katunia

(the a-woman has been deported. i will be given some designer glasses. i do research in an archive. i might be writing something for a book. i live near the wonderful wrangelkiez.)

a million things to write about. other things keep me from doing so. the old story - over and over again. no matter where i turn to - my head, my thoughts, my ... - she will call on the phone to hold on to me, to pull me back, to reproach me of all that has or has not happened. have i written that last christmas was all about eating (this one's about my choice of words)? yes i have. do i care about all and everyone (this one's about deportation prison) but not about my very own mother. no i dont.
how to deal with this person who picks up the most superficial information about me and takes it as a sign of ... what? if i knew. how to deal with this situation? i don't write much private stuff anymore but things haven't changed. when i write about politics (the deportation prison) she will still complain and blame me for (?) and call me on the phone to accuse me of...
this is somehow not my space anymore. it has become a space for my mother to nurture her depressions, her fears, her unwillingness to let me go, her lack of distance. it has become a space for me to feed my mothers depressions and fears. no matter what - she will digest it all. each and every phrase. end even though this place was meant for more and has given room to other things - this whole situation occupies my mind and keeps me from writing.

here i go again... writing in english, so that she won't understand. this is sick. don't know how to free myself.