She put the phone down and she started to ponder. Why is it that simple things get so complicated when she talks to her. Why is it that what she says matters so much? Why is it that she cannot ignore her words, disregard her opinions and simply say 'yes, mum' and go about her own business as if nothing really happened.
She always had a mind of her own and never really cared about what others thought about her. Yet, that daily phone call was always the phone call. A mood setter, an impending judgment, and ultimately, the recognition she sought. If she disagreed, she was simply devastated. She had to give approval on all her courses of action. Always. She was 40 and still emotionally dependent on her mother. Any disagreement put her off doing anything for the entire day.
And still, it was in those moments when her poetry was at its best. It was then when frustration poured its bittersweet ink onto her dog-eared notebook and gave birth to pages and pages of intricate imagery. Surreal spirals of the void of consciousness embracing furious confession. Blackbirds of her innermost springs nesting in the most surprising strata of the intellect. Senseless and yet highly significant thoughts wrought within the fine pattern of what she called 'my way of standing up to her'. Her rage, her cowardice, and her pain, all brought together in the sketchy curves of her writing, embracing the nude pages of the notebook. No drafts, no finishing touches, just torrents of words, of collocations, of phrases, patiently clustering until the next call.
In the end, her dependence, her agony were the utter source of her art. 'Beauty in helplessness and turmoil' - the tagline of her unlikely career and the summary of her existence.