Manic/Depressive?

Looking over my past few entries, it appears that my emotions have been a bit out of control. It's funny though. And I've been putting an inordinate amount of energy into shaping my thinking and trying to feel my best about my life.

This morning I woke up surprisingly happy, which was unusual because I tend to wake up more negative and have to fight my way to feeling better. I went for coffee, and J.D. was at the coffee shop and we talked a little bit. I was happy to see him, and he made me feel special in front of some people who made me a little bit uncomfortable (although they probably don't intend to do so). After that, I talked to my new artist buddy, W., and we talked philosophy and art for about an hour. I left the coffee shop feeling inspired and excited. Smiling and cheery, I drove to a nearby cafe, ordered my food and read and ate. But while I sat at the cafe, I started thinking about things that made me sad. I started feeling rejected and humiliated again, and by the time I left the cafe I was irritated. At this point, I made the mistake of calling J.D. and we fought. Finally, I realized that I felt like crap about the rejection issue, and when he asked me what was wrong, I told him. He was kind, and after that, I started to feel better. I started to think, again, about the way it all happened and compared that to the way it really is.

What's so strange about the truth to me is that oftentimes it's difficult to see. People can deceive us sometimes--not necessarily out of badness, but out of fear or whatever--and it's easy to buy it. I reminded myself of what I know to be the truth, and my heart softened. I was not rejected. I wasn't humiliated. I opened my heart, and the other was not prepared for that. I met a wall, and I stumbled. But the wall isn't real; it was a defense. Behind the wall is love. Love is there waiting for me to touch it. It's hiding, but it's wanting to be found, quietly, subtley, softly.

Okay, I'm Not in Hell. I'm in a Friggin' Nut House!

If anyone out there actually believes this, I will be amazed! I get up from the computer to go around the college and hang up flyers of my art show. I'm laughing and talking to my co-workers and hanging up flyers. I turn around and look down the hall, and who do I see walking down the hall toward the Registrar's Office? You will not guess. There is no way in hell to guess this, so I will tell you--the jack ass sack of crap I reported at the library--the public library in the next town--not the school library. He's a student where I teach! I'm subbing tonight, and if he is in the class I'm teaching, I absolutely refuse to teach the class with him in it.

I quickly found my supervisor and told him the crazy story. He assures me he will remove the student from class if he happens to be in the class tonight. He also said he will watch outside the class throughout the evening. What a crazy life. That's not really all of the story either.

Earlier this school year, last semester, I had to confront two young men (different men) in a substitute class who were talking about the exact same, deeply offensive and disturbing subject, and they were doing it with glee. I stood up in front of the class and forced them into silence. After that, I reported them to my supervisor who removed them permanently from the class, put them on probation, and I think due to their unwillingness to abide by the rules of their probation, were probably, eventually withdrawn from the school and are not allowed back again.

Everything's just a little bit nutsy today, and I'm seriously beginning to wonder if it's me rather than them. What I mean is I'm attracting these perverts, and I prefer not to to say the least. I've got to send out a different vibe, a vibe for being surrounded by decent, respectful, respectable people.

God help me tonight.

Okay, So I'm Not Really in Hell, I Am Actually Feeling Quite Good

Okay, right after I entered my surrendering title, I connected my jump drive to the computer and tried for the thousandth time to upload images of my paintings, and for the thousandth time, I couldn't. I finally figured out that there is something fucking wrong with my jump drive! I've got nearly everything I own on that thing, and now I can't access it. Please, please, please. What I want is to access the drive and move everything over on to a new USB. If I can do that, I'll be more than happy. Who gives a shit about the drive itself? I just want the stuff on it.

Anyway, before that, I was going to upload a few pictures of paintings and talk about how I'm actually feeling quite good about my life again. I decided that the pieces of crap that were at the library aren't a big deal, and I'm lucky because I don't have to be around them, but they can't leave themselves.

Tonight, I'm at the school preparing for my substitute class, which is basically playing around on the computer because they'll be writing, and all I have to do is hang out with them and get paid for it. I like that.

I have many, many things to be happy about. Here are some of them:

*I was able to pay my rent the day they were going to evict me--ha!

*I just paid two car payments--the late one and the current one.

*I've gotten lots of compliments on my art and poetry.

*Everyone is trying to help and support me as a writer/artist/teacher.

*I really, really like my students this semester.

*I'm excited about teaching Creative Writing this semester for the first time in my life.

*I had a job interview over the weekend for a part-time job that I just might get.

*My pets love me.

*My kids love me.

*J.D. took me out to dinner over the weekend and let me cry on his shoulder.

*We went to a movie and we held hands--like true friends.

*I have many friends.

*Seventy-plus people love me enough to come out in the cold to see my show/reading.

*All-in-all, I'm okay. Everything's just all right.

I'm in Hell

Ha, ha! This morning I awoke from my dreams crying. I cried for an hour as I forced myself to get ready to go for coffee. I talked to myself and assured myself I will feel better soon. Josh Groban soothed me as I dressed, so I took the c.d. with me to my car, and I listened to my favorite and most inspirational songs. By the time I had the cup of coffee in my hand, I felt better. In fact, I started to feel strangely happy and content. This feeling of believing that everything will be okay, that everything is okay, washed over me, and as I sat alone in the booth at the coffee shop I pondered my poetry reading and art show and became very excited and grateful for all the people who appreciated my work.

I even started to view my situation differently. I decided that when I said what I said that made me feel like an ass, I was just expressing my honest emotions directly--and the emotions were not bad, it wasn't a criticism. In fact, it was a profound compliment to another person that I had wanted to give for about nine years (not seven--time passes so quickly). So there it is--the truth, my heart out in the open for all to see, the way I wear it anyway. But the response I received was deeply confusing, and I couldn't help but be in a lot of pain because I didn't understand. Now I understand much better. Not everyone is honest. Not everyone is like me and can be so open and vulnerable to others. I know the truth. I don't have to be told. I feel it in my heart; the heart does not lie.

I left the coffee shop and began to market my art exhibit by running flyers all over town. I floated down the street, smiling and talking to strangers. The people I met were all supportive and kind in the businesses where I left my flyers. One woman had just seen my work at the cafe this morning, and she loved it. She wants to show my work in her store.

My mistake was coming here to the library to check out the lesson plans for the class I sub tonight. When I sat down at the computer, to my surprise, I realized I was sitting beside an obnoxious group of young "people" whose conversation deeply offended me. Finally, I confronted them telling them to leave the library. They were sarcastic and rude, so I cursed at them. I told them to go fuck themselves. They were sarcastic back, so basically I had to file a report on them, which doesn't mean much, but at least I did something, I guess.

How I really feel is this, though: I wish I would have been able to ignore them. I wish I would have been able to allow them to be disgusting animals and realize that had nothing to do with me. I wish I would have been able to complete my work in my own protective space without having to even acknowledge their existence. The beauty of that would have been this: They would not have existed. They would have been more vaporous than the ghosts that fill my dreams. I would have been free.

Am I in Heaven or am I in Hell?

My art/poetry show ended up being a real success. Although the reading was early--6:00 p.m.--it was a great success. When I rushed in to Watermark to set up for the reading, the staff had set up three rows of chairs--about ten chairs--in front of the podium. I felt a little underestimated at that point because I had hoped and believed that I would have many people at the show. I was right. The staff had to continue adding chairs until they counted between the sitting, the standing, and the people in the cafe, over seventy people!

I was nervous and my voice seemed a bit warbly and far away to me, as I have been scratchy and hoarse for several days, but by the end of the reading, many people were excited and complimentary of my work.

I must say too, that with the help of my Project For a New Mythology publishing/editing buddy, J. Quinn and the help of the WSU Print Center, my chapbook turned out to be quite beautiful, and sold many and signed them (for the first time in my life). On the cover of the chapbook is a copy of my "Blood and Water, Variation" painting in color. It turned out lovely if I do say so.
I'm at the library on a timer that's ticking away, so I can't do this entry perfectly.

I guess it's obvious that the show was heaven for me, but after the show I was so filled with anxiety and I was so overwhelmed I didn't sleep all night. I have had serious anxiety every night since, and I've basically--without admitting the details--managed to make an ass out of myself. Again, without getting specific, I dreamed for seven years about what I intended to be a beautiful situation, and instead manifested a situation wherein I now feel like a fool and an ass.
It's always fun being reminded of my own humanness--that is to say--my own stupidity and self loathing. But what a gift this is for me too. I have the opportunity to learn to love myself, to learn to be loved by another, and most importantly, to love and forgive the other who I would like to blame.

My Show is Coming Together

So far, I've finished several new paintings for my show at Watermark. When I was accepted to do the exhibit, I had most of my paintings together and had a good idea of what I wanted to use for my poems. That was a year ago. I had no idea when I asked about a show that the waiting list would be so long. Some galleries have two year waits, so I guess I was lucky. Even so, the year passed quickly, and I can't believe it's time to get it together.

Throughout the year, because I needed the money, and because I needed to get into more shows, I sold and/or donated several of the pieces I had intended for my exhibit. Even my title piece "Blood and Water" is living happily now in the home of one of my professors. So my exhibit has transformed, just by the very nature of time passing and the focus of my thoughts changing. Now I am much more captivated by trees and eerie landscapes than water. That may not be true, but what I'm painting tends to be more trees and landscapes than water. I guess this is because going home to Western Kansas I was reminded of the sparse and lonely trees there, and because of my mother dying, I associated the cold, wintery landscape and desolation with loneliness, sadness, grief, and loss. I haven't been around water, as in a body of water, for over a year now.

So I don't have those images fresh in my mind to draw from, although the image of water--in all of the senses of "image" (meaning appealing to all of the senses) revererates in my subconsious continually.

A lot of my poems have transformed as well. I think I've shifted (again) in the length of the poems I'm writing. This shift is from long to short. In graduate school I had to learn to write a poem more than two stanzas long. Now I easily write pages of poetry. But recently--in the last year--I have been writing some poems that are a few stanzas long and tend to be more lyrical. This isn't a judgement for or against longer or shorter poems, just an observation that my writing has changed, grown, I think if not in skill at least in versatility.

My work--both art and poetry--tends to focus primarily on dark subjects. It's just easy for me to access the abyss when writing poetry or painting. But this show, I'm sensing, is a pivotal point for me in that I want to learn to confront joy in my work as well. Billy Collins was quoted in Poet's Market as saying, "There are a lot of poets who have the courage to look into the abyss, but there are very few who have the courage to look happiness in the face and write about it." This really makes me think.

I'll update you more later, since others are waiting for the computer.

Stuff I'm Thinking About Today

Because of my great friend and computer expert, J. Quinn, I have learned not to hate Google so much. He explained to me that my technical difficulties are not due to the switch-over entirely, but by happenstance I started using a less-than-superior computer at a coffee shop about the same time the switch-over occurred, and most of my problems are due to the computer. Alas, I cannot blame the problems on the unknown Google Gods, but on the free computer and internet access that comes with a hot cup of coffee.

So until I get to a library I will not be able to upload images. But by the time I get around to sharing my work, I will have a lot of paintings to show you. Practically every day lately I have been painting and writing. I’ve been a little under the weather—not bad—so I’ve been staying home and resting, meditating, and preparing for my upcoming show at Watermark Books and Café, which, by the way is Friday, January 26th at 6:00 p.m. I’ll read poetry and open my solo exhibit that night. You’re all invited.

Besides painting and writing (and receiving a lot of help from friends like J. Quinn and his girlfriend), I’ve been focusing on just feeling better. I’ve had a very shitty attitude for several weeks now, and I’ve realized that feeling shitty feels very shitty. I don’t like feeling that way. For the most part, I eat a pretty healthy diet. I almost never eat sugar. I seldom eat carbohydrates. I try to eat fresh or frozen foods and basically keep it simple when it comes to eating. My only sin is caffeine of which I drink a ton. But since my mom became ill, and my life was disrupted and then the holidays rolled around I have eaten my body weight in sugar and carbs. I was doing pretty well on this new diet the first few weeks I stuffed myself with pies and rolls, but after about a month or two I started wearing down and feeling really bad. So I changed my diet. I’m back on my no-sugar/low carb, fresh food diet, and I’m starting to feel better again.

Often, when I tell people I eat a healthy diet they think I am trying to lose weight. I’m one of those people who has to worry more about losing than gaining weight, so when people hear I diet they sometimes think I’m anorexic. No way. I love to eat, and I eat plenty of food; I just try to eat foods that make me feel better, give me more energy and such.

Well, in addition to changing my diet, I’ve rested a lot since I can, and I’ve made a point to meditate and redirect my negative thinking. Although I have some anxieties, I’m feeling happier, lighter—more filled with light, and more hopeful. Now all I need is to start sleeping at night, which I haven’t been doing for several weeks now. We’ll see how tonight goes.

Okay, I’ll Write Something

Part of the reason it’s difficult for me to write on my home computer, where I am now, is I’m running out of hard drive space. My computer is a hand-me-down, a kind gift from my future sister-in-law. And all I really do is word processing, so I’m amazed that I’m running out of disk space already. Someone who’s good at computers would probably easily clean up the excess baggage in my computer and make it work quickly, and there would be no more problems with my home computer—but I still prefer a wonderful, new, computer that allows me to access everything quickly, organize all my files easily, and even allow me to do desktop publishing.

I’ll tell you who loves my computer—it’s Ali. She jumps on the keyboard just to watch the computer screen turn on. One day I turned off the screen to make the living room dark, and Ali jumped on the keyboard, stared at the computer screen; when the screen didn’t turn on, she jumped again. Still nothing. Next she jumped on the top of the monitor and looked down at the screen to check it. Nothing. She continued to jump on the monitor until she finally decided to give up. The next day, I turned the monitor back on, and Ali jumped up on the keyboard, the screen came up, and she was content. Even now as I type she jumps on the keyboard occasionally, and I have to fix her typos. She’s watching the curser go back and forth across the screen. At least one of us loves technology. Even when I print, Ali goes to the printer and sits where the paper comes out and watches the printer until I move her, of course.lko
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The above message is from Ali. (I added the returns to straighten out the layout on my blog--the cat's not that good). I find it appropriate that she wrote “poo.” Anyway, Ali and Fruity aren’t my only beastly buddies any more. When my mother died my sister took, Tia, my mom’s Chihuahua home along with my sister’s yappy dogs—a Shelty and a Pomeranian. You’d think Tia would fit right in, but she didn’t. She kept escaping the fenced kennel, and risked her own and Macy’s (the Pomeranian’s) lives on the highway. Tia is here with me now. It’s taken over a week for the two cats to start to tolerate her, but now they don’t fight so much, and Tia—a perpetually nervous dog—doesn’t shake as much as she did at first. Sometimes, she even seems happy.

Well, yappy dogs aren’t really my type of dog, mostly because I have a high-maintenance, high-strung, nervous, and sensitive personality, and yappy dogs are just a doggy version of my already difficult personality. Who needs that? I prefer a German Shepherd, or a big, smart, sweet mutt like my dog, Bummer, who died two summers ago. But I love Tia, though. And I mean that. A year ago, my mother’s partner of over five years died of bone cancer. Tia lay beside Alf every moment he was sick and stayed with him as he died. When my mother became ill, Tia did the same. She barely left my mother’s side, and when my mother was dying, Tia was there beside her along with us, and she knew exactly what was happening.

Now Tia is orphaned, and I’m going to take care of her as best I can. I do hope she and the cats become friends and start to be really nice to each other so they can all be happy. I think in time they will.

Well, there you have it, a long, strange, maybe boring blog entry. But at least I wrote something, right?

Oh yeah, I don’t know what in the hell is going on with the image icon on Google Blogger. I just don’t have one, so I can’t upload pictures. As soon as it appears though, or as soon as I find it, I’ll upload some more paintings.

Hard Time Writing

I've had a hard time writing--I think. I don't even know if that is true, because I recently revised a 3+ page poem that I will try to upload later. But I feel like I've neglected my blog for a variety of reasons, the first one being that I don't have internet access from home, so I don't always make a point to get to my coffee shop or the library (with a one-hour frustrating limit) to work on my blog. Secondly, this swith-over to Google is difficult and seems pointless to me, since it was working PERFECTLY before. Why? Why? Why?

But I think the most important reason I haven't been writing on my blog (which I could keep on my home computer--although that computer's been acting funny lately and I want a nice, new, beautiful computer with internet access) is since my mother died it's hard for me to write anything about my current life. I also feel extra critical of my blog, which is against my original intent and is rather unhealthy for me and basically doesn't accomplish much.

So if I were to criticize this blog entry I would say it's boring, whiny, irritating, and accomplishes nothing but complaint. But at least I made an entry, right?

Thanks for listening, Loves.