new moon magic

i call my challenger
i look inside
i call you
wild womyn
to be my challenger
to face my fears
to break down
self-imposed walls meant
to keep me from
action
call me to arms
wild womyn
i am ready
***
i call my healer
i look inside
i call you
unblemished girl
who is still whole &
not
broken
i call you to teach me
again
to whisper magic
to the world around me
to listen
to hear
& to heal
the hurt
deep inside
i am ready.

it’s a new moon. as i work “the healing wheel” i have struggled to do this part. calling my challenger & my healer. so i decided to look inside & see what i could find.
the challenger was easy. i have felt her in there all through my life. now i just have to embrace her & listen to what she has to say.
the healer was a bit trickier as i sought a mother figure, however…
an internal mother figure is strangely absent (thanks, mom) but i found this little version of me. the one who would tromp around the woods rescuing animals & talking to trees. i think she is my healer. i think she will help make me whole again.

so a little witchy woo on this new moon as i continue to try to survive & heal my broken with my art journal self-portraits.
(in case you’d forgotten why i am obsessively drawing myself)

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homesteading blues

as i try to figure out
where i want to be
who i want to be
who i am…
shopping for a new home
means leaving behind some things
i love
but regret i could not love
enough
once upon a time
i was a girl with a gentle spirit
who loved animals
but that spirit was cruelly
broken
& now i am so conflicted
am i a homesteader?
or an urbanite?
can i be both?
can i live without
wide open spaces?
can i thrive
without a ready
community?

i cannot imagine myself staying here without going completely fucking nuts…but when i go to list my critters on craigslist, i struggle to imagine a life without them.
except that it would be a life with less things to worry about.
and that does sound nice.
but no geese wandering through my front yard? no goats taking care of the lawn for me? no ducks randomly flying onto the roof? no turkey to be ambassador to my property?

of course, i have no where to go right now. i just know i cannot stay here. i looked into intentional communities, but all of the ones equipped to house a family our size, are way way too expensive for this mom who does not prioritize income.

searching for treasure

i am inside myself a lot these days
well, most days
okay, every day
i am also
beside myself
with loneliness & isolation
that i think would be relieved
by companionship
but maybe i am one of those people who
even after dreams are achieved
will remain
empty

i’m shopping for a publisher. i think my collection is complete, but i am so tired of proofing & editing, that i cannot stand to read through it even one more time to see what needs to be polished.
i am over on the poets & writers site looking though all of the small presses. i have found a few dozen, but i keep looking because i expect to be rejected multiple times and want to be prepared.
i am tired of looking at publishers.
much like my personal life, i just want someone to walk up my driveway and say, “i am here to take care of all your (publishing) needs.”

alas…my driveway is empty…and in serious need of being re-graveled.

the map painting is one of many treasure maps i have made for different art assignments at uw-madison. fuck me, i love a treasure map.

my brain hurts (but my heart wants all the attention)

demented
deranged
like a mix tape
stuck on a loop
picking petals
off of flowers
loves me
loves me not
surely loves me
now
surely surely
at least a little?
how about now?
at least give me my heart
back
i’m surely sure
i need it
if i want to survive
this
demented
deranged
long ride on a
short
track
& please don’t
leave
me
alone
to figure out
the end
all on my
own.

in our ever-loving & slightly incestuous wordpress community, there is the inevitable inspiration via another blog.
after reading mike’s post about icarus, i was all like, crap–i haven’t done me as icarus yet.
so here you go.
i am the sun (look at me shine) that i fly too close to…but, my wings are not melting. goddammit, i am not falling. i am going to fly right into my own light. just you watch me.

fuck it, i am so a disney princess

oh my god
look how happy
elsa is
when she sets herself
free
to be
who she is meant
to be
let your hair down
& shimmy
yes
shimmy
elsa
as you
let it go
let it go
oh my god
how right you are
elsa
i need to embrace
my power
let go of the past
& sing
from the mountain tops
with all
my
might.

i will take my epiphanies where ever i find them. where ever i can find them.
& i can actually shoot daggers of ice at people who piss me off…or at least, metaphorically speaking i can so do that.

my seven year old was watching the “let it go” video from frozen on youtube over & over again last night as i pranced around the kitchen singing at the top of my lungs. it annoyed the crap out of my sons, but i felt wonderful. watching that princess figure out who she really is & what she is capable of, was seriously liberating. i know it sounds goofy–i am not at all a fan of disney & princesses…but elsa is something else.

(i’m going to go ahead & say i pulled off being a flapper better than my attempt at being a disney princess. see–there’s a reason i never wear evening gowns & heels)

great gatsby!

okay chickadee
make a choice
drink whiskey
or
play around on
dating sites…
no more
swiping under the influence
for you
yes, lonely eats like a
velociraptor
at your heart
& every
one
could be
might be
the one
especially
after a couple of glasses
of whiskey
but
don’t waste you
don’t waste your creative
energy
on men who don’t even stop
to listen
to your magic…
so
drink your whiskey
alone
& write
& draw
& paint
your lonely
your beauty
your masterpiece of you.

happy new year, y’all. here’s me as a flapper with some side boob. let’s see if that holds you over until 2019.
this is about as close to having a new year’s resolution as i get.

(i’m not drinking alone; the fruit flies are dying for some whiskey.)

speaking of damaged masterpieces…

when i did this american gothic self-portrait in my art journal last summer, i did it with some free verse about corporate farming.
however,
as i draw & paint a final draft of it today, i feel like it is a commentary on patriarchy.

i really love love love how it turned out. i worked really hard on it, praying the whole time i would not fuck up nor would i be attacked my crazed minions. at one point misha was chasing bluejean around my feet as i worked, and i had the foresight to step away and wait for her game to move away from my desk.
my art skills seem to be cooperating with my ideas these past few days. (thank you art fairies!)

so
mansplaining and the whole phenomenon of men just feeling the need to tell me how to live my life. men thinking they know me better than i know me.
fuck a duck, y’all.
i might be lost, but goddammit i am not asking a man for directions.
as much as i love y’all for having cocks & all–don’t act like one.
i will burn this motherfucker down.
i’ve got the match.

broken window

i am a stained glass 
window
with a rock thrown
through
i am 
a trampled
orchid
a torn canvas
a half-remembered 
masterpiece
i am irreparably
fantastically
damaged
i am perfectly
damaged
blood stains 
on a white carpet
i will never be
what i once
briefly
could have been
i will be something
even better
more complete
stronger
more interesting
with a story to tell
& a lesson 
learned
the hard way
(thereby easier
to remember.)

i’ve never really looked this closely at “the creation of adam” by michelangelo.
adam is totally, yo–what’s up god?
god should be all–don’t bother to get up adam, it’s just your lord breathing life into you. no, why get up? why put on a pair of pants just for the guy who just gave you the garden of eden?
as adam barely even lifts his arm to finger bump his creator.
also, lucky for me, michelangelo drew adam with plenty of curves so he was easy to translate to my body.
however, adam is surprisingly hairless. so i did have to add body hair.

i like how this one turned out.

love in the time of ocd

is it love
or ocd
do i want him
or is it just
that i want to get it
right
have a do-over
fix a wrong
scrub a black mark off
my soul
forgive me, ex-boyfriend
for i have sinned
it might be love
but it is most definitely
ocd
he is my crooked painting
my light switch
maybe left on
he is that itch
that involuntary
twitch
getting over him
getting over it
is my
mount everest
(i’m ready to start
climbing)

busy with the self-analysis, and it felt like an egon schiele moment.

i like how it turned out. this is how i feel. lumpy bumpy and dislocated. hunting for publishers and refreshing myself on writing query letters after a couple of decades of lying low…as i said in yesterday’s post, it all has me feeling fragile. trying to ignore the little voices as they snarl, “who the fuck would publish you?”
grumpy bumpy lumpy me.

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