Call of the Wild

 

The earth sang to her, gave her missives in her bones. It cried to her, “You are more than this! You are stronger than this! You are a wild queen meant for the rivers and glens, flocks and packs!” Day after day she fought this song coursing through her. Every day she played threnodies for her own soul to drown out the song of the earth, to convince her bones that her civilized existence, while the death of her soul, was the right thing. The overpowering thing.
Her existence continued like this for years: the earth sung to her melodies of wild love and exuberant pain and for years she drowned it out as best she could.
One morning she woke to silence. Her patient lover, the earth, was no longer singing. The quiet rocked her, a void as cold as space but claustrophobic like a gathering of demeaning peers. She listened, laying still in her bed. She turned to her side and pressed her ear into her pillow, hoping the tune was quiet, muffled beneath her bed, but she heard nothing.
She crawled from her bed, to the floor, and pressed her ear to the scratchy grey carpet. Now she rested only feet from the dirt, from the soil, from the lifeblood that clotted beneath her home. Still she could hear nothing. She wept. Quietly at first, because she didn’t realize she was sad. She didn’t know how great her missing was.
As she lay there weeping the minutes ticked by. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. But as her weeping grew to the mourning cries of widows and children of war she knew, in the back of her mind, her time was running out.
The safe world was striking up a call: pull yourself from the floor, deny that vibrant, animalistic pulse beating in your heart, for you are my child now. She slowed her tears. She took deep breaths of the air conditioned air and dug her nails into the synthetic carpet scratching her skin.
She slowly, slowly pulled herself to her knees, then to her feet. She shuffled to her closet and dressed. She pulled herself, step by step, to her bathroom and plastered her face with makeup, the war paint she donned to protect her from her own insecurities.
She was a sleeping body drawn by unnamed forces to the door. Her hand knew without her consciousness to grab her purse and keys, to lock the door behind her. She sat in her car, key in the ignition, but stopped. The soft call of domesticity increased its pitch, increased its volume, increased its demand. “Drive. Drive. Drive. Drive, my dear.” It commanded. It pleaded. It cajoled.
She clutched the key, her hand growing angry at being clenched so tightly. Her arm began to tremble and the tremble infected her shoulder, her lips, her heart.
She turned the key and backed the car into the street. She began her commute. The city song eased, sure it had won.
She entered the crowded highway, contested with others bound to the urban mother’s milk. She saw in the fume-filled highway her brethren in their own paths, in their own cars. They sat, angry, sad, empty. She saw the exit leading away from the city. Away from what she knew. Away from what she had built herself into. She flipped the sun visor down and met her own gaze, black mascara tears running down her cheeks.
She considered stopping. She thought how quickly she could end it all in a hot car on the highway. She knew the paramedics wouldn’t be able to reach her for half an hour after a call was placed. How long before her highway-bound brethren noticed her slumped in her seat?
As the cars inched she felt herself grow nearer surrender. When the traffic slowed to a stop, she told herself she would do it.
As the cars’ brake lights flared in front of her she knew. Her car slowed with the rest, now in line with an exit leading away from her goal. She put the car in park and cut the air. She began to sweat. She grew restless and angry. As the heat grew around her, an entity of its own, she heard it: the earth singing to her again. Her hope hadn’t died. Her fate wasn’t sealed.

ArtTober

So excited about the ArtSeen Studio Tour!

ArtSeen Tour

Thank goodness for fall-like weather.  It is a much needed reprieve from the Texas heat, and it always makes us want to be outside.  Lucky for us, there is so much to do here in Frisco this month in the Arts!

October 7 – Kickoff Party for the ArtSeen Tour and Opening Reception at thegallery8680

Meet the ArtSeen Artists a week early, pick up a copy of the ArtSeen Tour Map, and see thegallery8680’s newest exhibit “Me, Myself, I” at the opening reception.  Thegallery8680 has the best crowd, fantastic food and a who’s who list of artists at their shows.  Don’t miss it!  More at thegallery8680.com.



October 8 – Frisco Arts Walk  at Hall Park presented by Frisco Arts.

Frisco Arts brings you an immersive arts experience taking place at the newly renovated HALL Park among the Texas Sculpture Garden, a significant body of work that celebrates Texas artists and is…

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On Avoiding Facebook

In November or December (oh, that memory of mine), in order to reduce distractions and better focus on untangling my life, I quit Facebook. I deactivated it indefinitely. I log on for an hour or so every couple of weeks, mostly to satiate nostalgia and curiosity, then deactivate it again. I receive no notifications, no e-mails, no tags, no friend requests or strangers trying to follow me. I find Facebook uncomfortable; the longer I go without, the less I like using it. It’s an elevator in which everyone is laden head-to-foot with buttons and bracelets celebrating their favorite causes and they all have deathly gas. Horrid, roadkill gas. Inescapable and omnipresent: it pervades everything.

As soon as I log in I am bombarded with details of other people’s lives: deaths, births, joys, sorrows, and the inane all rolled into one endless train of updates. I don’t feel connected when I’m on there; I feel equal parts voyeur and exhibitionist. Yes, on rare occasions Facebook has reconnected me with old friends, but for the most part it feels like an emotional bog through which one cannot walk without accumulating a 50 pound layer of clinging mud.

What makes me feel connected is sharing: talking to people, sitting together over tea, or food, or booze and allowing all of our nonverbal exchanges to devour what words we may emit. Looking at someone and knowing that although they’re carrying on about their new haircut or shoes they’re really desperate to talk about how lonely they are, how their faults, their humanity, their mortality scare the shit out of them, how alive they feel when things change, are terrifying, and then end up ok.

I feel connected when I write letters to friends, when I receive letters from friends, when we take the time to put our thoughts on paper, in detail, then setting it loose to land in a friend’s lap.

The longer I go without the false sense of connection and familiarity Facebook offers, the more readily I sense my missing people and the more active I am in seeing them.

Is my opinion unique? Facebook seems to be as popular as ever, but I’m not one to actually research it.

Thrillinging

The next several days will be full of a first date, a familial get-together, and a drunken night with friends. I’ll try my damnedest to squeeze in some drawing, but may succumb to the hedonistic rush of a full schedule.

What’s more exciting is that I’ve had an idea pop into my head for a small book. It will be vulgar and painfully honest. So much so I may actually consider using a pen name!

Hidden

Masked Small

Prints of my small, masked woman available here.

What grew from her forehead was but a small feather at the start. Over the course of days it grew into a plume, vibrant and wild. As time passed it became dense and wily, a dense growth of effervescent color and thick quills.
One night, as she lay beneath the glad moon, she heard a whisper creeping from her tuft of feathers. As she reached her hands up and delicately traced her fingers from scalp to the soft fluff of each feather she felt something warm, smooth, and soft. She felt something fleshy and human. As her fingers trailed slowly further one slipped into a mouth and had its tip bitten off.

I’m off to a late start with my 29 faces, so I’ll have to triple my efforts & output to catch up. I think tomorrow, amid chores and errands, I’ll be able to knock out a handful.

The ArtSeen Studio Tour was a blast!

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This weekend I was set up in the garage at Fresh Paint Studio for the 5th annual ArtSeen Studio Tour – I had a great time! The weather ended up being perfect, the company was superb and there were several people who enjoyed my art! (They enjoyed it so much, in fact, they took it home!) Above are some snapshots from the event of my cozy garage set up. It was perfect because the wind couldn’t get to my small paper works and wreak havoc.

I’ve attended several of the previous ArtSeen Studio Tours, but this is my first time participating in one. While it was a shame to miss out on the other tour stops, I had so much fun sharing my art with people.

I am so grateful and appreciative of Misty (Fresh Paint Studio) for inviting me to participate and hosting my art for the duration of the tour!

You can see a couple more photos on my Flickr, most of which are of Misty’s gorgeous garden.

Dreamscape

In a house with a miniature theatre, sitting restless, full of yellow-dust air and the warm creaking of old wood, built where there should have been a foyer, the crowd gathers on the teak steps. A cat claws its way to the  underside of a balcony and hides, hanging upside down beneath well-fed asses. People lean and shush in an attempt to be a good audience to a nonexistent show.

A train, only two cars long but with a huffing and grinding coal-burning engine comes to rest in a golden wheat field. There are enemy soldiers gathered there and the best sneaking is insufficient to elude them.

A party full of the diseased: the addicted, the twisted, the pathetic, carries on in a sad mixture of desperation and idolatry. As my fellow and I do our best to escape there approaches a woman who has long harbored a sick obsession with him. He reviles her but she persists. The diseased psyche attempting to latch onto him creates in him a hatred for existence and he leaves everything to wander the streets.

Snippets of dreams.

Yesterday’s Work is Today’s Delight

I made some wonderful-smelling soap yesterday. I’ve also been hard at work this past week creating a new look for my soap company.

R A D I A N T • F E T T L E

Hello friends,

Are you enjoying the last Saturday of this year’s summer? I hope so.

Great news! The soap I wrote about yesterday has come out absolutely beautifully. The bar itself is testament to the wonderful bentonite clay immersed throughout and boasts and stunning, gentle green tone. The thin layer of soap I poured on top has also turned out beautifully: it undulates gracefully across the surface of the bar, offering a little bit of visual interest and the wonderful properties of white kaolin clay!

What’s more is that the blend of essential oils smells fantastic! At first it comes across as a complex herbaceous aroma but as you inhale deeply you begin to notice the subtle spice notes. Overall I find the blended scent invigorating and refreshing. I eagerly await the end of this soap’s curing time so I may try it out.

All My Herbs Are Going to Seed,

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Bothered

Listen, girl, do as you’re told.

&

Don’t you dare tell this man what to do.


I am obstinate.

&

You are obstinate.


Perhaps, in this context, considering past experiences, it is now made clear why this mentality bothers me so. I am stubborn and willful while men are determined, steadfast and intractable. All these are synonymous with each other, so may I kindly suggest you take your semantics and condescension and swallow it with a side of your own pride.