itchy fingers

no pages written
no pictures drawn
looking at other people’s art
& being
down
on
me
wondering
when i will get it right
when i will
win the race
trying to find my way
and feeling like
i’m going in circles
today is a new day
but
in all fairness
so was
yesterday.

just me. fucking around with lines & colors & concept after looking enviously at the art of other artists on instagram.
i looked through five journals today, trying to figure out which of my self-portraits i like the best to do a final draft of. that is a lot of me to look at. and although–yay–i like a great number of my self-portraits, i suppose i am going to have to narrow it down. maybe i will try to get some audience participation 
who wants to pick self-portraits for me?
i also worked to edit my short story, “together, tangled” while sharing my laptop with three minions who think they should all come first. c’mon kid, is daniel tiger more important than my becoming a successful writer? 
i guess that depends.
eventually, i got tired of the editing & pulled out my journal to see what would happen if i put pen to paper.
but even in my goofing off, i am working towards being a better artist, a better writer. 
i feel very grateful that the things i love to do are the things that i love to do. 

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there are no happy endings

you see
i’m that person 
in a corner
because
nobody said
about me
nobody put
baby in a corner
leaving me
alone
in a corner
sad
in a corner
crying at those movies
where the misfit
finds
true love
after all
because i know
nobody
loves 
misfits
&
there’s no such thing
as
true love.

i’m just going to stick with being a faun. it speaks of my true nature…and, as a faun, there is no need for pants.
no panties!

if you are wondering, this is what a friday night watching netflix original movies while drinking wine & eating gummy worms looks like. 

reindeer games

it’s a good thing
i was not rudolph
nor rudolph 
me
’cause i totally
would have been
like
fuck off reindeers
i don’t want to play
your goddamned games
anyway
i would have gone off
into the wilderness
bad attitude sharp enough
to fight off
wolves
& i would have
lit up my nose
so the birds
& squirrels
could come & play
in my 
light. 

this is an accurate portrayal of how hairy my legs are. yes. i am a satyr. they just burned off my horns when i was born. 

divine intervention

maybe i should not have
but i drowned 
all the fairies
in a glass of beer
with a drip of 
soap
drunken little bastards
they never returned
the pen
they stole
 but now i find myself
crossing my fingers
& waiting 
for the little voices
to whisper
again
telling me
what to write
guiding
my pen
in stories
they pull
from somewhere
deep
dark
inside me
as i watch
& wonder
“where the fuck
did they find 
that?”

yellow brick road

okay
change of narrative
y’all
turns out
i’m so totally the cowardly lion
as glinda
materializes
to say in that 
trilling voice of hers
“but, emje, you have had confidence
all along.”
durp.
i recognized
plenty of times
my inner strength
but dismissed it as not being
also
in equal measures
confidence
but just now
listing in my head
(while taking a shower
of course)
all the times
in my life
i have 
shown
confidence
true
confidence
i’m all
what the fuck, lady?
let’s get this party 
started.

the cowardly lion has always been my favorite of the wizard of oz characters. i never really knew why. but now i have some suspicions. i was totally going to do me as dorothy, but i actually look a lot like dorothy in real life. so i chose to be glinda, because–as it turns out–i am both the good witch & the cowardly lion in my own story of oz. 

also, check it out, here is the list (so far!) that i started while taking a shower. well, in my head…later writing it down when there was less chance of my getting drippy all over my journal….
check it out. 


i am so totally a super hero.
or, at least, not cowardly. definitely not cowardly.

no man’s land

what if
what if i actually
do own
that ever elusive
confidence
i constantly chase
& dream
of catching
what if
i dismiss 
my confidence
as selfishness
as self-indulgence
as bad
manners
like
one time i walked
into a pitch black room
as i was saying,
“i can’t go in there
i’m afraid of the dark.”
only realizing
once inside
that the story i had been telling
myself
had ended
happily
ever 
after
i was no longer
afraid.
now i have grown
so used to explaining
my lack of confidence
that i have never bothered
to notice
i have grown
some confidence
after all.

“no man is an island,” my mother used to say to me. 
“i’m a peninsula, ma,” i responded.
(have i told you that one already?)
so this happened while some 22 year old was telling me how sexy i was???? weirdo… so i was trying to explain to him my lack of confidence when i started to realize…wait…but…do i have confidence?
i mean, 
i told my abusive ex-husband to fuck the fuck off, choosing to raise four kids by myself in rural illinois. what the fuck does that take if not a big old set of balls?
then i went on to make a list of all the evidence i could think of to prove to myself that i actually do have confidence AND that i have had it all along. like forever. despite the cruel & unsupportive & invalidating natures of my parents & the majority of my relationships. in fact, my survival despite that overwhelming lack of support from my closest relationship proves i have to have had confidence.
so there, self. take that. 
you actually don’t suck.

blue me

it’s when
you’re feeling the most
self-destructive
that you are least
able to
embrace
self-care
self-love
self
acceptance
thrown under the bus
when you need them
most
instead
you burn bridges
alienate friends
hide under a rock 
avoiding your yoga guru
your morning routine
your
brisk
walk 
in fresh air
while saying fuck
fucking mindfulness
in the ass
while pouring another
drink 
and re-living every horror
every 
moment
of pain
or better yet
burying it all deep under
an avalanche
of 
forced smiles & 
no, really, 
look how good i’m doing.

this is one where i wrote down the rough thought & then tried (tried!) to flush it our while transcribing it.
also, i never wear high collared shirts because apparently they make me look like this. 

in other news…

i have a 22 year old “fan” over on tumblr who is flirting with me, & it is making me oh so uncomfortable. i wonder how men who date much younger women do it. i mean, i guess they just don’t care that there is a huge gap in what you know, what you’ve experienced, how much you are actually going to get of what i say….
bleah.
then my ex-husband (dusty fucker) texts me to ask if i am pregnant because we had “unprotected sex” a month ago. conveniently forgetting that i got an IUD after poppy was born.
or, rather, a year & a half after poppy was born–having refrained from sex for all that time because he was being a fucking asshole.
but, then, when i had the lapse of judgement of reuniting with dusty, under the condition that he be in a monogamous relationship with me, i agreed to get an IUD to prevent any further minions appearing. again, with the condition that he be monogamous. 
well, shocker. he lied to me, & i got an IUD while he continued to have sex with other people.
strange that he would forget. 

just so you know, the sex a month ago was a one time thing to get it out of my system–and it totally worked. 

i have been journaling about confidence and about the undeniable fact that–though i am lonely–i am choosing to be alone. so you have that to look forward to once i get around to doing the illustrations.

yee-ha

courting death

self soothing
is thinking about 
the blade against my skin
self soothing
is a match 
to burn it all to the ground
self soothing 
are the words
rolling around 
in my rotten brain
no one has ever loved you
anyway
self soothing
is a free fall 
away from my nightmares
and into a comforting
emptiness
love
love is the easy answer
if by easy 
you mean
impossible
death
makes more sense
no longer fantasizing about love
saving me
only 
hoping
for
death.

death. the ultimate distraction. no. i don’t really want to die. most the time i plan on living forever. but some days there is something deep & dark inside me. an overwhelming lack of hope. 
it has a lot to do with escape. that’s what the thoughts of death are. i mean, when i was in the midst of it, i thought, what if i didn’t die–but just disappeared?
it was all the same to me. well. actually disappearing was more desirable than death.
i am sure other mothers feel this way. i am sure none of us like to talk about it. i talk about it because i have to.
if i keep things inside, it only gets worse. 
squeeze it until it bleeds…& then it can get better.

i am not sure how i feel about this illustration/self-portrait. i feel like i am…too sexy? is death sexy? i wasn’t going for sexy. i’m not sure it is even sexy. trust me, i do not feel sexy. 
i do like the illustration…it feels comic-booky to me. i just feel like a fraud for having drawn/painted it.
don’t ask me why. 
i don’t fucking know.

seven hundred years

sometimes i feel 
like i have been alive
for seven hundred years
i barely
remember 
yesterday
so for all i know
i’ve been alive
forever
&
i wonder
if i’ll ever look back
on these days
of struggle
of isolation
from the comfort
of a soul mate’s 
embrace
look back
in wonder
& awe
how did i ever survive
such desolate
times
to feel peace 
in my heart
while remembering
a time when peace
was a fantasy.

this, and a few more pages to come, were written yesterday when i was feeling especially hopeless & suicidal. good times…. being a single mom with next to no support system. i need to tell y’all, do not try this at home.

strangely, once i accepted that there was nothing to hope for, i felt a bit calmer. that’s me. finding comfort in the concept that i will never find comfort. 

this page does not have my standard issue self-portrait…unless you consider that that is my soul flying under the full moon. 
owls symbolize being able to see what others cannot. i identify with the owl, though i assume everyone else can see what i see. 
which, i guess, is not the case.
so!
i make art.

i may have gotten a little carried away. i think i painted my words out.

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