Posts Tagged ‘swearing is big and clever’

stories

February 24, 2010
(tri-x 400 mamiya 645af)

(tri-x 400 mamiya 645af)

 (wrote this last night, so today actually means yesterday, and tomorrow means today, and whoa.  trippy.)

Julie.  The Louise to my Thelma.  Julie so kindly got naked for me the other day so I could mess with some ideas I’ve got regarding this little tube sock problem obsession interest.  Some stay-at-home-moms go to scheduled playgroups.  You know, whatever, to each their own.  I’ve still got some rolls to develop from this day, and some more ideas to play around with, and I wasn’t planning on sharing this right now, but . . .

the things I meant to do right now aren’t workiiiiiiing!!!  None of them.  Wonky ink in the printer and an empty bottle of developer and a guitar that won’t arrive until tomorrow and a twitchy brain.  So, here it is.

STORIES!!!!

is the word of the day (week?) on the blog.  I feel like I keep coming up with keywords.  “Threshold” and “Illusion” and now, “Stories.”  That’s so fucking annoying.  (Ooooh, hoo hoo!  I’m in one of those moo-hooods!)  But annoying or not, that’s the way of it.  (And now I’m going to picture Pee Wee Herman doing his word-of-the-day thing that he did.  Great.  Thanks a lot.)

Julie makes me think of the word “stories.”  The woman has got.  stories.  And they just keep coming!  I’ve begun to think that either she is lying about all of her adventures, or that she really is that much older than me (heh heh), or that she has clones that go out live and then come back to report to her regularly. 

Besides being wildly entertaining, it inspires me.  It makes me think about how I live this life that is presented to me, every moment raw and teeming with opportunity.  Do I devour it?  Savour both the illusion (there I go again!) and the clarity?  Drink in the true experiences, despite their threat to this farce of stability and normalcy?

Now, I don’t think that living your life as a good story means actively looking for trouble,  but it does make me reconsider my definition of “mistake.”  It seems that the Great Stories of my life (and others) have been those times when Life has presented us with something, and we’ve accepted the offer, ignoring the fear of a possible mistake.  Otherwise, it is a sad story ruled by empty routine and fear. 

Also, I think, those mundane everyday things, like the whirlwind of snow-globe-like snow blowing today, or the trip to the grocery store in which the strange happy-lovey force between everyone was palpable, or the millisecond-prolonged glance, or the star-shaped center of the apple, or the laundry, can be a Great Stories when they are lived attentively.  And then of course, there are the Great Stories told by nature—childbirth, tragedy, love, death—that sometimes give us no choice in the matter of attention.

What’s your story?

doldrums schmoldrums

February 20, 2010

Alternative title:  February is the F-word.

It is still February.  February somewhat sucks.  For a while there, I had decided that I was going to pump Wellbutrin into our village water system, and maybe try to transmit it electronically, as well.  Or Prozac.  Or Heroin.  The other day, a friend read a phone-text and shook her head, laughing.  “Everyone’s depressed!”  And it’s true.  There is some hard core depths of despair happening ’round here.

We are deep into the dark season here in Wisconsin.  I’ve seen other bloggers talk about the signs of returning spring, and I want to throw a chunk of ice at them.  Oh no, honey.  Not here.  Here we do not mention the S word, for fear of a collective breakdown.  Except, shit.  I just mentioned it, didn’t I?  I will now pause for my fellow Doldrum-experiencers to cry with longing for the season that lingers in the distance too far beyond hope.

*  *  *  *  *

Everyone OK?  Yes.  See, that’s the thing.  I think that everyone is OK.  (I’m OK, you’re OK, OK now I’m sounding like a self-help book.  ack.)  I just think that a turn toward darkness in winter is a healthy, natural movement.  Remember?  It is when we fight it that we cause ourselves harm.  I shouldn’t be feeling this way, it is his/her fault, how can we fix this, what is the problem . . . 

There is no problem.  There is no spoon.  These Winter Doldrums have brought me some really nasty-but-good, awful-but-helpful, raw-but-fresh stuff.  Stuff that productive spring will do great things with, surely.  (shoot!  S-word!  hope!  sorry!) 

But, oh . . . . . spring.  Spriiiiiiiiiiiiing.  Maybe it is not actually so far off?  I mean, it is currently snowing.  And everything is still deader than dead.  And the sun does still set before 6 pm.  But . . . shoot!  I’ve done it again!  Sorry!  Moment of silence.

*  *  *  *  *

And in case that pathetic little attempt at inspiration doesn’t do it for you, here are some pictures that might.  They are not spring-ish in the least, but they are happy, I think.  (?)

crack

Do you know the joy of this? Can you hear it? Feel it under your feet? yesssssssssssssssssss. This is, perhaps, the best part of winter. (aside: I asked my husband, showed him the pictures, and he said, "that just looks sad." So maybe I am totally off on this?)

crackshoes

Ecstasy, I tell you. Sheer bliss. crrrrrack.

lick

And, of course, there is the licking of a big hunk of snow. (Dimples) Who can resist that?

And a few more.  I gave up putting them into nice little black rectangles for you:

callick

I'm just going to assume that this was not in the driveway. (Mowgli)

walk

And I learned something last weekend. Running in the winter can be fun! Avoiding the poorly-shoveled spots was honestly fun. Like an obstacle course. I'm serious! (Shortcake)

name

And name-spelling in the snow. There are few things in life as thrilling as a big stretch of undisturbed snow that you are about to have your way with. (Kiki)

 

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled upswing with . . .

everything

and 

mental

 

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*

Durga in A minor

February 9, 2010
If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman… have faith… there is yet time.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes
watercolor on arches hot press paper

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.***

Cue Obsession

February 2, 2010

grace1914

This is a photo of my great aunt Grace on the beach in 1914.

How gorgeous is this?  I could stare at it all day.

Except instead of stare at it, I’m going to develop a roll of film and print out staff paper. *

Because I’ve got my music back. 

I don’t know what happened, but some dam burst in my head.  And suddenly, it is all MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!

Actually, it’s rather annoying.  I mean, seriously.  I must have ADD.  Just do one thing already, right?

But the damn . . . dam.  It’s as if it was always there, the MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC! building and building and building, and it just reached this threshold, and fwooooosh.  I can’t really stop obsessing about music right now.  It’s quite obnoxious.

I do tend to be fickle, of course.  And so, surely this too shall pass.  But for now, there is nothing more pressing in my life than to learn to play the electric guitar, and more specifically, to play this one song on it.  And maybe one or two more.  Luckily, I know a guy.**

It was impossible to not be musical growing up in my family.  For as long as I can remember, up until I left the house, it was always MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  For the rest of them, it still is.  But it hasn’t been, for me, for whatever reason.  I mean, I’ve got a piano sitting in my living room.  And I play it sometimes.  And I’ve even played this one song on it.  But the full moon, and the thought of an electric guitar, these were the last two straws.  Or water molecules.  Or whatever.

fwoooooooooooshhh.

I’m not predicting future mother-of-four rockstardom or anything.  Just, MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!MUSIC!  until I’m bored.

 

* You should know that I forgot to pick up Mowgli from school while searching for this.  Doesn’t the red flag for clinical psychosis have something to do with being unable to perform daily tasks?  shit.

**I’ve known these people for a couple years, and never took the time to listen to their music.  Don’t make the same mistake, go listen right now.  Scroll down and find Hello, Hospital.  RRRRRRRRRRRROCK!

Do You Work?

January 29, 2010

Oh, the cliche.  A stay-at-home-mom gets asked that question.

Today, at the bank drive-through:

teller:  Hello, welcome to Blahblahblah Bank.

me:  Hi, I’d just like to cash this check, and I need a pen, please.

teller:  Do you work?

awkward, prolonged silence

me: Excuse me?

teller: Do you work.  Are you e m p l o y e d.  (clearly and loudly, as if suddenly I was non-English-speaking and hearing-impaired)

me (lasers shooting from my eyes):  No.

teller: Oh.  Well, that’s OK.  That’s fine, I just . . . if you worked . . . there is a Work Perks program . . . and I would send it to you . . .  and rewards . . . and . . . if . . . but you don’t . . . so . . .

me (exposing canines):  grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrowl.

She didn’t even send a fucking sucker in the tube.

 

I will save you the bitchy yeah-I-too-was-once-a teller-when-i-was-EIGHTEEN-and-I’d-take-that-stupid-job-again-any-day rant.  After the growling, I smiled and am now completely “over it.”  I guess I was a little sensitive to the at-home mama stigma today.  Just before the bank, a fellow RN-turned-SAHM and I had been waxing nostalgic about our old jobs in which we used to make life and death decisions.  And exercise our actual brain cells.  And get lots of money for it.

But then there was this,

TAF_1542

. . . and of the brain-cell using full-time working mamas of young kids, I thought:  suckers.

frivolous nonsense the first

January 24, 2010

 I’ve just crocheted a fucking doily.

TAF_1532x

A doily!  If that fact does not inspire you to conclude that there is something  s e r i o u s l y  wrong with me, then I’m sorry, but there is something  s e r i o u s l y  wrong with you.  And, I mean, I didn’t even do it well.  But here is the worst part.  Oh, I don’t even know if I can say it.  Here I go.  Letting it out.  Confessing . . .

I liked it.

OHMYGOD !!!  The shock and horror.  I, too, am gasping aloud.  It is just shameful.  I am ashamed. 

In my next post, I am going to try to desperately salvage my honor from the bottom of this stinking pile of shame.  I’m going to tell you the story of “frivolous nonsense.”  Perhaps, then, you will understand my compulsive desire to frequently do nonsensical things.  Perhaps, then, you will forgive me.

But since we are on the subject of frivolous nonsense, check this out.  Have you heard of formspring?  Pretty please ask me a question.  It will be fun, in a frivolous-nonsensical way.  Maybe.

Also, I am going to start replying to comments via email.  “That’s all I have to say about that.”  (Not in a big-dramatic-I-can’t-say-anything-dot-dot-dot sort of way, but in a I-really-just-have-nothing-else-to-say-regarding-that-subject sort of . . . way.)

Also, I did not forget about you brave warriors who contributed to that failure of a New Year’s story we tried to write.  I’ve finally decided what I’m going to send you and I’ll show you with the next post.  But I need your addresses!

Happy Monday, or Happy Last Few Hours of Sunday, whichever applies.

(ohandbythewayiamgoingtostarttakingclientsagainandalsoimopeninganetsystorebutillgettothatlaterokbye)

Found

January 7, 2010

 One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries. (A. A. Milne)

img681x

kodak nc film in the mamiya c330 tlr. kiki and dimples, 2004-ish

Funny, I found that quote after writing this:  One of the benefits of being a total slob moderately disorganized person is the “surprise!” factor.  Things pop up out of nowhere—treasures from the depths of the sea of junk.  I found this contact roll from five-or-six-ish years ago nestled in a paper bag of irrelevant papers (old soccer schedules, credit card bills, resumes–yes, irrelevant.  who gives a shit needs to know about my academic career anymore?  *sobbing*). 

Hide and seek, at our old house.  Immediately I melted, thinking of how that old house was my first cocoon, how goddamned relatively easy it was to have only two children, how fun it was to have a girl that would wear pink dresses.  And yummy, those old wood floors. 

Speaking of wood floors, we were planning to splurge (thank you, Uncle Sam) on some nice wood floors for our house this Spring.  But I’m feeling awfully wanderlusty.  I think we may need to trade in nice floors for a trip.  Don’t you?  Mountains or Ocean.  What do you think?  I can’t look through pictures of our road trip this Summer and think that we would survive a Summer without sufficient travel . . . ever again.

And speaking of color film, what the hell am I doing not using more color film? 

And speaking of “found,” well, nevermind.  I’m not telling you yet.  I’m a wee bit excited about something, perhaps overly so.  But you know, I’ve never really understood the “don’t-get-your-hopes-up” philosophy anyway.  My hopes have gotten up, and it’s a nice feeling.  So there.  And if my hopes are dashed, well, I do so enjoy being all depressed and broody.  So it’s a win-win, really.

And speaking of crochet, well we’re not.  But will you just look at all this deliciousity?

*edited to add: one of the main reasons i wrote this blog was this next part, which, of course, i forgot:  i also found an unredeemed iTunes card.  gimme suggestions?*

(Destruction and) Renewal

January 5, 2010
watercolor on arches hot press, ink/digital

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.”

name that emotion

January 3, 2010

hello.

i am feeling

exceptionally

(fucking)*

crabby

today.

and also sorta like this:

TAF_1220x

 and in the good moments,

more like this:

TAF_1270x

 

(*yes, mom.  necessary.)