Sunday, December 11, 2016


I want to believe in the romance of the winter of my discontent. Another one. I feel the darkness of these early days, shortened by my distance from the sun... and I want to take my shoes off and pad about in my creative juices, making colors on all the walls.  There is a sort of delirium to it, and there are children gadding about, and they need to be fed. I wonder if I am heading for white coats and padded rooms sometimes... the way I am so internal ....

I've signed up to take a portraiture class and I'm very excited. Its cheap and online and so, that has its sadness, but it does allow me to work at my pace, and during the more and more infrequent naps, or when i wake because of the insane not-a-puppy-anymore in the middle of the night. I've always been mildly afraid of painting or drawing faces... in profile? Sure thing. But that damn nose! Straight on, a definite problem. I'm looking forward to working in my own style (whatever that is) with a guide ...

I've started to go back to Quaker Meeting more often. I had my first 'call' to speak a few weeks back... when you are inspired by the divine so heavily that nothing can stop you from standing up and speaking out... yeah, that full body shaking drive.  I spoke about joy and the need to celebrate who we are as joyful, hopeful creatures in the face of a world that doesn't seem to be focused correctly. BURBLE BURBLE.
It was intense, and the afteraffects of it left me down in the dumps for almost a week.  These holidays are a rough season, these firsts... although last year we knew we were separating at Christmas, no one else did... a special kind of hell, and I am glad to have more truth and authenticity in my life this year.

Yah, so, I don't know. It was a rough weekend, and I had some flashbacks to some stuff I never ever want to live through anymore, in any fashion, and this time, I need to make some promises to myself that I actually keep, about all that.  And its sad, and sucky, and not something I can send to the ether.
Damn the man. Damn.

Vaguery aside, I do have hope for these new guides and ways forward... sometimes I'm just hanging on, and sometimes I'm pulling someone else along for the ride. And its all a damn ride, after all.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

Seventh grade, bitches.

Boy,  when i think about writing for someone else, i feel an awful lot of pressure. Boy.  Pressure of the internal 'you really suck' variety.  And a huge resistance, as if editing my work, or changing my  Words were some kind of chastisement to a god given gift, when really it is just a fear that my first try wasn't perfect, not good enough.... that i'm not instantaneously recognized as a literary or some sort of genius.  Damn the man.

Its pretty amazing how deep the resistance goes though, its almost hard to think about, like some spell laid by the evil seventh grade bitch who first called me not cool enough. And that bitch lives inside my head, and has taken over a large part of my inner world for a long time.
Its an Overlaid webbing, coloring a lot of the things that i have done in the past, the things i do in the present.

I think most women that I know still recognize that bitch, know her pretty well at this point, but not well enough to be compassionate towards, although even the suggestion puts me back on a better path. Poor thing, she's got her own bitch living in there, too.

Funhouse mirrors baby.

As far as the writing goes, I've slowed down to dire levels. Not even journaling this amazingly challenging year, and I feel like I'm going../ I already know that I am sorry for it. There is so much going on internally, and it is a loss that so many things will have slipped away without a record.

Blaghblah. Trying to push through .
Love you, see you soon. Hopefully.