The Void

I.

My heart a vacuum

void of any life

cold, dark, and hollow.

My soul is empty

a hole in the universe

gravity absent.

My body broken

as it shelters in it’s place

grieving as it licks it’s wounds .

Nothing can fix this,

mirror, still water, deep thought

a useful solace.

Hard thought blended with horror

head bent in sorrow

face on bitter wall.

 

II

Stand facing to the world, child

let your fingers touch the wind

this too shall pass, breathe.

One Spirit has it in hand.

Trust that what will come, will come

let chaffe float away

dandelion seeds

Que sera sera.

Change

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I feel a kind of tenderness, a need to curl up against the warm, clean, good smelling body of Tom.  I lift his big hand and popeye arms and wrap him around me.  Whats up with you today, you okay?  I am I say, I just want to cuddle.

The time change, and my lousy sleep pattern intersect with a harshness, I am up too late, I awake too early.

I pull out my yoga mat and finally.  Finally, finally.

So long the voice of, “if you don’t want to do the pose it is the one you most need” is hushed.  Be quiet, I tell it.  It is okay to just do the poses you really like to do.  You don’t have to do a bunch of poses that hurt, that are keeping you from doing what you love to do.  Just do those, just do triangle and down dog.  Just do them.  The dog cuddles me and plays with me as I bend over stretching.  It feels so good.

I turn on my Ipad just to look up lemongrass, I awake with it in my mind.  Later the dog and cat are chewing on the grass.  Tom yells at them, no, I say, it is okay, its really good for them.  Maybe me too.  I want to make lemongrass oil.

Later, after I am ready, very early, I take the dog for a short walk.  She is astonished.  Be careful, Tom tells me, this road is dangerous.  I know.  I say, but Mike told me not to walk out back in the mornings during hunting season.  He won’t shoot you, Tom says.  I know I say, but it is his property and I have to respect what he told me.

I don’t know what happened over the weekend.  I went from feeling really depressed to opening up again.

I feel tender, and cold, and fresh.

 

Trying to do this again

The first hard frost of the season was on Tuesday morning.  There had been a frost earlier in October but it was a light frost on some surfaces.  The sun was a giant magenta ball in the sky on Wednesday.  All these things difficult to photograph as you drive by at 65 miles an hour.  Geese are flying but not going south, last year the waterways remained open and I think I saw geese all winter.

Savage heart that delights in the trees dancing as the wind blows purple tumble weeds and yellow leaves across the canvas of my night time vision, that stands in doorways as icy rain falls and falls, that sees snow in the dark air, that delights in a child noting that at night darkness makes the sky touch the ground.  Savage heart that cannot leave its bed, its nest of feathers and cotton, it cannot continue this deluge of humanness.  Savage heart still broken a decade after the fall, finding joy in the scars, running its antenna over tingling edges, tearing off the scabs and eating them as it bleeds. Like a mantis chewing on her husbands head as he fucks her still. Savage heart that beats too hard for all the lazy wastrel life.

Unpleaseable

I am not greeted as I enter, and I feel awkward as people stare at me and do not say hello.

In the morning I am thinking of how uncomfortable it made me feel.  I talk about my feelings, I guess this is my first mistake.

I am told I am un-pleasable.

I am not the un-planet Pluto in the vastness of the solar system.

I am not the circumnavigation of the ocean on a row boat.

I am not the Sahara desert with no water or shade.

I am a verdant forest with a waterfall and slate stream rilling through I am surrounded by lady slippers, lush ferns and jacks in the pulpit, I am trout leaping in rainbow mist, I am the song of water, I am a fawn dappled in the sun, I am a lizard basking in the sun, I am a red eft, a black salamander spotted with yellow, I am a fox, lapping at the water.

What you mean is, I am not worth the small effort it takes to please me.  I am not worthy of kisses to my neck and shoulders.  I am not worthy of having strong arms wrapped around me.  I am not worthy of a date even.  I am not worthy of being told Hello, we missed you.  Glad you are home.  What you mean is, you do not care enough to please me.

I am told, you have changed.  I hear, I don’t care for the person that you are.  Loud and clear.

I am in my spacesuit un-tethered.

I am parched in the noon sun of the desert.

I am in an inner tube somewhere in the arctic sea.

I have fallen through the ice in the tundra in January.

 

 

The heart is full of this endless yearning

echoing through this cavernous abyss

the hearth fire spreads out licking warm fingers from this small lit alcove

the darkness at its edges a great icy obsidian wall

the wind whines, or is it the keen of mourning from far off deep

i rest my face on the cold glass of winters night, gleaning the warmth of the fire from the wrong side of the wall like a face pressed against the window from outside a winters night.

there is a hush as though owls wings have soared through

as though fat flakes of snow were falling windless

the ululating voice silenced

I am restless

 

 

 

Trial by Social Media Part 2

 

“Use your aggressive feelings, boyL  let the hate flow through you!”  – Emperor Palpatine

In grade school we learned about the Salem Witch Trials, putting people in stockades, witches being tried by mobs, burned at the stake, people being publicly whipped or hanged.  We learned though that this was morally reprehensible.  And worse was the crowd who delighted in the torture.  It goes back even further to people going to the Colosseum and watching people getting killed, gored, eaten by lions.  The distaste for people getting pleasure from this was horrifying.

And yet here we are in the 21st century doing exactly the same thing via social media.  We feel hate, anger and aggression and we delight in watching people squirm as we verbally abuse, excoriate, and vilify every one, from a dad writing a standard letter of good character for his son to a judge, a son who did a reprehensible thing, yes, but my doubt is real as I wonder what the media has fed the masses on this case, what is real and what is in fact manipulated.  I read the dad’s letter, it was a standard take it easy on my kid letter, oh but now the dad is the demon.  I am not judging this case, because I don’t have the facts in front of me.  And I no longer trust the media.

There but for the grace of God go I.

How many stupid mistakes have I made in this lifetime?  And how thankful that so far I haven’t been called out on too many of them.  And most thankful that the media has not gotten a hold of my transgressions, because you, me, all of us are now only one stupid mistake away from this aggressive hate filled mob of cabbage and rotten tomato throwers.

*S No worries folks drag your kids to the public hanging.  Delight in the strike of the guillotine.  Get your sick thrills out of public shaming, out of public life destroying.  Get involved, say your piece.  You aren’t physically harming anyone, you are just stating your opinion.  Call people names, let them see your outrage.  Allow the media to manipulate your emotions.  These people are not victims, they are at fault and deserve your judgment.  Tit for tat.  He raped someone so I will socially rape him.  He deserves it.

“You will not be punished for your anger; you will be punished by your anger.”-Buddha

“If you truly loved yourself, you could never hurt another.” – Buddha

Tread with caution people, it is only a matter of time before you or someone you love will be thrown to the lions.

Trial by a Jury of Your Peers or Fire Or Social Media (which is the worst)

 

I experienced trial by social media first hand this weekend.  And I am a bit stung by it.

There was a photo of a cat abandoned by the curb with a litter box and some supplies.  Which was in fact pretty abyssmal behavior, having grown up in the country, this is nothing new.  We rescued most of our animals from “drop offs” animals driven out to a farm in the country and abandoned.  Sadly there is nothing new under the sun.

I was trying (TRYING) to say that you should not really judge this because of an experience I had that was similar, but not the same where people judged me for the humane decision I made with the help of my veterinarian.  Of course being social media I did not carefully think out my response and I was reamed out for it.

“Roasted” was one word.  “Cunt” was another, “cock” was a third word used in the comments to flay me then tar and feather me virtually.

Some people will, according to the comments, allow their pets to defecate and urinate on their beds and still allow them to live in their homes.

Some people made assumptions and then put them onto my actual decision, adding a layer of horror to what I proportedly did.

And I was told to never adopt an animal again.  ( I guarantee you I will never willingly adopt a cat EVER again.)

Here are your choices when an animal inappropriately urinates or defecates in your home.

1. Take them to a vet and make sure there is nothing wrong with the animal.  (Cat had a UTI, medication given, when we could catch her which after the first three days, was nearly impossible to do on any schedule.)

2. Change placement of litter box.  Shurinated in the basement a litter box was placed right there.  She continued to urinate in my bedroom, in my closet, on clean laundry and my bed.  I kept the door closed and she was no longer allowed in the bedrooms.  She was allowed outside.  She still urinated inside on the ground floor.

4.  Change litter type.  Been there, done that.  Multiple times.

5.  Try pheromone collars, sprays, medication and room freshener etc. Done. All.

6.  Place cat in a separate location from other animals.  Done.  (Urinated and defecated for months in basement in the crawl space rather than the cat box.) .  She destroyed a sofa, a chair (urinated on them) and urinated on several throw rugs which had to be thrown away an installed rug was ruined, balls of yarn ruined.  Antique baskets ruined.  Urinated on original paintings.

Finally, litter box is placed in our bedroom and it stayed that way with only weekly innappropriate urinating for several months.

7.Try to rehouse cat.  Tried in several venues for over a year.  But no one wanted the cat.

9.  Call animal rescue groups.  (No one returned repeated calls).

10.  We took cat back to vet.  Repeated step one.

This is when daily inappropriate urination began.  At one point, my fiancé whom she adored and the feeling was mutual, was urinated ON by the cat, on his crotch as he lay in bed.  All laundry had to be put away off the floor at all times, dirty or clean.  So she began urinating regularly in the bed.

Washed sheets, bedding, comforters, mattress pads and covers numerous times in about six months.

Repeat vet visit.  Discuss options with vet.

Vet agrees with the option we choose, we give cat another chance.

And another.  And another.

Until one day I am in bed.  Litter box is clean next to bed.  Cat jumps on bed.  Urinates. Jumps down.

I do what the vet and I agreed was the best option for the cat.

I am excoriated for it in social media.

Now if the cat abandoner had done half of these things and chose not to do what I did, but instead placed cat with supplies on the curb, it would be enough in my opinion, but nonetheless is a horrible choice.  Either way it is a horrible choice.  Any choice other than keeping the cat is apparently a horrible choice.  Suggestion that people should not be judged in social media results in judgment.

According to social media, allowing the urination to continue is the ONLY choice.

 

Telling my inner critic to shut the hell up

I am in bed all morning, I don’t even know what I did, read the remaining boring pages of a 700 page, otherwise good book. Looked for a new book fighting with Amazon’s stupid algorithms, I am quite capable of searching for a book by author, do you think you could follow my theme?  And why do you keep opening a new window when I am searching, I don’t want a new window.  And no I do not want to read number 127 in the series of pulp fiction sci fi novels.  Or the library algorhythms, what the hell this is a book for 12 year olds, do you not have science fiction for grown ups?  NO?  I just want a meaty cannot put it down, science fiction novel like the ones Sherri Tepper writes, no zombies, no vampires, no android sex scenes, no alien dominating male sex scenes.  Just a good story set in outer space.  Nope.  Not possible.

I have a headache and my back hurts.  I had a massage yesterday and have been eating like crap for three days, including divesting my body of water.  I am dehydrated, I don’t even get up to pee from 730-noon, only peeing then because of habit.

The house is dark the coal stove suffering through its last dregs, the house smells like someone spilt sour milk, and un brushed teeth, and feet and cat litter.

I don’t want to go to class.  I don’t want a critique of my work, because the way things are going I will crucify myself after someone says something off hand and thoughtless while I suffer in the dark dungeon of my psyche.

I suck at art.

I should be spending my money on travel instead of art supplies.

I am just getting better every day, I am 48 fucking years old, what the hell does that even mean?

I feel that thing inside me as my leggings do the MC Hammer, and my shirt does the first season of Star Trek TNG as I yank it down again and again.  My nipple itches (don’t ask, doctors appointment tomorrow) I cannot find my eye glasses, I cannot see. My brick won’t reach the plug so I can type and read at the same time as I charge the iPad don’t even get me started on the 8 inch cord they give you anyway.  Where the frick is my phone,  dammit I wasted the whole damn day.  There is dust on the thing I want to take a picture of, there is clutter in the background.  My face itches like crazy.  The dog wants to go out, she won’t come in.

Irritable on the inside.

As I shower I think, it’s time to give up painting.  When I was pregnant 25 years ago a co worker Janet something or other Hartoonian, I think, told me that I would have to spend less on make-up (mascara and lip gloss at the time) and give up painting for something more practical. It might be time to heed her advice.

i am like an over tired infant, arching my back and screaming

or a fourth grade boy shrieking all day at my own madness

shut up, silence peasant, that’s enough dumbass, okay nut job you can stop now, wtf Meg?

I stop and breathe, I notice my aggravation.  This is why they want me on meds.

But right now fat ass you are trying to avoid being a diabetic.

shut up. Just shut up.

 

 

 

 

 

Confidence

Sometimes, as an artist, I feel like a hack.  I wonder if other people feel this way.  It has been a lot of time and money spent on this not very lucrative activity and being a practical person it is hard to justify.  The ends pre-exist in the means, I suppose, where you do it for the pleasure of it, or you do something enough and there will be reward of some kind.  Thursday was a really difficult day of work, and the last thing I wanted to do was go to class, I even stopped to get a cup of coffee, which I just won’t drink anymore after lunch.  But I noticed that the overwhelming stress of the day was eased just by sitting and sketching for an hour.  I could feel the feeling of my blood pressure when it is normal, as opposed to its workday pounding.  And listening to two fourth grade boys having screaming whining tantrums all day just about put me over the edge.

But I want to make money doing it.  I have two commissions in the queue, the third and fourth in a year.  And I have sold several paintings this year, when in the past my only patrons were Andrea (seriously could any one ask for a better friend?) and my sister in law (who won’t pay more than 25 dollars a painting despite her diamond tennis bracelets and Mercedes).   And I have made money with knitted purses and some other projects over the years.

There is this struggle too between creating work that a gallery might want. Is the quality of your surface acceptable?  Is the work good enough?  Do you know people? (I don’t) Have you hoofed it enough in NYC (ugh)  Is your frame a stylish black frame or is it a schmaltzy wood frame, who is your audience anyway?

I boldly ask the professor of my class if I am wasting my time.  He never really answers me, which I guess is an answer isn’t it?

Confidence.