some may think I'm just a fool tilting at windmills, but maybe I'm not
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.
if you want to contribute to my “income”…. here are sneak peaks of some of the posts you would be able to see as a patron of mine….
the main image is of a character of mine that hopefully will one day have a story….
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….
fuck me.
i just wanted to see
if i could fill up
a page
with me
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.
camera focus
on me
lumpy bumpy mama body
well-worn
yoga clothes
(or, you know
clothes that are being worn
during yoga)
mystery stain on the yoga mat
camera pans out
to “lived in” room
walls covered
in taped up kids’ art
watch as i do yoga
while four children
scream
in the background
watch
as i am knocked down
from tree pose
by a squealing seven year old
crawled under
while in warrior one
while in downward dog
i am a fort
for a five year old
watch
as i try to stay calm
keep my zen
as a ten year old
talks over the yoga video
to tattle
on his big brother
watch
my imperfect poses
my fighting back
against a mental
breakdown
watch
my “lived-in” life
on a you-tube channel
that will either inspire you
or be a comic success
watch
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.
