Everything I Do

Everything I do has roots in our shared history. You ruined… and saved… my life. This is a gooey, torn, warm letter to you. No matter how hard I try to be mild and placid about this, I end up blowing up into tears or I get flushed… like when you’re driving to a new place in a new city, and you are close to being late for an important meeting or interview. You know? That uncomfortable just-about-to-start-sweating feeling? I was always this ball of emotions. I wore my heart on my sleeve, so to say. That was the thing about you. You were clever, and cautious in love. No matter how much of my emotion I lent you, you would spend it all and leave me broke.

And you were the one. You did some fucked up things to me. I went on anti-depressants because you made me feel like crying, laughing, yelling was bad. I was meant to be like you. A cold, cool, quiet facade. Oh, but  I did wish I could be you. The problem was, I came into this world with little grace and a huge sense of embarassment. I couldn’t ever just play off a mistake like you. So, I guess I couldn’t cut it as your girlfriend. I just wasn’t appropriate for the life you want to live. Okay.

Interjecting yourself here and there definitely gets my adrenaline going. Am I still in love with you? I finally feel like I am that “cool” woman that you could have loved… It only took a few failed suicide attempts to give up… Now, I actually don’t care what people see when they look at me, what they feel when they meet me. That shrewish sense of self only came to me after I had been hurt so bad… so bad that I didn’t care about anything. Running sustained me. Repeating “it’s gonna be okay” over and over, for seven miles every day, sprinting, as if this reassured the message. So I do still love you. Like a beat dog. I cannot lose hope that I will gain some approval from you some day.

This is a letter that you would ignore. Others will be bored by it, or call me asking if I’m okay. The truth of the matter is, I just wanted to say it. In a public way… like my heart being broken is a catastrophe worse than any other. But I have to confess it. It pinches the inside of my ribs when I mention your name, and I am not sure if I can ever love anyone as passionately as I did you. It makes me nauseaous looking at my husband sometimes, because I feel guilty for feeling the way I do. I need this documented so that when people see my paintings, and they want an explaination, I can refer to this letter. Every drawing, painting, song, story, gesture, or garment always relates to you. You Fucking Asshole.




This entry was written by Sarvey and published on September 14, 2011 at 9:44 pm. It’s filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

2 thoughts on “Everything I Do

  1. It surprises me that we work so intimately and talk about our art as thoroughly as we do, and I have never known that those feelings were such a vital driving force in your work.

    I know he has a literal and personal meaning to you. I also feel that in a more general way, artists often have an emotional fixture in their mind that drives the work. Some call this thing a “muse.” There must be such a thing as a negative muse. Picasso’s paintings feature different women at different points in his work, and though they seem intensely important in the frame of each painting, in the long run they are merely tools for painting. I see this person as being more important in your mind and work than in real life. Maybe this is not a bad thing. For the sake of ART!! Haha. But seriously. It’s less important to me that this person is driving you crazy than that he is driving you period. Put that shit in your gas tank and burn it up! Hell yes! (Sorry to be so profane.) I definitely have my negative muses, some that I hate, some that I want to out-do, and some that just feed the volatile emotions that make me the extreme person I am.


    I just googled “negative muse,” and what do you know? I found this article:
    “The power of the ‘negative muse’” by Maureen Corrigan


    Interestingly, the author talks about the gender gap of muse-dom, and then references the “negative muse” of “Daddy” appearing in poetry and artworks by female artists and authors such as Sylvia Plath.

    “You do not do, you do not do Any more, black shoe
    In which I have lived like a foot
    For thirty years, poor and white,
    Barely daring to breathe or Achoo. Daddy, I have had to kill you . . .”
    -Sylvia Plath, as quoted in the Corrigan article

    The negative muse is a fixture that must be destroyed in order for you to create art, and it is a torturous rather than romantic form of inspiration. However, bottom line, it generates the art. So in that sense, I relate your very raw and genuine and non-preconceived rant against this ex-boyfriend to the wider Oedipal “father-killing” of feminist artists of our time and of the past century.

  2. We can only hope that this guy is aware of how you feel and suffers the bludgeon of this letter at some point or another. Until then, just use him. If you wanted resolution (which I’m not assuming is possible in this situation) you would have sought that out already (and perhaps you have, hence the letter).

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