especially me

today
i hate
everybody
& wonder
if i should just
drink beer
for breakfast
because
what
the
fuck
i am stuck
in a world
full of
bullshit
& it’s all just
bullshit
&
yes
i know tomorrow
or later today
(after that beer probably)
i will feel
differently
& even might
find myself
aglow
with brotherly love
but
right now
i especially hate
that person.

another one still from this angsty week of mine. i’m a big old snarky mess sometimes. but, rest assured, the person i hate most of all is often myself.

ink & bamboo pens are wonderful for expressing messy feelings.

ps. if you are looking for some good stuff on netflix to have an angsty binge…i recommend happy and russian doll.

Advertisements

i don’t want to be a racist

i grow
but it is not
enough
i evolve
but i still have
a million years
to go
i check my thoughts
my actions
my reactions
who am i
i am not
who i am
i do not embrace
change
for the popular
or the political
i embrace change
because
it is
the right
thing to do
to grow
to evolve
to be ready
to work
a million more years
if i need to.

i grew up in an extremely racist area of illinois. a sundown county. my parents were rarely blatantly racist, but it was there. subtle racism right alongside the subtle sexism & homophobia.
my town was white white white. in high school i had a biracial classmate, and we all thought he was very exotic.
i am grateful for things like sesame street and fat albert for showing me worlds other than my small town at a young age.
but it wasn’t enough to stop the programming. the racist thoughts from rooting in my brain.
because, even though i abhor racism, i still have racist thoughts.
i used to use it as proof that i was a bad person, but then i read that what one is programmed through upbringing, culture, & society to think is one’s initial thought in a situation. the thoughts that come after, is that person’s efforts to rewire the programming.
and those little voices are loud & persistent. they don’t tolerate my racist programming at all.
yay for that.
but, holy crap, when will the programming go away? will it ever go away?

the programming also pops up with sexist and homophobic opinions, which i find especially weird since i identify as a bisexual feminist. i guess i shouldn’t be surprised that i was programmed to also hate & judge myself.

i mean, after all, hasn’t this art journal project been all about exorcising those demons?
but i am so incredibly uncomfortable writing about this and sharing it with whomever reads it. i feel like such a bad person.
but i will continue.
it is one thing i can do.
i can change.

ruin me

creeping
uninvited
unwanted
my self-conscious with a cruel
twist
brings him to life
in my dreams
again
i push him out
turn off the radio
when
our song plays
write one thousand poems
to exorcise
his haunting of me
yet!
he creeps
uninvited…unwanted
back
into my dreams
where i am
defenseless
back
into my heart
where i am
ruined
all
over
again.

stuck like this

i can feel
the broken parts
inside me
clenching into a
fist
determined
not to be
removed
not to be
healed
staking their claim
to my ego
to my
self
a vice-like grasp
on every
thought
that dares to
venture
out
testing the waters
of my personality
today
“you are a useless
&
awful
person,”
they whisper…but
to me
it sounds like
a scream.

okay. so i write these pages as the thoughts tumble through my brain. so the date on the page is the date i wrote it. i illustrate them in the order i write them.
some days i have several thoughts screaming to be heard.
some days my brain is nice & quiet.
it often happens that i have several pages of script before i get an idea for what image should be with each page. usually i am a day or two or even more behind on illustrating my thoughts.
so! it often happens that by the time i illustrate a thought, i have recovered from it. if that makes sense. i mean, this whole ordeal is just a long, drawn-out exorcism.

ta-da.
(in other words–i feel much better now…but this thought is a valid one…the battle inside me. parts of me wanting to heal–other parts fighting it tooth & nail.)

the scars we wear

this is a poem i wrote some time back. i found it in a file i had titled “one up on sylvia plath; i have an electric oven.” the image is another ink brush on canvas.

The literati mafia

the scars we wear make us
interesting
the scars we wear make us
devastating
the scars we wear do not heal
when we need them most
to heal
i wear my scars proudly
i wear my scars with profound misery
i glorify my scars
i fail to hide my scars
mostly
i joke about my scars
until someone is cruel to me,
knowing or not knowing
sticking fingers deep into the tender scar
twisting, prodding…
but most painful of all…
walking away from me
from my scars
look at me though!
aren’t my scars pretty?
don’t they make me charming & unique
don’t they even make me…beautiful?
in a way?
how can you leave me?
look at me now…
covering my scars
wallowing
weeping
until a light breaks
& i can see your scars
how did i never notice your scars?
scars i had poked & prodded
&
worst…

View original post 35 more words

being present

it’s like
all of a sudden
(after 30 years of work)
i have found my way
to the present
i’m not waiting
for today to end
so tomorrow can be
a better day
i’m not tormenting myself
with the past
i’m here
noticing
letting go
living
i have spent so much
of my life
haunted
but my ghosts are leaving me now
i am no longer
a good habitat
for bad memories.

awakening

& then one day you realize
that the one
who you had convinced yourself
loved you truly
you realize that he
is just as big a
turd
cunt
fuck
as the rest of them
& you don’t know how to feel
because what does it mean
if there was no love
in your life
after all
no love
what does that say
about you?
did you hold onto him so hard
just to prove to yourself
that someone
could
love
you?
& what does it mean that
that proof
that validation
has now
vanished?
what do you do
now
that delusion has hardened
into
reality?

hold on tight, dear readers. this is just the first of several journal pages of the quick & twisty emotions found in this one when her hot turns cold & vice versa.

don’t tell…the last page?

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.

fuck it.

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.
yay.

the journal page is from 1995 when seymour & i lived in austin, tx with peacocks on our front lawn .

feeling it

i kinda feel like
opening my wrists
& painting one last
picture
blood for ink
ink for blood
until nothing is
left
of me.
i know this is not
a healthy thought
a hopeful thought
but it is a feeling
i cannot
deny.
you might even feel it
too
if you were
overwhelmed
unloved
emotionally stripped
to the bone
& pretty much sure
you’d done it all
wrong.

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.
and birthdays.
and…well…life.

but i’m not giving up just yet.

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑