This is why I write, this is why I blog, this is who I am

Because not everyone hears every story. Because not everyone cares about the stories we do tell. Because sometimes we need to be heard in the void. Because everyone remembers something different.

I remember my grandfather as a hard man. I don't know enough about his life before I can remember being young, because he never talked about it. He didn't share his own stories, even the hard ones.

All we knew was we had to be quiet. We couldn't play "Hungry-Hungry-Hippos" because it was too much noise. I'm pretty sure his main reason for building us a playset in the backyard was so that we could make noise - outside. The reason I remember being told was because he practically grew up an only child, he was used to quiet.

That excuse makes no sense to me now. I don't suppose it did then either.

My grandmother thrived, and still does to a point, on commotion & chaos. Having half a dozen kids sleeping over, playing dress up, making plays, playing games and generally squirreling underfoot was her element. For her, coordinating and planning and talking to lots of people is a great day. She seems to bloom like her roses that hold steadfast in hard caliche and whipping wind only to glow strong and fresh in the many vases placed everywhere you turn.

My grandfather though, could get lost for hours in books. I know he did all these pretty great things like starting swim teams when my dad & uncles were boys. I know he ran a respected business, helped develop this city in many ways, worked on so many projects. I know he helped make laws and brought computers to their business and helped build Prairie Pete Park when it had cool things to climb on. I know he was in the Army Air Corp and ended up at Midland Army Air Field. I know he was raised in Chicago. I know he made a good Colonel in the CAF because he's just ornery enough to fit the criteria.

But I mostly remember him always having a book. Sitting in his chair reading, barking at us to quit tearing through the house. Sitting, quietly, trying to stay lost in his world.

There are things I learned about him eventually. Bits of snippets of his memories as a kid or family growing up or what else he'd done. Either I got old enough to finally hear them or he finally decided to tell them.

He was a hard man. But he got things done. More than one person referred to him as an ogre, whether the referral was affectionate or not depended on who you talked to. He somehow made things happen, and I imagine he growled quite a lot at quite a number of people to make these things happen.

My grandparents were married 65 years. As much as we could see them push each others buttons, he loved my grandmother. It was rare, but to catch him looking at her with affection when he thought no one was watching, that is when he bloomed like his rose bushes. He was all thorns and thick rough stalks and dry edged leaves to suddenly surprise you with a soft pink rosebud hidden and blooming.

I don't know how they met. I don't know if he went to school for a degree. I don't know if he had dreams he wanted to pursue.

I do know he read. A lot. I know he was an alcoholic. I know he liked growing the roses and tomatoes in the garden. I know he did things his way. I know he liked his choices in music.

I know I'm a lot like him in some ways, traits passed on that make each of us who we are.

I know I have stories that people will never hear. I know I have stories of things in my life that may never get passed along. Partly because I prefer to look forward and learn what I can from the past, but keep going.

But I write them. I write some for myself, tucked into long and rambling notebooks now covered in dust on the shelf. I write to be read, posting into the internet things that happen as a way of remembering and sharing, sometimes to be commented on by strangers or fiends. I write down my memories of my stories, so that someday later when I flip back through them I can remember what that scent was or where that storm was or who I was with when that happened.

We share these bits of our lives in a public space. We make the effort to put ourselves out there, to share what we see happening with the world.

Because I want these stories of mine to be known, even if the only people who read it are friends I haven't met yet. So that somewhere out here in this world is my version of what I did and saw. So that someday when people wonder about the eccentric woman who paints and gets lost in her own world, they'll know there's more to me than just that. I have more stories than just what I've done.

The ones you make yourself hold the most meaning

I gave my paint tool box away.

It was one of those plastic tool boxes for about five bucks that I'd modified for carrying paints and paintbrushes. I didn't have a permanent shelf or place to store my stuff at the time. It had enough room for several brushes and most of the colors I used, and the tray carried extra carving blades, small wood pieces, random beads, and electrical tape because I learned the blades were sharp before I invested in gloves and used the electrical tape to wrap around my fingers and thumb to protect them at the time.

The tool box had been gathering dust for awhile now. I still used it on occasion for travel or working in another location and it made a decent foot stool a lot of the time. My brushes are scattered everywhere, the paints are mostly corralled in a drawer unit, and I still have random pieces of wood here and there.



Well on Friday night I kept an eye on my cousins while my aunt & uncle had an evening to themselves for dinner & shopping. I won't call it babysitting because they're old enough to take care of themselves, really. I just hung out to make sure the boys didn't set the house on fire or throw cupcakes at the dogs.

One of the boys is kinda quiet compared to the other two, and really good at the science fair stuff and has an interest in painting. They're all three sharp, just different interests. Anyway, he was showing me stuff he'd been working on but had run out of green paint.

So I cleaned off my tool box, tossed a couple of newer brushes in there and picked up some new paints for him, just basic colors to get him going. When I felt better on Sunday I took it over, telling him it wasn't a Christmas present, it was a gift from one artist to another. I told him what I'd done to modify it years ago & showed him the brushes and paints and a few board canvases if he wanted to paint pictures for someone else for Christmas, he could.

It was a little hard. To let go. Of something I didn't use anymore, I know. But when I was in kind of a turmoil-y place once, and I used art as a stability, and I picked up wood carving and took to it nearly every night, well, it was a grounding thing. Carry tools, foot stool, sitting stool, drying dock, everything.

But I know it's gone to a good home now. Pass along something that he can use to make his own art with. And that makes me proud.



The photos are some of the wood pieces.

Tonight I picked up my detail brush and started working on them again. I haven't touched them in over a year and a half, since before eye surgery the summer before last. Because before that all I could see was up close. Details and tiny cuts were so easy. I've partly been afraid to try since, and have kept myself busy with other things. The lines are not the same. The details are not the same. But it felt so damn good to pick up something that I remember and have a groove with.

I apologize for the craptastic clarity, or lack thereof, of the pics. I used the phone camera because I could send them straight to the computer without having to dig out wires and download my camera. I'm lazy like that. And was busy being productive anyway.

17th of December, Part 4

...Part 1, Part 2, Part 3...

This series has been harder than I thought.

The writing has been therapeutic, yes. It's only further proof that some things never completely heal, and some things will continue to surface long after their time has past.

This night was a turning point for me and I'm reminded of it every time I look in the mirror. The difference now is that while these physical scars have healed, there are days when I wonder about the person I've become since then.

I changed how I travel. I still prefer to drive and I love to travel, but now I give myself plenty of time to get anywhere and stop for naps if I feel I need it. I got my motorcycle license last year and love riding. There is a freedom and balance to being on a bike that feels like flying.

I quit wearing a watch. Time didn't matter. Time doesn't matter.* Yes, I have a lead foot and like speed, but I don't care if I get anywhere on time. I'll get there when I get there.

Family matters. A lot. My cousin was killed instantly in a car wreck just a few years before. This scared my family, dealing this and me. It scared me, the thought of losing all this support and love.

I survived something I shouldn't have. Those pictures my parents took of the truck? I saw one, once. I've never seen them again. That one photo showed a small green pickup truck that looked like it had been picked up and twisted in different directions by the Jolly Green Giant. It's hard to explain other than I saw that photo and cried. How in the world did I survive that? I don't know.

But it let me know I'm still here on this earth for some reason. And I've spent the last eleven years trying to find my way on my path.

Just over a year later I moved to San Antonio. I had a wonderful experience with theatre there and formed a long lasting relationship. I traveled all over the state for auditions and commercial things. I later moved to Ft. Davis and met my best friend.

Then came Massage Therapy classes where I learned so much and loved it all. Yes, the human body is freaking amazing and yet so very fragile.

And I've dabbled in everything that catches my interest since then. Why not? Life is short enough, right? So I might as well try things out and see if I like them. I like to think I've continued to jump in there to take those chances, but sometimes I know I haven't.

Fear will stop things before they have a chance to begin. If the worst that could happen is something I've lived through, then I tell myself to go try it out.

I meet fascinating people and have great conversations this way. I once asked a parking lot painter if I could paint a stripe but he said he'd rather not see me mess up my skirt as we were on our way to the bar. Seriously. Ask Amber.

I took the leap for nude modeling and loved it. I leaned in to kiss a guy during a cold audition and landed the role. I flew out to Charleston to meet someone I'd only talked to for six weeks and that turned into a relationship. I submitted my writing for several projects and landed a few of them, some of which continue now as I develop more skills. I took the motorcycle classes because I really, really, really wanted to learn to ride and wasn't dating anyone with a bike anymore. I took a chance on a personal ad, drove to El Paso a week later to meet the man I will eventually marry.

I've played it safe plenty of times, too. Having a steady paycheck is nice, it's the draw of a desk job.

But the part of me that knows something is off, knows. And I've taken a few steps toward the next leg of this path I'm on, figuring out what still fits and what doesn't.

All in all, I'm an artist. I love creating. I love whimsy. I love helping make people feel better whether by massage or by finding answers. I love the human art form and expression. And I love passion.

The scars are still here. Reminders of what happened. Reminders of where I've been. It's always moving forward from some point. It's a long, winding path with many detours. My life is a journey. When I pay attention and see the signs, I stay on the road, when I don't, things get all topsy-turvy.

Thank you for letting me express a bit of myself here. I hope you come back on occasion to see where I'm at next.


*"Only life matters." - Guess what movie that's from?

17th of December, Part 2

Part 1 here...

Rollover on the Highway

I had a truck. A little Ford Ranger. Green. It had a crack in the windshield from a rock chip from the resealing of city streets the past summer.

I was tired. I'd been awake since sometime around 4am. I'd taken some form of over the counter sinus stuff the day before for allergies. (Did that play a role, hardly, but I've since gone homeopathic & don't touch the over-the-counter stuff at all.) I'd driven the six hours out to Austin, done the audition, and driven more than halfway back home. I wanted to be home.

But I was tired. And I couldn't tell that the street lights up ahead were for a different road that went one way while the road I was on curved the other.

And I swerved. And I panicked. And I over-corrected. And I tensed up every muscle in my body. And I said "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." And I remember the track the CD was playing. I remember the song. I remember where in the song. I remember the lyrics at that point in the song. I remember being very, very unhappy at what was happening.

They tell me I rolled several times. My parents told me they unwrapped my dog tags from around my rear-view mirror three times. I went across the median. Into oncoming traffic. Rolling. Rolling across the median. The truck stopped on the passenger side on the other road. Where another car hit my truck and sent me spinning in it.

I was the scene people slow down for. To see what happened. But I couldn't see what they saw.

My view was a very different perspective.

My left eye was bloody and swollen shut. My right eye didn't want to open until the blood covering it dried. My right shoulder hurt. My left hand was excruciating. My feet were cold. And I was in the cab of that small truck looking at a swath of dark red blood across the ceiling above me.

The back window had popped out somewhere on that roller coaster. The front window was smashed. As were the driver and passenger windows. I had enough of my wits about me to turn off the engine. I released my seat belt which let me drop the last few inches so my feet were on the ground through the passenger side window. Good thing I'd waited till the truck wasn't moving anymore, because had my feet drooped through that window before the spinning, they would have been cut off at the ankle. I leaned back on the seat with seatbelt locks digging into my side as voices shouted and hollered outside.

They asked me where I was going. "Home. To Odessa." They asked me where I was coming from. "From Austin." That can't be, they said. I was on the wrong road, they said. I must have it backwards, they said. I must have been going to Austin from Odessa. "NO!" I said. I was hurt, not stupid. I hadn't lost my brain capacity. I was angry.

I offered to try and climb out. They told me to stay put. To wait for the police and ambulance. I told them, someone, anyone, to find my purse. Please. It had a cell phone in it, please find it and call my parents. Just let them know. I know now that no one did.

More questions. Asking what happened, what hurt. Eventually I was told they brought in the Jaws of Life. I figured it must be pretty bad to get that. They put a sheet over my head to protect me from the shards of glass and metal it would be cutting away. Someone placed the neck brace thing on my neck even though I told them my neck was fine. They slid in a back board and strapped me to it. They rolled me to the waiting helicopter and flew me into town to the hospital.

My first helicopter ride involved me being strapped to a backboard, not able to see anything, and was really cold because one door was still open and it felt like my feet were hanging out.

The wreck happened around 10pm. I was on the road into San Angelo, right around a tiny little area called Wall. They've since put up those big yellow arrow signs on that curve, because I apparently was not the only one to not realize the road curved. The sheriff or police officer, I don't even know which, told me I would be given several tickets. Failure to control vehicle. Failure to yield right-of-way or going into oncoming traffic or some such. And something else. I honestly don't remember what else.

It didn't matter to me. I was in pain. And the wreck was just the beginning...

...to be continued...

Let Them Come To You

Sometimes I find myself wondering if I come across as trying too hard.

Not the anxiety/paranoia situation where I am standing in front of a group explaining something and in the back of my mind is the little voice going “What the hell are you doing? What makes you an expert here? Why are you talking? No one is listening to you anyway. You have sweat stains under your armpits, keep your arms down! Oh, don’t bring up that again!”

No, that little voice I’m used to and can ignore with the help of wonderful meditation techniques, homeopathic anti-anxiety tabs, or a glass of wine. Or just barreling through so fast the voice can’t get a word in edgewise and nobody understands what I’m saying!

This is the vibe of unreason that says “This person thinks you’re trying to kiss their ass.” Or “This person feels like you aren’t worth their time.” Or “What, she got invited to this? What is she doing here? She doesn’t know enough to be here!”

This is me standing in a room with strangers and acquaintances alike, conversing with whomever happens to be near as we all swirl around on our ‘networking paths’. Where I’m extremely comfortable with the subject or the place and can spend the next hour talking with a handful of people about really cool stuff we’re all working on, or I can spend an awkward two minutes and thirty-six seconds talking with a handful of people about projects, the weather, or what so-and-so is up to.

Because the latter is a conversation with someone who seems to think I’m still the 15 year old girl they saw in a play or my education is lacking or I’m not really qualified to be talking about things even if it’s just opinions.

It’s a weird vibe and I dislike it. I feel like I’m being me, trying to make a conversation, but feel as if they think I’m trying too hard.

But I feel I have to ‘play nice’ because so many of these people that make me feel this way are influential in many of the business and networking circles in this area*, and as I develop my own brand and portfolio, I need to at least be cordial.

This is not about the former. Those are conversations I’d love to have every day. These are people who know I’m genuine when I ask about their family or plans, they know I’m not there to kiss ass or hope for a few minutes of face time just so I can hand someone my card. I don’t play that way. The modeling world, amongst the management and other lives I’ve lived thus far, taught me that I’d much rather be the real me.

So Rob tells me to just say “Fuck ‘em”, although he did point out I should not walk around saying it repetitively out loud. He may have a point.

I’m perfectly capable of holding my own in most conversations. I’m fairly well-read, I know the difference between marketing and sales, I have a varied but talented background, and I’m not as young or innocent as I look. I’m content enough in myself to stand to the side and watch others dance the ego-tangos and chat and mock laugh while absorbing the choices in music and food and art on the walls without feeling the need to go stand next to someone so I don’t feel left out.

So what if I choose not to interact in a few instances?

Instead of getting the vibe that they think I don’t know anything and I’m trying too hard, what if I choose to not bother with them. Does this make them feel slighted? Annoyed? Like I’m a bitch? When in reality I’m off in my own world, which is a place I’d rather be anyway, not trying at all?

It’s difficult to navigate this avenue of perceptions and networking while retaining a sense of reality and self. I mean, I’d much rather tell that small voice in the back of my mind to fuck off rather than another person who is treating me like I’m not worth their time.


*Thankfully, not everyone. Just a lot of them. There are some genuine folks who do what they do well, who care, who talk to everyone as equals and are leaders in this area, and I admire them greatly. If you know Bob Rice, you know who I mean.

this title is yet to be determined

Here I go again, trying to type in a title for a post I'm barely beginning to formulate.

I don't work that way. I should know this by now. Really. I should.

It's one of those things, that my brain starts somewhere in the middle, or the end, and works backwards or outwards or whatever, filling in the puzzle gaps along the way. All those writing assignments in school where we had to turn in a title and outline and synopsis like weeks before the actual writing thingy was due - well, that sucked for me, because I never had a title until I was done. More often, after the reprimands & bad grades for "not completing work on time", I just made shit up. Whatever, it worked to appease the teacher who wanted a title & outline on her desk by a certain day. I figured out it didn't really matter if I changed it later after the real stuff was written.

That's how I do things. It's how I roll, baby.

That has very little to do with what I want to write about, though.

Today is the day the world holds a collective breath to see who is going to be head stormtrooper, puppet, poombah of these United States. Lots o' hype leading up to this circus, we're all tired of it.

I voted for Obama/Biden. Do I need to explain? No. I don't need to. I'll spare the stuff that you don't need to know about me or care about anyway and just say that I want to be able to look forward, not backward. I believe every person on this earth has a right to love and be loved, no matter their skin color or sexuality. I believe that women deserve far better in so many situations and am thankful a man like Joe Biden has stood up for those rights. I believe the man that Barack Obama is shines through in the way he treats his wife and family over the rest of the political dancing. The things like taxes and the war and the 'promises' do not matter as much to me as the ability to keep calm, make decisions based on how they will affect his own family as well as others instead of the quick-temper reaction that does more harm than good, a quick-temper reaction that I know all too well in my family.

I'm ready for the hope to move forward and make changes.

Personally.

Not just as a nation.

Personally.

So I bought (at least I think I did, it takes '24 hours to process') a domain name. But it's not the name we wanted, because the one we wanted is already taken by someone else. grumble. We're creating ideas & developing these lil' guys and their stories and having fun, and we want to share this with others.

But I know enough basic html to make a mess, and I'm good at picking and gleaning from other codes to figure a few things out, now I'm freaking out over the "How the hell do other people do this web building stuff?". Because I'm hard-headed (no kidding, really?) and I want to figure it out and do it on my own. Because I figure I'm capable and should know how to do this, so why don't I?

I also jumped on the NaNoWriMo bandwagon again this year after not doing it last year (something about driving back & forth from Florida & no regular internet connection & job hunting being a priority at the time, but whatever. excuses, excuses). I have maybe 600 words towards that 80k total by the end of November, and I'm using it as a chance to push myself and develop a few things.

One is the bunnyflies stories with Rob. One is the command of customer service stuff with Amber. One is an article on the boot camps that daddy & Papa Earl do for the museum. One is a piece of fiction that has been rolling around for awhile.

The best advice for NaNoWriMo is to just write - clean it up and edit later, like in December. So what if I'm using four different things to gain that word count, I'm trying to make it happen and learn about myself as a writer along the way.

There will always be some level of crazy going on. Election or not. Economy or not. Seasonal or not. Relationship or not. But I still have words to put to paper, I still have things I jump into the middle of and feel my way out of. And I'm looking forward to the day I can show off my stuff and be proud of it, because I learned something along the way to making it happen.

reminders

trying to figure out the words but tonight I'm not finding them the way I want to. so instead I'm giving you pictures of things I find pretty. or inspiring. or fascinating.



it's been crazy stressful. I'm looking for bright spots and highlights and the good stuff. somewhere. anywhere.



thankfully I've been stumbling across a few things that make me smile. I pick up a project in progress to look it over or flip through a magazine to see something shiny & nice. or the bonus is finding a friend blogging again and seeing his post with something that reminds me I was there for friends before, that things can be ok, and that I am not alone.



working on some wings tomorrow... maybe I can fly too.



(thank you James)

*Decsion making is harder than it looks. Sometimes.

*Note: this was written & stored in draft for a couple of weeks, while I turned the blog off for whatever reasons I had at the time. I forget now. Doesn't matter. Thus, downtime, combined with some crazy time and exhausted time, has given me lots to think about. As if that is at all any different from anything else that gives me plenty to think about.

I tell ya what, I'm gonna pause this note nonsense and just go write another post. ok? good. see you in a few.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


How confusing can they possibly make all the trademark & copyright info? Very. So in the realm of confusion, I think I'm still figuring things out. I'd like to trademark the name but I'd like to copyright the work. Trademark costs a couple hundred bucks, copyright costs a couple twenties. And there is lots of the paperwork filing. Why can't I just find a happy little paperwork gnome to do this paperwork for me?

What I seem to be struggling with the most is making that decision and going with it.

I knew what kind of car I wanted (nearly 10 years ago, of course) and while I test drove and looked at other jeeps & such, when I found my car on the edge of the lot one Saturday afternoon, I knew. Sure, I still had the "Am I crazy to commit to a five year car payment?" and the other flutterings of buyers remorse, but yes, I still drive this pretty little car, even if she is more dented & road worn now.

I know the color palate I want to use, even if the finished painting varies between the first brush stroke and the last. I knew what kind of tattoo I wanted to get, each time I got one, and for future ones. I knew when certain things were going the right way and when they weren't. Call it gut feeling, call it intuition, call it stars aligning, call it whatever - it works for me.

What doesn't work for me is going against that. I know this, even when I do it, more often than I'd like to.

So what I do in the situations when I'm not completely sure is do lots of research and reading. Lots. Days & weeks worth. Late nights and lunch breaks (when I get them) worth of reading. I like to make sure that if my gut doesn't have a say in what direction I'm going in, then at least I know both sides of every option so I can feel comfortable making a decision.

Sure, voting can be like that. It's what I did four years ago, & it's what I'm doing now. But not so much now - my gut has already spoken and I know who I'll be voting for in November and for what reasons.

Don't worry, I'm not gonna get into politics here, I have no need to, I already know what the right choice is for me.

Now, I can reiterate here as many thoughts and ruminations regarding past decisions, but I'm not sure if it'll do any good. Unfortunately right now there are several things going on that I can't say anything about. This sucks. This sucks because I believe in saying what I feel, and think, and right now there are people I could offend or piss off, so I have to shut up.

I'm trying so damn hard to focus on something good. I'm trying to figure out this particular project


Meanwhile, Rob has continued the creative streak for these guys & I've continued to keep myself busy with writing & work & some travels.

What gets to me right now is the design stuff. I've already nixed the Creative Commons stuff for this stuff. I know it's Trademark & Copyright. Now it's just the paperwork stuff.



I'm a visual person. Even when there's nothing to see. Yet.

All These Things That I Have Done* Part I

I can't write this on my blog. Or can I? Do I want to taint this image that I hope I you have of me here? It's hard. Will I hit delete or publish?

I called in sick on Monday and half of Tuesday. Sore throat. Allergies. Drainage. Sure. Whatever.

My throat is sore because I'm not speaking for myself. I'm not voicing my true opinions because I'm afraid of pissing someone off, of saying the wrong thing, of doing what I want to do.

I know this. I know why it hurts.

I know why I'm depressed. Because I spent all day Saturday wandering around shops with my two best friends, looking at these creations that others have made and they sell. And I want to be doing that too.

So badly.

And yet, I can't. Not right now. Who knows if ever. Right now I have to get up when my god-forsaken alarm goes off so I can drag my ass into a job that is actually an ok job in the list of jobs I've held. I get to write, I usually feel good about helping people and in this area the pay is ok.

But. I sit all day. In front of a computer. I sit and my scars hurt so bad some days it really isn't pleasant. I listen to people complain about something and wonder why they fell for it in the first place, then remember I've done my fair share of 'believing' and fell for a few things, too. So then I wonder why can't they just learn from it and go on with their lives. I did. I've never taken sunflower seeds from friend or foe again since that one afternoon in fifth grade...

So. I know I'm depressed when I want to stay in bed all day. I have the small (tiny, minuscule, piece of fuzz...) small moments of manic creativity - but those flames are so quickly put out nowadays. Just remind myself of where I'm living. What money I don't have to spend. The projects I haven't finished, much less started. The projects I've made messes of, and the fact that it's 1:30 in the morning and I need to get some sleep so my alarm can wake me up in a few hours. Snap. So easy. Drop down like a lead balloon.

I am proud of myself for finally being able to call myself a writer - because I get paid for some of these words I put together in other places.

I am proud of myself for...

For what? Working 40 hours a week (no more than - no overtime allowed) to pay off debt so that maybe someday I can again dream of building my own space?

No. Actually I'm miserable. Because this is not where I had hoped to be at this point in my life. And this is not where I want to be even with the changes that have happened.

And I may want things for my life that no one else understands but it's one of those things. When I follow my heart, my gut, my instincts - I'm right. When I second guess myself because someone else pipes up and says "You're doin' it wrong!" - that's when it sucks.

Because alarm clocks and desk jobs may work for you, but they sure as hell don't work for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*The Killers.
"Yeah, oh don't you put me on the blackburner
You know you got to help me out
You're gonna bring yourself down...
If you can hold on
If you can hold on..."

Holding on...

I hit publish.

spider dance

In the realm of symbolism, I can understand meanings. Usually. If I'm paying attention.

A delicate weaving of threads so light that they catch the morning dew to glisten in the rising sunlight. There is a peaceful space here, between the broad leaves of a flowering plant. I cannot name the names, other than the daisy or the rose, and the hibiscus next to the jasmine vine. So I have no idea what this yellow blooming thing is. And in the long run of life, I realize I don't really care. I'm way more fascinated by the delicate webbing softly strung between the broad green leaves.

I have a respect for this space. The flowers and the webs. The leaves and the earth. I can respect that this space is sacred and beautiful and meant for this little creature to call home.

So I ask for the same respect in my space. It is unnerving to see a small eight-legged creature making its way across the wall above my bed or desk. It moves so silently, so quickly, so effortlessly across whatever path it may be on.

There is enough of awareness in me to know if the spider I'm watching is a menace or not. After all, a black widow or brown recluse is far more dangerous than the scorpion that stung me the other night, and a daddy long legs is just a very awkward little spider body with big long legs that brings out the torture gene in most children but really can cause no harm.

Spiders mean creativity. They are a sight to behold as much as the learned fears that we react to. Does it mean I'm on the path I belong on, the path across the world that leads from one place to another, is the right path? Or that I perhaps need to follow another direction? Am I in a beautiful garden, weaving a delicate and resiliant home between blades and flowers, reflecting the light and dancing in the breeze? Or am I wandering across the wall in someone else's space, trying to figure out where I belong, running into dark corners in avoidance of being squashed?

commence mint rant speech

Surviving high school is not an accomplishment to be proud of.

If it were, it would be up there with getting a gold star for not getting into a car wreck on your way to work every day. Or not pulling a gun and going crazy because the local walmart can't keep cashiers and so they have three lanes open for 75 people wanting to checkout. Or for the ability to remember to put pants on before you leave the house. These all deserve a ceremony with a goofy robe and silly hat.

No. Not really.

Things to really be proud of include landing on your own two feet after a jump - literally and metaphorically.

Seeing blood and pain and twisted bodies and moving into action to do something instead of passing out.

Making an investment that succeeds. Or making an investment that succeeds after one that failed.

Taking responsibility for your actions and accepting or dealing with the results - good or bad.

Making one person smile. Giving one person a hand, or a ride. Being there for one person - friend or foe.

Thinking for yourself. Making a statement or decision that was not prepped for you.

Seriously. What is such a pride inducing thing about surviving three years with people who torment each other? Spent having your spirit crushed? Spent being 'taught' the cookie cutter curriculum and the lemming platform? Spent making increasingly dumb mistakes because you stupidly believe you are well on your way into adulthood? (Let me tell you something, I've been outta high school for 12 years now, and I feel no closer to 'adulthood' than I did then. Make the choices because you believe in them, not because someone else told you to.)

I'm still trying out the real world, seeing which parts of it fit. But I can guarantee you that the best and hardest times I remember were not spent in a classroom. They weren't spent hiding my true self in shame, being teased, or surviving the so-called education.

Fine. Feel proud of yourself for a millisecond or two. Then get over it and go on with the living. Do not relive your glory days of high school. Do not boast gleefully that you were in the top 50% as if you just performed brain surgery with a spoon. Don't get caught up in how easy it was once you leave, the best is yet to come.

Because the best is what's really gonna push you, stretch you, make you learn instantly, overwhelm your senses, fill you with desire and passion, make you scream and dance and cry, and ultimately let you figure out who you really are.

Now, go put on your pants and go do something with yourself. Then you can be proud. And wear a silly hat if you wish.

a bit more

I'm about halfway down the board now. Lawrence asked if I was gonna use this for printing purposes. Umm, nope. While using relief carving for printmaking is where I first saw this technique used, it's not what I look to do with the pieces.

I enjoy the carving process the most. It's the smell of the wood, the feel of the wood, the feel of the hand tools, the movements, the texture of the finished carved piece. Usually, and what I'll be doing with this one, I then stain or paint the piece of wood - laying in color into the grooves, painting the color on the surface, then outlining the cuts in effort to make it "stand out", so to speak.

To me this makes the final piece dimensional. It's texture. I want these pieces to be touched. For you to run your fingers over them. I want it to be about the color and sight of the piece as much as about the feel. It's about the tactile impression as well as the visual.