S is for…

Succumbing to shit. S is for secrets. And, yes, S is also for that pesky form of ideation that, at some point, eventually becomes unshakeable.

We’re at that point. By we, I mean me. Of course. All of my intelligent readers, I realize I didn’t have to explain that to you, but I did anyway because my brains are becoming defunct. Headed toward the landfill. Whatever that is.

I’m not quite there yet. I will say, I’m waiting to catch my breath, though, and I’m not sure how much longer I need to wait. I’m a very patient person, or so I’ve been told. So I wait…

In the meantime, something that cheered me up a bit today: I was listening to my Spotify playlist aptly titled “For Funsies” and George Michael’s song “Too Funky” came on. Oh, the thrill. I love that song. What I loved even more was the video. I haven’t seen the video in years upon years, but I remember it heavily impacting my 12 year old self when it first aired on Mtv. It helped define my interests in women, fashion, the obscure, music, well shaped facial hair, and androgyny. I loved that video. So, because it played on For Funsies, I jauntily clicked my sweet ass over to YouTube, found it, and watched it. And immediately was taken back to the early 90s and I just loved every minute of it.

That was today’s Hooray.

What will tomorrow’s Hooray be? Tell me something interesting, anything, and give me something to Google tomorrow.

Perhaps a stumble…

Falling, tumbling, etc… My brain is nearing done. I don’t know what form or type or anything, but…..fuck. it’s been a rough go and I’m tired, man.

I don’t really know what to say about that or anything, really. I have plans to do stuff, art related or otherwise. But I’m getting some pretty gnarly input and it’s stating to override, if you get what that means.

I can take a lot. I can take on a lot. I can handle my shit and I can handle others’ shit and have done so for decades. I know this. I got this. But, fuck it’s heavy. I want like….I don’t know. Just breathing is laborious, if you know what I mean. My own inhales and exhales carry weight that’s not solely from the fat gut I’ve developed over the past 19 months.

Pancakes and Booze is on the 22nd of this month. And I was looking forward to being a participant this year, rather than an attendee that scored some good local art. My “looking forward” feelings are dwindling, yo. I’m not well. I know this.

So, tonight, I’m going to lie down, put my head on a pillow (I’m so lucky to have that), try to rest and, maybe when I wake tomorrow, things will be different. It’s not that I’m ungrateful for life. I just need to say that I practice gratitude daily. Seriously. I’m fucking lucky and fortunate. I have a roof. I have a bed. I have a goddamn pillow in my bed. I have cozy blankets. I say, into the ether, every day and every night, how lucky I am.

Shit’s just bad, though. I have a lot of “input”. You know. The voices, the visual shit. My meds are being adjusted (I’m lucky enough to have meds). I don’t want to go on more. I don’t want to go back to the heavy ones. I just really wish I had more control over my brain and the operations there in.

Alright, enough whining and rambling. I’m out. Sleep well, y’all.


A is for…

“Anhedonia”. Not really, it just now, at this moment at 4:31 a.m. EST, popped in my head. No, A is for a different thing. Well, actually, anhedonia is also relevant. Quite. But that’s not what this is about.

Today is…Saturday, now. August 20, 2022. Today is the very, very last day of August 20, 2022. I have nothing to show for it. I’m not thinking about kicking off, just so everyone knows. I mean, yeah, sure I do, everyday, but I mean not taking myself out. That’s what I mean. None of that right now. I’m just thinking. You know what? I would actually like to make it to August 20, 2042 and see what’s up with that time period. I’m down for this. New goal.

Ugh, goals. It reminds me of that thing in interviews: “Where do you see yourself in 5 years?” I fucking hated that question because I didn’t see myself, period. It reminds me of my senior year in high school. For some godawful reason, they decided the students had to give a panel of teachers (I think there were three) a presentation of what they planned to do upon graduation. The catch? The presentation had to include which college the student intended to go to. I had no intentions of going to college. I know I was *supposed* to. It was drilled in by teachers and the guidance counselor. I knew I wasn’t, though. School was so hard for me. I struggled so much in school. So much. I barely graduated. No joke. I did really well in art class (except for the year where a teacher came in with a background in commercial arts and….I got kicked out a lot), so that was fine. I did well in Speech and Creative Writing, for the most part (read: I passed with a grade in the high 70s). The “speech” part I failed miserably at and couldn’t do, but the “creative writing” part was fine. Everything else, though? No.

Getting back to the presentation that was mandatory: I said “I’m going to go to X college for [insert art shit here] and do that”. I illustrated, literally, my plans. I figured if teachers from my other classes, like government, social studies, history, english, etc… would accept artwork I made relevant to the class for extra credit so I could at least pass, then fuck it, I’ll do the same for this gig. I only remember one teacher being on this panel o’ three and it was Mrs. Kirby. Her face was lit up the whole time. She was delighted. I was allowed to graduate.

I didn’t go to X college and study [insert art shit here]. Instead, I worked and did art and then went fucking teddy bonkers. Full blown teddy bonkers. Goodbye 2004, hello 2022.

Here I am. Why is any of this important? I’m not totally sure. There is relevance somewhere, I know it, I feel it, but I’m not sure how to relay it. Next month I’m going to be putting my artwork on display, in public view. Local public view. Raleigh, yo. I haven’t done that since my early twenties when I was in Erie. Yo. Maybe that’s the relevance? Maybe that’s what has stirred up all of this shit? Idk.

No sleep til…

I got nothin’. I’ve lost track of weeks, so I’m not entirely sure the last time I successfully slept. Like, really slept.

It’s mania, of course.

On to something else, a discovery: I have an ello account that I completely forgot about. I made it years ago and just posted there for the first time a few minutes ago.

I have nothing else to report.

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)