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?
…to make paintings that might actually sell. Instead, I come up with this weird shit. But I like it anyway…
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.
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.
Sometimes, all I’m capable of is weird art. It begins with a concept that’s more of a feeling than anything else. Then I attach color and shapes to that, and then I try to put it all on the canvas. I would tell you that I’m usually between 30-60% successful. I’ve never had a piece of art turn out exactly how I pictured. Sometimes I like it anyway, and sometimes I am seconds away from painting over it. Or both.
Right now it’s both.
I’ve been staring at this blinking cursor for at least ten minutes with no idea how to comment on my latest pieces:
They are called, “Pay Attention to Me” and “Butterfly Kisses.” I guess that is all.
So I tried to break myself out of the creative prison of my last failed painting, and ended up with something weird and ugly. In letting out my feelings onto canvas, I suppose that was a success. But it’s nothing pleasant that I would hang or ask anyone to buy. I paper mached the canvas in some misguided effort to create texture, and then started to paint a bird caught in a dreamcatcher before the painting suddenly decided it wanted to be an abstract. I tried to follow the instinct and ended up wrist deep in this:
It actually wouldn’t be so weird if not for the paper mache…?
No. It’d still be weird.
Afterward I made Rolo Chocolate Chip Blondies — the obvious choice for an evening of pouting. (After an impromptu run to the store in our pajamas — thank you, baby! <3)