kissing a fool

There's this song, Kissing a Fool by Michael Buble. I've started tying and connecting songs to my relationships and my life and the people in it, in an attempt to symbolicly tag my life with not only writing but other arts.

Kissing a Fool. I love this song. I loved it before it came true. It should not have come true, especially in this certain relationship, but it did. Everytime I hear it now I am filled with a great sense of wistfulness, and not only that, but both sadness and happiness. I am listening to it softly wisp out of the speakers as I write.

I need to know it.

Another one I relate to my life is Questions by Jack Johnson. It's sweetly romantic in its naive wordings, something I often do in my little love relationships. That's how I feel about my loves. They are worth me being a child again in my love. Simply trusting, beautifully concerned, honest and unafraid.

Will you try?

last night, i found in my closet

a great clay mask of great proportions, screaming out at me like Edward Munch's painting; the eyes were hollow and the ochre paint was flaked. It seemed to me very ancient in manner, almost gargoylish, or perhaps even Aztecian. Would it speak to me, I wondered. It did not, I put it back in the closet after ooh-ing and ahh-ing over it for a half hour.

It is not there anymore.

I don't even have a closet.

I made that all up.

Actually last night, after drinking too much caffeine with Fabi down at the Forza Cafe, I came home and wrote and wrote and wrote. Then I tried to sleep. A moth kept fluttering against the window and the paper on the unfinished wall. Sleeping wasn't working, so I turned on the light just in time to see a massive Hobo spider, spatulate, dark brown and horribly frightening (way more so than the fake mask) standing in the corner next to a toy, facing my bed, probably waiting until I was asleep so it could crawl it's swarming hairy legs up and onto the bed and over the lump in the covers, and onto my pillow, and down the front of my pajamas to BITE ME! Possibly also calling an army of Hobo spiders to swarm over the bed and eat my skin.

So I got my journal out and wrote and wrote and wrote, not about spiders, but about some sad things that happened lately, then I drew a map of consciousness, being completely and totally honest about what my subconscious was thinking about OTHER than that nasty creepidy thing on the floor.

Then, when the paper was full and my throat still twisty and dry from even the thought of that spider, I lay down and pulled the covers over my head and curled against the extra pillow, and I pretended that I was all safe in my bed with my husband (the extra pillow) there. And my husband will never let spiders get to me.

And I hid there until I fell asleep.

That is what happened. No mask, just me and a spider.

I think I was very brave.

THE END.

this morning

I woke and had the odd feeling that I didn't like my blog very much, until I looked over it and decided that I do like it very much. I only need to buy some oil paints, paint some art, scan it into the computer and then quite confidently put it on here. Even if you do not like my art, I will like it, and why will I let someone get in the way of what I like to do?

Grandpa and I snapped dry twigs today. I was sad when we got to the bottom of the pile.

I am dying from the disease of Hating Pulp Fiction. It's quite everywhere. I'm also dying from How Did The Inheritance Series Ever Become a Bestseller? My thoughtful answer to that disease? -Americans don't know good fiction anymore. Nobody will read Ray Bradbury anymore, which makes me sad, and nobody will read the good classics unless there is a movie to go along with it.

I don't die from no comments. I don't get very many comments on this blog (probably because I'm such a bad commenter myself) but it's alright, as long as people read it. Usually if they don't comment it is because they don't like it or they don't like me or they find what I write hard to make sense of. That happens often. Not to mention I'm such a strange little feline myself. Some people might simply be weirded-out.

It's hard not to be when you're around someone strange.

Van Gogh was mentally instable and went around with a knife trying to kill his art teacher. I like him. He was handsome. Most artists are. Ray Bradbury is handsome, even though he's old. If I like someone's art they usually become automatically attractive, in my eyes... in that good old artisty way. Even Rembrandt looked nice. Does this make sense?

Scott, you're handsome but I knew that before I even read your work.

Bumper, you're handsome too but I knew that before I even knew your name.

So sometimes I'll just think someone's handsome anyway, but then when I see what they do or what they are like, and if they're good and amazing, then they get bumped up like 50,000 notches. And if they're handsome in the first place and then they're a jerk, I gag every time I see their face.

I get varying responses when it comes to what I look like.

life is here

...to be lived, not to be dragged out dully from day to day in some soggy mass where you can only think about the next meal or the next appointment or the next time your favorite movie star gets interviewed. No, you should creatively fill your time between those "special events" so your life is filled.

The secret of patience: do something else in the meantime.

Do it.

Do things.

Don't laze about all day obsessing over pointless things.

Now, by lazy, I don't mean idle. Being "idly creative" is often the best thing you can do. I love being idle... physically. What's important is not that I'm being still, but the fact that while my body is idle I am filling myself up with sensory experiences, I am thinking absently and allowing my brain (in more technical, horrible terms) to drift into alpha wave mode where big, slow, creative thoughts dwell. Also known as daydreaming. Creative daydreaming, not daydreaming about things that will never happen, like marrying your celebrity idol.

When you are normally going about your day, you are not in alpha wave mode. You are in beta wave mode. Not cool. You are running about, thinking about this and that. Slow down. Close your eyes... imagine your brain waves slowing with your breath. And then, carefully, sweetly, drift into absent-minded thinking, letting your Muse go where she wishes.

Live life artfully, not going from activity to activity. If you watch a movie, don't just do it to waste time. Enjoy it idly, and then go to the Page and write all about it and what you could learn from it, and why this scene means so much to you, and why that scene seemed crooked, and blah blah, this and that, all of it. Then once you have exhausted yourself of that movie, dwell on it no longer.

Dwell on your life. Idly.

GOD JAR

You ought to make one too, I have just had the idea to start mine. I shall find a great beautiful vase or jar, or perhaps even buy one, and I shall put things in it like written prayers and songs and stories to God and drawings for him and whatnot, and it shall be special, just between me and God.

Perhaps you think I'm pagan for doing so, but I don't think so. I've had many, many people call me pagan since I started doing special things to feel closer to God, like lying out on the grass and whispering to him, and creating things for him, and now, this jar. I'm making him special in my life this way. I'm using the creativity he gave me while I'm at it. He can't be mad at me for it.

I'm learning to drive. I'll be creative at that too, unfortunately, because I can't help but mess with everything creatively.

I love colour. My favorite one is purple, but I have a deep respect for every colour on the wheel. A couple years ago my parents bought me an expensive set of Prismacolour pencils, elegantly surrounded by a wooden case. I have been opening it up more than ever now, just to "smell" the colours. They do smell, nice and wooden and waxy. I haven't used them just yet but I am looking forward to it.

Content and lazy.