Mad As The Hatter

Been that way all my life!

Wanna go howl at the moon?

 

Mo Digital Work

This Much

Magic Hands

i hate days when 

i can't make myself 

go outside  :(:

hence: mo digital work

Nuff Said.....

'nuff said

My Armor

completed spread

"if you'd killed my body

you'd have done me a favor

but you killed my soul

and there's no remedy

for the pain"

 

i curse my armor

daily

One Day At A Time

completed spread

 

i take

one day at a time

it's the best i

can do....

Fallible

fallible

no armor is infallible

especially mine

Delusions of Grandeur

i don't have delusions of grandeur

but...i do think

 being bipolar 

contributes to my self esteem

or lack of....

and how i feel about my art

...as if i have a

choice

Necessity Is The Mother of Invention...

.....at least for those of us

with empty pockets

spent my afternoon making stamps

for gelli printing

$15 for one at artfoamie

is out of my budget

and quiet frankly

that price hurts my 

feeling...

Jus' One of Those Days

sometimes the greatest source of our suffering

are the lies we tell ourselves

tonight finds me screaming at the stars:

fuck it

Keeper of the Feathered Ones

often

it's the ones 

who fly solo

that have the 

strongest wings

Is There Anybody Out There?

 

Another entry for my journal: MY DYSFUNCTIONS..

a journal for chronicling my immeasurably fascinating

 dysfunctions..neuroses..emotions..inner child..moments

 of shame and doubt..projection..self-loathing..misanthropy..

and completely normal insanity..because the only difference between

 me and the rest of the population is that I acknowledge

 how crazy I am and they're all in mind-numbing denial.

 

we all have them....

CRAZY iS tHe nEw sAnE

sooooo.....

do i win the award for worst blogger?

sorry....

i've been fighting demons.

this is today's journal spread.

when i watch the news..

or read everyone's facebook posts..

i can't help but think 

CRAZY

IS

THE 

NEW

SANE

 

 

Life Lessons

i started my morning with a little journaling.

it's been hot and rainy this past week... outside

is like a sauna...and i'm waiting for the grass to

dry enough to mow my yard.

i've put my car camping adventure on hold for a

while. i had someone living in a house that i own

next door who packed an overnight bag and walked

out leaving the place in a terrible mess. so during

this heat...and in between the rains...i've spent my

time carrying off trash and junk. one week down

and i'm only on the kitchen! i'm really not liking

how it looks like i'll be spending my summer....on

top of the money spent to have a trailer hitch installed

and purchase a small utility trailer so i can clean 

this house. 

oh well...

life lessons.....

She Talks To Angels

i do......

Shedding

i worked at a job for years

where i could show no FEAR

it became my persona

hardened

how i really felt....

weak

VULNERABLE

afraid

i CARRY that fear still

and a need to peel it

AWAY

shedding....

Unbecoming........

so....maybe you thought i was GONE

i thought that too

i've spent the last few months RAGING

against the ruins of this shell i call me

and unbecoming that ONE

peeling OFF layer

after layer

of my

UNTRUTH

journaling

releasing

UNBECOMING

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

Reading My Scars

scars…..

we all have them.

physical…

mental…

imagined…

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

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

Offer Yourself....

 

it's all i have to give...