In the mental image, I am naked, my hair is to the floor, and I am standing on a black plane of nothingness. There are birds in my hair because I hate birds and they make me think I'm a nest. Twigs and worms are slinking around. There are eggshell bits in the strands. No yolk, since my cholesterol is high. The only thing I have in my hand is a big piece of white chalk. The chalk is disappearing as I watch myself being. Quickly, I have to bend over and draw a circle around me so that I am defined on a lily pod outlined in the white chalk in the massive black plane of nothingness. But, everytime I bend down and start drawing my ring, I am in interrupted by somebody in the distance calling out an idea, "Nation and Indigeneity!!". I look up. I stop drawing. I stand naked and feel myself falling. I reach down quickly and start to draw myself into the plane again. Suddenly I hear, "Painting in the 19th century Novel!". Up I whip again. My neck hurts. I stare off "at the voice." It's invisible. Where is it coming from? I yank my head down again and feel myself descending. Down into the miasma blackness. Whip up my head. Where is my chalk? I go back down. I start to draw. Yes, that's it. Painting. Yes. Draw, fast, draw, fast. I have almost encircled myself when suddenly "Photography in Cuzco!" Rip. Yank. No circle. Fall. Idea. Fall. Huidobro. Fall. Kollao. Fall. Draw. Erase. Encircle. Circumscribe the self into the black plane of nothingness or float around in the miasma (aka Doe).
The other idea, perhaps less drastic, is to just tattoo onto my hand a word that is my lighthouse for the next three years. Like, "Caffeine." Maybe it needs to be a phrase. "Keep your eye on the ball." No, you're not Chrissy Evert. "All good things in all good time." No, you're no longer a stonette. Shit..."Stop obsessing about process. Produce." That's pretty good. Although, if I didn't obsess about the process how would I ever produce? Maybe my production is the process. Oh, quick, draw. There's my lilypod.
Anyway, back to the abyss. I'm redrawing the line, again and again. My marks, my incomplete circles, will one day be appreciated by my students at Podunk State Community College of the Mountains and my memoirs (aka this shit) will be published by Random House. They'll wonder about my tattoo and my two trusty readers can say, "Oh, we know what she meant."
