PT Cruiser…

2:35 a.m. EST. My husband is asleep in his chair, the precious person he’s seeing is zonked out close to him on the sofa. My partner is in bed, equally unconscious and I’m wide awake. Three people snoring, loudly, in my house, so I came outside to not disturb them, lest my head gets loud. I sat down in my cheap plastic chair, brittle from age and weather, and was greeted by the strong odor coming from the trash container. It will be picked up by the city on Tuesday. My buddies, my little ones, the smoky brown cockroaches, are running about, yet no one has stopped to say hi. The windows are behind me, Gabriel frantically scratching at them, wanting to come outside. That’s a hard No. The tag on his collar says “Escape Artist” for a reason. I’m looking at my immediate surroundings and I see several thin tree branches scattered about. I think about my former projects involving branches and gold spray paint. That, in turn, makes me think of Pet. The shared laughter, tears, and various creative pursuits. “Good times”.

Good times. I am drawn to….a time period. Maybe 2008. I had a blue PT Cruiser, turbo/convertible. That car was fun, but a massive pain in the ass when it needed repairs. No wonder they don’t make them anymore. Anyway, good times: I’m remembering driving, top down, from Coudersport to Austin Costello, Palsie sitting in the passenger seat. We were blasting Saves the Day, singing loudly for, well, no one to hear except each other and whatever wildlife milled about. We get to the intersection where, if you turn left and go up the hill, the road is still paved. If you go straight, it’s all dirt. I asked him what he wanted to do. He looked at me with those huge blue eyes and then RAIN. Rain just started pouring down, with no warning. We shrieked and laughed as I fumbled with the knobs to get the roof to unfold and cover us. It didn’t work. Like I said, there’s a reason they don’t make them anymore. We hopped out, getting soaked, laughing louder than thunder, trying to get the top to manually unfold. Palsie’s solution was that he would sit in the car and “fuck with that shit” and I would keep pulling. It worked. I hopped back in the car, which was soaked from the surprise downpour, and we watched the roof slowly crawl to the point where I could secure it. We cackled like banshees, stopped at this intersection in the middle of nowhere. I got the top secured and I looked at him and said “now what?”. He just smiled and shrugged. I told him to get out and switch me. So, back in the rain we went, switching seats and he plopped down behind the wheel and mentioned the turbo, asking what the pickup speed was like. I told him to just do it, so off we went. He decided to stick with pavement and we climbed that rural, bumpy hill fast as hell and I thought we would just launch into the sky once we reached the top. We didn’t, but my god was it a fucking joyride. Good times.

We’re all capable of being ants…

I’m sitting outside and the small black ants are around. Climbing on my feet and legs. I am the ant hill…nothing more, nothing less. They climb over me to get from one place to another. Occasionally they bite. It’s a hot, burning sting. If it’s hurts enough, I quickly smash my heel into the opposing foot, just to stop the pain. Thus killing the ant. For biting me, unprovoked. It’s not justice. It’s unfair. The others, they bite sometimes, it’s mild and I simply brush them off, gently, so they can continue their journey without me being a part of the terrain. Still, the ones that bite and bite twice, I kill as a reaction to pain. Not thinking, just a reaction. I’m left to deal with that. We all bite hard sometimes. Like the ant, it’s in our nature. We will all end, in some fashion or another. I just hope I don’t bite too hard.

Early morning safety…

I’m sitting in my backyard tonight. Befriending the cockroaches and having various insects land on me as they flit about my purple porch lights. Some are junebugs, they’re wonky, clumsily flying about, getting stuck in my hair or banging against my skin like an inexperienced drummer. I’m not sure where they want to go or be, I certainly don’t want them on me and I’m certain they don’t want to be either. Alas, I gently brush them off, untangle them, so they can continue their awkward existence. I would hope the same for me.

It’s 2:39 a.m. EST and a dog is barking. I wonder if it’s one of the dogs the pervert neighbor owns? I’m not sure. I know for certain that the pervert neighbor stays out late, eyeing the area for available pussy. Willing, I suppose. I hope. Bad vibes, dude, just bad vibes. Avoid under all circumstances.

There was a glimpse of a bright spot in the sky tonight, near a cloudy moon. A satellite? I’m not sure. I’m alone, but it stayed with me for quite a while. As I type this, it has drifted and gone on to do better things.

It’s okay, though. I’m successfully befriending cockroaches. Some sit and stay near my toes that I have mashed into pine needles and concrete. I assure the roaches, though, that I will not step on them, while also begging them not to climb on me. Like most everyone, I’d like to keep them at arm’s length. It’s just safer for everyone.

My Hands

My fingers are draped and swaddled in rough, wrinkled skin. The signs of age are taking their toll, and yet I sit here and stare at them. I examine them as an outsider, much like how I stared at the various hands that took care of me, nourished me, held me, silenced me as I grew up. I look at mine, as they are at this moment, and I can’t help but take a deep breath and recognize my mother in them. Her hands are like mine. I am hers as she is mine and, despite everything, I have her hands. They’re strong, aged, imperfect, and gentle. The crevices scream of hardship and love, both deeply ingrained, yet I can’t help but smile and delight in the fact that I finally share something with her.

It’s been a while…

I’m not sure how many times I’ve used that title for this blog, but I’m sure it’s been often.

And it has been a while. I don’t have much to say except I’ve been working on new drawings/paintings and want to share the newest. Prints are available in my Etsy shop.


copy (Medium)

When progress goes kaput…

Sometimes I liken my moods to a plane and I’m the pilot.

I’ve been really motivated recently. I’ve been getting a lot done, maintaining my house
really well, being very creative and focused. I’ve been keeping up my various social media accounts, updating them with pictures of what I’m currently working on. I’ve just been doing really well.

About the plane… For the past 2 days I’ve felt a descent. Not a gradual descent. More like
my engines suddenly failed. I woke up and the colors weren’t nearly as bright and vivid as they have been. Never a good sign.

A few things can happen. I quickly descend in a very rough way, unsure about the landing. Or I quickly descend in a graceful way, unsure about the landing, but able to control the plane enough that I have a chance of not crashing. Maybe I have time to plan. There’s still that uncertainty, though.

When I get close to land, I might be able to land the plane in a relatively safe way.
Certainly some turbulence and discomfort. The seat belt will undoubtedly dig into my thighs and leave some bruises, but I’ll be okay. Shaken up, but okay. Or I crash and burn. The plane is wrecked and cleanup will take some time.

I think I’ve been hypomanic. I want to believe that all of this progress I’ve been making,
all of this focus and drive is 100% me. I did this. I created and maintained this. I am
doing great. The way the plane is shaking, though, I think it might’ve been hypomania and I’m getting ready to descend.

So far, my descension isn’t reckless, so I’m definitely ahead. I’m noticing it rather than
my engines bursting into flames. I’m getting little warnings here and there, letting me
know something’s amiss.

I have a feeling I’ll land with some grace. My fear is that everything I’ve been doing will
stop. The motivation will stay gone. I remember, though, that the desire has not left.
That’s a great sign! Maybe I can work with that.

In the meantime, here’s a photo of my oldest boy, Patrick. He’s 15 and a professional. What is he a professional of? I’m not sure, he won’t tell me. It’s clearly something really
important, though.

Patrick1 (Large)

As usual, it’s been awhile…

Typical Jenn. I always forget how long it’s been since I last wrote. I’m surprised by the amount of time that has passed. I shouldn’t be, though. Things happen, life happens, etc…

I’ve been working on boxes for the past couple of weeks. Little decorative boxes that I paint and sculpt embellishments for. I’ll post pics at some point.

For the past 30 minutes, though, I’ve been going through files on my computer. Specifically old artwork and photographs. I’ve been sorting through the past several years of my life wondering where I would be now, artistically, had I been able to keep my shit together.

Life happens.

I have prints of my ocean photographs on Fine Art America that I occasionally sell. I found the folder containing them and I wanted to share one of my favorite ones. It’s not the most colorful or interesting, but it makes me feel the most. It’s not anyone’s favorite, but mine. I call it “Pull” because that’s what’s happening. I was standing in the water at Topsail Island in North Carolina and the waves pulled back, my feet sinking into the sand. It made me dizzy, yet it grounded me. I love that feeling. I look forward to going back.

I’ll write again soon.pull (Large)

Been awhile…

I started doing art again. Tonight I revisited my early 2000s style. I think I’ll continue.

Then this happened…

Oh, the horror.  I know.  I look at it and several choice lines from “Carrie” pop in my head.

So, here’s the thing: I hated the first version.  I did.  Her left arm was too short, one leg was inexcusably thicker than the other, and her vagina (well, her groin I mean, not her actual birth canal) looked weird.  Can’t have that.  Now she’s covered in what looks like blood, but at least her extremities are getting sorted.

I used my hate as an excuse to paint the next version of her using slow-dri medium.  I’ve never used it before so, of course, instead of doing it the right way I mixed 1 part water with 1 part slow-dri, tossed it in a spray bottle and hoped for the best.  The best didn’t come, but I don’t have proof in photos.  More on the slow-dri debacle later.  For now enjoy Carrie.

It paints again…

I didn’t stop forever, just for a while. I finished the Alice painting, which I will post once its owner gets her sexy mitts on it. In the meantime, here’s some weird shit I’m working on. I’m frustrated with it because, well, look at it. It’s a frustrating thing. I suppose that’s why it’s an in-progress picture and not a voila-done picture.

I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s been a weird few days. I’m out.