dimples, holga, tri-x, kettle moraine

someone once said that the definition of insanity is taking four children on a cross-country road trip.  i think maybe that someone was me, precisely one year ago, when we did such a thing.  but then i forgot, because now we are doing it again.  this one will be shorter than last year’s trip, only 22 hours of driving each way.  last year i spent the entire time in the passenger seat puting newborn dreadlocks into my hair.  this year, i plan to spend the entire time tweeting.  so, follow me through the thrills of iowa and nebraska, through the joys of altitude sickness in colorado.  it’ll be fun.  i promise.  if i can figure it out, i’ll upload an occasional shot of my journals (watercolor, ink, writing, i’m feeling ambitious).  we leave tomorrow morning.  i wonder if i should consider packing?

shortcake + black marker lipstick. (i don't even wear lipstick. where did this compulsion come from?) digital (d200).

and 

By the time I descended into my lair to get some crazy out last night, I fucked up an attempt to do an ink wash of yesterday’s sketch.  And so I was infuuuuuuriated with myself.  Because I could have developed film or played the guitar or painted a watercolor or worked on that terrible opening chapter.  And those thoughts made me more insane because then I decided that I am just an all-around absolute loser, of course.  Why must I (TRY to) do everything?  My muse is not just promiscuous, she is a whore.  Because she makes it so that I am not even good at anything.

(I am not looking for pity or smoke up my ass, here.  I am just spilling.  So pleeeeease, so help me, don’t.)

I’m a little thrown off by this.  And I’m kind of spinning in circles.  And I’ll do some business things when I can today, like working on the photography website and ordering shipping supplies.  Good, concrete, boring things.  And I will have a friend here for coffee, and I will screw a few hinges onto my cupboard doors.  And, of course, I will mother as a verb.  But I can’t promise that I won’t just go ahead and have a breakdown.  Which makes me feel weak and stupid and lonely, because who feels this way, really?  I mean, pull yourself together, woman!  There are real problems in this world!  Remember how you felt about your fellow college students who complained about their art woes while you studied organic chemistry and microbiology?  Where is that one chick?  Maybe she was just a sad, jealous, trapped little thing.  But maybe we could buck up and channel her today?  Huh?  You lunatic? 

Shoot.  I’ve just realized that there are people that blog to uplift and inspire other people, and not to talk to themselves in public.

And so I’m going to try really hard to post something normal-bloggy tomorrow.

*curtsy*

watercolor on arches hot press paper

 This may be redundant, but listen.  The last couple days have plunged me into some ridiculous, epic journey of self-loathing and rage-y despair.  It was not so much a passive state of depression, but an active fury.  When I said I wanted to throw a temper tantrum, I totally meant it.  I was hard-core craving broken dishes on the driveway and screaming and kicking and throwing.  The desire was really just for the sake of the feeling of it, but more subtly, I suppose, it was the if-i-can’t-have-EVERYTHING!-exactly-how-I!!-want-it-and-NOW!-then-i-will-throw-a-fit . . . thing.  And not being able to throw fits all day long was like being told by the obstetrician to not push.

And, oh!  Look at the moon.  It is a little waning thing.  How predictable.  I hate myself for being so fucking predictable! 

(Just kidding.  But if I would’ve said that yesterday, I probably would’ve meant it.) 

 And so it was in this state that I did this painting.  I’m borrowing this guitar, if you remember, and although I’ve previously never learned anything beyond the first three chords in Harvest Moon or a Nirvana riff or two, I’m trying to get my rock on.  I really am quite terrible at it thus far, and my fingertips are red and swollen and sore, and hooray for a very easy E minor chord, but still, it just feels sooooo damn good to play it really loud.  It is also a good thing to have around when one is craving a temper tantrum.

A part of my self-loathing was regarding my inability to just be calm and sweet and nice.  I mentally noted one failed attempt at Zen, F minor, housewifery, and altogether goodness . . . after another.  I did try to wrangle it in, the crazy.  I was bringing my attention to that which is, but it turns out that that which was was the ridiculous desire to scream and swear and maybe even to bite.  Sometimes what presents itself is the painfully beautiful glitter of snow, and other times it is just, you know, biting. 

Considering the honesty of the emotion made me think (with a little help from my friend), waitaminutehere.  Maybe this is OK, simply feeling what there is to feel, as opposed to denying, or worse, becoming completely out of touch with, extreme emotion.  (And also, she told me that someone called a picture of me cute.  Ah, flattery.)  Fiery is a part of me, and trying to be “good” and “nice” is sometimes especially exhausting.  I woke up thinking about archetypes, and trying to remember some of the goddess myths that would point to the fierce aspect of the divine feminine.  And, so hooray for facebook, where Chameli mentioned Durga.  I cued up Ragani‘s “Durga” on my iPod, and I named my painting after her.

 I’m putting the original up on my Etsy, as well as a few prints of both this rocking Durga and The Selkie.  The prints have not yet arrived from the printer, and so I’m listing them at a discount until they do (I am such the terrible businesswoman!).  You’ll get them cheaper for being a little risky and patient.  Apropos.

***EDITED TO ADD: the 8×10 prints have sold, already!  I’ve just listed the 5×7.***

watercolor and ink on arches hot press watercolor paper

As Shortcake was making her way into the world, I was listening to Aine Minogue’s (an Irish harpist, singer, and folklorist) song The Selkie on my iPod.    It’s beautiful, and it resonated deeply with me the first time I heard it.  But I had no idea what she was saying!  I had heard of the mythological selkie, but knew only that it had something to do with water. 

Recently, the Celtic myth of the selkie has come back into my life en force.  She is a shape-shifter, a sea creature whose sealskin allows her to live in the depths of the ocean.  Her home is there, in Sule Skerry, but she can take off her sealskin and become human for a short time as well.  In the myth I’ve just read, a human man falls in love with her in this form, as she is sunning herself on the warm rocks, and she becomes his wife.  The husband (jackass!) hides her sealskin, so she remains on land, gives birth to his son, and starts to get all parched and peely and icky.  She can live without her sealskin, but only for so long (7 years, I think?) before she needs to return to her watery home.  It is her son who later finds her sealskin, and she returns to Sule Skerry.  Her son is able to travel between the two worlds, and he is who I really identify with.  But enough about me . . .

Here the selkie looks out to the ocean, dreaming of Sule Skerry and longing for her sealskin, pregnant with the child who will eventually aid her return.

I know this feeling well.  Don’t you?

I’ve listed the original painting on my Etsy, and will be listing prints soon.

This is how it began, my mild obsession with those two words, hearing them shouted in a strained voice by Mrs. Blue.  Actually, she did not shout.  Ever.  It was more of a slight and painful elevation of her perpetually monotone speaking voice.  Those of you who remember her, who were also students in her English class, or who knew her as my ex-boyfriend’s mother, know exactly what I’m talking about.  (You also know that she has a different last name, but I’m trying to be somewhat coy here, people.)

The poor woman.  She was probably trying to inspire us with Shakespeare or Camus or Emerson or Thoreau, forgoodnesssake.  What kind of numbskulls could remain uninspired by such genius?  A bunch of stupid teenagers, that’s who.  I was passing a note, someone was making pretend obscene noises, and someone else was farting for real, and she snapped.  God!  I would have, too!  Except my f-word would not have been “frivolous.”  Hers was. 

“Stop this frivolous nonsense!” she cried said.  Oh, the poor dear.  It really pains me now to think about it.  I feel guilty, of course.  But mostly, I feel, as I felt then, pity.  I remember the silence that fell over the room.  I remember thinking, I hope I am never ever as miserable as that woman.  I also remember thinking, what the heck does “frivolous” mean?

 friv-o-lous [friv-uh-l uh s] : –adjective 1.  characterized by lack of seriousness or sense: frivolous conduct.  2. self-indulgently carefree; unconcerned about or lacking any serious purpose.  3. (of a person) given to trifling or undue levity: a frivolous, empty-headed person. 4. of little or no weight, worth, or importance; not worthy of serious notice: a frivolous suggestion.

So I looked it up, and decided that frivolous actually was important.  I decided that if I did not include plenty of frivolity in my life, I’d end up as miserable as Mrs. Blue (who, by the way, made the most delicious rhubarb pie, was the first person to really encourage my writing, and was a genuinely beautiful person beneath all that monotone).

I fight with that conclusion, with my love affair with all things frivolous.  I talk to myself when it comes up (which is often).  Why are you crocheting a doily?   Because it is fun.  But you have more serious things to do.  True Art is serious and important and has a capital A.  But, look!  It’s turquoise!  It is still a fucking doily.  What if we call it a mandala?  Because it goes in circles?  Loser.  Stop this frivolous nonsense.

And, so, aha!  There you have it.  There is this young bratty kid inside me that comes to poke around when big important philosophical intellectual spiritual Artiste is around.  And she’s like, wheee!  Let’s do something pointless.  And so sometimes, I do.  I don’t know if it is the wrong thing to do, an evil distraction from some grand vision.  But I simply cannot take myself so seriously when there is this inner wild child bouncing around, begging for frivolous nonsense.

And so I honor that inner brat by making this frivolous print my first etsy listing.  Also, it is yours if you contributed to this frivolity.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! 

 from my moleskine today:

{yes. there are dishes and there is laundry and there is the floor, which Karen Maezen would suggest attending to attentively.  and zen . . . . . “meditation” according to the man in orange robes is “doing what needs to be done joyfully mindfully etcetera” but it always seems like this is the thing that “needs” to be done and so then what is the other stuff?}

watercolor on arches hot press, destroyed with ink/digital

And so, apparently, my muse is pregnant.  And hott.  And she wears tube socks.  I can’t shake the tube socks.  But she is unable to tell me how to stop ruining everything. 

I began my routine of late-night art Mondays last night.  I developed a crappy roll of film–an entire roll of images I knew I didn’t need to take; began a beautiful ink drawing, but screwed it up by ignoring my intuition to just stop; then made this watercolor and destroyed her, too.  This one I “destroyed” by getting crazy with the ink. 

What you see here is my desperate attempts on photoshop to cover the ink mess.  Desperate attempts=digitally making most of the inky crap black.  I think I made it even worse.  It looked really good when it was all white.  Sort of unfinished, but in a good, wispy way.  And then, as I had just done with the ink drawing, I ignored that little voice that said “that is enough,” and assaulted it with black ink.

I am on a “ruin everything” mission, it seems.  Yesterday, I forgot to add salt to the bread, and ruined it, which, in turn, ruined the cinnamon rolls I made with the same dough.  And there was last night’s mess of an art session.  And today I ruined what should have been a really good curry dish for lunch.  I mean, Julie ate it.  And had seconds.  But it was RUINED!  RUINED, I TELL YOU!

I’m reading Women Who Run With The Wolves (a title that Hercules had a hard time checking out from the library for me), and I’ve just read a tale about a girl who, essentially, carried a magical doll in her pocket that told her what to do: turn left, turn right, stop talking.  I’ve got that magical doll, we all have that intuition.  I think my current task is to remember how to listen to her.

I think I get it.  I do think I hear her (so many voices up in here).  I do think that I can decipher between internal and external.  But I tend to disobey.

The Illustration Friday prompt is “Renewal.”  I had read that a couple days ago, and remembered it as “Rebirth.”  Close enough, right?  My intuition tells me “yes.”

This is appropriate to my post-NaNoWriMo blog because I sort of feel like doing the same thing to my . . . novel.  (holy shit, I wrote a novel?)

And I almost feel like I could do that—delete the entire 50,140 words—and still feel good about this past month of obsessive insanity.  Almost.  Because I have learned so much.  (I wonder how many “What I Learned From NaNoWriMo” blogs there are going out today?)  I learned:

1.  That it doesn’t take anything special to be a “writer.”  It is only the writing, and the stubbornness to keep on keepin’ on.  And I think that goes for any creative endeavor.  I mean, I’m assuming that if you can read this, you know how to write.  And everyone can use a pen, a paintbrush, a camera.  Easy.  I’m thinking, if you have something to say, it should be said.  Or written.  Or whatever.  (Or at least, attempted.  Right?)

2.  Despite my whining about “not having any time for myself,” I actually do.  Yes, it may be the stretch between 10PM and bartime, it leaves me exhausted the next day, and it requires Hercules to deal with the Sleepless Shortcake for a few hours, but it is there.    I cannot do this every night.  That was a tad o. ver. kill. ish.  But, a couple nights a week?  Yes!  We!  Can!  (And!  We!  Will!)

3.  I love writing.  Even if the book sucks.  (because, actually, I think, it does.)  But still, I loved doing it.

4.  I love other things, which I learned by reeeeeeeeally missing them.  I missed jogging (weird!!!).  I missed developing film.  I missed taking pictures on that film.  I missed drawing.  Today and yesterday, I’ve got this craaaaazy need to just draw draw draw draw and doodle paint sketch.  I missed cooking good food.  I missed showering.

sad little undeveloped films

5.  I need a deadline.  I HATE goals and deadlines.  Hate.  I think they set people up for failure, and don’t allow room for following one’s own creative path.  In other words, I’m a lazy shit (who has recently been converted to the beauty of the deadline).  Deadlines are good.  I’m a moron.

6.  If you build it, they will come.  And by build, I mean show up at the laptop/page/camera/canvas.  And by they, I mean the words/muse/pictures.  I knew this, of course.  But it is very infrequent that I actually “show up” and invite the muse.  Usually, the muse follows me around all day, watching over my shoulder, impatiently, as I change a poopy diaper or moderate a fight or help with homework or read a picture book or chaperon a vanful (etc.).   And then she laughs as I try desperately to cram her genius into the teeny little morsel of opportunity that may or may not present.  And then I cry when I miss it.

7.  I am losing count.  Like did I say the thing about “making time” yet?  Because I think I did.  And PS, that reminds me:  It’s important.  And it really solved the problem of restlessness, for me.  Instead of thinking aaaah!  I really want to write!,  I knew that that time was there, waiting.

8.  I learned, tangibly, about “the dip.”  I felt it at about 38,000 words.  And then all the way until the end. 

9.  The people who love me, and even just kinda like me, are awesome and supportive and just really, really nice.

And there you have the last thing I will say about NaNoWriMo.  Ever.  Because I’m sure as hell not going to do this again next year.

(and, no.  I’m not going to delete the nanowrimo draft, for goodness’ sake.  I’m just not even going to look at it for a while.)