One month this way, the next another. I choose one form of reform, to retry the old accustomed ways after. Do I have a problem? Am I a misfit toy? I wonder even if I do put it together, I’ll still always be out of place. Just these questions living in my head, give off the real vibe of a woman on edge, a woman unsure, a woman you don’t really want to talk to, unless you’re one of Nick Cave’s characters from Murdar Ballads. The wild rose, or Henry lee or some such ballad. Or, “I’m not Ula May and I’m not Holli either, I don’t know who I am.” Do these songs, movies make me. Have I ever bothered with me. Well yeah, I remember, but, it’s been a while, and a memory is a cheap fix for a problem living in your subconscious. Dreams tell me secrets every night. I go between listening and growing and demolishing and ignoring in such incredible waves, I’m amazed I stand and smile and grit my teeth at times. Let’s see what happens to Holli in the end of the movie, or Kylie Monogue at the end of Wild Rose. Is it survival of the fittest, or a matter of luck, mixed with denial and semi-decent choices. You tell me, we’ll write a boring song about it and pretend the guts and blood aren’t interesting, or keep us up at night. Art and madness.
We all wish to feel adjusted. Perfectly angled and appreciated. Showing a side which works. The side you can love. But angles are funny and can hide hollow shells. And two empty people don’t cut the ropes to being free individuals. But isn’t it so hard?
Is set, one is ready, where Nick Cave can dance, or shimmy, in some tight striped pants and a pink tee shirt. So many forms of drama play out in life, mostly the battles performed in our heads. But those are as real as blood for how often a thought can lead us there anyway.
I’m always cursing my drama, and my face which shows it. An embarrassment that I cannot figure these things out, and that I let any of it hold weight. And then suddenly, a veiled hug is a gesture unintentionally used to wake me up. A gunshot fires in my head. This hug, this hug I’ve felt before, a strangers hug, so intertwined with all my choices and all my relationships. This hug I let happen, this hug of forgiveness.
All my drama subsides to this new thought, one where I can forgive my behavior and lost moods. At least I understand one part of myself a little better. There is no solution, but I can forgive all the crap I’ve done in the process of wondering what the fuck is wrong with me. Hey what the fuck is wrong with you? Because I know you’ve thought it too. What the fuck is wrong with me, how could I make such shitty choices.
I don’t believe that blame is needed for me now. Understanding just a little bit, is all the help I’ve wanted. I doubt I could even put into words this thing I’m referring to, but the feeling is real. A small release of a ghost, before another one is met. And my feet are grateful for the next step forward. Part of me wishes it could be in a pair of Carmel colored Stenson boots. But a re-soled old boot works fine too.
Watching old Lou Reed videos, and he said, “it’s like the saying if you were given a thousand years would you write Hamlet? No, if I were given a thousand years would I do what I’ve done? No, not without Delmore Scheartz or Andy Warhol.” Sort of botched that quote together but wow! What a beautiful and simple thing to know and realize and love about your art. Made me roll on the ground and feel so excited. We are all our influences, and lou reed was this amazing intense human, but like all humans, needed influence, ideas and encouragement. Just good to hear, and I really will be smiling tomorrow at his picture I keep next to my easel. I put him up because he keeps me focused and honest when I’m working. What an artist! What a man, Lou Reed pulled all the strings together. That’s all, love your influences, and trust them to guide you towards your path and truth.
Reading back through, seeing some of the things I said I’d do. Well hell, I did most of the crap I was planning on. I put myself through a year of prerequisites for the sewing program in Seattle, while working 40-50 hours as a waitress. I also got that stupid substitute thing, and discovered I truly am awful at subbing. I lived with a man I cared about while doing all of that. I think it’s incredibly difficult for me to remember all of that now though. Because it became a dead end. Maybe it’s making me cooler than you and your grandma though, but if you and your grandma come into a place where I’ll be waiting on you, it’s true, you’ll pretty much own me. I guess I have to work on keeping the heart pure, I just want to dunk it in red wine and Clorox, wash my windows with it, mark my doors with it. The first born is dead, he said.
Perhaps I meant the lilac tree, and losing myself underneath it, on a cold damp night. It’s cold, and I felt it as I biked home in my wonderfully loose and light summer clothes. Playing with the night air. I remembered a nightmare I had this week as I avoided riding through the cemetery, I was lucky, and there was no lion waiting for me at the gate, speaking in tongues.
I feel like learning for me is the most slow and grueling process to endure, and in the mean time I continue to lead myself down wrong paths. Albeit, better than paths chosen before, but wrong for me all the same. With every new choice toward the better future, an old habit remains to remind me of how far I have to go.
That image is of a mango, I suppose. It’s incredibly hard for me to get into this again, all the stupid walls I’ve built over the years need to be deconstructed in order for new progress to happen. Everyday seeing that I have to keep my mind open, and believe every little step forward helps. How do we get over our failures though? The only moments I feel sure that it’s ok are while working on art, every other second of the day is a failure, and every memory is a mistake, and a joke.
My only hope is that love will carry me on in a way that helps me from myself. Myself which is the only true joy, but the most lonely and complicated.
And so I leave you with, Brittney Spears, “The stars in the sky, make me feel, not alone.”
Not done, progress like honey. Back and forth with my time. A hole where winter lays, your blind dog trapped in it and barking. Tell yourself a story just to keep any story going. Warming wax at your bedside every morning. Nobody speaks towards you, you still listen. Progress like honey, a ritual, still living. Pull on the threads, eyes burning pull them all out to do it again. Get it right, let the wax drain on the pillow. Dreams are like lace and ice cream to the endless loop, one more step towards reason, one more hand reaching out.