10.2.07