Carving out a corner to post random crap.
If my art is good, why would I want to give it away for nada? ¿Por qué? I'd rather have five strangers like my paintings than 100 friends who only like me for my freebies (or willingness to cat-sit.) I tried to do a thing on YouTube once … I am so not a performer. Well, I suppose entertainment is the fuel that makes the world go-go-go. CH4. Membrane. Accept it or take a hike. I forgot who told me that. I wonder what Ort would say. About me ripping all the price tags off my stuff?
I am a visitor here. When will the walls start to talk? Lines must be down; a widespread outage. No wonder the stars are burning at 30%. With so little light to go by, the question remains: Will I grow feet or wings, and where would those things take me? I see the pit, the scaffolding, the long hallway into darkness. The Welcome mat is a nice afterthought in front of the façade. Charlotte said there'd be days like this. Days where I'd feel like the uninvited. She's always had my back. Twins are like that. We've always been treated like guests.
With every Up Ahead there's a Lag Behind.
Davina never knew how it felt to take the lead. I'll show them what happens when everyone leaves my side, she thought. He won't notice if I walk away, but Darla and the boys are going to have to dig deep to find their Candelaria strength. Davina breathed in the smoldering sweetgrass and tried to think of chocolate cake and rainbows. Anything but what she already set her mind to do. They'll need strength if they want to stay with him. I need it to turn around and go home.
I'll tell you what happens. You decide what it means. Hey, we all say things in different shades of truth to make ourselves feel better. And if you find value in my words, win-win. Yeah? Show up. Just show up is what they say. You'll get a ribbon or medal or trophy for taking up space, so always be. We'll appreciate you all the same, even if you make us feel uncomfortable. The umbilical cord is a standard attachment and a habit hard to break. You float, I float. We've still got plenty of space.
You're expected to do things on sunny days. That's way too much pressure for me. There's a delicious sense of some kind of infinite mess percolating on an overcast day. All complex and bubbly. Nice weather, though, is a Mylar balloon — looks cheerful but there's not much going on inside. Summery-ness is kind of dull.
A slash of weak sunlight fell across the trivet with the blue rooster. It served as a weight so the construction paper wouldn't fly off the kitchen counter. In black ink Maia printed for the kids' sake, and used the words reminiscent, introspection, distaste, and exemplifies in her note. She wrote the date and time in the upper right hand corner. She counted on the eldest to explain to the younger two if necessary. Maia had to get an early start to beat traffic. The kids might understand, maybe even respect, their mother's decision once they realized who she left behind all those years ago.
She doesn't think I see her, but I do. Oh, I do. The ramshackle lady in flimsy pink flip-flops is a ghost. Is a ghost. We all haunt the places we miss the most. Even when the body is bound up by the present day, the spirit struggles to have its way. It asks: "Is this our time?" Come home, come home. There are no more fields in which to roam.
Just when I say I'll get a new lens to look through (in the hopes of seeing something new) a bird (a big one with a 6-foot wingspan) swoops out of nowhere (o.k. – swoops down from the snag I walk by every a.m.) and squawks in my face:
"It's like this, little chicken; you'll see what I tell you to see now I've got you on my obstacle course. You won't have much skin left on your knees once we're finished, but your character will be scrubbed clean. Laugh and don't look back. This here's Initiation Time."
Fine. One foot in front of the other. No expectations, no attachments, no memories bobbing in soft golden light to offer me comfort. Who am I to pass up the chance to be pushed around by a large, winged creature? There are, after all, more painful ways to test one's faith.
A one-way fandom
The passive act of dreamspeak
Vicarious Me
Injurious You
Reflections make safe idols
A warped and torn faith
I prefer my music rough around the edges. When it comes to books, though? Ya shit better be tight. Mind your craft, mate. Clunky prose hurts my ear nubs, don't you know? And please, please adhere to the rules you've set up for your world. I can suspend my disbelief for days; no need to cave in to the sweet easiness of deus ex machina. Oh, and not every loose end can be tied up. We all have unresolved issues. See? Got my box of tissues right here! Anyway, had to say a few readerly words. Thanks for your time.
Semi-Daily Scribbles 