As a teenager I used to be obsessed with finding my purpose in life. Fulfilling some grand destiny. It brought me a lot of pain, but also gave me hope that there was more out there…a perfect design. It’s been years since I’ve thought about anything like that…and yet today I feel it. The ache of being incomplete.
For some reason these feelings manifest as a desire to write, and not just poetry. I feel like I should be creating my own worlds, my own characters…and yet I have no idea what that would look like, be like. I have oodles of inspiration but no clear vision, no plan. Sometimes I feel like my life is so small I wouldn’t be able to draw anything out of it, even with my big imagination.
Does anyone else feel like this? A writer without a story…but more than that. A woman without a crux…
Is it something I lack? Something I want back? I’m rolling in poison, not feeling the joys in life. Only strife. Struggling to be a good wife, but it’s all gone south, twisted in my mouth, and aching! Ever aching. I’m always fucking shaking while they go on dancing, further enhancing this hate, this gash, the falling ash from a burning heart.
It’s time to start moving on, but ever strong is this jealous limb within my mind.
I wanted to free paint this morning, and I ended up with a weird piece of art. It wouldn’t be coleymojo without being weird, right? I still have this lingering feeling that I haven’t found my perfect medium and that acrylics aren’t really my thing…but who knows. Maybe I will try watercolors, because I used a lot of water in this piece and it was actually fun.
The next piece came to me in a counseling session, talking about my bitter disappointment about (not getting) theater roles. I equated it to sand in my shoe, but that wasn’t quite right. It digs deeper than that, aches more and really kind of hurts. Like walking in high heels — that was a better analogy. Going on like nothing is wrong, and no one can see your pain…until you’re hobbling around like a wounded gazelle, that is. Anyway, that was my inspiration. I’m not really happy with the color scheme, but it is what it is.
Why do I do this to myself? Risking heart and health to feed my vanity — one more plastic tragedy has me reeling, just like peeling the flesh to find it’s rotten inside.
and I am torn about renewing it. I haven’t been blogging lately. I think about it a lot though. Sometimes I guess I just don’t have anything to say. I’m often the quiet one in groups, and it’s not because I’m not having a good time. I’m just taking everything in.
Here’s a painting I fixed tonight. I say fixed because it used to look completely different and I hated it. Now I love it. I think it’s called Butterfly Kisses, if it must have a title.
So I have been experimenting with this same sort of brush movement and I really like it. It’s labor intensive though, and does actually seem to work better on top of a layer of paint. I think I’ll continue to use it in future paintings.
I hear a lot about comfort zones. Specifically that you better jump out of them or else you will never grow and experience life. Well, thanks to my extreme anxiety, I live outside of comfort zones almost exclusively, and the things I do that may seem basic to you are often huge ordeals for me. I guess what I’m saying is that everyone is on their own journey, and some people are up to taking the road less traveled. But my little path and my baby steps are big accomplishments for me, so please don’t tell me that I’m not moving fast enough or working hard enough because you have no idea.
I realize that the phrase is meant to be motivational, and that as usual I am probably reading too far into things. But sometimes just showing up is what I’m capable of, and I already asked a lot of myself to do it. So please, don’t push if I don’t want to dance, or speak in front of people, or be the first to try it. I’m probably way outside of my comfort zone already.
I don’t know why this blog is so difficult to maintain. It’s like it doesn’t write itself or something.
I could hash out all the ways my life got complicated in recent weeks, but that would be boring and uninspiring…and I need a little inspiration today. But then again I have all the tools to help myself, so maybe what I really need is motivation. You know what, I don’t know what I need. It’s a weird day.
What I’m not feeling is particularly artistic or creative…which is what this blog is all about – creativity. Sure, I’ve done some paintings…but I’m not especially happy with them and I have no exciting projects on the horizon. I’m feeling a bit like a fraud, actually… Like I’m not really an artist, not really talented… I know this is all just negative self-talk, but it’s constant and all-consuming and I don’t really have the energy to battle it out today. I feel like I’ve been tired for weeks.
Anyway, enough of all that. Here is a piece I did that I’m feeling blah about.
Some medical issues have put a stop to my work for clients for the time being, so I don’t have much to report on that front. And…that’s all for now, I guess!
So it’s been a while, but I’ve been busy! I started working with a new client on a mural – a jungle scene in his bathroom. Here are the first round of photos – still plenty of work to be done…
This was somewhat challenging as jungles are all about depth and layers, which is hard to portray on a flat surface…especially in a bathroom with varying heights and widths to the walls. But I enjoyed myself and I look forward to continuing to build and expand this vision! It’s also very nerve wracking as I paint things I’ve never attempted before – like tigers and parrots. But if you don’t explore, you’ll never discover, right?
One time, instead of getting ready for school (8th grade, I think), I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to kill myself. I laid at the bottom of the bathtub as it filled up, not resolved but terrified. I don’t think I was scared of dying, I was scared of myself…that I could have that much hate and anger in me, to take a life. I’ve thought of suicide before and after this episode, but this was the only time I ever actually attempted it. Thankfully I screamed my intentions to my dad, who was furious and broke down the door. Strangely, I don’t remember what happened next.
This is the problem I have with writing a memoir, or any story. I have gaps in my knowledge of the events. I think it has something to do with the bipolar, but it’s very inconvenient.
I don’t know why I’m thinking about this today. Probably because I’m still trying to figure out exactly what went wrong in my novel writing last night.