Sunday, September 27, 2015

She Who Is Blessed

she who is blessed....that's ME!

it's time for a little redecorating around here.
i've decided i need a more artful home.
my starting point is my main bath. i've ordered
this shower curtain from one of my favorite
artists...Linda Vachon:

and this rug...

and i painted the she who is blessed picture over
a 24" x 36" canvas that was already hanging
in there. i was trying to make it in her style to keep
with the theme. i'm not sure what i'll put on the
counter and other walls.

oh...and i also ordered a duvet for my bed:

this is going to be sooooooo
much fun!

Thursday, September 24, 2015

I Stand Alone

some days it just feels like this...

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Still the Mind....

i did a little porch sitting yesterday with
a praying mantis. i'm fascinated by these
little creatures....though some aren't so
little. i've got several around my porch
that are larger than my hand!

i took this picture of my porch sitting buddy
and turned it into a brush to use in my
art journaling:

there are several lessons praying mantis brings...
one of which is to still your outer mind and go

i need that reminder every so often....
thanks little 

Friday, September 4, 2015

Making Stencils with Contact Paper

when you live on a wing and a prayer you have
to get creative with your art supplies. i like using
stencils in my journaling but don't have the budget
for them. today i tried making my own using regular
shelving contact paper and some scrapbook paper.
they worked great! i blotted on the paint with a
makeup sponge and then wiped the stencil clean
with a baby wipe. these should hold up well with
 repeated use.

i made a quick little video on this….something that
is waaaaaay out of my comfort zone but maybe
i'll get better!

Making Stencils with Contact Paper:

nothing says Starving Artist like using a paint stick
and binder clip to hold your phone while making
a video…

Thursday, September 3, 2015

There's No Lie in Her Fire

todays journal page inspired by the
following poem:

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny

blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny

they are small, and the fountain is in France

where you wrote me that last letter and

I answered and never heard from you again.

you used to write insane poems about

ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you

knew famous artists and most of them

were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’s all right,

go ahead, enter their lives, I’m not jealous

because we never met. we got close once in

New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never

touched. so you went with the famous and wrote

about the famous, and, of course, what you found out

is that the famous are worried about

their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed

with them, who gives them that, and then awakens

in the morning to write upper case poems about

ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they told

us, but listening to you I wasn’t sure. maybe

it was the upper case. you were one of the

best female poets and I told the publishers,

editors, “ her, print her, she’s mad but she’s

magic. there’s no lie in her fire.” I loved you

like a man loves a woman he never touches, only

writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have

loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a

cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,

but that didn’t happen. your letters got sadder.

your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all

lovers betray. it didn’t help. you said

you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and

the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying

bench every night and wept for the lovers who had

hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never

heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide

3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you

I would probably have been unfair to you or you

to me. it was best like this.  ~charles bukowski

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

Reading My Scars

we all have them.
they're like bread crumbs
dropped along the path of life you a map back to the
beginning like written memories.

with the passing of another birthday
i sit in quiet contemplation…
...reading my scars words on a