I make art. Alone. Outside in the sun. Coffee Plantation. Just like Peter. He uses walls, I use the trees. He grounds with touch, I ground with sight. Birds. We both need to me rooted.
Oh, Coffee Plantation. The hard metal chairs. The hard, iron tables. The concrete pavement bread crumbs for grackles.
Grackles are mean. But beautiful. Sleek and black. I love green tea. Plain. No sugar. No touching.
I’m using my phone to write this post; I’d rather use paint. I’m using people to process. I’d rather use dreams. Athletic blocks on my feet for running. I’d rather use flip-flops. I hike in them. Barefoot is best.
Freedom is best.
He needs the window to breathe. Open air. I need the sunshine to live. Never inside. Pacing when stuck or trapped or being responsible. Movie theaters are my enemies.
“Hey. Hey there imaginary friends.”
Hey sunshine and grass and clouds and cactus. Wanna see what I made? Where’s your mom? Wow, she has a job? That’s weird. And cool. Whoa, moms can have jobs...
Mine is at home, but she’s busy. I don’t know. I don’t know what she’s doing. Laundry and taxes and organizing paper. Piles and piles of notes on the counter. Phone calls galore. Stuff about the Bibles and baking pies. She is very into calendars right now. She says “put it on the calendar” and “the calendar won’t let me” and “is there room? Let’s look at the calendar.” I don’t know what that means. I don’t know. She doesn’t have time to play.
Do you?
“Hey there, imaginary animal friends. Wanna play? Look at what I made! I have crayons you can use. Uncle Brian bought me a purple box to put them in. He calls me pumpkin. He’s so nice to me. Will you be nice to me? Being nice is important. It’s the most important thing in the world.”
Let’s be nice, and share.
This piece is what it felt like to be anorexic. I used all my “superpowers” to keep femininity and ambiguity and indulgence away from my body. I used religious philosophies to stay “empty.” And my demons were validated by evangelical youth leaders who confirmed I was innately sinful without a man to save me. Jesus? I was afraid of men. But I had to befriend them to live? I was dying. But dying is good? Self-sacrifice. Like the apostles. Such a double-bind. Such a confused little corpse.
As a professional photographer, it’s fruatrating not having a camera to document my art. These pics were taken using the iphone6 (not-plus). If you zoom in you can read the words. I cannot separate visual art from language - I always want to mix them. Sometimes I go to Savers and pick up random novels I’ve never heard of for 60 cents each. I tear out chunks. Paragraphs and short phrases out of serendipitiously nostalgic pages. Sometimes I just use the index...if it’s non-fiction.
This next piece was created the afternoon I’d found myself in the crib...shivering, wet, sweating but freezing. Screaming and afraid; exposed and violated. “Where is my mother? Are you my mother?” She can’t hear you. Or see you. Or find you. It’s dark in here and the Big Black Cloudy Boogie Man is God. He always wins. Fuck, dude.
But in EMDR, you can save yourself from your past. You can create your own salvation. Your very own matrix of blissful redemption. A new ending. A new beginning. The sequel is real.
