March 30, 2009
March 29, 2009
March 27, 2009
(Jessieh has been accepted to many colleges but just found out yesterday she got into the one she most wants to go to.) So CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!!!
Lloyd loves you like crazy and so do the rest of us!
Here are a few photos documenting the complex feelings Stefano has regarding the fact that I am just a little bit taller than him. (Taken a couple of weekends ago at Piazza San Marco.)
Ew. Painful. I don't really even want to look at it.
Here is a little 'work in progress'....
March 26, 2009
Ok.... The video quality is of course not good here but the actual file is huge so I am just posting this very small, one minute of video. Just so people can see some of it. :-) (This is about one hour of drawing compressed into one minute.)
((The t-shirt I am wearing in this video reads THE GREAT ENIGMA OF HUMAN LIFE IS NOT SUFFERING BUT AFFLICTION.))
The last five images here are new.
March 23, 2009
Poem on a Line by Anne Sexton, 'We are All Writing God's Poem'
a thousand times. The journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step. On the interstate listening
to NPR, I heard a Hubble scientist
say, "The universe is not only stranger than we
think, it's stranger than we can think." I think
I've driven into spring, as the woods revive
with a loud shout, redbud trees, their gaudy
scarves flung over bark's bare limbs. Barely doing
sixty, I pass a tractor trailer called Glory Bound,
and aren't we just? Just yesterday,
I read Li Po: "There is no end of things
in the heart," but it seems like things
are always ending—vacation or childhood,
relationships, stores going out of business,
like the one that sold jeans that really fit—
And where do we fit in? How can we get up
in the morning, knowing what we do? But we do,
put one foot after the other, open the window,
make coffee, watch the steam curl up
and disappear. At night, the scent of phlox curls
in the open window, while the sky turns red violet,
lavender, thistle, a box of spilled crayons.
The moon spills its milk on the black tabletop
for the thousandth time.
March 22, 2009
March 19, 2009
March 18, 2009
March 17, 2009
March 16, 2009
Anyway... I feel really good about this and I can already imagine the front door of the house in my mind. I am going to get a picture of a good front door or draw a front door and I am going to put the address right over the top. So if you are looking for me you can find me here, at the following address: 2009
p.s.- NOTE TO JESSIEH: If you are in need of a 'tiny house' or other accommodations, Lloyd says he is willing to build. ;-)
March 15, 2009
here is another poem by Catherine Barnett
At the bottom of the ocean—
the bones are picked clean.
I suppose this must be common,
this relentless cleaning,
and the tiny sequin
tossed into the bin of dirty water
and our eyes gouged out with looking.
When did the child die?
And how white are the whale’s bones.
There, down there.
How did you wait for me this morning.
Our hearts evolved
from our throats—
March 14, 2009
March 12, 2009
March 11, 2009
March 9, 2009
March 7, 2009
March 5, 2009
March 4, 2009
The Pleasures of Hating
I hate Mozart. Hate him with that healthy
pleasure one feels when exasperation has
crescendoed, when lungs, heart, throat,
and voice explode at once: I hate that! —
there's bliss in this, rapture. My shrink
tried to disabuse me, convinced I use Amadeus
as a prop: Think further, your father perhaps?
I won't go back, think of the shrink
with a powdered wig, pinched lips, mole:
a transference, he'd say, a relapse: so be it.
I hate broccoli, chain saws, patchouli, bra—
clasps that draw dents in your back, roadblocks,
men in black kneesocks, sandals and shorts—
I love hating that. Loathe stickers on tomatoes,
jerky, deconstruction, nazis, doilies. I delight
in detesting. And love loving so much after that.
I like that the title of her book is "Small Gods of Grief". And the great last line: "...And love loving so much after that."
I have started dreaming again- although I am not sure when it stopped before it recently started again. I had a dream four or five nights ago but it was not a nightmare- just a clear dream. A clear dream reminding me that I can and often do have clear dreams. Every night since I have dreamed again and they have been building in their nightmare status. Last night's the worst so far but still just barely a nightmare. It really feels like my mind preparing me for more news it will send back to me folded up in my sleep. Last night it was something about my family- my father sleeping in his own room, my sister sick or trying to sleep in hers and then my mother entering my room and when she did I knew it was her- even though it was night and totally dark and I screamed when she entered- long and loud and my very first and next thought was, "She is going to be furious that I just screamed." But just like the past, my mom did not care. Or at least she did not RESPOND anyway.
On Monday I had therapy and though I did not even think it was possible I have felt even more war-torn since. Yesterday I felt angry at my therapist (so much easier (in some ways, anyway...) than the real anger that I really have) because I felt like he 'pushed me' and TOO MUCH during our session over Skype on Monday. He asked me to touch my own mouth. I was talking about my father- him raping my mouth. And about how I can not FEEL my own mouth and lips and tongue and my doctor asked me to just 'touch my own mouth'. First I said no and then said that I could not and on and on and then I finally did and just putting a finger to my own lips and barely touching them... I was reminded of the feeling of my father inside of my mouth. And I have been on a tear ever since. After therapy I cried (more) and then struggled all day Monday and then yesterday made what was for me an insanely painful drawing on the wall. Last night I was on the phone with Stefano and I was crying- about other things- people who were bothering me and any other tiny thing I could think of until I just broke into the truth about being scared and mad and hurt and terrified and overwhelmed and in pain. The other day I read something over on Parasites of the Mind- about 'healing not being a straight line'. It was this, to be more exact: "The will and desire to heal are not a straight line. We will be pulled toward healing just as we’re pulled toward not healing. Healing is frightening. Healing asks us to go into the dark believing we’re going to come out into the light. What we must do is have faith that the healing process will bring us to a better place."
Last night I was telling Stefano that even though I can see now- or some parts of me anyway- that talking helps me to feel better... I keep not wanting to do it. I start... I start talking and writing... but then I get scared or mad and scared and mad by those feelings and then I shut back down and have to restart again- reminding myself that I need to negotiate, listen to myself, write and TALK TALK TALK about the past and about all the feelings of trappedness that I have.
My own freedom terrifies me.
I still think of the story of the little boy in the emergency room who had been covered with gasoline and lit on fire and he was SCREAMING for his mother... even though she is the one who burned him. That is how I am feeling for a lot of the days right now... like I know I am howling about wanting to get back to not knowing and I know it is not better- but it was all I knew for so long and having it taken away... it is still so painful, even if I know it is the only way to recover.
After therapy on Monday I thought about this poem that I have loved for a long time. It is by Li-Po and was translated by Ezra Pound:
The River-Merchant's Wife
While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
I was thinking on Monday that I love it because of the ending- because of the 'I will come out to meet you' and because that is what I have to do with myself now.
March 3, 2009
March 2, 2009
March 1, 2009
IT IS A CRIME.
I just spent far to much time figuring out how to add a 'navigation bar' to this blog. Anyway- I am just glad that I got through another evening without feeling 'terrible' or hurting myself. I will write more tomorrow. I just wanted to post my t-shirt idea here. If you have ideas or suggestions for my 't-shirts too many people do not want to see' series (I just now made that little title up)... :-) Any thoughts or suggestions would be greatly appreciated. Please feel free to leave comments or contact me by email. (Just click the above link that reads 'contact'!!!)