Journal entry:
6/18/25
Continued:
As I write, the shadow figure returns to my mind, haunting the edges of my thoughts. I wonder if it is a mirror of my own darkness. The word ‘irrational’ takes on a strange new weight when I remember the daydream that sparked my Sacred Blood project. I almost never speak of it, because it arrived like a flood of sorrow from somewhere deep within.
In that dream, I drift without a body, suspended above a statue. As I float, I recognize her as a Caryatid, one of the silent sisters who bear the weight of a Greek temple’s roof. When I peer closer, the first light of morning catches the tears streaming down her face.
The sorrow I felt was nearly overwhelming, heavier than anything I had ever experienced. That daydream was unlike any other, its pain echoing with a voice that seemed to call from a world before slavery. Years later, after standing before the Caryatids at the Acropolis Museum, I encountered the weeping Aphrodite, the Greek reflection of Nephthys.
I never made art simply to call myself an artist. My true purpose was to speak for those who walked this earth before me. The gratitude I felt rose from my inner goddess, who thanked me for my honesty, loyalty, and courage in creating the “Books of Service.” I released the Cyclops within and redeemed the Danaii, my own hidden feminine spirit, who at last realized that the curse could be broken and a new way chosen. To my surprise, laughter bubbled up inside me.
To my surprise, laughter bubbled up inside me. It seems I also managed to rescue a piece of the naked truth itself.
