Frogged

I wanted the fairy tale

although I don't pretend to be a princess.

I long ago learned to rescue myself.

I passed over so many amphibious suitors,

looking for the one;

neither prince nor knight,

but someone to relish the sunset,

someone real.

I should have recognized the taste

of flies on your lips,

foul and forked.

I spelled eyes to see what wasn't there.

I forgot my feet as your tongue

oozed its sticky words.

Awakening, at last,

to your tongue thrust,

to your slime oozing off my chin.

There are no happy endings.

Find it here.

Your Monster

My self identity was so many pieces
stitched together on your slab,
an almost person, cold and dead.

You meant nothing to me;
my heart lifeless in your eager hands.

You flipped the switch.
Some monsters are better left dead.

The spark of life flickered.  You fled.
You couldn't face what you created.

Love beating within me was never your intention.

The only way to protect my resurrection of feeling
was to hide its beat behind corpse eyes;
I worked to control the killing urge 
of my fingers, which itched to betray me
and summon their master, their maker,
even  knowing that you would only flee
faster and farther from our grasp.

No matter the distance,
I can feel the waves of horror and hatred
at what you gave life to.  The needle shakes in your hand.
The electric current, a lightning flash, burnt us both.

Undo the stitches.  Throw the pieces back into the grave
you dug them from.  Take back the life you inflicted on me.

Your revulsion only feeds the continued beating of my heart.

Find it here.

Take off your Mask

I blogged recently about wearing masks, to hide who we are and what we feel.  

We're always wearing them.  

We're always crafting new ones.

Why are we afraid to show our real face?  

More specifically, why am I afraid to show my real face?

People ask me often why I became an artist.  I didn't grow up thinking I was an artist.  

My very earliest art teachers assured me that I was 

completely and utterly without any sort of talent.

I preferred the written word.  I love books. I love fairy tales.  

I dreamed of publishing a novel someday.  I even majored in English literature.  

Somehow, though, I ended up selling vintage clothing online.  

Then, I parlayed my love of jewelry into a jewelry design business 

which led to graphic design.  Finally, that bloomed into surreal art.  

In the past, I have characterized my art career as a natural progression,

 a sort of inevitable evolution, but it really isn't quite that simple.

Whether we are visual artists or poets or musicians or novelists, 
we're all trying to convey something: an idea, a passion, or a truth:
 maybe a universal truth, maybe just a personal truth.

Very recently, I had a moment of epiphany.  

I started my serious pursuit of surrealism as a shield, as a mask to hide behind.  

I tinkered with graphic design, yes, and a little art alteration for several years,

 but I can date my real foray into art at the same time that 

my husband was diagnosed with cancer. 

 It was the perfect outlet for hiding from the pain and the the fear.

Strangely, this never occurred to me before.  

Intellectually, I know that art is a form of therapy.  
It's a way to express emotion and trauma. 
 I know that, but I didn't know it.

My surrealistic fairy tales are the perfect escape and, ironically, 

the perfect expression of my fear and my grief.

So, maybe I've peeled off another mask.  Maybe I can let 
my vulnerability and hurt and fear and grief through for a moment.  

I don't know.  I still feel like I hold my mask in a death grip, but I am trying.

Wish me luck.