08 July 2012

G.F., April 29th, 1976 - Ahora

earlier this year i wrote about la fabi muriendo en santa marta, por la playa tayrona, el 29 de febrero. su pagina en FB todavia está. me parece muy raro y raro más cuando alguien habla a la pagina como si fuera la persona. it is not. it is all for show; the entire affair is for show. the entire machine was constructed as a show. without the internet how would you mourn? this weekend we saw a barrage of similar posts for another friend, some closer than others to her, and i guess all i have to say is that death and facebook should not coexist. i find it trite. and i find that it opens up the possibility for idiots to unsuspectingly say something stupid, because they are naive in trying to share, help, or express. a mutual acquaintance posted an unrecognizable photo of our friend from their website/blog, which ultimately looked like she was trying to drive traffic back to the site on which said unrecognizable photo existed while simultaneously trying to book a job with 7x7 magazine on an article that would concern itself with roadside food, or some equally cloaked bougie experience. fuckoutahere. that said, there are photographs and there are images - let us not mistake the two. i'll toss rendering in there, too, why not. we all mourn differently; i understand that. my question as always is are we doing what we need to do, what we want to do, or what we think the person we thought we knew would sincerely want? i am skeptical of most people where acting for others is concerned, and i apologize for that. this period, i qualify it from june 1st on, continues to shock. i knew this woman of 36 to be a number of things and from our limited friendship my memories and/or insights are as such: limited. i knew she was in pain, physically or otherwise, i knew her palette to be earthen-hued, greens and browns and muted muddy tones, erring on the obsfuscated and often times messy. when speaking (read: shooting) about her father, the images were staid, monochrome. she transported herself where she needed to be in this way. one photo shows her in a button down blue shirt, the colors of the wall a sort of saturated rose-wheat color, and she is seen from the side exiting the room. in front of her is nothing, or the other side, as we have to read it now, an extension of those colors, bright blue leading into an unknown space filled entirely with fields of wheat or maybe just more of that saturated wheat color...whatever colors...a forest, tundra, the red flag on coney island flapping in the wind, an infinite tank filled with baby walruses, an ocean under oceans, her father's house, who knows. not you nor i, as everything we believe is because we want to...that said, her laugh would echo in that field, playa, or forest... insofar as what 'people have been saying,' i know we can all agree on that.

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