Friday, March 28, 2008

3/28 The Day of Mama's Mini Escape, Mwahahaha

Changing the girl, who didn’t want to sit or stand still and as I was wiping her butt, she ran off… and the wipe was stuck in her buttcrack. So the little girl is running around the room, with a babywipe stuck to her tush. She started going in circles trying to get it out, even, like a puppy. Then I showed G what was going on and he and I were both laughing hysterically. Finally I caught her and finished the diaper change.

G’s new love of hamburgers in a bun. Yes, something he will eat. Woohoo. Of course, guess what baby girl won’t eat it.

Got out of the house today, because my mom needed me to go with my stepfather and choose a shower present for my soon to be sister in law. He ended up picking the present on his own, but I helped him figure out how to get the registry list and all that. They wrapped our gifts there, too.

Then we played hooky and went to get a burger and a beer. Mwahahaha.

G and Ivy in the back garden when we got back, playing with some buckets and water. G had me pour the bucket over his head and then he splashed around in the puddles. I guess we need to get a kiddie pool.

Just now, G wanted to find papa and Ivy, so I took him out to the front where they were talking to some neighbors down the street who have a boy just G’s age and another boy 6 months old. Nice people. G and the boy played with his trike. We chatted, they invited us to stop over anytime we saw them out there to play.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

3/27 The Day of Sing It With Me! _Get the Poopy Out!_

Trying to help G poopy, and singing silly songs to make him smile, “we get the poopy out, we get the poopy out, we push, shove poopy them out.” Or saying maybe he should let the poopy out because “the poopy wants to go home to the diaper, he would like the potty even better, but would be okay with the diaper.” Or showing him that the poopy comes out like his hand comes out of his pajama sleeves. This is what you will do to get a kid who doesn’t like to poopy just to GO ALREADY!

Then G poopies and he starts laughing and dancing about. If you feel so happy and nice now, why can’t you just go ahead and poopy kid?!

I call from an ex boyfriend who always was a better friend than boyfriend. Just catching up for a little, when he heard that I moved.

Thinking about things I want to accomplish while I’m down here and doing research to figure out the steps to take. I’m not DOING anything yet, but I am getting ready to.

3/26 The Day of Family Time Plus One

A nice conversation with my uncle before bed. In part it was about getting a job, talking about where I might wait tables or something, and then some talking about the possibility of me teaching again. He says I seem to have a passion for it, which is true, but also why it’s so hard to do it sometimes when the politics of it all seem to be out to destroy all the things you worked for. He also understood why I wouldn’t want to jump into teaching now, while I am still undecided about where to settle.

Another conversation with my uncle in Georgia. He actually told me that his step daughter made 300 dollars a shift working in restaurants down here… which is good news for me.

Got to see ANTM, even if it was without my previous tradition of the brownie batter feast.

Having a family dinner with the whole family, including Uncle. I even made a simple salad to go with our frittata.

G trying to help Uncle with raking the garden. And then later, helping him put the gardening tools back in the shed.

The first few times G crosses his arms and says, “no!” It’s really cute. And then the following few hundred times? Not so much.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

3/25 The Day of Girls Chasing Cats and/or Boys around the Kitchen

Ivy chasing the cat around and around the kitchen, giggling the whole way. The cat must have been enjoying it, because she kept going around too.

Ivy is such a walker. She has places to go and things to do. And she will tell you about them, too, even if it’s just “blalalalabla”

Walking into the kids’ bedroom to find them playing, Ivy smooshing her face up against the mesh of the travel crib, and G playing peekaboo.

G waking up from his nap actually happy and smiling and playing, because all morning he had been miserable and sick. Infact, the only one in the family not sick was Ivy.

G eating his hamburger in a roll like a big boy. Actually, eating it any way. He’s a slender boy, and when he has a stint of feeling yucky and not eating, he gets down right skinny, so that he ate the whole hamburger was a plus.

G pretending to be a cat, and Ivy, in her pink night gown, chasing him around and around the kitchen while he meowed.

Story time, and cries of “one more! one more!” They didn’t get as many books as they wanted, but they kept going to the bookcase and bringing back more books to read.

Monday, March 24, 2008

3/24 The Day of Old Photo Albums, I Mean OOOOLD

Was looking through some of my uncle’s old photo albums. I mean, these are OOOOOLD photo albums. Turn of the century photos, turn of the LAST century, that is. Pictures of women in floor length skirts and aprons, the roaring twenties, 30s and 40s. These are the kind of photos that you see in magazines. So iconic. I can’t believe these people are my relatives.

The next book I pulled out was a surprise. The first picture I saw was one of my from when I was 8 years old. Haven’t seen my school pictures in decades. This book was a few pictures of my generation as children, but mostly my mom and uncles. So cool.

I showed G a picture of my mom and me when I was about Ivy’s age, and he kissed the picture.

My mom’s childhood seemed so idyllic. Cowgirl outfits, ponies, little fluffy chicks, flower beds, ponds.

I also see a little bit of G in my mom as a child. She has said that she is a little disappointed that he does not look like me, but looks mostly like S. I think his looks might have actually skipped a generation.

3/23 Easter at Grandma's

Going to Grandma’s for Easter dinner. The kids found all grandma’s toys and had a blast. G particularly loved it.

G playing with Grandma’s dog in the yard. He would race around, and G would try to catch him. Try, only try. Made him laugh hysterically.

My brother and his fiance came over and brought easter baskets for the kids, which is nice, because I totally spaced on doing easter. We aren’t religious, so that isn’t an issue, but the traditions and the celebration of Spring are lovely.

G going ZOMBIE BOY on the chocolate bunny. He ripped the box open and didn’t even wait to get it out of the plastic before he bit its butt off.

Having other people to pick Ivy up. She is in a hugely clinging phase right now, and is always crying mamamamamamamama. But if aunt Melissa or Grandma wanted to try, there was at least someone to hold her.

Ivy’s cute little outfit in green and white toile with a sheer bow tie on the back. Even G wore a button up shirt.

Guy bonding on the porch and girl talk inside while we watched the rerun of ANTM, which I missed this week.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

3/22 The Rainy Saturday

Reading bedtime stories to the kids with the whole family (including the now-famous cat) in my grandpa’s bed.

My uncle saying that my grandpa would have enjoyed this: having his house and his garden being explored by toddlers fascinated with nature, water, plants, bugs, fish, dirt, whatever.

Seeing my cousin again without any of the drama that goes down with other family members and her. Even better, seeing her daughter, who is G’s age and having the two kids get along great, having fun playing.

Actually napping while the kids napped. I must be tired-er than I think if I can nap during the day. Usually I can’t. Maybe it helped that it was raining out. It’s also nice that I can see so many trees outside my bedroom windows. It’s almost like sleeping in a tree house.

Letting G splash in the downpour in the garden. He didn’t need to come in out of the rain, he could play until he wanted to come in, it was warm enough. And then we towelled him off and put him in sweat pants and gave him a nap.

Taking a short walk with the kids (G brought his magnifying glass) and no stroller, just exploring the neighborhood, only coming home when the light drizzle turned into real rain.

Eggs and bacon and english muffins and grapefruit juice for brunch.

G’s absolute joy at getting to see Saturday morning cartoons… his tv intake has been severely curtailed, but god those cartoons allowed me to take a breath from the increasingly hyper boy. It is no coincidence that we took our walk once the cartoons ended.

3/21 The Day of Going Out on the Town for the First Time in Three Years

Having our first date since the day before G was born, except for one wedding, which hardly even counted. We had dinner and drinks at a Garden restaurant with live Jazz then walked around downtown for a little. It’s strange to be in this new city…. and it really is a new city, a few years ago, nothing was going on downtown, and now it’s hopping.

Not wanting to call my mom and ask her to babysit while we check out the restaurant that I could drop my resume at, but not needing to, because she called just as I was considering calling and offered. Yay grandma!

G’s joy at playing watergun fight with the shark and dolphin watergun that S bought.

G’s wonder when Papa showed him a snake in the garden. He was still talking about it hours later.

Ivy dressed like a little hippie girl and toddling around the house.

3/20 The Day of Kung Fu Fighting Hiyah!

Got to watch Lost. TV is not a big thing here, no cable, old, turn-knob tvs, no remotes, even, but I managed to get ABC in and watch my Lost. Missed ANTM yesterday. Oh well. Perhaps this low tv period will break the addiction and I can start being more productive again. Here’s to hoping.

Going through my pictures since I got here. I’ve taken some really good ones. Unfortunately, the computer situation is weird. I got on the internet on my laptop, and then was unable to again. Don’t know why. Have to figure it out, but all my photos are on my laptop, so until I get back on line, that is where they will stay. And I want to send out pictures of the kids, so that those that were worried about us will feel better, because those are some happy pictures.

We were sitting out in the garden just hanging out, and I started singing that song, “they were kung fu fighting, those cats were fast as lightning.” And G all of a sudden went into Kung fu poses. Hiyah! I don’t know where he got it from, but it was pretty funny. I got a great picture of it. Too bad y’all can’t see it until I figure out the technicalities.

Omygoodness. I forgot about splashsplash time in the big bathtub. They enjoyed it, the kids did. So much better than our grungy old claustrophobic tub in Brooklyn.

3/18

Having a nice dinner of corned beef and cabbage with most of my family, mom, step dad, brother and his fiancee, uncle, S, and the kids. Was good to see everyone and have everyone around.

Taking a nap most of the afternoon.

Taking a shower after the nap.

Getting my missing bag from the airline. It took a detour through Daytona. Good thing my mom was here to give the driver directions, because she didn’t know how to get here. Boy, that airline sure was a winner. (Don’t fly AirTran)

Watching the kids as they explored the garden. Oh they love it. Love it love it. They like the house, too, but they are getting a lot of new rules about what they can and can’t touch.

Watching my poor kitty explore the house and the garden. She is doing pretty darn well. She isn’t even having a problem with Uncle’s cat, some hissing, but that’s it. So much better than being in a tiny box for 8 hours.

3/19 The Day of the Long Walk

Hanging out with S and Uncle and G and Ivy. Sitting out in the garden, beers for the grown ups and milk for the littles. Birds singing. Fruit trees rustling in the breeze. Warm air. Night falling.

S and Uncle are getting along great. What a relief. And I think it’s good for Uncle that we’re here. I think he spends too much time alone and has too little human contact. He’s also enjoying the kids. He says we have great kids.

Tacos for dinner. Good old fashioned, easy to make, easy to gobble up. Been having trouble eating a full meal because I’m still stressed and tired and maybe going from the winter to the summer overnight, so tacos fit the bill.

Coming back after our long walk which was supposed to be a short walk, but we went too far and needed to get something to eat so we had to walk even farther to find a place, although there was much to see on the way, like the bay and a huge banyan tree and an art museum. Returning, we took the direct route instead of the scenic one, and it was much quicker.

Watching G play with uncle, and he was okay with G bonking him on the head and they seemed to be enjoying it from both ends. It would annoy the bejeezers out of me, but hey, if Uncle wants to play the game, then it’s okay.

Monday, March 17, 2008

3/17 The Big Day

Sitting in the car, all of us, Mama, Papa, G, Ivy and cat, puling away from the old apartment, saying thank you and good bye to our home.

Managing to get the kids, the stroller, six carry-on bags (2 per person,) all four of our shoes and coats through the security check in… especially since I learned I had to take the cat out of her carrier, take her through the metal detector, and put her back in the carrier on the other side…since it took me half and hour to get her in the carrier in the first place. And our plane was getting ready to take off. Someone actually told me she was very impressed with the way I managed the whole endeavor. Go mama.

Racing to the gate to find out our plane was late, so we didn’t miss it after all. Even though we were never allowed onto the plane when it did show, because the cat carrier didn’t fit under the seats and they didn’t have a carrier handy that they could let us use.

Then, two hours later, as our second plane was near to closing the doors with us still not having a carrier, the woman who kicked us off the first plane came RUNNING down the hall with the appropriate cat carrier, and we all managed to situate ourselves in time for the plane to take off with us inside of it.

Showing G the way we were flying ABOVE the clouds. He liked flying.

Having Ivy and G fall asleep on the plane (although we had to wake them up when we transfered in Atlanta, that’s right, our direct flight became a transfer.)

How much the kids loved the m&ms in the snack mix I made (cheerios, goldfish, raisins, and m&ms)

Taking out the little 50 cent magnadoodles and Ivy and G spending the last leg of our journey drawing.

Landing in St. Pete and steering the stroller through an almost empty airport (it was past midnight although we were originally supposed to arrive at 8pm) to go get our luggage, and knowing the journey was almost over.

Seeing my mom drive up to the luggage area and getting to hug her.

Then seeing my step father in the other car, which would allow us to carry all the luggage with out hassle or (anymore heart ache [even though the airline lost one of our bags {with my porfolio in it!}])

The smell of Florida air. It smells like green growing things, even outside the airport.

Pulling up to my uncle’s house and getting the bags all inside.

Seeing my Uncle again.

Having S get along with everyone he’s never met before.

Seeing G and Ivy’s room. They were so happy. My mom had it set up with a toddler bed and travel crib and an heirloom child’s desk that my uncles used and books and toys. So nice.

Falling asleep in the nice soft bed. It used to be my Grandpa’s bed, and it was so comfortable.

Knowing that the whole miserable day was over and done with, even though I still had to wait for my back and I was so tired and my fingers were bruised and cut from packing and my stomach hurt and I was so tired I couldn’t speak.

Monday, June 05, 2006

new blog

In case you check in here and are looking for me, or you just found it and would like to see more, I am now writing a different blog.

warriorgirl.blogspot.com

Monday, May 03, 2004

Real Life Heroes

We're living in an age of heroes, now.

I watch the news, and they keep naming people heroes. This guy died in the war, this kid died of cancer, this man died in a fire. Sometimes people are alive and they get named heroes-- people who make it home from war, people who survive cancer, people who get other people out of fires. Now, I'm not saying these people aren't heroes, necessarily, but I don't know if just suriving or dying in difficult situations actually makes one a hero. Does a heroic action make one a hero? Does dying? If it does, then doesn't that make ALL of us heroes, sooner or later?

An age of heroes...

Funny to think of it that way. As if we're in a Greek epic. As if we are living through the Greatest of times, with a capital "G".

What if we did think about it that way? What if we just got rid of all the cynism that said the world was all fucked up. What if we got rid of the romanticism that said some other time was better, some other age was the one with all the great deeds, some other people were the heroes.

What if we actually lived our lives as if WE were the heroes-- not some military leader in history, nor in fiction.

For that matter, what if we realized we didn't need some outside force to make us heroes-- nobody pinning a medal on our chests, no newspapers declaring us so. No key to the city here, just us and the choices we make.

Because that's what it's about, isn't it? The choices we make? It's about facing adversity in our lives and choosing the right path, even if it's harder. Choosing to struggle on because you know it is for the better. Sometimes those difficulties might be public enough to get you declared a hero in the papers, but frankly daily struggles can be just as difficult.

When I was a kid, I thought I was going through the craziest, most traumatic childhood. I thought being poor, living across the street from crack dens, having a crazy, unpredictable abusive father terrorizing our house was the worst thing I could have gone through. One of my main purposes in life was to hide what my life was like. It was so horrible, I was so shamed.

It wasn't until I was older that I realized I didn't do anything wrong, and stopped hiding. I shared my stories, and heard others, and that's when I realized that so many of those other stories were so much worse. More tragedy, more pain, more suffering. I started to minimize my story. It wasn't as bad. I didn't deserve to feel like I had survived anything really difficult. It was just normal life. I was just a normal kid, normal person. No hero, here.

I grew up identifying with the heroes. The first books I read were full of heroes, fairytales, myths, Little House on the Prairie, even. Characters who faced down adversity and won in the end. It helped me going through my own adversity, because I knew there was something better down the road... or I believed it anyway.

A hero is someone who not only faces down adversity, but also takes action to make things better, even if it is just selling the cow for a bunch of magic beans. They are not at the mercy of the world around them, but the active principle. The hero has the goal of something better, a better life for their kids, a better world for all kids, a better, stronger self.

Sometimes, I think the last one is the hardest goal of all-- making yourself better and stronger, so that you are better able to achieve the larger goals. Facing down your fear. Dealing with your past traumas. Opening up to the people and possiblities around you. Moving forward, always moving forward.

It's fricking exhausting to be the hero of your own story. It's so tiring to know that you are the one who has to make it all happen. No one else to do it for you-- no knight in shining armor-- unless that knight is you yourself.

Is it worth it all? Being a hero? Is it worth the hard work? When I'm struggling with being the me I want to be, I don't know. It doesn't feel like it. It's too damn hard. The results always seem to come so slow, or not at all. Certainly, there's no newspaper recognizing me for my struggle. And I still have to do the daily grind. Sometimes that daily grind is harder to deal with than the awfulness of my childhood. It's just not as clear, my struggle. It's just not as easy to say I will persevere. The goals of making things better just aren't as desperate.

The daily grind isn't that bad, really. I'm getting along, okay, letting life take me in it's flow.

So why bother struggling to be the hero?

I have to think about it, seriously. Why SHOULD I bother? Why should anyone? Why do we need heroes?

But then, imagine a world full of heroes-- and I don't mean the ones who dive into burning fires or get paid to carry guns, or make millions of dollars throwing a ball around-- I mean a world full of everyday heroes. A world of people struggling to be the best Them, so they could take action, and make things happen. Make things better. What if we weren't all just waiting for someone else to do it? What if everyone was working to contribute something?

Frankly, I think it would cause a lot of trouble. All those people at cross purposes-- all wanting DIFFERENT better worlds. It would throw a wrench into the nice easy works that have been going on for so long. (A good reason for the powers that be not to want everyone to be a hero.)

A world of heroes. An Age of Heroes. Every single one of us a hero, big or small, young or old, rich or poor. Hmmm.

Think about it....



Friday, April 23, 2004

I Have a Secret

I am a little bit of a monster.

You'd never be able to tell from the outside. From the outside, I am small and pretty, just a girl. I dress in skirts and heels, and have even on occasion been called things like "fancy," and "girly-girl." (to which I strongly object.) I am sweet and kind. I have manners. I apologize to people, and make sure people are okay. Babies like me, and so do domesticated pets. I make real homecooked meals. I even own, and can keep living, a whole window full of potted plants.

But I am a monster inside. A slavering, ravening, spitting, hissing, growling, tooth-gnashing monster.

I am selfish. I don't care about others. No one else matters but me, nothing else matters but my stories and my poems. My paintings and drawings. The pen in my hand and the paint splattered on my face. I don't give a shit about the rules of this world that says I am supposed to be and do what it says. I could run away and live for years in a cave in the woods, eating what I have grown or killed myself, as long as I had my art. Sometimes that's what I want. To get out and away from all these boxed in rules and pretty, pretty surfaces. I would like to dance in the moonlight. Cast spells to the sea. Let the dirt cake under my nails.

Screw it all. Screw everything but the monster in me.

But I have to admit, I am frightened of the monster.

There's no place for her in this world. In this world she's called crazy. People lock her up. Pump her full of drugs so that she can be balanced, so that she can be normal.

What's a monster-girl to do?

Where is the place for her ravening?

I am not suffering from Writer's Block

This is no joke, this is my life.

Ah ha. I walk around complaining about headaches and how tired I am. I don't have enough time or money. I am distracted, I watch tv or stare off into space. Lazy, poor nutrition, too much to drink last night or last weekend. Blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

Good lord, girl. Do you want to tick tock your life away like this?

I guess I am feeling as if my life passing me by is going to explode like a mad gorilla. I am going to explode like a mad gorilla because I am mad at myself for finding excuse after excuse as to why I can not write.

This is the problem with being an artist. It's like being in a relationship. It's great and wonderful and fulfilling as long as things are going great. When the art is flowing, you don't see how it could ever stop. You exist in this land of milk and honey. Perfection. Wonderment.

But when there's a jam up somewhere in your head-- and things start to slow down, and you have to work and struggle to get words on the page-- uh oh. This is no fun. This is hard work. This can be painful. This is not what the fairy tale books said it was supposed to be. Run away! Run away!

This is no block. I refuse to call it a block. It's just a little dam I have to work my way through. Rotten beavers damming up my works. Oh, wait. I'm the one that put it there. Why would I do that? I want to write.

Right?

I want to have my novel go well. I want to finish it. I want to send out my poetry. I want to have my career take off....

Right?

Someone, I don't remember who, once said that you will put in front of you whatever struggles you need to reach your goal.

What an interesting perspective-- that your struggles, your blocks, your difficulties, are actually stepping stones towards your goals. Hmmm.

And that you are the one placing these blocks in your way.

Almost as if, somewhere inside of you, you know what you are doing.

Monday, April 19, 2004

Dress Rehearsal

Spring has come in earnest. Maybe that's why my mind is turning to being productive, to creating, to taking my life seriously.

Well, no, that's not fair. I am taking my life seriously, it's going pretty well, and is promising to go even better after a few actions have been taken. But I have to say, that I'm getting antsy about it all. I feel as if I have been going so slowly, not really acting as if my life, daily grind and all, is actually a part of my REAL life.

My REAL life is somewhere down the line, when I do the things I need to do. When I start writing my novel again. When I send my poetry out to be published. When I get myself a portfolio and slides and figure out what the hell to do with all my art. When I get a better job. When I start a creativity workshop.

My REAL life is out there... in the future. Not this, not right now, where I'm just kind of preparing for my REAL life.

Yes, yes. It's quite obvious that's a silly way to look at it. Because if REAL life is out there somewhere, then what the hell is going on right here and now. Dress rehearsal? I don't think so. Tell that to the trees that are just full to bursting with life and green juices. They may not have brains, but they know that after this Spring, after rebirth and growth and Summer lushness, comes Winter.

Years are made up, after all, of these short seconds that we are frittering away.

And death, down the way, maybe forty or fifty years, maybe tomorrow, is a call to life. Use the time we have-- ENJOY the time we have, 'cause it's all the time we'll ever have.

Maybe we need to pay attention to the things that are really pulling us. On a deep level, not distractions. The things that ring with our soul, the things that have been building for years.

This writing thing, this art thing, this is not a passing fancy. This is something that needs to be done, even if I am afraid of it, afraid of not being good enough, afraid of wasting all my time and never getting anywhere. Being creative is an integral part of me-- sometimes it feels so important that it is just easier and safer to put my energies else where.

I wonder if somewhere in my human psyche, I think that by avoiding my art and my writing I can somehow avoid stepping into the flow of life and death.

Maybe my procrastination is because I don't feel ready for REAL life, but instead want to stay in dress rehearsal. (There is no dress rehearsal, girl. This is it.)

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Flying Woman

Feeling up in the air.

Always feeling up in the air.

That's because life could, at any moment, change into something different.

Maybe it won't change into a spotted purple people eater, but it changes, is changing, constantly. Maybe I just feel it more now because I have consciously taken myself out of the predictable life I was living as a teacher, and into the life of the artist, the on-edge, the adventurer ready to take a dive. (Although I do love my couch. My adventures will probably be along the lines of mental, spiritual, artistic, romantic, etc. Not climbing mount Kilimanjaro.)

In my art, I have a woman who keeps showing up-- a flying woman-- or is she falling? It's so hard to tell. She's been showing up for, oh, ten, twelve years. Since college. She shows up in many places, in many guises. Sometimes it's about my confusion. Sometimes it's because I feel like I'm soaring.

I feel like that woman, now. I have so many opportunities, so many possibilities in front of me, and yet... somehow, I'm still floating around, not really grabbing hold. Not landing on the ground and making things real.

Maybe my floating/falling woman isn't that active. Maybe she's all about maybes. Or maybe she just is right now.

I think I need to start working on a workshop to teach. No, not start working on one. I've been doing these suckers for five years. The work is done, the curriculum is practically set. What I should do is just put it together. Just start it. Chose a time, find a place. Get the members to commit. And do it.

Maybe if I were in a community of artists and creatives, I would find it easier to be out there in the world with my art and my writing. Maybe if we were all in one of my workshops, using our creativity to deal with what it means to be human, what it means to be an artist, and all the joys and pains that entails, maybe everyone would be able to fly better.

Tuesday, April 13, 2004

Whoopsie!

I thought I lost my last blog entry. One of those computer snafus. So instead of getting pissed, I simply rewrote it from the top of my head. It was different, but okay.

Then when I published that one, and took a quick gander, it turned out that I didn't lose the first one at all.

So now I have two of the same, but different entries.

I thought I'd keep them. It's all about the process, anyway.

Self Portrait

The Spring rains fall hard. Thunder and lightning that seems to come from nowhere, although all winter has been building for this. Clouds have been forming in the warm upwellings of the Pacific, until they could flow across the globe to land here, on us, on the waiting trees and ground.

It has been a long winter. Cold and hard, and we have been hiding from the ice, to tired to hope for the green leaves that must ultimately come.

I have not been writing. I have not been creative at all, but I am ready to. I've been holding out, just like the green leaves, apparently.

My novel is waiting. I am yearning to paint, although I am not. I've been giving my time to other things, because life does move on. Things happen, seemingly out of nowhere, although they have been building just as much as these rain clouds.

I am in love.

As hard as that is to say, to admit, to toss out into the void for whomever to read, it is good. Most of my time has been given to him, to love, to our relationship. And that is good.

And even for my art, my poor neglected poetry, it is good.

The thing about art, that I'm realizing, is that it is all wrapped up in what it means to be human. You can not separate the human that is you from the creating you are doing. Anything in your life that is affecting you, is affecting your art, because art is about being human. It is going into the depths of what it means to be human. And so, if you have stuff that needs to be dealt with, you'd better deal with it, or it will come up.

For instance. I have not written.

And I can't really blame it on my new relationship. No, it's all me. Although it may have something to do with my relationship-- or atleast, what relationships mean to me.

You see, when I was a kid, my mother gave up any ambitions she might have had for herself to be a wife and mother. She gave up her art so that my father could be an artist. She was his helpmate, taking care of his home so he could be a genius. She was his assistant when he was making films. She put food on the table or struggled with how to pay for it, so he could focus on art.

Now, that won't fly with me. I am the artist. There will be no giving this up-- and yet I find my instinct is to do just that. To go right back to the familiar way of being that I grew up with. And then my instinct is to run away from the instinct, run away from relationship. Run away from creating. Hide my art and writing away, so no on can see it. Hide my heart from a man who would touch it. Hide my feelings from my family who hurt me so long ago.

Run away. Hide. Give up. These are the dark secrets of being human. Of being me.

And when I write, they come up. It's what my novel is about. And when I don't write, they come what. It's what gets in my way.

We are not just the artists who are throwing paint on a canvas. It does not come from the ether, it comes from inside. It comes from the life we have created, and the stories we tell to ourselves about who we are and what life means.

Every painting is a self portrait of the artist. Every story is the story of the soul.

I am not a poet
I am a poem.