The Dream

Today, the 15th of January, I am reflecting a bit more intently than usual on the words of Martin Luther King Jr. This is truly the first stir of disquietude over my lifetime, watching the world around me and all of the cruh-aaaazy news. I owe that fact to being a caucasian in a snowglobe of safe charm. Growing up run-of-the-mill middle class in a little mountain town did not contend with much struggle to survive. I see the problems in our world and try to empathize, but I can only imagine the real injustice that happens from one country to the next.

I only remember a few Presidents growing up… the only thing about George HW that I can recall was Barbara Bush being ridiculed on magazine covers at the grocery store. My memory of Bill Clinton is curtailed to the Molly Shannon playing Monica Lewinsky on SNL. By high school, George W was in charge and I was just starting to understand the climate around others as the leaders in the White House change. Seeing American flags proudly up in rows along the sidewalk today, I close my mind of the headlines from last week, of the lamentable remarks reportedly made by our current President and exhale, remembering that for every Donald Trump born cradled in a silver spoon, there is a Martin Luther King Jr, ready to use their innate ability to connect with others and conquer the darkness that some try to use for gain.

In this illustration, I used the infamous mugshot of MLK in Birmingham, AL… the numbers reflected are changed to our current year. I couldn’t help but replace the four-digit inmate number to 2018, showing that from the time that picture was taken, in 1963, to now, we are still fighting and protesting similar, if not identical issues. We are still imprisoning minorities at higher rates, and therefore, letting the landslide of unjust treatment based on race plow through and destroy us. There are peaks and valleys, of course. We had a quiet eight years, but it only took one orange asshole to bring the white supremacists out of their rat dens. The hope is that history will repeat itself, in the way of a leader, an activist, who can bring an effacious message to the masses and create a ripple of positive change, worthy of a Federal Holiday. Behind this portrait are flowers, intended to be white poppys, a symbol of peace and pacifism. Yes, I understand the slight distaste of using a white flower to shout out the Civil Rights Movement, but it’s far less cheesy than using a peace sign.

I’d like to look at this image and not see the current year being a relevant token of duress and slanted views toward race and religion. I’d love to see society pledge to cogitate about the loss of freedoms, fear of law enforcement and likelihood of poverty in common-toned groups of people, and look beyond for a sense of togetherness that is completely achievable if all links in the chain are properly hanging on. Today we can hope for such a massive leap in humanity, that is, after all, the dream. Happy MLK day, let us not take his courage for granted.

Depression and the Dark

“If it’s your decision to be open about yourself, be careful or else”---

Elliott Smith had the power to make people feel his pain, or at least, come face to face with their own, and he versed those emotions into a beautiful package. With most music, my ears tend to hear the riff or rhythm first, not the lyrics, so it’s almost like I’m held hostage in frozen contemplation as his voice gently and so melodically echoes his dark affect. I love Elliott as the person he was, and for the limited amount I do know beyond his songs, I view him as an inspiration and often play his music at the drafting table. His work was one of the most authentic, honest products of a modern artist- in my humble opinion. He took his scars and highlighted them, no shame, no apologies, just an unlikely collection of genius from the parts of himself that most people repress and deny.

I found his music in my early twenties, a time when I was still fervidly trying to pretend. I remember those years of not understanding myself or my past and stubbornly pushing to impress and please others. I know better now and look at that span of a counterfeit person in the rear mirror. Some are uncomfortable with a transition like that. I’m not the same person, this isn’t me, I need to find happiness again. I’ve heard this and I wish terribly I had Elliott’s talent to put his woes in a display box so others could understand. Yes, I have been hiding in a pit of a deeper sadness than I’d like to remain, but I have learned a lot about my own identity down here too. As I allowed myself to feel jaded, I also accepted the release of a facade that ultimately led me here. What used to consume and stress me out beyond logic, is now unapologetically me: I am late for everything; I procrastinate; I am infuriatingly unprepared. Years of trying to muzzle those traits led to a complete shutdown of also my better qualities. So, as others slap that ‘depressed’ label upon my forehead, I can’t necessarily argue but I can also point out that I have flexed the right to stomp out the bullshit that took so much from me. I understand it’s not kosher to talk about one’s mental insufficiencies, but if Elliott has taught me anything, it’s that, sometimes, pain can be beautiful.

What is called depression is treated as a malignancy, a spirit to be exorcised, an external problem manifested inside of us. Is it possible that what we view as depression can also be a foundational part one’s character? When I reflect on my life, I recall dark, a dark that I felt comfortable inside of. I memorized Beetlejuice at 4, eagerly read Poe at 10 and started painting decaying bodies at 16- it is likely to assume that I am not a naturally chipper soul. I also remember trying to hide that dark, to put a tarp over it and pretend that I was a normal, bubbly girl in order to claim a high appointed social seat and feel accepted. The dark has always been present in me, but years of submerging it seemed to rumble back up as depression took it’s hold. I'm not applauding my depression as a vehicle of self discovery, but I know it has brought back the dark that is my identity. It has shown in my writing, in my art, in my humor, inside and outside of all of me. The fascination with the dark is who I am, but it must be balanced, which is what I'm reaching my arms out for currently.

My depression. I’ve heard that, understandably so. My depression, like it’s a tight mechanical ankle bracelet, reminding me how trapped I am. I grasp that it is foreign and unrelatable to those who haven’t been there, so I try not to take offense. It’s been hard. When confronted about it, I often, in my head, scream out their flaws and try to hit those nerves that would hurt them in return if vocalized- up your dosage, talk to a professional- Yeah? Why don’t you mind your damn business and take your own advice?

Realizing though, that I am loved and that instead of defense, meditation toward appreciation for their caring is the best direction. With that, I hate the dependency on my little red pill, and the compliance to a flush of pharmaceuticals everyday. I understand that I need it. I’ve never been good at chemistry, but the simplicity that without my meds, a deeper state could turn harmful, is enough to keep me refilling. Thankfully I also self-medicate with the help of my green friend, which keeps evenings mellow and creatively fueled. That remedy is probably 90% of finding myself as I pull out of this pit. (That's a different subject entirely, but I plan to pursue it another time).

Coming back to the perfectly-put lyrics of ‘Memory Lane’ above, ‘be careful or else’ seems to feel hauntingly true. The first thing to go was trust of other human beings, no matter how close. That warning strikes inside me, the layered moments of exposing my flaws and losing my grip of the prison that was trying to please. As I begin to trust again, and become vulnerable to love, after what I would describe as an awakening, I feel the balance tilting back to my own truest me. It is hard for us to be honest about ourselves and our shortcomings, so per Elliot, I feel cautious airing out my emotions of depression here, but it's my decision nonetheless. If I cannot be honest about myself, I cannot deem myself an artist.

When I felt that pang to write about my current state of mind, Elliott was my unequivocal muse. His music is like my Jimminy Crickett speaking to me, guiding me; I related in my own pain and felt grateful for his truth and exposure of those things that are a dry-pill-swallow for most. This portrait I found of a probably strung-out Elliott spoke to me. His look of apathy, his body slumped under the weight of his torturous thoughts. Technique in portraits is a practiced skill, so exposing a novice attempt at such is frightening to a degree, but I know where my intentions lie. He may look nothing like the gloomy portrait I gleaned from, but with my own feelings and honing in on the reasons for his tribute, it feels intimately right. Taking this artist, this representation of honesty and stroking the lights and darks of his face, in unison with his poetry, feeling my own raw emotion as I navigated his expression.

I suppose from in the birthright of dark I feel warmly cloaked in, the silver lining is that when things truly make me happy, even to the most subtle degree, I can stop and recognize them- freckles on my son’s nose, the smell of a delicious meal, the sound of a rainstorm on the roof… they stand out of the bleakness and offer the reminder that our minds are not meant to fake happiness, nor to allow the dark to control us. So, in celebration of these inner feelings, I plead that others accept their flaws and even sadness while never apologizing for having them. Here's to the Vincent Vangoghs, the Wednesday Addams, the Margot Tennenbaums and of course, the Elliott Smith's of the world who hide behind nothing and just give no fucks.

Cats: the best thing you think you hate

 Being in between projects is like getting your hair done. Researching inspiration for something fresh and new, then the excitement of what the outcome will finally be. Unfortunately, there is a long waiting period between steps, where you sit and wait and wait and wait and…. wait some more. That is how I feel, except, in hair terms, that waiting period is a few hours while chemicals suck the life out of your scalp; but with a personal art project, the suspended gratification is weeks, sometimes months, to figure it out. I am not a patient person, so I still do not understand why I like doing this to myself. In this interim, I am working on a commission for a friend, which will most likely dominate the entire upcoming holiday weekend. This cannot be posted yet, because the images are in their weird, awkward middle school stage. So as I sit and wait, I have tried seeking inspiration around me for a new subject...pondering for minutes that turned to a full 2 episodes of Chef’s Table, I couldn’t think of one thing that inspired me enough to post, until I got a tickle up my nose and pulled out a fine, white hair. I looked down at my cat sprawled across my lap, with no concern whether or not I was comfortable. There it was. I have been defending them for so long against the masses who have met one cat in their entire life, that happened to be an asshole and therefore, have declared a hatred of their species for life. It is that, or, the archetypal “I’m allergic”.... Whatever people, I am here from the church of Caturday-Saints and I am hoping to save any who haven’t been given the blessing of a cat in their life.

🐱 First of all, I’m sick of dogs-

I get it, I really do. Dogs are man’s best friend. They offer something 180 degrees different than cats. They are happy to see you 100% of the time, they follow you like a shadow, they protect you as their pack alpha. Then I think of all of the dogs I know, or see in pictures on social media: gleefully hopping in front of their owner on a leash. They are work. Walking their energy out, making them feel included, training them to tell you when they have to go, before they expel their worst throughout the house. Personally, I could never own one of these kinetic creatures. They require too much patience, have too many accident prone habits and show their affection just a little too easily. On top of that, I strongly believe that many of the dog owners out there, do not have the proper amount of time these animals need. There have been too many people I’ve heard of that kennel their dogs in the garage while they are gone at work for 40 plus hours a week…hopefully there is a special sort of chain-linked afterlife for those kind of folks.

🐱 Nature’s pocket-sized lethal weapon-

There is the super-massive-agile-natural-born-killer that stalks prey in the wildest parts of the world, then there is a shrunken-down, bite-sized version that roams my house. That. Is. Cool. My cat has left me bloody, slashed-apart rodent gifts that his natural tiger instincts set him out to kill, which I definitely appreciate. It does feel strange to praise this animal that has deliberately set a gruesomely dead mouse outside of the bedroom door, but he was showing me his cat love. The neighbor’s outdoor cat has done the same for me, except his gift was the sinister skull of a rabbit, with only the eyeballs intact and, oddly enough, the liver, cleanly plucked from the body and placed ritualistically next to the ogling skull. This happened twice, in the exact same place, with the exact same remnants, which tells me, cats are fucking smart.

This neighbor cat, Tux, who has befriended me, is a lot like Don Corleone. He rules the street. If another stray cat shows up, they aren’t there for long. Our street is also mostly rodent/pest free thanks to Tux. He has visiously fought off raccoons and kept them from returning.. So now I am free to pile up my trash can beyond the lid fitting all week without worrying about invaders...I call it garbage-Jenga.

🐱 Ummmm, have you seen them with a laser?-

If you’ve never had the shear delight of watching a cat stalk and pounce a mercilessly fictitious object, then I sarcastically hope you have enjoyed the waste of time your life has been. 

🐱The purr is a triumph-

When I hear that velvety-smooth sound, I feel an unnecessary rush of accomplishment. It’s an earned reaction, and damn, there’s nothing better. According to several studies, a cat’s purr can actually have healing properties. The rhythm and frequency of a cat’s purr has been proven to lower stress in humans. There are also links to purring lowering blood pressure, improved breathing and better heart health. Yeah, think of that when your squatting behind your dog with a plastic bag.

🐱 If the internet loves them so much, why doesn’t it marry them?-

The power of cat videos are real. I may have seen every single one in existence, which, yes, I am proud of. The fourteenth time watching a cat sit on top of a moving roomba is a spiritual experience.

🐱 Cat puns-

Yeah, thats right, cat puns. The one animal you can slip into more words than you can count on one hand. “Right Meow”- “You’re pawsome”- “Purr-fect”- “You’re kitten me”- all real life examples of phrases I frequently use.

🐱 I walk my cat on a leash-

Actually, I just put the leash on and carry him around, but the point is, if he has to be an indoor cat, I want him to experience outside somehow. I understand that people may think I am a danger to myself and others when I let him stick his head out of the window on car rides, but if dogs get to do it, I’m gonna let the cat have a try.

That's it. There's no profound message I'm seeking to prove out here. Just a little narrative on why cats are awesome. I have the same plea for the movement of raw fish, Pixar movies and really expensive socks, but for now, I've done my job. Cats: the best thing you think you hate.

Grab 'Em by the p****

Trying to keep my mouth shut about D.T has been hard. His myriad of unsavory behavior has been coming to a point that my brain is going to break if I don't talk about it. By no means will I hash out my feelings of his competency as President. Lets just leave that to the fake news. Instead, I am talking about my feelings on his character. Since he has been elected, I often imagine aliens landing in DC, scurrying along on their slug bodies toward the White House. Under their fishbowl helmets, one eye darts back and forth frantically (yes, it is drastically less scary to imagine them as the aliens from The Simpons) with drool dribbling down their chins they ask in a very Groaning way, "Take us to your leader".                          

Then the internal shudder we would feel as the marmot-topped creamsicle greets them. From the first words uttered, conflict would be brewing.. inevitably, his ego would blow a gasket. It wouldn't take long before he'd offend the invaders with his chutzpah. After he declare a net be constructed around the atmosphere to keep them from returning; Kang and Kados would look at each other's cyclopes faces, agreeing that they are a superior species and give the green light to their fleets to invade and begin enslaving humanity.

Yes, this is extreme. I understand the worst possible scenario is probably along the lines of nuclear warfare, so I'm going to remain calm. For the past several years I went about an apathetic approach to politics, believing the mysterious Bilderbergs are surely controlling our democracy. It's too big, too powerful to be an honest system. No chance that a President would have any real power. The government, from Congress to the President were merely a marionette to be the face for the people.                            

Since Trump has been in charge, however, I am beginning to think that either my disenchanted stance on government is regrettable as there is no possibility that any pyramid of power above the naked eye would allow this man as President... or....that they are directing the government and have a fantastically frightening plan for the future of the world. 

For now, I feel that I have laid the basic foundation of my opinion of him. As I said, I'm not here to talk about the President though. I have a few bones to pick with Mr. Trump, the person as a whole. Don, Donny, Don-man the Con-man, whatever he feels suits him best. It is no secret that his career has been a sequence of chasing celebrity status. Beyond his fame, his fortune, his schemes, his persona, there is still an oxygen breathing mammal with a a brain and beating heart (I think). I've been fascinated with his personality since he began speaking at Republican rallies; at the time, I still believed his pursuit to be President was just another innocent Trump PR stunt, how wrong I was. I've read articles by psychologists who've attempted to unearth the chain reactions in his life that resulted in his gargantuan presence. My obsession has taken me from doodling his face into a nuclear mushroom cloud to an actual vivid-as-hell nightmare involving extra terrestrials invading present day earth, except my subconscious came up with a much more formidable type of species than what I described above. Love him or hate him, it is true he leaves an impression. Being unforgettable is an important quality, and he is, perhaps, most successful in his life at just that. This is why he has been rightfully smeared for the word vomit he projectile hurled throughout his career and why I am so uneasy with him as the leader of the free world. While he has cast prejudice on just about every race, religion, mammal, reptile and marsupial in America during his campaign, I was most startled as the curtain of his entire career was drawn back to remind us of the chauvinist he truly is.  

Ladies Man-

It seems to be true: men with money and women with fake boobs go together like peanut butter and jelly. Do I find this offensive? A problem in society? No. It always has been and will always be.  So, rummaging through Trump's adult life, seeing the many beautiful women he wore as an accessory is a natural, normal biological event. The male bird with the most vibrant feathers gets first pick of the prime females, why wouldn't nature carry this over to the primate with the most net worth? The Playboy image he projects does make sense. When viewing women as a golden trophy of success, and a legitimate consequence of having a dizzying amount of money, I cannot find any fault in Trump. He has just done what is customary for a man of his wealth. Even though his past was littered with allegations of harassment, poor judgement of comments to media sources and authentic sexism, Trump was doing what Trump does best: lose lipped, rage induced, ignorant lynchings of anyone that got in his way.

Then he ran for President-

The history of his foibles and complete lack of self-awareness came blasting outward like Mt. St. Helens. At the time of each offense, years, even decades prior, it was just good ol' Donald being himself, but now he is running the highest office in the country. Can we as a people logically look at this man who has been so impetuous throughout his career and shrug it off as either ancient history or 'just' his personality? Not only that, but we were markedly refreshed about this little quirk throughout the campaign and into his presidency. Brand new comments and tweets began rattling out of his puckered little mouth constantly, proving there had not been any magical maturing juncture since those old headlines were broadcast.  We all know what he has said, there's no use in repeating any of it. Everything that has surfaced came out just last year or is running through your feeds at this very moment because, well.. he's Old Faithful, guaranteed to blow every 45 minutes to an hour and we are in the front row, getting soaked every single time.

I wish I had time to talk on everything he has bitch slapped with his mouth. Hispanics, Muslims, the environment, ohhhhh it's all so juicy and begging to be ranted about.. but alas, I have to stay on task... this whole post is based off of just one sentence: "Grab 'em by the pussy".... there it is, all we need to know about the man who is also making decisions about our taxes, economy, foreign policy, and- the almighty universe forbid- war.  Grab 'em by the pussy- because as a rich celebrity, you can do whatever you want. Grab 'em by the pussy, because I'm in a bus with a TV host who's better looking than me so I have to show my ape teeth to keep the alpha role. Grab 'em by the pussy, because "'em" are just meaningless females, who would giggle with flattery at the opportunity of intrusion by such a man.

The aftermath was, lets see...what's the word? Unfulfilling. Smack dab in the middle of a presidential campaign, this tape leaks and he has to answer to it. Then, he manages to sweep it over as though he were merely responding to a claim that he doesn't tip a customary 15% at restaurants. Just a brief, insincere apology to the American people, then the unforgettable excuse that it was just "locker room talk" and finally turning the pointed finger at Bill Clinton, who, let us not forget, was very much a ladies man, but he had game, no one forced Monica to do those deeds. So, that was it. He walked right over the coals and didn't get burned. If that doesn't say something about how behind our society is on equality, I don't know what will. As headlines seep out about unjust sentences for rich college athletes who've sexually assaulted women, the most disturbing concept that has come from this is that consent is a flexible word. That's why I am honing in on this one particular comment, out of the mass surplus of others; this one is so reckless because it balances the dial toward the side of the scale that there is a little grey middle between the line of consent and assault. Unfortunately, our public school system's sex education doesn't come close to providing instructions on properly protecting a banana from unwanted pregnancy, let alone what is and is not consent. Kids are now at the mercy of information from home, which we all know is such an infallible method; sons understanding that there is a rigid protocol of acceptance after the word no and daughters that anything after no is a culpable offense. Then, throw these kids together in low-lit, booze fueled college campuses and the lack of understanding creates a destructive storm. Factor all of that, then understand that the man in charge of our entire country, is making light of groping woman's genitals. The children watching him during the campaign, those hearing the adults in their lives discussing the topic, the term 'locker room talk' tossed around as an excuse for sexual abuse; the ghastly rationalization of those comments as just 'boys being boys'; all being heard by small, malleable minds journeying into those pubescent years where this impression becomes risky and potentially dangerous.

The Warrior Goddess-

I still feel like I haven't ranted enough, but if you've come this far, I'll spare you. This piece came to me as I was drifting off to sleep recently. That weird little limbo where you aren't awake but REM hasn't taken hold of you yet. That is a magical time where I can get some of the most hit or miss creative flow. My mind was obviously on the subject. Clearly that night I had been fuming about his attitude toward women; this wrinkled potato has gotten away with so much malfeasance and is now going to have at least 4 years of legislative access to make women's bodies even more proprietary. The images of Hindu Gods with multiple arms surfaced, each arm with a tiny little hand, extending out to grab various Venus Fly Traps resembling female genitalia. The significance of the carnivorous plant in my mind being: the illusion of innocence and vulnerability, no superficial hints of something clever and sinister awaiting that stubby little finger coming to invade it. The further I got on my sketch, I began realizing how insensitive it is to shove Trump's face onto an ancient deity for so many millions of people, creating a mockery of something they hold holy. That is not on my agenda. I was ready to give up on it, I have had to vow that I stay tolerant and conscious of all beliefs. As much as I want to tell certain JW's my inner feelings when they arrive on my front porch on a freakin' Saturday morning, I do not, basically to retain that I am not a hypocritical asshole. Then the thought struck my feeble mind: why not understand what these Hindu Gods represent? Still assuming my Trumptopus should be retired, I found information on the very idol I had originally pictured... Durga. Suddenly, I am reading about the warrior goddess of the Hindu belief, I am enthralled by her, I respect her, she is the antipodal example of Trump's ideal woman... everything comes swirling into a pertinent marriage of what I have been trying to say all along. My eraser hit the ends of those devious little Venus Fly Traps. Instead of allowing his portrait to sit in stagnant place of a God, he was now in his own egotistical, self-appointed throne above women, believing his money and power is the Sun and women orbit him in constant graciousness for his mere acknowledgement of our existence. Gorilla arms sprawled out to grab what he feels is rightfully his. Beyond the seemingly fragile womanhood he grasps, are the elements that represent Durga's strength. Now, bare with me,  I've only done some light reading on Durga and have seen and read different descriptions of the purpose and symbolism of what she represents and what she yields in her many hands. She is the warrior goddess, symbolizing the divine forces and positive energy of creation, vanquishing evil. I have also read her referred to as 'Mother' goddess as she protects her followers compassionately. The literal meaning of the word Durga is a fort, protecting her devotees as a fort would an empire. Perhaps that sums it up, there is so much more information but I must continue on... then her many arms, what she holds in each of those hands according to my research are as follows: her first upper right hand is a Chakra, representing dharma, or duties and righteousness, holding that we must be present for our responsibilities in life. In her first upper left hand is the conch shell, for contentment in performing these duties without bitterness. In her second right hand, the sword, to eradicate our evil vices and qualities. The bow and arrow in her second left hand is a reminder to hold true to our character/values through life's difficulties. In her third right hand is a club for surrender; so that no matter what comes across our path, we accept it graciously. The third left hand is my favorite, the lotus flower. This serves as our reminder to stay detached from an external world, just as the lotus flower blooms in the muddy, dirty water, smiling and giving its beauty to others despite its surroundings. The front lower left hand is a trident, for courage and the right is empty, palm out, representing forgiveness. Adding these symbols to each of my fly traps felt invigorating while learning of this beautiful philosophy presented in Durga, such an idyllic model of a true leader. It made me realize that despite my anger at America for voting in this jackass, the gravity is less heavy when thinking that he is a tiny little parasite and women are a vast mountain. He is one puny little dog, with a tremendous bark. His inappropriate comments liken to that of the same little dog that tore apart the garbage. Yes, it's maddening and he's gonna forget it ever happened. Due to his inbreeding, he may never learn from his mistakes, so, you pat him on the head and let him run around and chase his tail some more.

No matter our differences in politics, religion or occupation, I feel certain that as a species which dominates half the population, we have the same common opinion that our bodies are not all inclusive for even the wealthiest man. As long as women continue to be educated, make changes in their fields and breed responsibly, this putrid example of a leader will do no damage to our existence. His words are all that we need to know to be cautious of the world we live in under his command. Beyond that, it is on our shoulders to shape the future including fostering healthy role models and words for the generation that will proceed us. I suppose that's my mantra on everything, always keep the next generation informed to avoid the mistakes we are making now. Indeed, it is a strange time in history to live, but women have been through much worse. Perhaps the best part is that the joke is on Trump, I mean, those tiny little hands are good for just about one thing nowadays, his Twitter account.