N e l l i e T i n d e r
Art. Appropriate and Instructive.
Nellie Writes!
SELECTED WRITINGS OF NELLIE TINDER
From TAKE HEART: NT'S 2008 PS122 Performance
which means I must have been under 11,
and it must have been prior to 5th grade,
because the rope swing left when we redid the backyard
in that early 90’s style of vast wooden decking,
and I know that must have happened before 5th grade
because in fifth grade I created an autobiography.
The autobiography was the catalyst to learning that my mother and father had previously married other people. (no children)
Which I cried cried cried about
in the parking lot
outside of the old K-Mart in Parsippany
that we went to
as an errand
after my mother read a statement
(in aforementioned autobiography I wrote in fifth grade)
that said my parent’s had never been married before
and felt she needed to correct me
and then tell me the tragic details
Of her first marriage
and my plump little self cried both because
the image of perfect love between my mother and my father had been ruined
but also because even in fifth grade I had a keen sense for drama,
and more fun than hearing about the cinematic suffering
of my small-framed and martyred mother
was weeping about it while staring at a lonesome shopping cart
in the midst of a winter evening
in a New Jersey K-Mart parking lot.
And in the autobiography that brought on her confession
and my realization that the suffering of your mother is titillating
and happiness has more to do with survival of challenges
Rather than the perfection of a picture,
In that autobiography were proud snapshots of myself and dog Lisa
(who I wanted to call Isabel but came with her name)
standing on our new deck.
Photo: Dog Lisa. Myself. On deck.
(Autobiographical caption: my new deck!)
From FOR ARTISTS ONLY
JENNIE:
My dear and faithful friend,
I hope you’re having a wonderful, soul nourishing time in the brackets unspecified end brackets mountains. I’m writing to you in the twilight of a summer evening; restless as a teenager, itchy like a kid. Julia is singing again. She is terminally singing. The sound of her voice has become like the drumroll of the enemy army approaching my interior world. I feel so desperately full of hatred. I want to pull out her hair, I want to disembowel her, I want to stamp on her skull then commit hari kari. I’m shocked with myself, what kind of evil am I? I try tactic after tactic, deep breathing, blatant honesty : nothing seems to work. Poor dear: it’s not her fault she annoys the shit out of me. I try to be kind but my benevolence is presumptuous and does her even less service than my anger. I think I shouldn’t have come here. I’m suffering and I hate myself for suffering. I’m maudlin and over-romantic. I think about love as a default and I’m not even that interested in it. I wish I could work with my hands and I wish I didn’t wish that. I wish I could really feel rather than simply know that this will pass. I don’t wish you were here because I’d be a total b-i-t-c-h. At the same time I miss miss miss you. Gros Bisoux, Jennie
