Discarded Toys

I play with my rabbit

every day, sometimes twice.

Often, I wish it velveteen,

as real as the smack

of a riding crop

as I rock my mount,

ridden wet, and hard.

Not every toy was meant to be velveteen.

The streams never crossed,

left alone and solitary

in my toy box.

For you, I was only a plaything,

Never meant to be made real.

Bunnies can break.

Your mechanical heart needs winding.

You box me up,

your discarded toy,

that bored you,

displeased you.

My answers were always wrong.

I never learned to tell

the fairy tales quite

the way you wanted.

I'm just another locked toy box,

left out for whoever might want

a broken, discarded plaything,

a rag doll waiting for a new master.

Find it here.

One in 7 billion

A few days ago, I was at an exhibition with a friend.  

I don't remember the conversation that led up to it, but as we paused for a moment in front of a depiction of voodoo ritual, he commented, "Did you know that there are over 7 billion people on the earth today?"

I waited for him to continue, expecting some further reflection on overpopulation, dwindling global resources, maybe even something about the effects of climate destabilization.

Instead, he said, "You would think that in a world of 7 billion people that there would be even one person that would just get me."

In that moment, I thought I had never heard anything quite so heartbreaking, and so very, very true.

Yes, yes, oh yes, I realized, that is exactly what I want; all that I have ever really wanted.

Why, in a world of 7 billion people, isn't there anyone who understands me?

I'm tired of facing the endless crowds and the lengthening days, always alone; a mask of competent resilience carefully in place.

Find me, please, I'm right here; waiting, just waiting for you.

Find this piece here.

Winged Alice and the Keyblade of Doom

Your cigarette blown words
lodge firmly in my back.

Losing a toe or three 
keeps me swaying on the beam.

My fluted mouth stiffens.
I drop more than my shirt 
in the parading maze of dazed revelers
sweating in the Carnival swelter.

Twinned but not;
best friend for never.
Dissected from skin to bone.
The stripes on my pants are all wrong.

The paper mache grizzly,
the Army green ginger,
neither fits.
Your German blonde elevates you
to the balcony scene.

Keeping my mask carefully blank,
I fall into beta position.

In the garbage piled streets,
no one wants to vomit alone.

Fish and Grace

Inspiration can come from many places: a quote, a poem, a line from a song..

Sometimes inspiration can come from a very dark place.

This piece leaves me feeling very conflicted.  I like the vibrant colors.  It has a sort of fun, surreal, fairy tale, Wonderland-esque feel, but my original impulse in making it is the antithesis of happiness and light.

I have a weakness for Victorian true crime and have been binge watching documentaries on Youtube. Eventually, I stumbled upon the disturbing tale of Albert Fish.

He was a product of the Victorian age of poorly run and brutal orphanages, but the most infamous of his crimes were committed a few decades into the new century.

He brutalized, murdered and ate children.

He was a monster, called the "boogeyman" by one of his almost victims yet, in person, he was very unimposing.

He was the single father to five children whom, reportedly, he took good care of and did not abuse.

Did he love them?  Was he capable of love?

How could a man who could brutalize and murder also be a dedicated father?  

At his trial, he was described as the "Gray Man", a man who appeared a bit of a doddering grandfatherly figure, really, the sort of man you would barely take notice of.

Perhaps that and his choice of the most helpless and innocent of victims is what makes him so disturbingly sinister.  

So, how did I go from horrific child murderer to a toadstool wonderland?

Really, I am as perplexed as you are!

Guard Duty

Sometimes society gives power to people that shouldn't have it.

Give someone that little bit of power and a uniform to match and they check their humanity and their compassion at the door.

All they care about is exercising and abusing that power.

Maybe it is time to re-think who we uniform and trust with our safety.

The welfare of the people that they promised to protect goes completely out the window.

It's heartbreaking, but I am coming to distrust and fear the people in the uniform more than the monsters themselves.

Whatever happened to reason and compassion?

Finding your Tribe

Equal rights for all Americans has been in the forefront of the news all week, following hard on an ongoing tide of tales of bullying and discrimination against those among us who are NOT in the majority.

I've always thought that diversity, individuality, creativity, are qualities that should be encouraged and celebrated, instead of castigated.

So often, in our youth, the characteristics that make us special are treated as aberrations.  We must fit in.  Don't stand out.  Blend in.

Why should we?  Why should we strive to be mediocre?  Why must we be bland to be accepted?

I'm a huge fan of RuPaul.  I think many of his catch phrases, while simplistic, ring with basic truth.

"If you can't love yourself, how the hell are you going to love somebody else?"

Simple, but still so true, and so wonderful.

I was listening to an interview he did as part of a series called "It Gets Better."  In childhood, he was always aware of a difference between himself and the other children.  He wasn't like everybody else.  So when he grew up, he moved to a big city and found people like himself.  He found his tribe.

That thought stayed with me, for weeks now.  

"He found his tribe."

Again, so simple, but so wonderful.

The idea of it, finding your tribe; finding a group of people like yourself.  Fitting in; belonging, at long last.

Again, I thought how wonderful for him, but, I felt a sense of jealousy.

Where is my tribe?  I've always tried to blend in, to pretend that I was one of them, but I always knew I wasn't, not really.

My likes, my interests, my opinions, just never fit, anywhere.  

Not mainstream.  I tried what I could, but even among the band kids, or the drama kids, the most classic of the misfit, I was still a misfit among misfits.  

I think it's wonderful that RuPaul found where he belonged.  I love that the bullied, the special, and the creatives can sometimes find a place where they feel that sense of belonging.  

But me, I'm still looking.  

Keep Your Heart Safe

The older I get, the more guarded I become.  

I think it's inevitable that, over time, we become more wary of sharing our heart and allowing ourselves to be vulnerable.

The caged heart has sustained some damage.  My grimly determined Victorian avatar has opted to place her heart carefully under guard.

She can't risk letting herself be harmed again.

Her heart just couldn't take it.  Another injury and her heart might break beyond repair.

But, just because you are determined to protect yourself, doesn't mean that someone might not try to breach your defenses...

Pardon the overly phallic symbolism, but our guarded Victorian lady just might have to weigh her options....

Is he worth the risk?

Think carefully!

A Family Portrait without a Father

Father's Day: my Facebook feed, my radio stations, my internet news sites, have all been flooded with the trumpeting of Father's Day.

What do you do if you are raising children without a father?

I know some fathers leave by choice, some withhold their love from their children, and some are just lost.

My own children lost their father to cancer three years ago.  My oldest two, teens when he died, have a lot of memories of their father, (which isn't to say that it makes the lost somehow less, or easier to bear).

But my youngest two don't have as many memories.  They are basically growing up without a strong male influence in their lives.

I can't teach them to play baseball.  I can't teach them to change a tire on a car.  I cannot fill that gap.  

Of late, I have been binge listening to the podcast of Mark Maron.  He had comedian Joe Rogan on as a guest.  I don't know much about Rogan aside from his work on "Newradio", but Joe Rogan said something on the podcast that really resonated with me.

To paraphrase, the most interesting people he knows all had to overcome some sort of trauma or adversity in their childhood.  For him, it was an abusive father that he didn't see after the age of six.

Basically, everyone I have ever been close to had something in their childhood that left them emotionally bruised or battered.  Whether it was divorce or a dysfunctional family, none of them escaped childhood without some sort of emotional trauma.

They came out the other side damaged, but not irrevokably broken.

My boys will grow up with that same sort of adversity.  It's not a wound that I can possibly fix.  I can love them from here to the moon, but the loss of their father isn't a gap in their lives that I can fill by wearing a lot of plaid and taking them fishing.

The hearts of my beautiful boys are damaged.  They have suffered an emotional trauma that will never go away.

I can only hope that they will come out the other side of their childhood, somehow stronger, self reliant, and maybe, just maybe, a little more interesting for what they have survived.

Collage Obsession - A Rose by any Other Name

Steampunk Ideas

Over the course of a day, we have ideas.  

They drift in and out of our minds.  

A light bulb goes off here.   

An epiphany occurs there.  

A little later, a moment of serendipity.  

Too often, we have that bit of insight, 

a brilliant idea for an art series, and then 

just as quickly, it's gone.

Last year, I participated in a course of study,

"The Artists Way".  One of the main tenets 

of the course is the daily writing of three pages, 

every morning, without fail.  

The course helps you excavate into your past.  

It  helps you look for those moments of 

past trauma that are echoing into the now, 

possibly blocking the flow of your creativity.

I loved the course as well as the other participants.  

I felt like I gained a lot of insight into my past

 as well as my current struggles with my creative self.

The course wrapped up last December and 

I have made a point of continuing my daily pages.

When I have an idea, I now have a place where it is 
recorded for later (I underline and star those bits!)  

A lot of it is gibberish, venting, and a staging place 

for my plans for the day, but the ideas 
that appear on my daily pages delight me.

They are a delightful series of little light bulbs going off! 

 I am trying very hard not to let them fly away!