You. (Of MEandYOU.)

sketchbook, 2004

Tonight I will probably sleep on the floor.

There will be better days; this is one of them.

It feels great to see myself laughing.

sketchbook page, gouache on paper, 2004

sketchbook page, 2001

Massachusetts, 1997, The first time I knew something was really wrong

A. in state

(pen and ink with colored pencil, 11" x 8.5", 2004)

"Children's Books: Awards and Prizes"

Why am I looking so smug in the above photo??? Because I am at the library and on my newly repaired computer which I can hold again without fear of third degree burns. The wireless internet connection has been repaired as well. Great! While my computer installed updates I was staring at the reference section right in front of me and discovered I was sitting before two entire shelves about children's books; the best books for different age groups, different subjects, which children's books have won awards, etc. Wow. Who knew this section existed? Not me... And not the librarian whom I have recently been asking questions like, "Is there some way I can find the best children's books?" and "How do I find children's books with good illustrations?" I will have to share the exciting news of my discovery with her...

I cried through an entire pelvic exam yesterday

...and all I could think about was you walking around as a free man. YES; IF THERE IS A HELL I HOPE THAT YOU ARE GOING.

(sketchbook cover, 2005)

The artist in his studio.

I was going to write here about a miserable and triggering experience that I had today. I decided to post these pictures of Sir Larry Lloyd instead. (His markers were taken away immediately after these photos were snapped.) He knows he is not supposed to draw on the bed and I have asked him repeatedly not to draw on the furniture or the walls as well but he refuses to stop. Even though I act upset about it he and I both know it is just best to get out of his way and let him work when the creative force hits him.

days and hours now

(pg.28 & 29 from the "Our Infant Babe" project, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

Thank you Brahms for the Piano Quintet In F Minor Op. 34

(pg.39 from the "Our Infant Babe" project, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

8-6-88-8-17-06

I carry your heart with me Sairah. I miss you.

(pg.11 from the "Our Infant Babe" project, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

(mixed media on paper, 14" x 17", 2006)

"The ordinary response to atrocities is to banish them from
consciousness. Certain violations of the social compact are too
terrible to utter aloud: this is the meaning of the word
"unspeakable". Atrocities, however, refuse to be buried. Equally as
powerful as the desire to deny atrocities is the conviction that
denial does not work. Folk wisdom is filled with ghosts who refuse to
rest in their graves until their stories are told. Murder will out.
Remembering and telling the truth about terrible events are
prerequisites both for the restoration of the social order and for the
healing of individual victims. The conflict between the will to deny
horrible events and the will to proclaim them aloud is the central
dialectic of psychological trauma." -from "Trauma and Recovery" by
Judith Herman

Explanation for the consideration of sleeping during the daylight hours.

(mixed media on paper, 14" x 17", 2006)

Living without.

The magician sleeping.

(one girl divides, then multiplies)

Notes of the Evening. *guest post by Jessieh

TODAY IS: AUGUST 11, 2007

very complicated explanations.

Everything changes.

Simone.

Wednesday.

(mixed media, two sketchbook pages; each 11.5" x 8", 2003)

(mixed media, 11.5" x 8.5", 2003)

"Inside The Apple" by Yehuda Amichai

You visit me inside the apple.
Together we can hear the knife
parting around us, carefully,
so the peel won't tear.

You speak to me. I trust your voice
because it has lumps of hard pain in it
the way real honey
has lumps of wax from the honeycomb.

I touch your lips with my fingers:
that too is a prophetic gesture.
And your lips are red, the way a burnt field
is black.
It's all true.

You visit me inside the apple
and you'll stay with me inside the apple
until the knife finishes its work.

You tore this & threw it away. I saved it.

(mixed media, 11.5" x 8.5", 2003)

Burn.

My Dr. and I have been talking a lot about "me waking up" (from my dissociative coma of the past 29 or so years) and beginning to feel "real". Of course this is good. Of course this is terrible (understatement). The first 90 minutes of my day were good and things have been going steadily down hill since. I feel like absolutely everything is agitating me in one way or another. For example: This morning I decided that I ABSOLUTELY CAN NOT tolerate the feel of bed sheets against my skin. It is making me feel constantly sick (literally). The slippery feeling of the sheets against me makes every thought turn to memories of my nights (and days) with the sick child-rapist. If I must be able to FEEL my own body now I am not going to be able to tolerate feeling it on any kind of bed sheet. So this morning I took the sheets off my bed and replaced them with three scratchy wool blankets. One to sleep on, one to cover me and one to cover my pillows because having my face against the pillows is making me sick in a way I could not begin to articulate here. The point is that I would rather feel the rough itchiness of the wool blankets against my skin because at least it does not remind me of him. This is just to give a 'rough' idea of how my day has gone. I cried on and off for most of the morning; while I was changing the sheets especially. I would write more but it is really difficult to write anything on here when I am so fucking pissed and hurt as I am right now. I mean: it is hard at this point for me not to type out detailed driving directions to "him". But that is all I will say about that.... I am just trying to "tolerate" all of the horrible memories, thoughts and (worst of all) the 'body memories' I am having and remind myself that it is all from the past and that he will never ever touch me or this body EVER EVER EVER again. And I hope that somehow tomorrow will not be so bloody fucking bad. And I hope I can hold on and make it through this bullshit he left me to deal with even though it feels totally TOTALLY fucking impossible. My plan is basic: Stay alive. Stay alive and do not hurt myself in some terrible way. I am going to stay alive. Somehow.

Notes of the Evening. *guest post by Jessieh

(flowers under the freeway)

"Rape's not something where you just go, "Well, get over it" or "Believe in love and peace, my child, and it'll all be over." Well, fuck you, that isn't the answer. It's a great thought, OK, but you can go and stick crystals up your butt and get on with it. I'm all for love and peace, but that's not the side I work on. If somebody would talk about it, or worse, joke about it, I would be ready to kill. That's not healing. It was a very long time after that before I was able to be with anyone again. And it has never been the same as it was before"
-Tori Amos

love, jessieh

PS: For us, there was no 'before'. There just was.

'All you gotta do is ring a bell'

(mixed media, two sketchbook pages; each 11.5" x 8", 2003)

(pen and ink on paper, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

(pen and ink on paper, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

Untitled (sketchbook page)

(pen and ink on paper, 11" x 8.5", 2001)

Untitled (on the floor)

Crouched on the floor like an animal I am without a shirt and I only see his open hand as he lifts it, the fist it turns into as it falls and the blow he delivers to me when it lands against my back; striking me hard between my left shoulder blade and the spine of my exposed back. I was six years old.
CrouchedonthefloorlikeananimalIamwithoutashirtandIonlyseehisopenhandasheliftsit,thefistitturnsintoasitfallsandtheblowhedeliverstomewhenitlandsagainstmyback;strikingmehardbetweenmyleftshoulderbladeandthespineofmyexposedback.Iwassixyearsold. CROUCHEDONTHEFLOORLIKEANANIMALIAMWITHOUTASHIRTANDIONLYSEEHISOPENHANDASHELIFTSIT,THEFISTITTURNSINTOASITFALLSANDTHEBLOWHEDELIVERSTOMEWHENITLANDSAGAINSTMYBACK;STRIKINGMEHARDBETWEENMYLEFTSHOULDERBLADEANDTHESPINEOFMYEXPOSEDBACK. IWASSIXYEARSOLD.
CROUCHED ON THE FLOOR LIKE AN ANIMAL I AM WITHOUT A SHIRT AND I ONLY SEE HIS OPEN HAND AS HE LIFTS IT, THE FIST IT TURNS INTO AS IT FALLS AND THE BLOW HE DELIVERS TO ME WHEN IT LANDS AGAINST MY BACK; STRIKING ME HARD BETWEEN MY LEFT SHOULDER BLADE AND THE SPINE OF MY EXPOSED BACK. I WAS SIX YEARS OLD.

A poem by Miller Williams.

Listen 014

I threw a snowball across the backyard.
My dog ran after it to bring it back.
It broke as it fell, scattering snow over snow.
She stood confused, seeing and smelling nothing.
She searched in widening circles until I called her.

She looked at me and said as clearly in silence
as if she had spoken,
I know it's here, I'll find it,
went back to the center and started the circles again.

I called her two more times before she came
slowly, stopping once to look back.

That was this morning. I'm sure that she's forgotten.
I've had some trouble putting it out of my mind.