They All Curled Up Like Lil Fetuses

So, I found this thing that I wrote. It is a monologue. And it’s pretty strange. I kind of can’t believe I’m sharing it. The character, let’s call her Maw the Artist. She’s ranting about the relationship between love, art, and faith. Sometimes her language is a little offensive.

I been singin songs. Losta songs. Daydreamin and daydreamin and takin down notes. Takin notes on the songs. I wanna write them down but I can’t. They stay in my brain all crumpled up. Them and the pictures I wanna paint. They all curled up in the back a my brain. Curled up like lil feuses. Bitty babies. When a baby comes out it starts lookin like a good idea. It smell you, you smell it, but from that moment it aint never going to be the same. No never. You gotta take care of that child even when it starts to feel like a bad idea and you just wanna leave it there in the bathtub til she drown.

Can’t let em come out. Gotta keep them in there til yous bout to splode. Yeah splode. It might kill you, but there’s never been a splosion that made bad art. Nope. The art always kills the artist. Always. If it don’t they ain’t no real artist.

Careful what you give birth to, better be somethin worth dyin for. Cause you ought to know that once it comes out, somebody gonna try to kill you for it.

Like that Becky Black. Yeah all she did was sing someone else’s song and now she gotta stand by it. Billions of people none of them knowin little Becky, but now they know her song. They hate her for it. Can’t never go back. No, she sung it.

Gotta love what you do. It’s gotta be your lovechild. No bastard is worth dying for. It’s gonna be hard. Always hard. Better, safer, bein alone.

The lover and the artist aint different. Nope. Child kills the mother, takes over her. Art kills the artist. Jesus aint no different neither. Nope that Jesus, don’t you dare let him grab your heart. Lock it away safe and sound. He got the key, but he don’t always use it, so you gotta lock it and hope to the devil that he don’t come knockin. You let him in and there aint gonna be no you left. He gonna squeeze the you right outa you. That’s what he done to me.

He’s done a lot, but I’m still too much alive. But I am gonna be the most dead person you ever knew some day. That Jesus is gonna knock down my damn door and make me all him.

Then some man, a real man, he gonna do it too. I’ll be all his and we’ll both be dead with that Jesus takin over us. Then we gonna love and sing and and run hard through life. And our lovin and singin gonna bring about a damn love child and a song. And theys all that’s gonna be. They gonna outlive us. My baby out there singin Maw’s song. That’ll be it and we’ll be done. Done and dead. That’s how it’s gonna be. But thas the right kinda dyin. Dreamin till it kill you.

Choose your murderer. Choose what you give birth to. Don’t give birth to no Friday. Them Weekend parties aint worth dyin for. Don’t go dyin for no parties. Choose your murderer. He’s gonna out live you. Member that. Before you, through you, after you. Shit.


About Jacquelyn Barnes

Former English Literature and Writing major at Whitworth University. Spanish Language minor. Browne's Addition Resident. Editorial Assistant at Gray Dog Press. Interested in postcolonial, multicultural, and feminist theories. Former ski racer. Longboarder. Runner. Member of Vintage Faith Community Church (we have no building). Painter. Morning person. View all posts by Jacquelyn Barnes

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