Into the New

Celebrations 'round the world for the end of a year/decade thus welcoming the new, the unknown, the upcoming.

I want to go further in the art than I have done before. Having my first show under my belt has helped give me a few more ideas to work on, things to expand on and things that I can continue to work on for myself.

The zombie sheep caught people off guard, made them pause, made them laugh, and gave me a whole new perspective on these little baaa-uugggers.

My drip/splatter paintings were received in a different way. Several people stopped to comment on them, to admire and question and encourage me to do this or that with them. I am calm and at peace with these. If they sell or if they show, I don't care. I create them because it's what I feel when I'm creating. These paintings are what comes from my visions and ideas. These paintings tell their own stories and invite you to touch them to feel each line as it was laid down across the canvas. These paintings are my art.

May the new experiences in the coming year give me better understanding of the business side of making art work for me, give me more opportunities to create them and promote them, and find the audience they are fit to receive.

As for the zombie sheep, well, they'll be branching out on their own soon enough, given their own space to roam with a website and probably t-shirts.

Writing will keep me busy as I work for one company and develop my fiction writing skills in another. Words will continue to flow, gracefully or not, but they will pour forth and return to me as complete structured sentences. And, you know, better paychecks. Hopefully with a novel under my own moniker...

Here's to the new, here's to the unknown, here's to the possibilities. Let's celebrate and create about it.

Hanged Man Tells the Tale

The Hanged Man. The 2D drawing with orange lines along the sides of the tarot card offers little in the way of a threat. It's just a card.

Isn't it?

It's a just a card. How terrifying it feels to see this card placed in front of me once again.

Not like I know what it means any more than before.

Delusions of death and destruction made me choke on my chewing gum. With coughing and sputtering interrupting the reading in progress, I heard nothing past her whispery voice saying "The Hanged Man". She continued on, pointing out the cups and numbers of coins and facing up or down. Facing up or down to her or to me, though, I cannot remember.

The Hanged Man. He caught my eye.

I stood up from her folding chair and ducked out of the tent into the bright sunshine and noise of the county fair all around me. An empty cotton candy cone rolled past my feet, dancing in the afternoon breeze as screams of laughter echoed off the makeshift walls of dart throwing booths and kissing booths and jewelery stands and homemade jam stands.

Suddenly, I needed quiet. Someplace quiet, please. I walked past the last stand, a guy selling his hand made rocking chairs, beautifully polished and carved works of art and relaxation, rocking in the breeze, begging to be sat upon and enjoyed. I moved past him and his rocking chairs, past the edge of the clearing to a small stand of trees, just on the edge of the field, offering a bit of solitude and shade on a day like this.

This is where I chose to sit and contemplate. What did it mean, this Hanged Man? This man hanging by one foot from the branch of a tree? I look up above me and ponder this thought.

One moment in suspension... and clarity of a different view comes into focus.

These thoughts are too much to bear now, I'm afraid of digging too deep and finding out what I should not know or what I should already know but am choosing to ignore anyway.

He hangs. He views his world upside down for a mere whimsy of a thought, just long enough to let the loose change fall from his pocket to the ground, just long enough to let the blood rush to his head, I'm sure. Then again, the last time I hung upside down was probably the jungle gym on the playground when I was small, before they were deemed as "unsafe structures for children to climb on". There were whole adventures up there, and part of the thrill was the scare that yes, you could fall and hurt yourself, so you had to make sure your grip was strong and sure, make sure you had your hand on the next bar or your foot upon one to lift you up. The ground loomed below, daunting and inviting. Ready to catch you if you fell, ready to catch you if you jumped. If you jumped off, you were in far more control than falling, thus jumping was deemed far superior than the painful lump of falling.

Perhaps this is what the fabled hanging man saw. A world from a different view than this flat world upon which we stand. Everything was upside down. On purpose. He did not do it to fall, he was not placed there for his death, it was just to seek a sight he could not see on his own two feet upon the ground. This time the ground was above him, catching his falling change, offering to catch him if he fell. This time the tree branches held him firm, as he exercised his right to a different view of his world.

We view him as the odd man, upside down, suspended in time and place. A tarot card telling me to look at things with a different perspective, perhaps upside down to see what stuff falls away, to pause long enough and realize this whole wide world I take for granted is just there to catch me if I were to jump the same as if I were to fall.

The breeze knocks a leaf off the branch above me, it floats down to the ground in front of me, suggesting all along this may very well be true. Just because I'm right side up or upside down, doesn't mean everyone see the same thing.

Someone is throwing darts at a blue balloon in effort to win his girl the stuffed teddy bear. A child is screaming at the top of his lungs because the clown frightened him and he dropped his ice cream - but if he screams from fear of the clown or agony over the ice cream, it's tough to tell. A girl is sitting in the metal folding chair to have her fortune told, hoping the boy she likes is the one for her and hoping this lady with the whispery voice and the well-read cards will tell her this is so. A woman stands on her tip-toes to place another necklace on the jewelry booth wall hook, grabbing her back as she twists in a way that is painful and curses that this is the life she chose so many years ago but is now so entrenched she doesn't know that she, too can change her view or change her world.

I take a moment longer, to look up once again at the branches above me. I know better, this spindly tree would not hold me if I tried to climb it, so I pat the bark and sigh. Maybe having the ground catch you doesn't just have to happen if you fall or jump. Maybe having the ground catch you happens with every step you take. So I stand up and take one.

And promptly fall as I trip over a rock.

Yes, the ground caught me. It was there all along. I lay there for a moment stunned, glancing around to hope against hope no one saw my lack of grace, feeling my hands for the raw scratched and dirt on my palms. I'm ok. No one seems to have seen. I push myself back up and laugh, shaking at the adrenaline rush from the trip. Yep, seems that I changed my perspective after all, if only for a few minutes.
~

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 3

...Part 1, Part 2...

The Hospital

Backboards suck. I was coherent, in pain, scared, could barely see, cold, strapped down, and nobody had called my parents yet. So I was also pissed.

When I'm in pain my very obnoxious, very dark, very annoying, and very twisted sense of humor shines through. This is true when I stub my toe as much as when I hit my funny bone. So multiply all the tense whiplashed muscles, lots of blood, and pieces of my body that were not in their rightful place, and I was quite venomous with the bad jokes.

I wanted off that backboard. I knew my back was fine. I could sense it in my body. When I tried to tell the poor nurses or doctors who were working on or around me, they did. not. get. it. "My back hurts, please let me off here!" "If your back hurts, it may be broken, please lie still." "NO! It hurts because I'm strapped to this godforsaken FLAT piece of wood and my spine is not FLAT! It curves! How do you not know this? Didn't you take anatomy?"

See? I was annoying. Even better:

"Hello? I'm cold. Please, a blanket or something?" "Here, here's a warm towel, is that better?" Well, it was ok, for a few minutes until the warmth was gone and it was a cold towel barely covering my knees. "Hey, I'm cold again." "Here, here's another warm towel. Is this better?" "No. I tell you what, you take those towels out of that warmer and just put me in there, ok?"

No one laughed but me. I tell you, I have a warped sense of humor.

The rest I remember parts of. Fuzzy parts here and there. I know they took X-rays sometime. I know my parents were finally called, somewhere around midnight or one am. My parents were working two jobs each at the time, both too exhausted to make the drive right then, so they came down the next morning.

Doctor, Doctor

The X-rays came back and a doctor started to tell me what was wrong with me according to that see through piece of paper. "It looks like both your ankles were broken, and..." I cut him off. "What? No, they're not! My ankles are fine!" And I proceeded to roll them both this way and that, up and down, as far as I could while being strapped down. He said, 'Well, I guess that must just be scar tissue then." "Yeah, I jumped off of a lot of fences when I was a kid. Also took dance." I was not so confident in this doctor at this point.

I asked if my shoulder was dislocated because it hurt so bad. "No, it's probably just whiplash from being pulled on by your seat belt." "But it's my right shoulder." "Yes, it was probably from your body straining against the shoulder strap of your seat belt." "But IT'S MY RIGHT SHOULDER." "Yes, it's probably from your seat belt. When it held you in place, your body strained against it, it'll be fine."

I gave up. Yes, my right shoulder has a slight permanent shift to it, a slight dislocation that even massage can only quell so much. And it was not from the seat belt that was going across my left shoulder.

My hand was smashed. My left hand. It was bloody and hurt pretty bad and sorta numb, too. They couldn't tell what was broken and since they were just an Emergency Room, they just wrapped it up in a whole lotta gauze.

My left eyelid was cut going back toward my temple. My right ear had been sliced nearly off. I had dried blood and broken glass all over me.

Another doctor came in, apparently a plastic surgeon on night call. He was there to stitch me up. To sew my ear back on. To sew my eyelid back together.

When you're at a broken & beaten point, strapped to a effing backboard, dried blood in your eyes, one eye swollen closed, and someone is leaning over you with a needle, what do you do?

I chose to scream.

It's not like I didn't warn him. I told him I know what he's doing, I know he has to do this, and I know it's not really like my eyeball, just my eyelid, but I'm going to scream anyway. And I do. And I have a damn good scream. He says knock her out.

Finally.

According to the bill I got for those stitches though, I must have screamed good. He charged a thousand bucks a stitch.

I was still on that gurney or whatever the next morning when I came to. A family friend who lived in San Angelo came by to check on me, my parents had called him, he was like my other dad. My parents came in. They moved me to a hospital room. They explained their version to my parents.

Sometime in there they gave me lemonade with Barium in it (I still have a tough time choking down a glass of lemonade because of this), and sent me for another test, I guess to see if I was bleeding internally. The thing is, I'd been strapped to that board for however many hours overnight, I'd probably had a large bottle of water or two as I usually do on long trips and had not stopped for a bathroom break yet. I was planning on stopping in San Angelo, another 10 minutes down the road... but I never got there. And now a plastic cup of lemonade? My bladder was full. I told them this before we left the room.

They put me on that machine for an MRI or CAT or whatever anyway and I told them I needed to pee. So they brought me a bed pan.

Have you ever tried to pee into a bed pan? I'm not male, I can't aim like that. I was in too much pain to be too embarrassed, and I'm not proud of it at all, but I peed all over myself and that pan and whatever gurney or machine I was on.

This is another reason why they should listen to the patient.

Anyway. No internal bleeding. They kept me in the hospital for the next four days because my "blood was too low." I told them to "quit coming in to take it every other hour" and it would be fine.

My iron count was too low - I was anemic. Didn't matter to them that I'd pretty much always been and that I'd just finished my period a few days before. They pumped me full of these very toxic iron pills until my levels were to their liking before they could release me.

I slept a lot. I couldn't see anything because they'd taken my contacts out and I didn't have my glasses. Not that that mattered, I couldn't wear them anyway, the stitches on my ear and a broken nose. Oh, yes - a broken nose. From the damned airbag. I hate those things. Seat belt saved my life, an airbag broke my nose.

Anyway, yes. My body was beaten and bruised, so I slept, a lot. My parents stayed with me, I think sleeping in the chairs. I asked for peanut butter and bananas, a comfort food. The cafeteria or nurses station only had peanut butter crackers. My dad offered to scrape the peanut butter off the crackers for me. Turned out the peanut butter crackers they had were separate, so he didn't have to.

Somewhere in those days my parents went to get whatever was left of my personal stuff from the wreck. They went out to the site. My mom told me they could tell where it was from the smashed bottle of nail polish across the ground. Also the broken glass and bits of truck. They took pictures. Of the site. Of the truck. Or what was left of it.

Sunday came, they said I could go home as soon as the doctor released me. The doctor was apparently busy watching the Cowboys football game that day. I was antsy. I was feeling better enough and I wanted out of there. I'd had enough rest and wanted to go home. My body was ready.

He finally came, signed the forms, we loaded up to go. They gave my mom the iron pills I was 'supposed' to take. My body smelled like rust from that stuff. I didn't take them.

We went home. My mom took me to a couple of doctors over the next week to check the stitches and my left hand. They unwrapped it for the first time since it had been wrapped on Wednesday night of the wreck. Several days of dried blood, major bruising, and broken glass. It smelled bad and hurt worse. It was three sizes too big, purple, green, yellow, blue, and disgusting. I joked that someone had removed my hand and replaced it with a prop from a bad 'B' horror movie.

One bone broken though. In all that mess, just one broken bone. A tiny one, a metacarpal. But the rest was swollen and bruised badly. I'd had my hand on the steering wheel as I rolled, smashing it. So I got a soft cast and six weeks of showering with a plastic bag over my hand.

I slept a lot more. I couldn't drive for awhile. I relied on my family for so much.

Things changed for me that night.

Tomorrow I'll expound further.

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...

17th of December, Part 1

I am afraid. Yet the date comes and goes and I drive the same road several times a year. I persevere.

Some part of you is going to read this, sickly fascinated by what happened, because it's something that draws everyone. It's what makes us slow down to see what happened and be thankful it wasn't us.

And some part of you may have no desire whatsoever to hear read about a twisted, mangled pain that may have healed to the best of healing ability in the physical manner - but still aches as a reminder.

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

December 17, 1997.

A Wednesday. Cold enough for Winter in Texas, but not as bad as the sudden 10 inches of snow we would get a year later.

I wanted to be an actress. I'd wanted to be one for years. I did the community theatre, the high school shows, the after school children's productions. I did the modeling and training, the late night rehearsals of Shakespeare and musicals. I wanted Broadway, but being practical about my chances as an actress as I was about college, I didn't go.

A friend wanted New York, too. We decided on Austin as a stepping stone to get to NY eventually. Austin from Odessa was a huge step. We decided to move in the Spring, after the holidays with our families.

I like a plan. Whether I stick to it or not, I like having some sort of framework to go with.

We had a plan now. So when I saw an audition ad for "Angels in America" by Tony Kushner at an Austin theatre, meant to be performed a few months later, I decided this was a shot! A chance to audition for a show and move to a big city and see what I could prove!

So I figured it out. My day job at the time was as a graphic operator or sound tech for the local morning news show. Sometimes commercial stuff like helping to dub or make the phone number go across the screen. This Wednesday I would get off work around 11am. I left and headed out toward Austin, taking Brady and Llano across - a road I'd driven a few times before. I remember stopping to pickup a few things as Christmas gifts for my family. A couple of puzzles for my younger brothers, coloring books for cousins. I'm not sure anymore really.

I remember I had time to grab a sandwich and find the theatre. I remember sitting in the hallway going over the lines before the audition. I remember I wore my best blue t-shirt and a blue denim jacket with my best blue jeans. I guess I probably had tennis shoes on... oh, that's right, I did. White Keds. I remember thinking I did pretty good, but I was nervous, so I knew it wasn't a 'knocked their socks off great' audition. But I wanted that role. I wanted this show to be a sign I should move to Austin.

The drive home

Yes, it was dark, but I didn't think it's be a problem. I'd borrowed my dad's cell phone (because at the time only busy business-type people had one, really), so I was going to call my parents when I got to San Angelo just to let them know I was about two hours out. I also didn't want to use the roaming minutes and San Angelo was close enough it wouldn't.

Good. A plan.

It didn't happen like that. My parents got a call several hours later from either the hospital or the officer, I don't know, to let them know their daughter was in a car accident.

...to be continued...

Since I wrote it anyway: Gallery Night 2008

Because of glitches & groans computerwise, the November issue of Good Times of West Texas Magazine did not make it to print. (insert frowny face here) But since Gallery Night is coming up next weekend - here's the article I wrote about it anyway!

Art Walk-ing 2008 in Alpine Texas

The crisp late fall air whispers down Holland Avenue welcoming artists of every shade to Alpine’s 15th Annual Art Walk this November. Expression is in high demand over the two-day experience also known as Gallery Night.

Stores will be open until 10:00 pm Friday November 21st and Saturday November 22nd along with the many galleries that line this main thoroughfare, encouraging folks to step inside to enjoy the warmth and take in all they have to offer. Find Christmas ornaments to decorate your tree or serene designs painted onto plates for serving dinner. Admire and purchase a subdued black and white print of the familiar and evocative West Texas thunderstorm rolling across the mesquite covered mountains. Brightly decorated tabletops will catch your eye with sparkling handmade jewelry displayed next to a rack of cozy scarves or carved walking sticks.

With over twenty official locations for music, live exhibits, videos, food, and art means there will be plenty to satiate all your senses. Pick up a copy of the Alpine Avalanche newspaper on Thursday the 20th for a complete guide to all locales, where the artists will be hobnobbing, and a map to help you find your way from the fajitas to the stage.

This year the festivities welcome Honored Artist Tom Curry who designed this year’s Gallery Night painting and will be showing his works in The Alpine Studio on Murphy Street. Tom and his wife Susan moved to Alpine in 1993 and he’s since developed a varied art career. Along with the bigger, newer paintings Tom calls “Texas Chic with regional flair” will be prints, cards and reworked oils. His portfolio also includes magazine editorials and illustrations for seven children’s books, so don’t be surprised at anything you may see on the gallery walls!

When your tummy starts growling just follow your nose to find the grilling and food stands in the Hecho y Mano open-air art and food market in Arbolitos Park near the Union Pacific train depot. Here you’ll find fajitas, gorditas, burgers, hot chocolate, and many other locally made culinary indulgences. Taking a cue from the diversity of the evening, no two food stands will be offering the same fare, to encourage a wide variety of savory options.

Thank Mark Pollack of Trans-Pecos Guitars for his role as Musical Director in lining up such a distinct and entertaining list of musicians for the performance stage in the Kiowa Plaza parking lot. Beginning at 6:00 pm on Friday this is the place to catch The Doodling Hog Wallops and Matt Skinner, Terra Peters, Crain Coffee and Grupo de la Paz as nightfall sets in. Saturday evening the parking lot will again become a dance floor as Matt Skinner, Terra Peters and The Derailers take to the open-air stage under starry skies.

Kiowa Gallery owner Keri Arzt is quite proud of how Gallery Night has grown, commenting that “it has taken on a life of it’s own. Over the 15 years we’ve watched it grow, and the people come together and the energy is great!” An economic boost for the area because of all the people who come in to ‘find’ new art, the Gallery Night has also developed into a non-profit organization that gives back. There are scholarships to Sul Ross State University and money goes to schools in the tri-county area for art programs.

This is really a great weekend for the entire area to come together in so many ways. Curry admits, “I look forward to seeing friends I haven’t seen in awhile. Everyone comes out, a great time to see everyone at once and catch up, see what’s new.”

Yes, Gallery Night weekend is a wonderful time to see what’s new!

For more information please contact Keri Arzt at Kiowa Gallery at 432.837.3067 or visit www.alpinegallerynight.com for the studios, restaurants, offices and stores participating in this year’s event.

If you find yourself aiming that direction, say hi!

new horizons

Rob & I are working on a couple of projects together, and both can be found --> over there under my profile. Technically we're not ready to launch completely, but we're working on them.

Holidays are looming and work is crazy. So, you know, normal stress levels. We're all trying to balance a few things out with this much going on, but I'm excited for the direction we're headed in, so yea!

Leave a note, here, or over on Bunnyfly alley, or the motorcycle & massage spot and let us know what you think as we go along!

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.

Zombies. And line breaking. And Asparagus.

In the weirder than normal department of my dreamscape, I woke up, heart pounding & pulse racing in the middle of the night the other night from a dream/nightmare about, well, zombies. And vampires. And a few other crazy horror movie leftovers just for kicks. It was odd. To say the least. (Odder still that I turned on the tv today to find "Shaun of the Dead", and then moving on from that put in a dvd to watch and one of the pre-view trailers was for some cowboy western 'undead' movie. Three references. Means: pay attention!)

It involved running, lots of it. It involved looking for my cellphone, finding a mini-flashlight, because you know, those do come in handy in the dark and all that, but they do not come in so handy with the fending off the undead the same way those huge hefty maglights do.

It also involved me fairly actively searching for solutions, answers, ways out, as I was aware enough it was a dream & I was trying to figure things out while in the middle of it. Doesn't mean it didn't freak me out though - I woke up and called Rob just trying to calm down. While walking back through it, going over all the parts I could remember - what I was doing, why, where, what I was wearing, etc... it posed that I've got some issues I need to get fixed pretty damn quick. For my own sanity. And apparently for my own health, with wanting to not have the life sucked out of me and all. I totally know what it represents. I totally understand that I think finding my cellphone is important, because it's like a life line. I am totally thankful that zombies don't move all that swift so that I can run off. And I'm totally wearing running shoes a helluva lot more often.

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If you haven't clicked away by now, well, then you really need to go find better reading material. Seriously. There are way better bloggers and writers out here. Some even get paid for it, so you know they're good. I just yammer a bit here and there, and even this is falling to the wayside sometimes. The writing I do for work is taking all my good words and decent thinking away, I haven't even written any good short stories in months. Oh, wait. I haven't written any short stories in months.

I'm striving for something better. I really am. I've rearranged furniture and cleared working space (sort of. it's amazing how fast it fills up again) in an effort to stir up the creative energy. I'm waiting to see how much of it works.

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This is a shout out of love for blogspot / blogger, because I've been using them for years and it works so smoothly every time. Editing is a breeze and html is fairly easy to code. AND WHEN I HIT 'ENTER' FOR A LINE BREAK, IT EFFING WORKS! That last part, the yelling there, is because I write for another blog twice a week, that is unfortunately hosted on word press, and well, word press sucks when it comes to things like line breaks and simple coding (which, admittedly, is all I can do without accidentally making the web page go in reverse or something...).

See that! Right there!^ That is a line break! One that works!

And this - is a quick screen shot of the page I just spent the last THREE EFFING HOURS trying to get to work. There really are supposed to be separate lines there. Really. It makes me want to cry. What makes me want to cry even more? The IT people who actually do the hosting talk to me like I'm an idiot, like I've never used a computer before, like "Have you tried hitting shift + enter?" Sigh. I wonder why I bother sometimes.

No wonder I'm tired. I keep trying to do things that really don't matter to make things work for someone else. I need to be doing things that matter. And I need to be doing things that work for me.

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

Which gets me onto what matters. There is some story that has been passed around, somewhere, I don't know where, but I swear I heard it before - the PR or marketing sites, I dunno. Anyway, Rob & I were chatting about the things we sign up for or get signed up for, and what we believe in. Here's what I remember of the story:

There's a guy, a very busy, dedicated guy, head of a big, fancy, money making company. Who cares what company, it doesn't matter. But he was a huge, I mean a mega-huge, supporter of "Save the Whales!" He donated time and money, did volunteer work, did what he could. Soon other organizations approached him to help them "Save the Chickens!" and "Save the Asparagus!", asking for donations and volunteer hours.

Next door is a gal, a very busy, dedicated gal, head of a different big, fancy, money making company. She volunteered and donated her time and money and resources to "Save the Whales!" as well. And soon "Save the Chickens!" and "Save the Asparagus!" came asking her for donations and volunteer hours as well.

Here's what happened. The guy said "No, thanks." The gal said "Sure." He volunteered his time to paint signs and push whales back into the ocean, he donated huge checks for nice whale watching things, and he enjoyed it. She volunteered her time to paint signs for whales and chickens and asparagus watch groups, she went to the rallies and made out checks for special feed for the chickens and rehabilitation for the asparagus and never had any time to do anything else. Her work suffered, but that's not the point. We'll pretend that her company could continue without her. But if it couldn't, it would have already failed.

She was burned out. She was tired. She was very cranky. (huh. no comment needed on this, 'kthanx.) She went next door to ask the guy how he did it.

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Volunteer and give without losing yourself?"

"I only volunteer and give to those things I believe in. I believe in saving whales."

"But what about the chickens and asparagus?"

"There is someone else out there to believe in those other things. It doesn't make you a bad person to only believe in one project/thing/idea, you know."

Ok. That was a really long and drawn out way of saying there are some things I do believe in ("Save the Fairies!", "Save the ice cream!", & "Save the graffiti!" have my vote) and some things I don't. There is someone else out there to believe in those things I don't. (i.e. jury duty. ugh.)

I have things I'd rather be doing and working on, but right now, I need a paycheck to live off of, so I am kinda stuck doing a few things I don't believe in. And it's in danger of sucking the life out of me. Thus the zombie reference. Duh. (Oh, as if you already hadn't figured out I was talking about work.)

So. I'm trying to bring in good creative energy. I'm trying to work on things I like. I'm trying not to throw my computer against the hearth because it's not her fault the program won't work, as is evidenced by the fact that this program DOES work. And I'm trying not to go crazy while saving the asparagus from the chickens that the whales are eating. Or some such nonsense. And I'm buying a heavy-duty, head-bashing worthy maglight to keep by my bed.

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.

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*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.

Wanted: Dead or Alive

Notoriety is a bit more pleasurable, even when you see your own picture on the 'Wanted: Dead or Alive' posters. Kinda like your 15 minutes, until you realize that everyone standing around you sees the same thing and is now turning to look at you as if you might just be dangerous. Which of course, you are.

They say the best laid plans of mice and men are the ones that go awry. Or at least I think they say that. They say so many things that I'm never sure which are real and which are made up. My guess is that most are made up. Personally, the mice tend to just run around all skittery, while a man will run only if he thinks he's being chased. Notice I said 'thinks'? Yes. Be it a rarin' bull, a bucking horse, or a woman whose bed he just left.

I've detoured. I believe you paused today when you heard about the 'Wanted' poster. Or I want to believe you stopped to see what happens next because of that. Hell, at this point I can believe anything I want to. So can you.

It's not a great likeness. But then, I always could find fault within my own lines and features. Is it still a feature if you don't like it? If I don't like it? The pencil sketching shows me with perfectly round eyes, when my left one leans a little to the side. The etching has a dusty trail ride feel, with my bandanna tied to my neck and my hat pulled low over my forehead, as if I was a hardened killer like Billy The Kid or something. Jesus, I like to think I'm prettier than him. Why can't I have a better etching than that fool boy? Besides I wear dresses and rouge and powder in an attempt hide the bruises and scars. Throws the boys off when they hear the rustle of petticoats instead of the whisper of chaps. I look just as good in both, or at least I've been told. Just once I'd like to see a poster with my hair in curls and the ruffles of my best dress. Then, I suppose, if I wish hard enough, the day they finally do catch and hang me, I'll get my wish.

He wasn't supposed to die. The bastard knew the whole plan. It was his plan. He was just dumb enough to think that I would follow it. For Finnegan's sake, I told him I loved him, not that I would follow him into the street for a fire fight after we rode back into town. Damn fool. Most men are, in my opinion. Which is why it's easier to stay wanted and not caught. What a man will do for a little thigh grabbing and ankle spreading... or vice versa... Ahh, I don't need to tell you that, you just use your imagination a little and you know exactly what I'm sayin'.

His plan was to walk right into the Bank and walk back out. My plan was to let him. See who's standing now? I loved him, but I didn't say I was as stupid as him. I went out the back door, down the alley, and up the stairs to our room at the hotel, where I walked out onto the balcony with the rest of the town to see the sheriff pull his foolish, bulleted body out of the road.

All I can do is sigh. He was easy enough on the eyes and rough enough on my body. The girls standing next to me know, they turn away to whisper about me. I turn around and let them. By nightfall I'll be on saddle and gone. This time flush with cash, and a three day ride to anywhere else. Give a few of those bruises time to heal before I don the lace and silks again. Stay low to the sights, find the towns that see the most of the land rushers and sojourners that there are no questions asked about a woman traveling alone.

Three. I don't count the last one, the sheriff did that for me. I only count the three I pulled the trigger on myself, you see. Of all the things I do in this life, I will remember them. Responsibility weighs just as heavy as guilt, that it feels about the same. Riding alone, camping under the stars, asking for the forgiveness that only the preacher can give when I finally do hang, and then making myself believe one more time that I'm not wrong. Justice is funny that way, ain't it? You can believe that I'm as innocent as the day I was born if I wanted you to. Till I tell you I knew right what I was doing each time. Didn'n make it any easier.

I've been back to those towns twice. Once to pick up what I'd squirreled away in waiting, and once just to see if'n I'd be caught. Not a bat of an eye at another lady on the street. Not a second thought at another whore in the saloon. Just another drunk to follow me up the stairs and mysteriously be found shot the next mornin'. Not just any drunks, mind you. I hold my reasons as close as I hold my aces when playing cards. When the time comes to lay them on the table, then you'll see what I've been hidin'.

Plain as day, I stand here in the general store, purchasing a few more tinned goods to pack for the next ride. I'm standing right next to the poster, when the recognition crosses the gentle man's face. I just smile sweetly, nod once and thank him for my purchases, then I spout up "Well, my stars! Have they not caught up to that girl yet? I wonder if any of us are safe in our beds with her on the loose!" He gets my hint with fear in his eyes. Poor man, I mean him no harm, but he will surely be afraid for a long time to come, knowing that I stood across the counter from him holding a can of dried meats and had a gun strapped to my thigh.

That bold heft of metal against my leg, either strapped to the outside of my pants or tucked underneath the layers of my skirts, gives me the cocky attitude of invincibility. It's when I take it off at night that the world feels just a bit more intimidatin'. Sometimes I think I can go just far enough away, ride for days till I or my horse drops, before I can start all over. Then sometimes ends and I know that I'm the only one who knows it was me in the first place. Those are the days I pull that hat a little lower and let them whisper what they will. Because most of the time I think the stories they tell are made up ones anyhow.

(Written March 2007)

quick stitching between the tactile and the visual

The pillows now reside in their new habitat, my dad's office at the museum, for those rare occasions anyone will actually sit still during their meetings in his office.

I've made one for Rob and sent it to him, as a hug across the miles. He seems to enjoy having it tucked behind his head while reading! The tye-dye green/red one I'm keeping here and have used it to tuck under my knees when working (as I tend to work on the floor while at home, you know, all spread out, things everywhere).

Amongst my twitter wanderings and stalkings I found this diy on figure making via this guy from his comment to someone else and I decided to follow him. Can I say I'm not alone in this networking and commentary that is the twitter-verse? I've found some great and inspiring blogs and writers, artists and industrialists.

And so that diy link up there ^, well, that rattled my creative juices a bit in the direction I think I may be going.

Oddly vague, I know. But until I get the feel the way I want it, I feel that sharing will be ...

....

oops.... things going on again! (good distraction there, huh?!) Gotta run, don't wanna just save as draft because who knows when I'll finish. so - art ideas with pillows and vinyl figures, and I'm writing again - for reals - and it feels soooo good. I'll get to that later when I do have time.

..... the phone again, gotta run!

keep on keepin' on

Not much to see here - I've gots things to say, plenty thereof really, it's the forming of actual words in an attempt to make sense that seems to be complicating my process.

Anyway, the photo above is of the red canvas I'd started, the one that eventually got finished and is now belongs to Amber.

Pre-prepped canvas bought from the store (they do the staples so much better than I do...), red acrylic paint brushed on thick then using a half-inch brush to swirl into the base coat. Let's see if I can find a photo with a closer view of those swirls - can you see them?

Then I started lining out in orange paint across the canvas lines at angles. Odd angles, angles that don't appear to be on purpose, but they are to the whole picture! Really!

And here's where I failed to get a whole picture of the whole painting - see, all that loading the car to drive back across to Texas, and all that driving, and all that weekend with the girls where I wired both paintings for hanging for them, and the hanging of this red & orange one on Amber's wall where she said she likes it and it fits her personality - well, with all that going on, I forgot to take a photo of the finished piece! (hanging my head in mock shame) (so, Amber, can I get a photo?) (grin)

Oh - and I have a job! Yea! I start monday!

stopping in to say hi

I've been a bit on the sick side this last week, making me very lazy in the updating. But here's pics of the yummmy grilled dinner and the margaritas.

I have downloaded my camera, and do have several things to show you all when a few other things settle in around here. Since Bobbi & Amber now have their paintings, I can post pictures of those here, too. ;)

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.

and there was this one time...

I'm finished with the painting of Bubbles - I need to seal it, if it ever stops raining long enough. The sealer won't work with humidity, go figure.

Have a handful of other projects am working on - need to get photos of them for this. One is a piece of wood with a lattice type stencil I'm carving.

The other thing rolling around in my head is hardened resin in a particular shape, but again, does not work well in humidity, so this may have to wait till I'm back in Texas. Also working with this stuff needs plenty of ventilation, and there's not much of that here. Anyway - I also want to use barbed wire for this particular piece - probably easier to get in Texas than in Florida...

Anyway. Carving, sealing, and finishing a few other small projects. Will post pics again soon!

x-peck-tah-shin

I’m not, nor have I ever been one of those with perfect handwriting. What pours forth from the ink to the page falls into any category between cursive and chicken scratch. All too often, I myself cannot even diagnose what the word was originally meant to be and find the closest substitute that might make sense if I were indeed sober and awake when I wrote it. But usually I’m not.

There is a sort of filter on thoughts and things lately. The filter that shows me what I could have versus what I do have. Or, maybe, perhaps, that is just my perception on things.

The hot water boils on the stove, gets poured into the mug, then turns into something drinkable. After it cools. Because I have no inclination to scald my tongue on freshly heated water.

Distracted. Again. I do this. A lot.

I believe I was talking about handwriting before the water whistled for me to get up and come retrieve it from the burning coils on the stove. My handwriting or someone who wrote for me, I’m not sure now. All that fetches in my memory right now is the whisps of a note now forgotten, the glimpses of dreams that floated by in the last few hours, and the potential that there really is light at the end of the tunnel.

Of which I wasn’t aware we were in. Huh. Did I miss something here?

Nevermind.

It is my mind that is the one guiding this after all.

The basis of what I think I’m trying to say right now is that sometimes things change.

There. Simple enough. Now explain.

That I am an artist who makes large strokes with a paintbrush, large gouges with a sharp knife, who full heartedly jumps into projects, who fully embraces another person in a hug, makes me not the sort of person to pay attention to details. But I do. The things that when you step close to the painting to discover the small dots and lines, blended or standing alone, to give the piece a finished perspective. The things that when you run your fingers over the finished wood, you feel the flow of the cut as well as the flow of the grain, making it seem as if it was already there. The things that include charts and research out the wazoo, the customer perspective, and the bottom line, that show this project is based in this reality. The things that when wrapped in a hug, my fingers instinctively find the tension in the back or neck, in a gentle rubbing to say hello or goodbye, helps release just a little bit of the pain that was being held on to too tightly.

Sometimes finding out that what you see and feel may be something entirely different, well, that’s just cause of alarm. Or for drinking heavily and cursing. Or for screaming in fear and cowering. Or for dancing wildly and spastically, falling down on purpose, and realizing that “Hey, the world looks different from down here.”

Indeed, it does.

So, perhaps this tunnel is not the tunnel of lore, where you walk out of it, or where a train comes at you, or whatever those loring tunnels are.

This tunnel may be one of those that’s more akin to a well, Or the caves in the rocks we climbed as kids, where half the climb was straight down, crawl a bit, then climb straight up. Remembering that now makes me wonder why in the hell we did that, on purpose? I mean, snakes, nettles, scrapes, darkness, spiders, bats, flash storms, all sorts of things, were threats. What were we thinking?

And when did I let myself slide from fearless and adventurous to an adult? Yuck.

The tea cools enough to drink. I transfer the words from notebook to computer and come up with something that sounds like what I might have been trying to say in the wee hours of the morning. I take the last gulp, looking down into the empty, deep mug. Only by turning it sideways does anything fall out. Yet another different perspective.

Anyway. We climbed cautiously we worked in groups, pushing each other up, or pulling each other up. We skittered under boulders, around crevices, sliding along on our butts an awful lot. By the end of summer my jeans had lost all their back pockets to those rocks. And it didn’t matter. We went through, we found more, we crawled and got dirty, we made our way out in time to go eat dinner.

So this tunnel I’ve been in is like looking up out of those rock caves. I’ve forgotten that I am not alone. I need to get a little dirty, scoot off the rock I’ve been perched on, and ask for help climbing out.