i asked my kids if after i died of throat cancer from screaming at them if they would remember what i said. they answered “yes” …but only because they didn’t really listen to what i was saying i’m not sure how to feel… my throat hurts.
don’t ask how the packing is going…just…don’t ask….
these are images i did for a watercolor class some years back…a week of illustrations of how i felt as a mom. things haven’t changed too much.
holy crap what if what if you can’t do normal what if dysfunctional is the only speed you move at? you say you want stable & secure but then then you secretly shop for fucked up you crave crazy you love the lunatics lists of issues are a turn-on is this your sickness? is this something you can recover from? or is damaged & broken just the way you roll your own warped happy ish ending.
originally posted on october (inktober) 7th of last year. this page of the invisible exhibitionist was inspired by/stolen from one of my favorite male artists (& a bit of a freak himself) egon schiele.
i usually post a picture of the finished portrait next to the original…but my camera, abused by minions, refuses to work. i had to go shopping for a cheap replacement & am waiting for it to arrive. when it does, i will post some before & afters of this page as well as “the wrong one.” though i still don’t like my re-do of “the wrong one” (i tried three times to get it right) as much as i did the original. sigh. for love, support, & a new camera... (haha, you totally thought i was going to link you to my patreon page….)
this is not poetry i am not a poet i cannot stress that enough i never imagined myself poetic never ever ever it’s just that free verse is such an easy way to say what i need to say nevermind the rhyme i am not a poet not ever ever i just have a lot to say a lot rattling around in this brain of mine & the easiest way to get it out is to just blurt in free verse.
so i got rejected for the second time by the sustainable arts awards for mother artists & writers. poop i really really could have used the money. also, i can only find rentals that say “proof of employment!” telling me i need to be earning three times what the rent is. the real world just fucking sucks sometimes. but! am i down? am i out? no. for some fucking rainbow shooting out of unicorn ass’s reason, all i feel is hope. so fucking weird.
i wrote the above not-a-poem because one of the critiques of the portfolio i submitted to the sustainable arts foundation commented on my sub-par writing while complimenting my artwork. so! just trying to keep my spirits high…though, again, weirdly they are staying up all on their own.
the above image is what happened when i tried to do a commissioned seascape that included a mermaid. here is the same seascape yesterday before i changed it:
do you see what i did? i put in another shark. it occurred to me as i was trying to fall asleep, another shark would create a “guard” effect rather than suggesting the mermaid was in trouble. or, at least that is my take-away.
living inside your own head you forget about the world outside a world that works against single low-income moms a world that won’t take a risk on you no matter how good your heart might be a world that is set up to grandstand your options telling you to follow your dreams but in the end leaves you very few choices the more kids you have the fewer choices they say it takes a village they don’t tell you that the village will quickly tack up a “no vacancy” sign when they see you coming.
how’s the house hunt going? well, pretty fucking hard since i can’t even get out to look for a place…& then when i look at the average application for a rental & they want a job & income & job history… all i feel is despair. i have savings. i have enough to pay a year’s rent. i have sparkly clean credit. i have child support payments. i have government aid. i spend less money–with four kids–than the average u.s. citizen without dependents does. i am frugal as fuck. but i have to get face to face with a real person–the right person–to convince them that this is enough…& being seemingly physically trapped here at hotel california…how the fuck do i make that happen? i was going to try to run out to iowa today to look for rentals & someone to convince that i am a good tenant. the minions come home tomorrow…. despair says, “why even bother?” but i can’t just run over to iowa with four kids in tow. iggy hates road trips (he got that from his dad–not me,) & i don’t want to budget in a stay at a motel (though they do love motel tv.) so three weeks until the next time i am able to run to iowa sans minions…meanwhile, the lawn grows free now as the lawn mower died on me. so i should get that fixed. i don’t even know how to go about that. i so so so hate being all alone out here. yes, i’m a feminist, but fuck me if i want to do everything myself. i want someone here who knows how to do all the stuff i suck at. i want someone in my life who appreciates what i can do & who i worship for their ability to fix a mower…or clean a toilet…or just hold me & tell me it’s all going to work out when it feels like the world is spinning out of control. sigh.
the drone of the fans in the basement will hopefully help me sleep ’cause last night i was awake or fitfully sleeping twisting & turning as water crept & dripped into my basement gallons of water absorbed into powder fucking blue carpet… i used to call this place bullfrog song now i call it hotel california i just want to be anywhere but here but road trips detoured by leaky basements….
i was totally going to go to iowa & look for a place to live. however! water coming in through a wall dumping gallons onto the floor despite the floor drain just feet away…. this place is a fucking nightmare. & my mom is pissed that my dad died first & left her to deal with it. & i’m pissed that i got tricked into living here by siblings that wanted to live footloose & fancy free far away from familial home…. added to my list of things i never wanted to do alone: deal with a flooded basement.
i am brain dead. all i can do is watch ryan renolds movies, drink beer, & wander to the basement on occasion to bail out this sinking ship….
i just wanted to see
if i could fill up
originally posted on february 1, 2018
another one for the invisible exhibitionist.
i have been sick all week. plus i did a 10 hour roadtrip to a small iowa town & then did a four hour roadtrip with picnic & half-assed hiking the next day to pick up the minions.
i totally want to move to that small iowa town…but am having trouble finding a rental or other living space…. i’m trying to trust & to not freak out about it.
but i am freaking out a little.
which makes my head cold that much worse. & my minions are also sick. so i am not able to rest much.
i have not been drawing or writing much at all in the past week. i’m tired. i’m so super stressed out sick. oh–& i have the menstrual cramps real hard.
i have been wanting to re-do “all of me” for awhile. it’s one of my favorites. i like how it turned out.
though i feel comfort at the thought of a no-more a never-more i am invested in this story & long to know how it will unfold will i laugh? will i cry? i will not stop turning the pages of my life even if at times i feel like setting the book down & walking the fuck away, i come back i come back i pick up where i left off my story this is not the end.
originally posted on august 31, 2018
another one towards the one day realization of the invisible exhibitionist.
i tore up so many versions of this. i am still not completely happy with the final…but there is a lot i like about it too. i am not sure why i went with lewis carroll’s drawing of alice for this one. i do know that i have always loved this illustration. when i re-did it, i worked from my version of the illustration, without looking at his, which is my habit. to work from my own art that i first borrowed from someone else…. if that makes sense.
anyhoo! i noticed that this as well as my last post are about survival & not doing myself in as the little voices sometimes suggest…so that’s nice.
lumpy bumpy mama body
(or, you know
clothes that are being worn
mystery stain on the yoga mat
camera pans out
to “lived in” room
in taped up kids’ art
watch as i do yoga
while four children
in the background
as i am knocked down
from tree pose
by a squealing seven year old
while in warrior one
while in downward dog
i am a fort
for a five year old
as i try to stay calm
keep my zen
as a ten year old
talks over the yoga video
on his big brother
my imperfect poses
my fighting back
against a mental
my “lived-in” life
on a you-tube channel
that will either inspire you
or be a comic success
as i leave my yoga mat
for a snort of whiskey.
my art journal is taking an interesting turn. it is expressing stuff found in my every day lately, things that happen outside of me–rather than living solely in my festering thoughts.
you know, still got the festering thoughts, but a bit of the reality in which they wander their every day.