The Tiniest Cuts Tend To Bleed The Most

I didn’t even feel it nick my skin. It wasn’t until I saw the line of blood stretching from my heel to my calf that I realized I had even cut myself. To look at the amount of blood, you would have thought it a terrible gash, but it isn’t. Just a small slice…the faintest line…and all that blood poured from it. A piece of toilet paper stops the bleeding somewhat, and it clots quickly, but it still looks worse than it is.
I don’t want to clean it up yet, afraid that moving the dried seal will cause it to start again. It can wait. I remind myself it’s okay to let the stain sit for a moment, to let the wound heal itself some, before trying to wash it away.
All I can think about is how this small cut is a good representation of how I’ve felt lately.
It’s the smallest things that seem to cut the most. The sudden stop of communication. The off hand remark about not wanting to commit to something as small as a meeting at some time, in some central place. The rejection, how ever gentle…small slices from which sadness, anger, pain flows.
I am not innocent of giving these small cuts. Like those towards me, it’s not intentional, it’s in how it’s taken. Still, when you are already bleeding, it doesn’t take much to let the other pains shine through as well.
A nick on the heel. A bruise on the thigh. The never the same broken heart will re-break so easily. A wound that never truly heals right.
No matter how hard it seems that I try to follow my heart, it leads me to the same place over and over again. It’s a story we all know. It’s a story in which I have played the villain and the heroine, the witch and the loved. Currently, I feel as if I am the damned. The one cruelly cursed to help others find their heart’s desire while I can never find my own. People can argue that there have been chances, opportunities – like I said, I’ve been the villain as much as anything else.
Is this the punishment that a god or karma has put on me? Have I been so cruel in this life or another to deserve such loneliness? I can’t and won’t believe that. I’ve just not found the person that matches me, but, one day I will. Or I won’t.
I will keep trying, though. It’s all I can do.
At least I’ll have this to refer to when I need another pep talk.
Funny all that from a streak of blood from the heel to the calf.

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The Low Spark Of A Newly High Heeled Girl

I tend to add soundtrack music to my day. It’s not an intentional or a conscious act, it just happens. Something occurs and I think of a song…and honestly, it doesn’t make much sense most of the time. So, after I bought my first real pair of high heeled shoes, it was only natural that Traffic’s epic song, “The Low Spark Of High Heeled Boys,” came to mind.

Yeah….totally natural.

I have purchased high heeled shoes before. A pair or two for weddings, my proms, but beyond that, the rare high heeled shoe was purchased not because I wanted them, but for what I thought they would help me with.
THOSE heels would help me be more attractive, sexy, wanted, enter adjective of choice here.
I truly believed that the problems I was having with my relationship, and with my self image, would totally be fixed by THOSE shoes.

Crazy…right? Not really. People project on to things all the time. To me, THOSE heels, were what attractive women wear. Women who are sexy, wear THOSE shoes. It never dawned on me that I was just so desperately unhappy with myself, my situation, that I was throwing out any kind of line to anything I thought would help. Hindsight..am I right?!

So, THOSE shoes obviously didn’t do what I thought they would. They were worn once, and I didn’t feel any better. THEY didn’t work. I threw the shoes into the closet, got rid of them eventually, and didn’t buy heels for a long time.
During that “long time,” I made some changes, learned some things about myself, gained some confidence, and have finally gotten to a point where I truly feel more like me – as cheesy and cliché as that sounds.

I wear pop culture t-shirts with skirts. I like dressing up, playing with makeup, and watching football. My Chuck Taylors are my work shoes and I will write some pretty explicit things because I think it’s fun.

Too much information? Did I mention I will over share because I like being straight forward and don’t particularly like, or understand, the games men and women play with each other.

What does all this mean? It means that the high heeled shoes I purchased Friday, the shoes I have been practicing walking in, are MY shoes. THEY don’t cause me to feel more attractive, or wanted, but are an accessory that accentuates how I already feel the majority of the time, which is not half bad, but not always great. I have many moments during the day when I question myself, where I wonder why I’m alone, or what role I’m acting out in this world. Still, thanks to lessons learned, I can get past those doubts and keep moving forward because that is what I, and I believe most people, do.

Don’t misunderstand, I don’t feel I am anyone special…I’m just me…and I happen to want to rock these blue, faux suede, high heeled shoes. I want everyone to rock that thing – that dress, that coat, that haircut – that thing they are afraid of making them stand out when all they want to do is stay hidden because they aren’t sure about themselves.

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Hard to get a good pic when you don't have a dressing mirror.

The shoes don’t make me anything in particular, but I make them pretty awesome – rather, I will make them awesome when I learn to walk in them and not look like a baby horse stumbling around.

Going Through Spurts

*just another stream of conscious rambling attempt at poetry, clarity, staving off the inevitable blahs I feel coming on*

I shouldn’t be surprised, yet I always am. Trying desperately to find a bright spot in the encroaching gloom.
Rainy days breed rainy thoughts, and I am flooded in them.
I can plainly see the positive and the good. It shines and, at times, truly consumes me.
Then the clouds roll in.
There is no thunder.
No lightening.
Just gray from horizon to horizon.
It’s cold…and lonely…and my best bravado cannot keep the shading effect away.
I’m not allowed to feel like this…not good, not bad.
The brave face has to be put on.
Everyone needs to know that you are fine.
You are making it.
Nothing bothers you.
It’s not true. That doesn’t matter, though.
This won’t last. It’s a moment to wallow in.
Float with the gray waters. Let your heart hurt just a bit.
I’ll land in the shallows and get to my feet.
Walking back to where I was, I’ll verbally kick myself for allowing the hurt and gray to win again – especially after so long of holding them off!
Then, somehow, I’ll walk a little further up from where I was when those clouds rolled in and took me away.
Bathed in light and then half light.
In small spurts I move forward.
On and on to regions unknown…
Paths untread….
All in spurts.

Something Blue

‘Tis the season of Fall weddings and various celebrations abound.
That has nothing to do with what I made. I guess since what I made is predominantly blue….well, I’ve never claimed my mind to be a one tracked kind of place.
It’s been a while, but recently I’ve been inspired to do work that I am interested in or excited about. Don’t miss understand, I love my job teaching, but, at the end of the day, I miss working on my own ideas. Trying to guide between 25-32 students to find their creative voice and to be successful in their work is tiring to say the least. By the end of the day, I really just want to sit down, stare at a wall, and hope my cat doesn’t try to smother me.

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She’s tried before….

The last few weeks have been pretty great though, despite the constant frustration of feeling like you are doing your best, trying to do the right thing, and it just not working out.

Why can’t it just work out?!

Finally, after much thought, I’ve decided to try and make myself follow the advice of the amazing Jim Foose (Robert Foose to those who want to look up this amazing artist, teacher, and friend of mine) and treat my art making as a job. A job where I set my hours and expectations, but a job none the less. So, looking in my box of shirts I’ve planned on using as parts of mixed media pieces, I cut out a printed TARDIS and got to work.

I didn’t plan the composition so much as I just played with the materials. Starting off, I reduced the size of the TARDIS (realizing not everyone may know what the TARDIS is, it’s the Doctor’s mode of transportation in Doctor Who. The acronym stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space) and cut it apart. I then arranged the pieces slightly apart, adhering them to the canvas with paint. I then just kept layering colors on top. The result thus far is this:
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This is a bit further away from the start of the project which looked like….
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I like where this is going, but I’m looking to add some text to the background as a final detail.

It’s just nice to be “working” again.

It’s Been Busy

It has been a while…a LONG while…since I’ve been able to organize my thoughts into any type of coherent piece.
I wanted to write about my summer….
Then I wanted to write about my life…
Then I wanted to write about school….
Back to life again…
An art project idea….
Get the idea? My thoughts have been as scattered and varied as my various experiences over the last 4 months.
Today, is when I work on making the conscious effort of writing more often about, well, all the things!
That being said, I’m off to dress up spitefully….it’s a long story…but tomorrow I hope to have some pieces to show you of an art project.
It’s nice to be back.

Let’s See Where This Goes

An exercise in free writing and a needed outlet.

It’s so easy to give out the pieces
Of a heart worn on one’s sleeve
You can’t cover it up
The outline is too obvious
Generosity is confused for weakness
Trust mistaken for being naive

Still, I’d rather believe than be cynical
Fill missing pieces with patches
And have hope that there is something
Hopefully better
But something

Just A Letter For You

At least that’s how I’m starting it. You know by now my mind makes great leaps between ideas that, to most, don’t make much sense. To me, I don’t understand how you cannot see the threads that tie them together. That’s not what I’m writing to you about though.
I want you to know that I think you are amazing. You are smart, funny, kind, sweet, tender, and potentially loving. You are also a coward in some regards. It’s OK, so am I.
I truly believe if you gave it, us, a chance you would be happy. But you won’t. Sometimes I feel this rejection is some kind of payback for my own lack luster response to those interested in me – with whom I have justified my lack of interest as having more to do with distance and circumstance than through an honest “I just don’t feel that way,” but this is for you, not me. I beat myself up enough. I destroy myself, if we want to be honest, but, again, this is for you, not me.
I want you to be happy. Sure, I want you to be happy with me, but that doesn’t seem like it will happen. I know, you care for me, you want to help me, hold me, but that just makes it worse. You love me but you don’t. Some of that is on me. I understand that distance sucks. I have made some choices – choices that I do not regret one bit – but those choices are holding me in a standby pattern with regards to my personal life.
Do you think I like being alone? Away from the opportunities a city brings?! No, honestly I don’t. I feel like I’m missing out on things – you, for example – and I’m unsure what to do about it. I love my family. I love being with them and being in their lives and having them in mine, but I want you too.
Have you given me a reason to give up my absolute love and my desire to be around them? No….not really. You gave me hope and then you promptly dashed it once I was here. Sometimes being closer doesn’t help…at least not in my case…so it seems…anyways…
If I can’t make you see that, there isn’t much I can do.
I understand that you have stuff going on. We all do. I guess I just put my heart out there so quickly. It’s easily torn asunder, only to be patched back in some hurried, unfixed way, and then torn up again.
Sadly, I’m accepting that as my lot in life. I shouldn’t, but I am.
That isn’t your fault.
Your fault is in not taking the time to call me and tell me hello. Or asking me to walk around the Riverfront and swing in a giant swing facing the Rhine. Or inviting me over to watch a movie. You could have done any of those things – or a thousand other small gestures – and I would have moved Heaven and Earth because I like you.
All I wanted was a real chance, an opportunity. I haven’t even fallen in love yet, but I really like you.
See, it’s not in the past tense. I honestly like you.
I have meant every word. You are smart, funny, sweet, kind – you make me laugh and make my day – and in some way I do that for you, but it’s not enough. I get it.
It doesn’t change the fact that talking to you puts a smile on my face. That it will hurt putting all the pieces back in place and smiling while you tell me about how well you are doing with her, but I’ll do it because I’m strong enough to go on. I won’t wallow. Well, I won’t wallow more than a few hours. Sometimes a little wallow helps…at least for me it does.
Now, you shouldn’t feel bad. That’s not my intention here. I genuinely want you to be happy. Recently I read an article about how accommodating people (ahem, right here) are the most destructive and I KNOW it’s true – why else would I accept a role so far from what I hoped for just to be there?!
That, again, is for me. This letter is for you.
So, text if you want….call if you can. I’ll still get excited to hear about your day and what your plans are. I’ll move on with my patchwork heart, and, believe me, I’ll tell you about it because you are my friend and I like you. I’ll need your support on a few things here and there, so, heads up.
It would have been pretty great, though, you and I. It would have been something for the ages. It could have made it if we both wanted it badly enough, but logistics, my friend, logistics.
Time and place…they don’t always line up.
They didn’t for us, but for you and her – whoever she is – it may.
Good luck. Much love.
Take care….my friend.

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