ding dong

i was at the doctor’s office yesterday as i have been avoiding a physical for a number of years. you would think after four kids & not even knowing the number of people who have seen my lovely crotch in baby related matters…i wouldn’t be fazed by having my lady bits cranked open & ogled…but maybe one never learns to enjoy that experience….
anyhoo.
my doctor–literally–said to me, “tell me about your mother.”
it was everything i could do to not launch into a re-enactment of the scene from blade runner...you know the one–and if you don’t, you better get the fuck to a library & check that movie out (the original one.)

i can’t remember where i was going with this.

so my dead dad was going to be shipped back to illinois (aka the place where i live) to be buried with his family in the local catholic cemetery. i have had a stress headache about it since monday. i have been cleaning (i hate cleaning–it seems i do not have a domestic bone in my body) & dreading the descending judgement of my family who would be returning to our childhood home & how i would be viewed. bracing myself for enduring snide little comments about cobwebs & dust & having microwaves & coffee makers (i also hate most appliances other than blenders) brought from the basement to clog the counter space. and do i need to take down my pagan alter & put away my art & witchy things?

then this morning i got word that my mom has decided to cremate him & keep him in texas.
i suspect she is doing it as a last ditch effort to keep him away from his mom whom she was always jealous of & who is buried in the cemetery he was headed for….
but! whatever reason that crazy lady has for keeping my dad in texas, i am grateful.

when i heard my dad had died, all i felt was relief. like the scene in wizard of oz…then dread when i realized that his death meant i would have to see my family.
though i am lonely & isolated, i am not so desperate for company that i would relish a visit from my family.
knowing my little world is safe once again, i feel at peace.
yikes, right?
either i am the most awful person in the world…or…i dunno. maybe i am the most awful person in the world.
ah well–fuck it.

oh, & here are snippets of projects available over on my patreon page…an art journal page plus the final page of “fetish” & two more pages of “stolen”

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fiercely believing

how do i exist
if no one believes
in me?
my parents
believed in me as a pretty baby
a quiet baby
not so much
when i bloomed
into a strange flower
different 
from them
short of cannibalizing me
like disillusioned 
hamsters
their belief 
faded
sisters
believed in me
in theory
when convenient
one brother 
believed in me
i can say that
because he is dead
& no one can tell me
different
teachers & therapists
well sure
but they were paid to
boyfriends
husbands
i was a game
to win
an uprising 
to squash
a puzzle
to berate
no belief required
friends…?
seemingly quick 
to betray
to disappear
to spout belief
while demonstrating
the opposite
so
much like the tooth fairy
whom i kept alive
way past the age most 
let her dissolve
i keep myself alive
fiercely believing
despite evidence
urging me
to fade away.

while crying in the shower yesterday, i wrote this poem. with the challenge of getting out of the shower & past four screaming minions to the journal on my desk to compose it before it washed away down the drain.
picture that.
i did get dressed first, so be sure to add clothes.

karl shapiro, i think, once wrote a poem about crying in the shower. i think i used to recite it in speech contests. little did i know how useful that poem would prove.

this thought is a bit melodramatic, i suppose. a bit emo. angsty. 
but, seriously, it is something i struggle with. i find it very difficult to believe that anyone believes in me. 
and if they do, i dismiss it as their not knowing me well enough to know any better…or knowing that one day they will stop believing & walk away.
i think it is our nature
at this point in our history
to not believe in each other
to not have invested feelings for one another
in a culture of convenience & right now
belief is too risky.

i made peanut butter cookies (which are kick ass) and i am going to make lo mein & eggrolls for dinner.
thanksgiving just has a bad feeling for me. a holiday of bad energy. as a pagan witch, i have like three harvest holidays & believe in giving thanks every day…so thanksgiving really is redundant for me.

but i do hope y’all are having a good day.
i believe in you!

ps. while pooping this morning (i do my best thinking in a locked door bathroom) i decided i really do need to put my melodramatic art journal musings into a collection with self-portraits. you know, one of those self-publish books.
how do i do that? are their sources that any of y’all recommend? thoughts? 

half-assed theories & no plans for thanksgiving

i have just finished reading two different suspense novels that were suspenseful…but so so so fucking badly written. one was a writer who apparently has written dozens of books & won awards. has she just gotten lazy? or have readers become lazy & writers aren’t trying? or is the market just saturated with bad writers and it is difficult to find a well-written novel these days?

fuck a duck.
i need to write a book. no, i’m not a great writer, but i can write decent dialogue, goddammit. i have read a few blogs on here where there is brilliant dialogue. i don’t think someone who writes crappy dialogue should be given awards & book deals. but that’s just me.

i have mentioned a couple times that in my teens & early twenties i wrote a half a dozen books or so. none are published.
and then i quit writing books–when i should have kept writing & tried to get better.
why did i quit?
i just lost the ability.
and got distracted by men.
this all happened around the time that i met & became good friends with paul tobin. so it is now my working theory that not only men i dated took the best pieces of me but also men i was friends with.
paul tobin stole my writer’s soul.
when i met him he only wrote comics & semi-autobiographical short stories. he was all envious of my ability to pump out full length fiction. he would ask me all kinds of questions. after becoming friends with me he was writing novels, & i could only come up with short fiction & semi-autobiographical comics…. and he never took me seriously…even though i went to  him for advice on comics & writing. he just treated me like a bimbo & then took off with my novel-writing abilities. these days he will barely return an email. he got what he wanted.
it’s a theory.
what else could it be?

so how do i get my novel-writing soul back?  of course…my novel will have pictures, as all should. who’s idea was it to take all the pictures out of books for grown ups? as if.

and it is thanksgiving. i waited. i received no invitations. maybe i was supposed to invite people here? i’m better at being a guest than a host. trust me.

i could butcher a couple of ducks. i mean, too many males…& y’all can guess how i am feeling about males these days….

okay.
i don’t like thanksgiving. i don’t. you know, alcoholic father…bitter mother…november in illinois.
then i married two different men who’s extended families were not drinkers.
a dry thanksgiving? are you mad???

anyhoo. 
i will be doing art, working on my soon-to-be-best-selling novel (with pictures) & watching the incredibles 2 (which i have only been waiting like 13 years to see) and maybe some reruns of remington steele & moonlighting as i am now convinced that they were instrumental in allowing me to release my innate feminism while living in a catholic (aka women-hating) small town (aka women-hating) farm family…so i’m thinking my boys would benefit.

wow.
i think the flavor of the day is bitter.
with traces of sweet…there is always sweet
you just have to get past the bitter & will find my sweet.

 

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