my brain is congested. i feel ever so blocked right now. creatively & emotionally. everything i have written in my journal just seems dumb & badly written. maybe some of you are all like, “what’s new?” but usually i, at least, sincerely enjoy my badly versed random off-the-top-of-my-head thoughts & feelings.
but right now they are all crap.
i feel like there is so much to say–but i don’t know how to say it.
or draw it.
so i am working on some re-workings of older stuff while i stare at the blank pages of my current journal in disgust.
(i don’t hate you, art journal…it’s probably just hormones….)
this one–this one here–it is the self-portrait that got all of this nonsense started. i drew it in november of last year. i loved it. and then i just got carried away…almost a year & how may self-portraits later? (someone with a longer attention span than mine can count them–i know i have four pages up there.)
so here’s the one that started it all. a nice little picture of me hanging out with my demons.
in other news….
today i heard the thompson twins’s song “hold me now” which i have sung along with in every every every relationship i have had.
& today, i realized, i have no one to sing it to.
i am undeniably alone…like i said in yesterday’s post–even in my imagination.
& then i started crying.
except of course for the single dads who are fishing for women on instagram? what’s up with that?
instagram is so weird.
and i am having nightmares like crazy. i have started having a re-occurring dream about wasps–the insects (i have daily fears of both kinds of wasps–people & insects.)
in real life, i am afraid of wasps. i have yet to be stung by one & one of my life goals is to not be stung by one.
so now i am having nightmares about wasps.
one had a wasp just hanging out on the back of my neck until my big brother (who was killed in 2008) got it off of my neck for me. my big brother has been in a lot of my dreams lately. just as him–not back from the dead–in my dreams he has never died.
then i had a dream that a wasp came & started stinging me on the arm. it didn’t hurt as much as i thought it would but i still proceeded to whack it to pieces as soon as i overcame the paralysis it somehow caused my whacking arm.
so far in my dream analysis i have:
wasp=fear (of what?)
brother’s help/whacking=overcoming fear
but that’s all i got.
last night i had the worst dream i’ve had in a long time. it was completely fucked up & i feel sick to my stomach just thinking about it.
i tried to write about it…but i can’t.
is anyone else feeling this? just curious. i know sometimes stuff like this can be cosmic.
ps. i just found a pad of 12X16 water color paper in my supplies cabinet. so–good news–i can start doing really large final copies of my art journal pages.
bad news–i will have to start using my camera again instead of the scanner i have. which means the quality of my posted art might suffer.
pss. i think my goat agatha is going to kid soon! she is all belly & her milk bag is getting full! looks like i’m going to be a grandma soon.
i don’t know why
it hurts so much more than
it’s just that i don’t let myself
how good it
the other morning, i was laying in bed with poppy. he started talking about looking for blackberries with his dad…and i started thinking about all the good things about his dad…all the things that made him perfect for me.
all the things that could have been.
if he wasn’t also a narcissistic & emotionally abusive assfuck.
i always do it with my folks too.
who would i be today if i had had supportive parents? parents who loved me & supported me…instead of being, you know, narcissistic & emotionally abusive assfucks.
those fucking “could have beens….”
i felt myself
stories to tell myself
to keep me from studying
into my own
i tell myself stories
who will love me
no matter what
classic coping mechinism
a therapist might say
my therapist did say
i let it go
i let it go
my new obsession
the one to rock me to sleep
i let it go
& i felt
with a soft
i am not sure i said what i wanted to say. i may have to play with this one a lot before i am happy with it. and i have artist’s block. after drawing myself so so so many times (by the way–i put up a new page of my latest self portraits–in the menu above…it’s like over 50 self-portraits…holy fuck, right??) i just don’t know what to do with myself anymore.
in my art journal
the two pages before this one were (ick!) love poems to the person i was using as my new obsession. i did draw pictures for them. one sucked but the other wasn’t half bad…except…ew…love poems. so i am not posting them. because it is just dumb. dumb for me to think about love.
christ, i feel old today. & stupid. am i going to ever learn?
but, yes, i did quit the obsession. i did decide i didn’t feel like having a new person ignore me.
so i am quite quite quite
even in my imagination.
ps. the title today comes from the prayer i would say at night when i was terrified i was going to die during the night. it’s called “angel of god” i think.
angel of god, my guardian dear,
to whom god’s love commits me here,
ever this day, be at my side,
to light and guard,
to rule and guide.
fifteen years ago
i married the man i thought i would be with
i thought i had done my time
suffered my losses
dug my way back up from hell
& now i was being rewarded
we had a picnic wedding
we had a slip & slide
& a dunk tank
we wore flip flops
made up our vows
and promised to always
always & forever
be there for the other.
what went wrong?
like every other event in my life
i have analized
& tried to puzzle it out
but i guess i never actually made it out of hell
i was just on a new layer
of fresh pain.
why have i let them
why have i let men
have the best parts
giving my everything
for it not being
burn my fingers.
a short poem…a simple drawing. liberally using my white space.
i borrowed from my figure drawing book (expressive figure drawing) for this one.
have i finally exorcised this fucking ghost?
i hope so. i am tired of holding a torch that just burns the fuck out of my fingers. i want to move on and stop wondering which thing that i did wrong was the thing that drove him away.
it needs editing & more substance, etc. but the rough draft is available entirely for reading over at medium.
let me know if you have any suggestions for work that needs to be done on it. i am still pretty close to the story–i was crying as i wrote this last page. but i think in writing it, i am working out a lot of the bullshit that i was holding onto and calling love.
the journal page is from 1995 when seymour & i lived in austin, tx with peacocks on our front lawn .
i kinda feel like
opening my wrists
& painting one last
blood for ink
ink for blood
until nothing is
i know this is not
a healthy thought
a hopeful thought
but it is a feeling
you might even feel it
if you were
to the bone
& pretty much sure
you’d done it all
another inspirational post for my birthday.
i have been looking at art on instagram & hating my art…again. so i did this one with a bamboo pen to mix things up a little. i want to be more abstract. but i am not sure how to do that. so i might have to start trying harder. i know it is hard to break those habits of realism. even for someone like me who barely lives in reality.
anyhoo. i am not out on a ledge. i am just having a really rough time. the usual suspects. four year olds & forty year olds.
but i’m not giving up just yet.