Cover1
Diana and the Faerys
Side View of Drawers
Full detail
A refurbished Art book. By no means my first, but my first in which the primary tones were earthy. Made for a friend- boots. Mail art style, b/c mailed to her afterwards.
I am learning to keep a record of my art, b/c I just give it away.
Thursdays I lie to myself
I allow moments of cockiness
To slip between the filthy sheets
Where our cats have been sick from our leavings.
Mondays, I know my place
pathetic and semi-hung over
From a party I didn’t attend
Rummaging about for a left over bagel.
A weekday hang-over (of weed)after weed whacking.
Wednesdays, I feel the evenings with giggling and sex.
Watching your eyes as my fingers slide in, just right,
Inches from your resistance.
And I feel alive watching you move into me,
Close, flat, against your flesh.
Fridays are my salvation
From a week of hell which return each Monday.
Fridays are my return to electric.
Static and bubbles before the weekend
Leaves me weak from overuse.
But Thursdays?
Thursdays are the miserable days,
I find myself falling in love with.
The evenings enchant me and I remind myself
To keep lying, keep discounting the appeal.
Thursdays feel like skateboarding on ice.
Slick, cold concrete under unsteady wheels,
My shaky legs quivering under a sport I never learned.
Being to busy with tongue tastings,
And learning how to fuck.
Thursdays feel like smoking kisses after sex,
While we shiver and watch nicotine diffuse
into the cold winter air.
It feels like freeze frame memories
Tinged with cancer and ice.
Sunshine Shame
This morning I drank sunshine with honey
Against her breasts, her hands in my hair
Calling my name into my mouth
And I couldn’t have felt closer
-except for if I’d taken of my clothes.
My clothes came off with you last night
My bare limbs shivering under scrutiny
Knowing each one of my flaws stood upright
Exposed by the forest coving my legs,
No one writes poetry about shame.
Shame is mixed up with every woman I drink
Every tongue flick bringing you closer to coming
And I woke up this morning to sunshine
Away from you and back against her skin
Sunshine and delight- a bouncing energy ball
Giggling inside me, bursting into fists of fireworks.
She is to blame for my comfortable joy,
She is to blame for my almost caught-peacefully feeling
She is to blame for my heart being open to loving
Yet you are the one watching me fall.
I am letting go and dropping
The way my stomach sinks
An easy fallback from grace to shame.
Nothing is allowed to be simple for me
Not even the stuck on perma-grin of after orgasmic sex .
Each look or touch I offer you
Comes tinged with back story memories
Pink-carry-ons of places and people I once was
Still, I noticed you looking at me today
And I can’t help gazing back at you.
You make it easy on my eyes.
Waiting on you for Poetry
I don’t want to steal the words from your mouth
But I am not able to sit still long enough
Tapping my toes, popping my knuckles,
waiting on you
To write something.
You speak images into being
and I feel the backbeat
-The bass impacting the words,
the words running, tripping for context.
A Do-It-Yourself drumming challenge.
Change the coffee shop-keep the smell of grinding beans
pick them from the red letters of a grocery store bag,
protect them in tinfoil,
hang them as ornaments around your neck
Dress them up- wear them out and show them off
to a World in which words matter.
Words to me shine brighter than Christmas lights
Molded into balls, handing from around-the-block trees,
Glittering against the lamp light of “a well established
Portland neighborhood. ”
And right now?
To my senses, you alternate between switched on-summer sunshine
And switched off- hidden in the noir themes of perpetual tragedy.
What does perpetual tragedy even mean?
It means, you are afraid of feeling words
Afraid of the poetry- Which already comes
bouncing off the tip of your pierced-tongue
Into msn conversations I save,
text messages I lock and occasionally flyer my journal with
in the lavender and turquoise of tiny Post-Its.
The poetry is blocked by fear, and it slips out
when you’re that much closer to coming.
I may just be self-involved and projecting my insecurities
Onto the pads of your hesitant fingertips, but I see you
Being afraid of feeling -
The words reverberating inside of you.
Afraid of the poetry which comes from opening up
And I do not begrudge you for your fears, for
You’ve been burned, scarred recently,
Under the scalpel and reconstructed by skin stitches
But for the love of your scars,
And my fetish desires,
I cannot hold back the influx of longing
Which comes from looking at you across a couch from me,
Though a blank webcam which doesn’t flicker pictures,
Or a photograph of the ghost of your kitten.
You make my muses return, and I see
a flowing highway of fireflies,
Lighting the ring of fairy mushrooms appearing at my feet
melting two feet of snow in order that
I may remember-All Things are magick
and magick is caught, contained, directed-
In(by) words
So I must write.
The two of us deal with tragedy so differently.
You hide under your bed sheets displaced by dreams
- you’re bent on not remembering.
You slip under the radar for depression by holding physical symptoms, close
Closer to your still healing heart and breasts.
This keeps you sicker, but not impure, not toxic,
While I expose every detail,
Open my wounds to light, Digging out the shrapnel
With my just washed, chewed-down fingernails,
Which leaves my palms full of gunk and blood and
The end result of bullets rolling around my fingertips,
Track marks of how many times I almost died,
But didn’t.
Actually,
-I meant to say,
I write.
Zen Stairwell
My blood runs hot and cold
Pink and yellow
Love mixed with piss and blood.
My love always has a catch.
Sometimes it comes hooked in the brown leather
The skull-crash, blood and falling
Of my best friend to the concrete floor
I wonder if he’s pissing blood this morning.
I remember pissing blood
After fucking
Though I never intended
To write about my bloody bowels
When yours are spilling out
The cracked filling, a concussion on display
I will not appropriate
The healing bits of you
And the missing chunks,
Torn up and awkward.
I will laugh with you.
I will play gently,
False boxing, dancing around the issue,
Because you’ve chosen not to lead yet.
I will protect you with my body,
My day-mares filled
With hanging, flicker shots
Of ropes, of nooses, with oxygen masks.
I demand to rewrite
My premonitions of reality—
My life is at stake
Almost splintered under the hurt of not knowing
Who will be next.
Who do I have to yell @, who do I have to
Assault to drop the rope
Around my own neck?
Slip, sliding on the bladed edge of
A biased guillotine,
Ready and waiting to cut my own chord
If only to break the glacier of tension
Tipped and mounting underneath me.
I must not break, I must not fall
Not impale myself (or boil hot)
Through the wrists or through the neck
My fate is coming to me.
I feel it coming, I cannot go to it.
I swear by this-
Switch the dice, spin the wheel,
I see you, hear you breathing
Cigarette burns on the back of my neck
Reminiscent of my still flickering dreams
Beckoning, swaying along the beams.
You fucker, you hung a noose for us,
Waiting in the wings of normalcy,
As every stupid redneck screams of you.
Every single person I despise, looks like you.
Still, I will do my damndest
Goading you into fucking with me.
Hurting me, cough-sputter, choking me.
It’s strangling, what you’d do to me,
While I see you choking on my resistance,
My non-conformancy to your desires—
Quit fucking with my loves,
Or you’ll be fucking me.
If my body swings free weight,
You feel the coming wind, nothing less than 3 x 3.
Since martyrdom will never suit me,
I will remember you
And everything you’ve done for me.
unconcious casting
I wrote poetry today I wouldn’t read to you
Poetry which leaves me sandpaper scrubbed-raw
Bleeding from the ducts in my dry eyes
Dripping dry, instead of tears.
I wouldn’t ever let you see me cry.
As I reach up and grasp your hand,
I vomit, puking all over myself
All over myself, and you step away.
It’s not poetry when it stinks
When there’s half-digested chunks
When people can’t stomach
The reality of my existence
So when I write poetry,
I will hardly ever be able to read
The poetry I actually write
And not the poetry written about
My silly-fucked up life.
I slept yesterday afternoon. After I burst into tears on a couple occasions @ school and touched bases with Demere, Linda H. about school and work and Daniel about myself. Then I woke up, pulled down my cookbooks and browsed foods I wanted to make, comfort foods which sounded delicious and drinks like hot cocoa with brandy. After my mouth was watering, I called up Amazon and we disappeared to Moscow for a bit.
Just walking into the Co-op felt like therapy, or a warm bubble bath— filled with Epson salts and lavender. I bought cheesecloth to make a spice bag, baggette and blue cheese, and goat brie to delight Nora and I, and vanilla macaroon granola mostly for myself. *purrs and remembers the smells of the Co-op*
Amazon and I left, wandered our way to Ross @ the Palouse Mall, and she discovered pretty black, lacy lingerie. *grins* It was cute to see her try it on. I found a strainer for Cinnamon Coffee, a bamboo cutting board and matching knife set for Nora(our anniversary is tomorrow) and we both looked at journals for Turtle. Our last place was Waldenbooks, where we kept nixing journal ideas, to girly, too frilly, to busy, to nice, until Amazon slid around the corner to me, as I was drooling over a wooden, gold-leaf journal, a black based journal with colored robots all over it. Perfect. And we got 20% off on it, so it only cost the both of us $7 a piece. It was a nice find, and shopping is very therapeutic.
We both went home, and I discovered Nora in our parking lot, just getting home from babysitting Thursdays. *breathes happily* Turtle dropped by with R and J, to pick up the journal I’d been holding for her, we all chatted for a bit and then they left.
I shuffled my tarot cards between my hands, back and forth, dashing cards between cards every once in awhile, dropping the deck, picking it up, shuffling conventionally, getting to know my cards. When I felt ready, to do a reading for myself, I went into the bedroom, cleared off and made the bed, rearranged Cooter, Jenny and Jr. into comfortable spots behind me on the pillows. I laid out my candle circle on the top of the dresser, re-working the circle a few times till I laid down a red lid, poured sand from near Vantage, WA onto it and squared the candles out to 8 with the 9th off centered in the middle. I laid my wand, my sword and my spector across the sand, zig-zaged beneath it, and placed my bone-goddess pendant on top in a place which felt right. I lit the candles starting at the head, clockwise and ending back at the head. I used both matches and a lighter, as the lighter began to spark. The alter glowed. White, vanilla candles glowing with warm, yellow flames flicking on top and within. My spector-wand laid out, with my sign inscribed visibly below it, and the goddess pendant seeming to move in the flicker-dance of the flames.
I lit the last, three wicked, vanilla, house candle and almost prayed, I chanted. I questioned the cards, “How do I heal, How do I heal, How Do I heal?” questioning on my in-breath and “relax”ing on my out-breath. I saw green light, the green of the candle marked healing at the Co-op, flowing around my hands, around the cards, and in and out of my breath. Then when the question made it into the cards, I charged the cards, turning them from the side, to face down. As I charged the cards, I visualized an orange-red or warmth, a warm yellow, flowing into the cards, giving them power and giving me power to look into my subconscious with the cards as my guide. Then I released the power and it dissolved, warm, dry mist into the air, into the comforting smell of my bedroom.
The cards told me of my own nostalgia, with the 5 of cups, about the possibility of a previous love returning into my life, or of dwelling on memories right now, the place where I’m at. My crossing card was the Queen of Cups, and as she gazes, I am ambivalent, not uncaring, but torn between two directions, which muddle my clarity. My crowning card I don’t remember, but the Base of the Matter turned over the Knight of Cups, reminding me of a deep seated desire for romance, and a belief in the ideal of love, telling me to remember and see my own need for romantic, or courtly love. The card of Past Influences made me laugh, b/c it told me summer is over, it’s time to put away the desire for fresh fruits and veggies, and sun dancing, and begin to think about the sensual, fall aspects of myself, b/c summer is over. I laughed b/c yesterday was the first below 30 degree day we’ve had this year. Obviously summer is over. Still, I hear, indulge my sensuality, and I fear my sensuality lately. The card in the 6th position was the Page of Wands, atop the golden fleece, telling me of my own restlessness and creativity beginning to stir around and bubble in my mind and fingertips. The card reminded me, that while not all creative ideas are good, to not discount them, often the beginning ideas, are the spices, stirring into the pot, which begin the delicious process of cooking. The card telling me where I am right now showed a place of celebration, 6 or 7 wands. A place to take a minute, celebrate and reflect and get ready for the next assault. My 8th card, how my Family and Friends see me, was a remarkable position of power, The Queen of Pentacles. She holds aloft a golden pentacle, and a bounty of grapes in her other hand. It’s a place of power and visibility, often of sexuality. A revered position. What to take away from this? That while I feel like I’m drowning(though less so after my reading and calming), others see me as succeeding, as pushing through, capable of making it out alive and better, whole. My 9th card in the spread, Hopes and Fears was expected. It was Zeus, arrayed in purple, the Ace of Wands, telling me again of my restless creative energy and warning me of my fear of success. I hope to succeed artistically, and I also fear any success. It told me unless I trust in myself and the decisions I make, I will easily fall. By my own hand, not by the hand of others, as most failures occur in my mind. (I recalled this entire spread from memory, and know I missed one card, but I don’t know where.) My last card, my answer to “How do I heal” was “You must be torn to bits, because you keep helping others and can’t seem to help yourself, so your limbs will be torn from your body, your memories ripped out, and you will experience a death of sorts. Then, then only, when you are broken down, may you heal. So welcome the pain as it comes, but do not revel in it. Feel it and let it go.”
I thanked the cards, wrapped them carefully in their cloth, and blew out the candles widdershins before calling Nora to bed.
The reading and the breathing and the candles helped me. I glowed for most of the evening, and I woke up this morning at 7am, ready to write about it. Now, I will curl up, savor my tea and gaze out into the grey morning. What an English way to start it all.
feel like making a zine today.
I feel like cutting up glue, pasting pictures over words, words over pictures, stealing other people’s artwork and making my own. Did you know if you change someone’s art work by a little over 10% it counts as yours? What a number. Art is not protected. Though I have made the decision to not protect my own art, both on deviantart.com, on my blogs, and in life.
I have such a problem selling my pieces, not for lack of interest, people are always interested in fucked up shit, but for lack of a willingness to give pieces of me away like that. Right now, on my wall in the apartment, I have all my favorites up. The living room wall is full of color, of body panting pieces, of drawings, sketches, little pictures I doodles of waitresses in Lucca, Italy. Bit by bit, moments of me.
I added on my art major this year, which adds up to three majors and Nora graduated from WSU in May 2009. I’ll still be here, doing things, learning. I added on the last major b/c I couldn’t go any further by myself. I have these pictures in my head, these paintings, which I can’t replicate because my painting skills aren’t as good as the paintings I have in my mind.
Heidi is going to teach me, this semester or next, how to build my own canvases. I have these large scale painting in my head, my size or bigger. I need all this room to get things on the canvas, and there’s no room on the small ones.
Still, I’ll be drawing after I shave my legs today, one more uncommon than the other. I’ll be cutting. I’ll be pulling out all the poetry and fiting it onto to page. Or i won’t. because my poetry falls flat. falls down and feels hopeless. Not everyday, just now.
I feel so much better. Today, even while being sick, I’ve managed to eat something, finish all my homework, show up and work for an hour, pay my speeding ticket(which means I get a new license), set up to pay my last tuition payment, arrange for my schedule to be organized with god in the wst department, drink entirely to much caffeine, set up an appointment tomorrow to get certified within my second major, contemplate the delight of a year spent taking art or just pictures and having it be a full load, talk to Pam about my internship credit with ATVP, feel like my insides are going to burst from excitement, get my handouts from Linda for class, start on my paper and did I mention eat something? Now, I’m going to take a nap, b/c I have ATVP training @ 5:30 and I am still sick. I have crashed three times today and need to sleep again. I’m getting better! And it’s really hard to hold still. I’m off! To sleep.
What an experience, updating everything today, catching myself up on 3 or 4 years of not paying attention to the internet sites I set up. It feels like I’ve managed to spread myself out everywhere in the last while, so I don’t even know where I start and end.
Today updated: livejournal, deviantart, wordpress, blogspot, myspace, yahoo, and a few of my links on each of the sites. It makes me feel like I’ve stopped being an artist, b/c I can’t keep up with myself. I know this isn’t true, I’ve just been very very busy. My next goal is to figure out how to manage all the sites I want to work with, to the best of my interests, without getting overwhelmed. A lot of stuff is being tossed in the crapper. Congrats to the stuff which survives and good riddance to my lovely fall house cleaning.
