I don’t want to be any older, even to be wiser. Let this moment to billow out, cover us up and within we’ll be nestled in the pockets of eternity reserved for galaxies. This is my surrender. Will you take pity on a broken girl and let her have her love — forever?
I finally did it. I sold a painting. Two, actually. The first was an old, angsty piece from a long time ago:
And the other was specifically commissioned for by the customer:
I could hardly contain myself, I was so excited. Cloud nine. You’ll notice I say this in the past tense, as in, not anymore. Because I have the shittiest luck…
In a blur I went to the mail center to ship to my customer. I was so anxious, I had never shipped a painting before and it felt a little like I imagine parents feel when they take their kids to day care for the first time. I balked at the price — $50 to ship them to Illinois. But I didn’t ask questions, I just paid and said goodbye.
All week I thought about them. Would the package hold up? Would the customer like them as much in person?
Well, the paintings never showed up. Fedex says they were delivered but my customer does not have them. They have until Wednesday to recover them, and if they don’t I have to file a claim. I didn’t think to add signature service — they didn’t ask me and I’ve never done this before.
So two fragments of my heart are lost in the world…and I have to give the customer something. I am repainting them, which is a grueling process. It’s like trying to relive a moment in perfect clarity. I finished one:
It doesn’t look as good as my original, but the concept is there. I don’t know if I’m just so disappointed that I can’t be happy about replicating it…
Has this happened to anyone before? It’s a first for me…I didn’t even consider it as a possibility.
…to make paintings that might actually sell. Instead, I come up with this weird shit. But I like it anyway…
I can feel it
When things are going to fall apart
Just like at work the phone makes a clicking noise before it rings
But the warning doesn’t stop or help anything
I guess I’ll be crying today
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.