I don't have anything to write yet but I'll leave you with some holiday images~

These were killer shortbread cookies flavored with lavender or cardamon. Both amazing.

Just returned from a wonderful time with friends. Great food, great company, slow and easy. We ate, drank and even watched 3 skits with the Sweeney Sisters from SNL. I also took a ton of photos and hopefully will put some up tomorrow.

How was your day?

I saw this house early this morning when I was out getting coffee and knew I had to return with my camera. The house was decorated beautifully but what really captured my attention were the chinese lanterns in the tree. It gave me some serious warm fuzzies.

This afternoon I caught Miracle On 34th Street on tv. Not the original, which I love, but it was the one from a few years back.

In the middle of the movie, I starting crying like a baby. I had always loved Christmas. And today, amidst the tears, I knew I had closed myself up from the holiday.

The last time I celebrated this season was 1998. The following year, the whole idea left a bad taste in my mouth. I blogged, well ranted really, about it a couple years ago. I spoke with my family and opted out of everything. Not being religious, it meant nothing. Hating the whole shopping, commercial, have to buy something for everyone trip was highly distasteful. When something moves me, I'll get it. I don't need to be coerced or guilted into it. And, I carried a massive amount of rage for this time of year.

About 2 years ago, I felt the anger begin to dissipate. And I began to miss the celebration. But I hadn't jumped back in because I'd no idea what it would look like. This month I thought of my little tree often. I still have my box of ornaments collected over many years. Each picked special with a person in mind. I wondered if I'd ever bring it out again. The thought is a little painful because I am such a different person than the one who trimmed her tree in '98. I barely recognize myself and so these ornaments, once cherished, hold memories of someone who was closed up, filled with unacknowledged anger, afraid to deal with the dark and see what lay hidden in the corners. It was of a person pretending to enjoy life...always happy...to keep the demons at bay and to make myself fit with the world.

This past year has been a huge, massive, exhausting year of healing. Many things I once was angry about no longer trouble me in a fiery way. Now, it's either replaced with slight sadness or not much of anything. That feels good. There are a few things that still push my buttons big time and I will rage. They go back to the oldest wound...invisibility. I'm still working on the hurt. The desire to rant isn't as great as once was.

There will be things to get angry about such as injustice, sexism, discrimination, misogyny, homophobia etc. But I'm speaking of healing my anger that covers deeper pain.

Even though I had given the holiday a multi-year sabbatical, I always enjoy the lights. Tacky or tasteful, it doesn't matter. It always bring a little kid smile to my face and joy to my heart.

They say that this is the time of magic and miracles, peace on earth, joy and giving. Yet I see every day as having the possibility to be such. So I'm still confused. But I'll let myself be confused knowing it will sort itself out. It'll be interesting to see how I embrace this time in years to come.

In the meantime, Happy Holidays everyone.

The sky is slowly lightening and I've been watching a gorgeous sunrise come up over the rooftops.
Right now it's a calm day. Filled with possibility. The past week is settling in and I'm becoming more comfortable with what needs to be done.

Other than doing a load of laundry I must get to the art store. Time to replenish the paper stock. I worked yesterday afternoon and again last night. In the second working phase, I was tearing the sheets into small 4x6 pieces so I'd have more to work with. Hopefully the store won't be too crazed. Its saving grace is that it's not in a mall.

Just returned from the Motherwell show. I worked for an hour or so, in a frenzy, and as I was wrapping up, a phone call. Today's plans got all turned around. Cleaned up...washed brushes and sat a bit. Then, looking at the time, I hopped in the car to get to the exhibit. It's the last day. There was a sign on the door of the gallery. They were closing early but the door was still unlocked. So I slipped in and spent a little bit of time with the work. Wanted to stay longer but I knew they needed to close.

I was overwhelmed by a few of the pieces.

I have so much to learn.

Here is a small sampling of my work for today.






As I said...lots to learn.

Big developments this week and I have no idea how to write about it. This quandry makes it difficult to even do regular blogging. I spend my time traveling between calm and terrified...being okay to then without warning switch to feeling incredibly alone.

Last night, I attended a Hanukkah dinner. In previous years, it's been a packed house. This year, 7 of us. The closest circle. It was perfect because I could safely share my news...and receive some lovin' in return which included some big, needed hugs.

Later this afternoon Hoss and Tagebuch-sea and I will head to the Motherwell exhibit at the Greg Kucera Gallery and then grab some mulled cider in travel mugs and walk downtown to experience the chaos by wandering and people watching.

Before that...I will work. I have to.

I'm seriously tired today. It didn't begin that way, but a couple hours into my day it hit. And stayed. It's the wind down from a frenetic week.

In a couple hours I need to get motivated for a party with friends. Not sure how long I'll last but seeing warm faces will be nice.

The following has nothing to do with good or bad. It's about feeling and exploration. I'm enchanted with how my process is evolving and how the work is beginning to flow from my sinew and marrow.


Monday night, when I found myself working faster and it began to change with the last 4 pieces, I didn't even want to stop and take the time to half the paper. Instead I opted to block out dual work space on each page.




In looking at these Monday pieces, it amazes me what the subconscious lets out when we give it the space and freedom to do so.


Yesterday's photo was of the woofer sitting on my desk. It wasn't until after I saw it in my blog that I noticed a similarity with the newer work on Monday. Then I remembered Sunday's image and again saw sameness.

Last night I had to work. By 7 pm I was exhausted. It had been a grueling 30 hours. Much emotional energy spent. But, I HAD to work.

It wasn't until I picked up my brush, loaded it with black ink and hit the paper that tears began to fall. Sobbing all the way through my work...through many pieces, I cried again and again "you are scaring me, you are scaring me."








This is what living looks like.

Feeding~

Yesterday began with a therapy session. A good one. I relayed the challenges of last week which culminated in an incredible and very good phone call with my mom. The shrink said the reason mom could meet me in such an intimate space is because there was some healing around the deep pain. He again explained (it wasn't the first time) that my pain was putting up a wall between my parents and myself. As it begins to disintegrate I become more approachable. I'll buy that.

After I returned home, I fell into some really hot sex. Very much a surprise and quite wonderful. The energy stayed with me the remainder of the day.

In the afternoon I returned to the drawing table. It had been about 5 days since I worked. This time, something a little different. Normally I'll work on approximately 4 pieces. Yesterday, I ended up with 12. The quantity thing doesn't matter except in what it began to do to my work. In the last 6, I was working quicker and in doing so, my mind was shutting off even more. It was a whole new level of freedom. And in that, another evolution in the work.

I look forward to tonight's work.

Last night, the Bear and the bunny treated me to dinner at Coastal Kitchen for a most amazing meal. If I had my camera you'd be seeing photos of what we ate. Every couple months, in addition to their regular menu, they feature a different coastal area. This time it was Corsica.

We began by sharing Brucciu Charcuterie which consisted of: Brie Coullomier, Chevre Coutier and Delice de Bourgone paired with Parma proscuitto, Rosette de Lyon Salami Saucisson, Salami secchi and duck pate. Served with baguette.

The bunny and I then indulged in COASTAL’S CORSICAN ‘Tour de Cuisine’ (entree for 2): Bacon wrapped scallops, grilled albacore with a dollop of saffron garlic aioli, mussels sautéed with fennel and white wine, beef bourguignonne in a pastry crust, caramelized onion & goat cheese stuffed raviolis, citrus kissed carrots, crisp haricot verts and a crock of sausage spiked Cassoulet.

And the Bear had the Pascal Porc which consisted of rosemary stuffed grilled pork tenderloin served over fennel potato gratin and earthy roasted mushrooms. Finished with red wine and cider reduction.

We tasted everything.

All in all...a fabulous day.

You.
Me.
Us.

We are Time Magazine's Person of the Year for 2006.

Here's an AP article, with a copy of the cover.

I went for a long walk today. Grabbing my camera, I headed first for Volunteer Park. Near the park, another tree was down, not only blocking the road but also the sidewalks on either side. The whole section was taped off but I don't expect it to be cleared away soon. There are still too many homes without power. Much work to do. The downed tree I took photos of on Friday is still there. That area is now taped off as well.

Last night, at a holiday party about 8 blocks from my house, I noticed that a block north of the bar we were at showed a large dark spot. Blackened blocks with no power. Many apartment buildings. And it's been very cold out.

It's surreal. Many sections are wonderful. Others are trashed. Speaking with the apartment manager tonight, he mentioned he just finished showing an apartment to a couple whose home fully washed away.

The sun was out and seeing shadows made me happy. It's been a while. I shot over 60 photos and hopefully can weed them down to no more than 10. Sometimes, it's hard to decide which to save. Two can be almost identical except for one small detail that will drive me batty with indecisiveness. But I wanted to post one this evening. There you have it.

My big, huge, most challenging lesson as of late is how to not let my past color my present.

The present may rip into old wounds further which is the only way they can heal. It is a good thing and needed. The shrink has informed me in the last few weeks that I need to go through the fear, the pain and the feelings of isolation again and again. Each time, it allows for more healing. And one day it won't be as bad.

In not opening and surrendering to this darkness I'll never become free of it.

So with new experiences, I feel the old taint the new and yet I still have to go through it. This time with an awareness and trust that if I don't fight the intensity of the black but instead dive into it, then one day I too can have moments where I'm actually living in the present, seeing and feeling things as they really are, instead of using a battered history book to make crazy false sense of all that unfolds.


Yesterday morning after walking back with my coffee, from my 3rd floor window I noticed the sunrise. My eyes saw the glorious. There was color I haven't seen in the sky in a while. So, I reset my camera to color to take the rare color photo. Then I was curious. I resumed the b & w setting, wondering what such a sight would be like devoid of hue.

The shots, taken a few minutes apart. The only photoshopping was in resizing the images. Nothing else.

Same view. Such a different emotional experience.

It really makes me stop to think about how my perception affects to the point of creating my reality.




Yesterday morning when I woke, something had broken through. For the first time in a week, the pain and fear that had increased to the point of almost being unbearable had subsided. I was spent. The only tears shed yesterday were tears of relief for a reprieve from the onslaught. I was emotionally depleted.

Although I had grand plans for this calm, all I could do was rest until I headed out to a holiday party with friends. It was the first time in over a week where I could actually spend time with people outside of work instead of curling up in a ball sobbing and reminding myself over and over that what I was going through was temporary and ultimately good.

Another surprise came in the morning during a phone call with my mother. I knew they'd be wondering how I fared the storm and so I called while I had the strength. After the typical half hour of chatting about nothing, something changed. The conversation went deep. She asked about my art. And I spilled.

I shared the evolution my work has taken. I let her in to the internal changes that have gone hand in hand. She opened up to me and let me in to her pain and suffering with her art when she was younger. We spent another almost hour revealing our hearts to each other. It was incredibly special.

After we wound up our conversation...the phone rang and...another special phone call.

Our Seattle storm.

The wind woke me about 12:30 am. Howling. I dozed back off for about an hour and then it woke me again. Both times, in addition to hearing the sound of such force, I could hear nonstop sirens. Restless night.

I'm one of the fortunate ones. With one big exception, our neighborhood appears to have sustained hardly any damage. And our power didn't go out. Not like the million plus others who were left without electricity.

Bad Faggot called this morning. He was checking in with each of his Seattle peeps to make sure we were okay. We like that boy. Thank you.

This morning, on my street, on the next corner, there is a massive tree down blocking the street. That corner was where I found the destruction in our neighborhood.

I can't believe that after a month, I still have all these chocolate coins left in my office.
Anyone want a piece of candy?

"All is a miracle. The stupendous order of nature, the revolution of a hundred millions of worlds around a million of stars, the activity of light, the life of all animals, all are grand and perpetual miracles."
-Francois Voltaire


"You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation . . . and that is called loving. Well then, love your suffering."
-Hermann Hesse


Life is funny.

The two worlds I wrote about a few entries ago is becoming somewhat easier to deal with. This is a special time for me, because of the deep healing that is currently going on. Knowing it is temporary, my patience grows and there is more tolerance for the pain.

My life lately is comprised of glimpses of glorious, joyful light that flicker in the dark. When I get close to the source of the light…it surrounds me. In that, I can do anything.

In stepping back, it almost feels elusive and the black threatens to contain me.

Breathing is important.

Yesterday, I stumbled upon another horoscope that really drove home the fact my life is right where it should be:

The good news is that the wound will heal. The bad news is that the medicine is almost worse than the injury. That scratch is infected. You need help to make it get better, even though it's not all that bad now. Unfortunately, the pills you have to take, while clearing up that stubborn but superficial flesh wound, will keep you within 50 paces of the toilet. So you're going to suffer to heal that abrasion. Sometimes you have to go through hardship to be made whole again. I know it sucks, but it's still better than the alternative. When you put it in perspective (don't heal the scratch, you'll eventually lose the limb), enduring a week of the runs isn't all that bad.

I carry a sense of awe with how life works in pushing us to face our demons and work toward healing.

I've been working out my thoughts on service in the context of leather since last spring. It seems it is time to share.
~~~~~~~~~~


Service –

(This is strictly my experience and personal philosophy. Your definition, reasons, and ideas around service may be different. This is not a one size fits all life. Each path is perfect.)


When I first encountered service, it was with my initial introduction to s/m almost 9 years ago. It was a d/s relationship and I desired to please.

I had a grand idea that my own pleasure didn't matter. It was all in what the top wanted. Since then I've learned I was holding onto a false sense of humility. It did matter to me. If I wasn't getting off on it, I wouldn't have engaged. I needed to learn to be honest with my own need for pleasure and not use another to justify my own desires.

It took a lot of work to see that I didn't have to earn my pleasure yet I could actively seek it out and claim it honestly, openly, without shame. And with fire and passion. This happened in training.

I think as women, especially of my generation and older, many of us were culturally conditioned to give up our pleasure for others. My teacher noticed this. If we ask, we are seen as selfish. We were molded to become mothers, nurturers, teachers and nurses. It was our role in the world to give to others, and only then, if there was anything left, we could make do for ourselves. The sad part is we have to make the time. Otherwise there is never any time left.


Service bottom.
I know I've kept it on my profile yet wondered if it would ever come back. My teacher’s stroke crashed out the idea of serving a top. Even though I wasn't his bottom, I was his student. In this role, we'd work on, speak of and I'd learn more about service.

Through him I learned about trusting my natural self, and when I did, the service would flow. There wouldn't even be a need for him to say "I need X." I felt it and would present it. Many times, these acts would happen in silence and the only acknowledgement would be a shared look. He'd point to our brains..."same mind". Sometimes he'd call it "dog-brain" and we'd both smile.

Since then, simply thinking about service in that context hurt. To protect myself, I tucked it away and pretended it was no longer a part of my life.


In therapy, I began to split myself apart in so many ways which led to discovery of strength in myself. My friends had always believed I was opinionated and independent. But now it was different. It was slowly coming from a place of substance and assuredness which was replacing the anger and rebellion that fueled me in the past.

Coming out is an ongoing process. Embracing my masochism was very difficult. Embracing my need for service many years ago was more so, especially because I’m female. Coming out to the person hidden within, the strong wounded child has and is the most difficult.

The harder I worked in therapy, the idea of service slipped to the side. I made a conscious decision to let it disappear because I had other things to work on. There was time enough in the future to look at it again if I needed to. But, down inside I had a fear it was gone forever.

I couldn't fathom serving anyone. Sure, in an s/m beating context, I would submit to the Top I chose to play with. But beyond the limited constraints of that type of scene, it felt no longer possible to serve.

I was growing up: becoming my own person. I knew service was not about being a doormat. I knew there was an exchange of energy, flowing back and forth. Yet I had no idea how it could fit in my life.

It seems, my shrink who understands service, in the sense of life as well as bdsm, never had a doubt that it would return to my personal sphere.

I look at the different ways that service is manifest and most no longer felt good to me. It was something I couldn't comfortably wear, let alone fit. It seems to work for others...but no longer my scene.

There was a nagging feeling that this kind of service was not done in my life yet I still didn't want to look at it...was not ready to look at it. I couldn’t even acknowledge the pain. It was too great.

In the last six months, service has slowly returned to my life. A short moment here, a quote there. Little reminders that would sneak up out of nowhere. To each, my reaction was powerful. Not only would I feel it in my belly, but also in my cunt.

It scared me.


During the spring, a top who was spending a few days with me said the only thing missing was that I didn't know how good I was. He reiterated, a few times, that I needed to believe in my potential...and then I'd be a powerhouse. His words scared me. First, because service was so much a part of my heart and I had closed that off...I didn't want to reopen it. I didn't want to feel the pain and replay the past. I didn't and still don't want to look at what this means for my future. There appear to be set roles in the larger community, regarding service bottoms. I no longer fit those. So once again, it would be a matter of creating something new. Sometimes, that idea becomes fucking exhausting.

But I took his words to heart and although I have no idea what to do with it, maybe it's okay. There is nothing to force. If being of service to someone is really meant to be a part of my life again, it will manifest itself. I still have no idea what it will look like, but it will be fine.

It's scary because it's something I know I want. Service, for me, is incredibly intimate. Service once was about being needed and feeling indispensable. In making myself as perfect as possible, I'd hope that someone couldn't live without me and therein I would find my validation. Hearing 'good boy' or 'good girl' would be the only way I knew I was good. Of course it was a temporary fix. That is very different than hearing the words but already knowing within myself I am good. And worthy.

Service, for me, is no longer about being taken care of. Somehow, I felt that in caring for another, I'd be cared for. I didn't believe that someone could care for me just because I'm me. I needed to continually prove my worth with outward motions.

Service is intimate. To be so connected to someone (and I don't strictly mean lover) where you know their needs. The two (or three, etc) are so entwined that you are their extra arms, their additional pair of legs. Before they reach, you provide.

There is a wonderful quote from the film "Gosford Park."

One of the head servants is speaking:

“What gift do you think a good servant has that separates them from the others? It's the gift of anticipation. And I'm a good servant. I'm better than good. I'm the best. I am the perfect servant. I know when they'll be hungry and the food is ready. I know when they'll be tired and the bed is turned down. I know it before they know it themselves."

I've had moments of that. Not only with my Teacher, but before...even with bosses. These were relationships that carried much mutual respect. One boss in particular. I was her assistant. She'd walk over to my desk to ask me for a contact, and I would already have the card pulled and waiting. Minutes before I would just know to pull it. Never knowing why, but it didn't matter. It was about following my intuition.

Service is a huge sexual act that most times has nothing to do with our society and culture's idea of what sex is.

Good service means being aware. Really being present to what is happening in the moment. Awake. Not self-conscious. Looking, listening and less talking. Not being invisible, nor shrinking in the corner, but not in someone's face. There's a delicate balance. It's an energy that rolls and flows in and out. It is a phenomenal electricity.

Now please don't misunderstand. Because I've written all this doesn't mean I don't worry, I don't succumb to inferiority, I don't feel weak, and I don't feel unworthy. Instead, I have a clearer picture of the why I would act in one fashion, and I can at least be aware of why I did what I did...and a new understanding of where I want to go and find it coming from a clearer place: a place that is true to me, and in being so, will not be manipulative or deceptive to another.

Looking at all this after years of conscious struggle with greater vulnerability is fascinating. In standing in increasing nakedness, old passions that are a part of my marrow are making their way to the surface again. Desires I stuffed because of pain cannot stay hidden forever.

In remaining open, things happen in time. For myself, I see that I couldn't not cleanly offer myself to another until I spent time submitting to myself, via my shrink.

Recently, for the first time in my life, and without shame yet instead with a voice thick with desire, I spoke the words “you are the one I want to serve.” Surprised and yet, regardless of what comes of it, it felt right.

I shot these during our very rare Seattle deep freeze a few days before leaving for New York and meant to post more of them at that time. But, I shot so many and it has been a tough edit. Therefore the procrastination.






~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Here is this week's Freewill Astrology and Mark Morford's column.

Black out.

The days are getting shorter. I woke late, about 6:30 and it was still dark out.

By 7:30 I was at work with a coworker and we heard a large noise. The power went down. No computers. No network. No phones. People couldn't even get into the building with the key card. We discovered it affected the neighborhood.

So we each headed home where I noticed our power was out up here as well.

There was nothing for me to do in my apartment. Nothing but paint. Paint and pick up the apartment a bit.
Although not pictured here, most of the paintings I'm doing are getting darker. Especially this morning. Not only am I no longer afraid to cover the page in blackness, but I'm finding comfort in it.

Dark days. Dark pages.
Whenever I reaccess my strength, I cherish the dark.
Whenever I try to hide from the dark and think I'm protecting others as well...it attempts to smother me.


Our power returned a little while ago and I'm waiting to hear from the office before trekking back in. It seems our server is still down because I can't access it remotely. I think it's time for food.

Today is a vacation day...trying to grab those hours before I lose them. So, it's finally about unpacking, laundry, a trip to the shrink and yes, more painting.

Yesterday I worked for a bit as well. I needed to force myself to the table. Worked a couple pieces. In this year of major change, one development that I cherish is how I no longer only have to be in a carefree place to work. As yesterday, I may have to push myself there...but in it, like my hot baths...there is a bit of solace.

What I look forward to is the time when I'll be able to tackle it for longer stretches.

After working yesterday, I noticed the paper that had been covering my drawing board. It's slowly becoming rich, filled with impressions of drawing after drawing that soak through the rice paper and onto this back page. The paper is thin and allows marks to seep through.



Metaphorical, isn't it?

In the last couple months, much to my great shock and surprise, I've found myself living between worlds.

Trust me, it's not the most comfortable way to live.

For the past year, I've noted an evolution that scares the fucking bejesus out of me. There is a change that I haven't really shared with anyone other than my therapist. And...with him, only recently. Yes, I've opened in snippets with a few, but most has remained within. Sometimes, I wonder if the discomfort will continue to heighten until I fall into and accept what seems to be happening. Pain comes with resistance. I know this.

Maybe, as I powerfully encountered over a week ago, there is a surrendering that needs to happen. With surrender comes release.

Maybe, until I can surrender, I will continue to feel trapped between realities.

Time is coming soon for me to jump...
...and right now I seriously wish I could turn back time.

Serious synchronicity~


Last weekend, while in NYC, I stumbled upon an image and knew I needed to dig deeper into Robert Motherwell. Today, a week later, I decided to go to the Kucera Gallery website to see what is on exhibit.

On view is Robert Motherwell - The Studio Editions (1972 - 1991).
Yes! I am so going to spend some time there.

After experiencing Brice Marden at the MoMA and now Motherwell...I know there is something in there for me...studying both Marden and Motherwell.

They inspire me.

Now that I think of it, back in '95 & '96, my harshest, most brilliant prof...the only one who never let me coast yet would push intensely, was into Motherwell. Quite a bit. I would try and try to understand...to see what he saw. I never could. It would leave me frustrated and even bereft.


Yesterday I fooled around with ink and rice paper.

Playing...


...playing...


...and more playing.

I woke at 5 am with a clear decision regarding ideas bantered around last night about my work. There is more than enough exposure right now. My heart is stripped. I am working on strengthening where I'm at. Any more revealing would be foolhardy. Time enough for that later on. Then returning to sleep, I slept deeply for another 4 hours.

It's now almost noon and I've yet to have breakfast. Instead, I had an idea about how to work this weekend. I've begun exploring rice paper with the ink. Remembering I have a piece of bamboo in my drawing box, the end cut to make it pen-like, I was anxious to see how this crude tool would take to the paper.

It glides. The movement and feel is a happy one. So, although I'm still not hungry, I'll choke down some food and then blatantly engage in mimicry. Copying an artist I saw at the MoMA last Friday. My art needs to move.

(Whoa, nice slip. I meant to write "My hand needs to move." I prefer "art").

A non-thinking time. Motion. And possibly copying from books. Simple. I'm excited that I don't care what it looks like. There is comfort in that place. The freedom to be. A way to allow light to enter.

Day off. And I'm at work for a few hours. A project needs to be completed before I can enjoy the long weekend, not having to return until Tuesday.

Walking in the door last night, I sat in my chair and almost fell asleep. It took everything not to be in bed before 9pm. So tired. No drawing.

Brushes are out. Paper pulled out of the tube. It's all waiting for me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"This much we know: The human race progresses in fits and starts and heaves and spits. While many of us like to envision some sort of big epiphanic transcendental whoop that will wake everyone up in a flash and a gulp and an orgiastic squirt, in fact, change comes in lurching sidelong waves, in oddly torqued perspective shifts, two steps forward one and step back and three steps sideways and eventually praise Jesus hi Allah thank Buddha, we get there. Maybe. If we're lucky.

And really, given our wicked fun-loving deeply conscious stupidly bipolar natures, that's probably the best we can do."

That's the end of Morford's column for today.

Morford's words remind me of a past conversation. A few years ago Bryan asked me if I believed in progress.
"No."

My answer not only surprised him, but it surprised me. Yet I went on to explain that we may appear to move forward in one arena to then move back in another. In looking at the whole, the overall seems to balance out. We become enlightened in an area and there's a greater backlash of hate and/or ignorance in another. To me, it always seems to be a fluid dance.

Feels cynical, I know.

I'm not sure what I believe now except that if I worry too much about the overall state of humankind, I get depressed. The most productive thing I can do is focus on how I live my life. Am I remaining vulnerable? Am I honest? How can I best connect with others? And even those questions are big questions...at times requiring mammoth execution.

Thick fog today.

Although I had truly hoped to work yesterday afternoon, it was not meant to be. We had an intense meeting, very difficult for me, that lasted until after lunch and it wiped me out. I left the office not even able to speak to anyone. At home, I needed to sit in total silence for a few hours. No music. No tv. No drawing.

Tonight. I have to work tonight.


A little pimping. For those of you who haven't checked out Uppity Faggot...do it. In addition, if you're a foodie, UF has begun writing about food there as well.

(photo of a piece of sculpture done by one of our scholars and gifted to our scholarship manager.)


I returned from NYC with many gifts, one being a new fire in my belly for my work.

This afternoon I look forward to returning home and standing at the drawing table. The doubt and hesitancy I've carried for weeks is gone. My hand hungers to move. The sensations in my being long to be released on paper.

Right now I no longer care if my work is understood or liked.
There is a fearlessness inside and it will be tapped.

My spirit is thankful.


Here is this week's Freewill Astrology and Mark Morford with Gift Giving for Dirty Contrarians.

Memory.

A photo taken while at breakfast Monday morning.


Today was a challenging day. Although tired and jet-lagged, I managed to work the full day. Well, somewhat work. A good part of the morning was spent fidgeting and catches glimpses of the weekend. By afternoon, it seemed everyone in the office needed something different, all at the same time. My current workload was put on hold to accommodate last minute requests.

Yet still even in that frenzied time...a memory would quietly return and then resound throughout my being.
A look. A word. A smell. A sensation.

There is so much to take in from my time away.

I'm at JFK, waiting for my flight home.

It's been a full weekend away, returning to Seattle with an abundance of sweet, luscious memories, growing awareness into some old wounds, greater knowledge about my duty as artist and much, much more.

I enjoyed becoming a birthday surprise for a good friend on Friday and meeting some new friends on Saturday. Some of this weekend's glorious sex consisted of good foods, viewing the work of a few powerful artists which forced me to honestly look at my experience, attending a wonderful play and many other intimacies. I received a great gift which played a huge part with healing around my love of leather service.

Four days of stepping into darkness to reach the light...touching pain and fear to then rise up from the gutter. Seeing the impact of my falsely perceived inadequacies only to overcome and feel the strength. Immersion in the redemptive power of two.

Closing my eyes I can feel a multitude of emotions.

Yes, I am blessed.


(You...you were perfect. Thank you.)

I saw some art yesterday.

It fucking pissed me off. I didn't know what to do with it. Let's make matters worse. By chance I happened to be introduced to the artist. He said something about coming to view his work hoping for a revelation.

It made me very angry.

How dare you produce and have a major show that consists of very abstract work and as creator not know the secrets contained within? How can you impart any wisdom to others when they in turn attempt to take it in?

I don't know where I'm going with my work. I don't know what it is. I don't know what I'm doing. But I sure as hell would hope to have some fucking revelation of sorts before showing the work.

It seems not to be the case.

We are all made to be fools.
Life demands it.

As it was explained to me, our creations are our children. In raising kids, we don't know who they'll become. It about the day to day discovery. The same with art.

This does not sit well with a strong analytical capricorn.
Yet I know that my feeling side is equally as strong. Therefore the continual battle.

My work and my heart are in the same place. I'm trusting and digging. Opening. Taking risks. I'm terrified most of the time. And I haven't a fucking clue what I'm doing, where I'm going, what it all means.

I am stretched so thing. So raw. I feel overly sensitive. And a part of me wishes I never began this journey. This awareness crap is for the birds.

Sometimes I feel trapped because I can't do anything else but move forward. It's a continual steady motion into unknowing.

Thinking of my painting...I am angry.
I'm angry that what I'm learning I wasn't dealing with 10 years ago while in school. I'm angry that I'm blinded to the energy in work. I'm angry that I can't see my work for what it really is.

Yes, I am most angry that I can't see my work for what it really is. I'm angry that my demons blind me to what is in front of me.

My art. My heart. It's all the same.

And it makes me sad.

I'm almost 47 fucking years old and I'm just now beginning to learn this stuff? Where am I going? What does each mark I place on paper mean? Where does it go? Why is it there?

Why should I care?

Yeah. I'm really scared today.

Yesterday was a pivotal day and it shook me.

Standing in the Museum of Modern Art, looking at these paintings, my face was wet and this time...I wasn't sure why I was crying other than I was carrying a buttload of emotion.

But I do know why. If I close my eyes and am honest with myself, I know another reason for the tears. In these paintings...I saw my work reflected back at me. I saw my potential.

And I don't understand it.
And again, it scares me.

Art needs to be done from the belly...the cunt...the cock. I always thought I had. But it's from my head. Slowly over the years I've opened to creating from the place the fire resides. In these last few months, it's heightened. A frenzied push to that edge. What are limits? The edge. That non-negotiable place we dare not step over. Maybe the edge continually gets pushed. The stronger we become, the more we see, the larger our heart...the edge moves.

The work.

My insight last week occurred while I was at work. I was looking at this and it struck me. At work, and again tears. Isn't there a day that goes by without tears? Not anymore.

I stared at the image and saw the truth. I knew it was truth because it was a familiar voice I first heard during my thesis year. At the time it felt too big and too terrifying so I silenced it. I chose to rest in my current laurels. The comfortable place. I was loved. My work was adored.

My epiphany is that I have been dumbing myself down with my work all these years. I've known that I needed to go to the ledge. Seeing the view, I dared not go. I already knew I was a fucking freak. If I pushed my work in the direction it ached to go, my freakiness would be cemented and I would never be able to run from it.

If I chose not to play it safe, no one would like my work. No one would know what to make of it. What if I couldn't understand it myself? What if we all were puzzled and made to feel uncomfortable by my paintings? What if, as I saw yesterday, there were no revelations to attain or offer up?

So I took the road most travelled knowing it would please everyone else. My work has been a milkshake, gulped easily through a straw. No chewing involved. In doing so, I would access the false feeling of fitting in. For a little while, in the midst of my paintings, I would feel loved.

Fear. I speak of fear often. It seems I carry it on my shoulder. Fear has become a part of my life. I can't deny it. I fight it. And at times, I succumb to it.

I don't think we ever get rid of fear. Maybe it is as crucial as the blood coursing through our arteries. Fear drives us to do what we may not do otherwise.

One of the most pivotal lines (out of a few) in Shortbus that still haunts me is at the end of the film, Justin Bond performs "In The End" written by Scott Matthew. He sings "in the end, you'll find your demons your best friends."

To embrace those demons that carry the fear...maybe life is all about learning how.