UNCONDITIONAL BLOG

Friends,

*PLEASE READ THIS BLOG IN SARAH SILVERMAN'S VOICE*

[I the undersigned agree to this term and condition] X______________________________

Well, friends, in about a week or so I will be going through puberty again. This may sound like one of my super-secretive ultra-witchy coded-backhanded attempts at surrealistic realism. But honestly, you can take it at face value. Don't read between the lines (in Silverman's dulcet-electric tones).

Here's another thing--I forgot to worry about polka dots. When I take the time to worry about every tiny thing that could possibly go wrong in any given situation, then usually nothing goes wrong. But it didn't even occur to me to worry about the dots. Now they are here, doing the polka on my flesh. Uh-oh. And it's too late to worry so I'll just have to deal…

Here's another thing: Thanksgiving is all about shopping and football. And gluttony. But for me Thanksgiving has always been a secure place from which to assess the entire year & decide what to be most thankful for.

I saw lots of thankful posts on Facebook yesterday & I loved seeing that even if I didn't comment or hit the 'like' button as many times as I wanted to. I think we really have shifted from being an ego-driven species to being a spirit-driven species in just a matter of years.

I like to say this shift started happening around 12-21-12. But it really started right after 9/11. It has just taken this long for enough of us to get it. And we couldn't have done it without Facebook (or MySpace. Don't forget about MySpace. MySpace is the Mary to Facebook's Jesus). 

And we couldn't have done it without making mistakes. Oh, I've made many mistakes in this life! But I've been watching you & you have made many mistakes too. But I don't feel as horrible about my (or your) mistakes as I once did.

It's all okay. And the millennials will do a much better job at facilitating evolution than any other generation. Once they turn 40, that is. They still have to go through their own generational puberty pangs.

So…yeah…thankful for Humanitor surging ahead in its evolution.

Another thing I'm thankful for is that 2015 was not 2014. 2014 was unspeakable. But I will never forget it. Never bury it deep in my anatomical graveyard. And I will indeed speak about it. Someday soon--

--because I've seen & heard a lot about anxiety & depression going off the charts recently. And I have my little 2 cent contribution to that conversation. But not today.

Today I want to enjoy how thankful I am for many things, not just the date on the calendar ( and in spite of these hideous polka dots!)

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During our move I found lots of old boxes of stuff. Including some Childhood Art!! Here we see a very old version of Vin & Juliet. In 1st grade I became obsessed with wanting to be Chinese. [This was well before the Michael Derrick Hudson scandal or the Rachel Dolezal fiasco] I was not only gender dysphoric, but racially distressed. I think my yearning to be Chinese had more to do with past life remembrances than any real understanding of race. But all of my artwork from 1st-2nd grade was Asian inspired.

NOW--HERE IS SOME SURREALISTIC REALISM TO SINK YOUR EYEBALLS INTO !

How do you make new friends? How do you recover from 40 years of grief that welled up overnight and spilled from the rotten core of your soul all at once? What is this boulder left sitting in my chest? Who do I call to haul it away? Surgeon? Saul? Jim Beam? I'll just sing through it--my boulder song. The rock song that'll finally make me a star. Just in time to save the world from Hard Sparkle Countrycore and Postgangsta Gratitude List Hiphop. How do you make new music? How do you know where to put the words you want to say? How do you know you've wandered to the ends of the internet? How do you ask your imagination for forgiveness? 10-30-15 

*****

Forced spontaneity is ripping at a fog east of the highway. It's tying a spider web at all four corners of my mind with the pair of hands I keep in my skull. It's pretending there's no spider in any of the silken strands. It's pulling teeth from that spider's phantom jawline. It's chewing on a rough idea that tastes like a cow pie in July. It's November with 80 percent humidity and moderate chop. It's 50 percent anxiety in the morning--down from 100 percent a year ago. [Yay] 11-4-15

*****

Even the Cat In The Hat had to be Asian

Aggravated apiary blessed by cathartic calm. Deafening didact eliminated early from fatal germ galaxy. How hexagonal it is juggling javelins, kidnapping killjoys, letting loose…My maudlin neighbor narrates octopus obituaries. Purple pansies quell quarrels, relieve riots. Savage songbirds tag trenchant uvulas under 'vintage vomitoria.' Why would xylophones Xray young yaks, zone zodiacs? 11-19-15

*****

Pixel rolls on the patio, belly up, purr-meowing in permutations of sunlight that penetrate this thick rainy day. Eloise is about to step outside when an airplane growls by. She waits with her ears on crooked then joins us shyly.

Pixel eats a spider right out of its web. Eloise sits, gopher-like, attentive, her big pink schnozz enraptured by something I can't see.

There is lots of debris on the porch. I think it is mud and leaves from the rain. It is really a bunch of dead frogs.

As I sweep I realize some of the frogs are still alive, and it becomes a rescue mission. Pixel gets a frog before I can save it and a leg goes missing. Eloise, more enchanted by the birds & squirrels beyond the screen, is missing out on easy meat. She chatters back at a squirrel. It tells its friends about the dangerous psychopath in their midst.

I go get my computer and some coffee. I sit at the picnic table and type something about my cats.  11-22-15

*****

A fun drawing from 3rd grade

Where is the edge of this existence and how do I get there? Or, rather, how many times have I been there? I think the edge isn't so much a distal drop-off as it is these bodies we live in. When you live in a body that doesn't match your soul, you live in mid-fall. A dead leaf who will get raked into a mass grave if it ever touches land. You fall a hundred times a day as people call you "miss, miss, ma'am." You refrain from shooting anyone but you hiss and spit like a cobra-panther. You bury yourself in a grave of flannel 2 sizes too large and you fill your head with another world. In your head-world, there is no country music. There is no hormonal divide. And there are no people, only angels sharing space like pie. Every living moment an act of divine street performance. 11-27-15

*****

And here's the very first incarnation of the Flowers in the Attic drawing. Probably 11 or 12 years old, but the drawing skill looks about Kindergarten. I added a 5th person to the line-up, because I always saw myself as the 5th Flowers in the Attic sibling. I'm the boy on the right.

The most recent Flowers in the Attic sketch. From 2011 Brooklyn Art Library Sketchbook Project.

See you soon Octopus Diary-snoopers. I hope you enjoyed the childhood art gallery too!