Apollo

There was the whisper of a man
floating in on the sweet crispness of the
lost summer charging into brilliant autumn.
Laughter and roses brought him to my sight.
Behold, Apollo, the golden glory,
the hope for a shriveled womb.
Light touches and genuine affection witnessed by a mountain moon, but then,
gold-tinted glasses broken with technology.
His mane is not as lustrous. Or so I think.
His height not as impressive. Or so I wish.
Laughter not as joyful. Or so I hope.
Smile not beholden to the glory of light and creation, for the butterflies, in their whirlwind of longing,
batter their frail bodies
on my rib cage and collapse in a river
of unshed tears.
I smile, in my confusion, and toast
to his happiness.
I convince myself I am not broken.
I am not longing
for the feel of his skin on mine.
His breath on my hair.
His taste on my lips.
He was a whisper,
fleeing on the wind, back to
Mt. Olympus, to his goddess,
and I, the human moment,
a friend.

Deep Sigh

I've done this to myself. I've broken my own heart. I let myself hope and believe that it was mutual. That in all our flirting, he had feelings too. But, alas, I listened to what others had to say, convinced myself that "domestic partnership" was just a joke, let the texts and flirting and jokes be something of feelings on his side but, no. He really is dating his friend, the friend he told me about. So I admit that I have feelings, and I'm broken. I'm broken on a level I forgot I had or even knew that I had. But unrequited love will do that, every time, won't it? I pine, I perish, and I find myself to sensical to wax poetry about broken hearts and unclaimed loves. So I do what I do best and run as fast as my chickeness will take me.

Mermaid Tail!!

I just purchased a new camera. A beautiful Nikon D5100. And I discovered that you can get water gear for it. You should know what went through my mind. There are photographers whose entire careers are strictly mer images. It's a very specific skill sect which few have taken the time to acquire. You have to be SCUBA certified, knowledgeable about dive equipment, understand the water/currents you'll be working in, a strong swimmer, CPR certified, and all manner of other things I'm sure I haven't thought of in my ponderings. But this is me. This is smashing of my loves: mermaids, water, photography, art, imagination. So, lovely Dana in all her acting and faerie glory immediately popped into my head (she is a red-head after all). I told her my idea (didn't really give her much of a choice in the matter), and she wholeheartedly agreed. And so my lovely faerie friend will be my first mer-model. Therefore, in addition to having to get the water gear, I have to make Dana a fin (and will also be making myself one), and found this completely awesome How-To video by  Sasha the Fire Gypsy via the lovely Carolyn Turgeon's mermaid blog. Life is just glorious!!

Go swim!!

Now to find a monofin...

Moving on and Growing up

Through the years, I have not been the best to listen to what God is actually saying. I hear what I think He is saying and then swim full force into the coral reef,battering myself against it till I'm angry and exhausted. Slowly, I'm starting to listen better, figure out faster that what He is saying is not exactly what I heard, and calm down before the water is bloody and the sharks are hovering. Life has been so great lately that when my latest upset happened I don't think I even really had been ramming the reef that long before I figured out that it wasn't working.

So I'm looking for a place to live. And I'm looking for a roommate. The roommate I thought I had lined up wasn't as certain as I was about moving out and rooming, so instead of waiting for three years like I did for my last supposed to be roommate, I'm moving on. I need out so pray that God sends me a roommate.

Colors of Healing

I lay down to sleep tonight covered in Lamp Black, Prussian Blue, Lemon Yellow, Burnt Umber, & Titanium White. I have painted. Did I paint what I needed to paint? No. But I painted. And that means I'm working through the ball of emotional mess. Or trying to start. It means I can start to heal. It means that the art can start to flow. It means that everything I've started to give up I can get back. I can read. I can write. I can paint. I can photograph. I can lay under the trees and watch thhe clouds. I can remember what my soul enjoys. I can visit Kalea again. I can open myself up to a relationship again. Well maybe not quite that.

Good night world. Dream of fairies in the trees and mermaids in the waves.

Friends

As I find myself in uncharted waters, I'm beginning to notice the strength that others see in me. They don't have standards and expectations for me. They just know I'll do it. They know I will swim against the current when I need to and go with the flow when I must. They don't just have faith in me, they have knowledge in me. And I'm currently finding that I need their strength, their knowledge that I will beat my fears, their love and support. I am a mer on land, and I am walking a new path.

You know how when your life is just going along so swimmingly that you just keep waiting for the current to snag you and toss you about until you're gasping and trying to make it back up for air? I'm there. I'm waiting. And it just keeps getting better! No current! No gasping! Promotion. Raise. Quit my scrapbook job, so I'll only be working 40 hrs a week. I get to paint again. Friends asked me to be the photographer for their wedding. Friend asked me to illustrate her books. Looking at moving. Life is just peachy!!

Tears, Inappropriate comments, and Souls

Lying in my bed, listening to the rain, and crying over the offensive things that were said to me at work last night, I decided to write about why such comments are so offensive.

Last night, at my second job, a middle-aged male came around the corner from having his meal with his WIFE, saw me smiling behind the cash stand, and asked, rather loudly, if I would go home with him because he liked redheads. I awkwardly laughed and told him it wasn't natural, but instead of him letting it go, of being grateful that some woman actually married him, that I wasn't roundhouse kicking his knees out of placement, he continues to ask me what time I got off. Repeatedly. Really? REALLY?

And as I think on it, I find it bothers me so much because it's ridiculously asinine to make comments like that. What point could that have possibly served? All I can think about is sitting in Dr. G.'s Chaucer class and discussing how physical attraction is what initially attracts us to a person. Why? Because we let it. I don't know if I will ever understand it, because what good is the outward appearance? Really, what good is it? It fads with age or is taken away with an accident. What is so hard to understand about that? We are not "bodies with souls" as Jim Butcher's Queen Mab so distinctly puts it, but rather "souls with bodies". The shell is a temporary residence. We should be attracted to each others souls. They're the stuff of eternity.

So, dear readers, I've decided I have three choices: 1. Marry a blind man. 2. Become a nun. 3. Travel and paint with a completely platonic male friend to keep the creepers at bay. I like number three best--LB, let's go!

First Loves and "What If"s

I just discovered that my "first love" is married. Has been for a couple of months. My heart stopped, watched my youth die, and started back up again with a bit of remorse. I've long since dispersed my feelings for this male on the winds of yesteryear, and really am quite happy that his life is going so well for him, but it still seems to slap my year long commitment in the face. I've made this commitment to God for no dating for one year. An entire year of no dating, no giving out my number, as minimal amount of flirting as possible, in order to work on all of my trust and commitment issues. You know, taking that time for me before I get into another relationship and then figure out that I need to work on my issues. But still, in spite of everything, I can't help but muse over the "what if"s. What if at 15 I hadn't freaked out when he sent me a lovey-dovey email poem with flashing, red hearts that summer in Oregon? What if I had been honest with myself from the start? What if the next summer I hadn't lied to him when he asked if I ever had feelings for him? What if I hadn't set him up with a friend who broke his heart? What if he hadn't moved away? What if I hadn't waited four years to confess my feelings for him that first semester of college? What if he hadn't disappeared, again? What if that New Year's Eve two years ago I had leaned in and kissed him like I so desperately wanted to? What if I hadn't called him two days later and explained to him every single reason why we couldn't be together (because, oh yes, he had still felt it also) which literally put him in the arms of his new bride? What if? What if? What it!! Would it be me? Would I be a newly wed? Would I have gone to Lee and met Dana and Kathryn and James? Would I have discovered I'm a painter? Would I have studied and expanded my mind? Would I be wondering about the life I could have had?  Would I have experienced half the things I have experienced? Seen half of what I've seen? Would I be who I am? I rather think not. I can't really imagine that version of myself. I still can't even really see myself getting married down the road, but with him, would it have been different? He was that tantric love of youth, after all. Are the rules different that first time? Is each subsequent relationship more focused on the drive of tomorrow to experience that zealousness of now?

Harry Dresden, How I Love Thee

If you're a book lover, chances are you've read a book that just leaves you feeling lost in the wake of it's epic-ness. You have so many thoughts and inquiries and a sense of needing more. You sit and revel in the intense feeling of a well completed tale and scoff at your own amateur attempts. Well, I just finished one. Ghost Story, Jim Butcher's 13th book in the Dresden Files, is just that. I know, the 13th book sounds like it would just be dragging the story on, like the 13th Land Before Time movie, but Butcher's style is nothing like that. If anything, he actually gets better with each subsequent book. If you're looking for a new read, something for both men and women with a touch of magic, a lot of mystery, quite a few fiery explosions, and some romance tossed in, check out Harry Dresden, Chicago's own snarky personal wizard detective in Storm Front and then go out and buy the second and third and fourth and...you get the picture. Also, if you're a fan of audio books, this series is read by yummy ole Spike from Buffy, yep James Marsters. And just as lovely is the graphic novel versions that Butcher is putting out. Welcome to the Jungle is the first installment. Everything about this series makes me happy.

Birthday Puzzle

We got in these really fun puzzle cards at work. My stepdad's birthday is Wednesday. I broke out my Stampscapes and made him a puzzle birthday card.

I made sure to scramble the pieces up when I was finished and added an insult to the front of the envelope. It says "Have fun, Old Man!"

Then to add injury to insult, I put a little taunt on the inside of the envelope.

To soften the blow of having to put together his own birthday card, I threw in a batch of the homemade licorice candy that he we nuts over at Christmas time. Yum!

St. Paddy's Day

Happy St. Paddy's Day!!

Decked head to toe in green and shamrocks, I was amazed at how many people asked me if today was St. Patrick's Day. Yes, all you people, yes.

A Weekend Trip

So, I traversed the lanes of I75 this weekend in my brief return to Chattanooga for Lea’s birthday. I was finally able to gift her with the painting that I had been working on for over a year. Heartfelt and bittersweet, the painting of her and her dad at her wedding is something that I have wanted to paint since his death, and have worked on in stints.

But, alas, it now hangs on the wall of her and her husband’s apartment, and I can finally move on to the other paintings that my fingers have been wanting to create, but my heart would not allow me to move on to for fear of never finishing this painting. But I can now, and intend to start immediately on this one for the cover.
Anyway, there is nothing quite so grand as just getting away for the weekend to a place that you love. There is something magical about the art district of Chattanooga, and at breakfast this morning part of it revealed itself. Sitting on the patio at Rembrandt’s, over this grand concoction of French toast out of French loaf, Mascarpone cheese, and fruit compote and kiwi pear tea, I came to a conclusion. That little corner of the world must be very similar to what it once was before the assault of 20th century technologies. Plus, their rum balls provide a magic all their own.
Then, on the drive home I was enveloped in a rather thick fog through most of Knoxville and all of Sevierville. Fog is quite magical when the lighting is right, and it was till the miles of construction on 66 with its glaring orange and white barrels came into view. Up until that point I had envisioned myself being swept through dimensions and entering a world where magic governs the land and mermaids lounge on the moonlit stream bank. But it was all shattered with that first construction barrel. Ugh. Sevierville.
So, from the odd dog pack on the side of the highway (rather Oliver and Company) to the two for one margaritas and the delight of Rembrandt’s with a splash of Charming Charlie’s, McKay’s, and the crazy, fun company, the weekend was a fantastic success. But, sadly, I now sit once again in the dulls of Sevierville and long for the day when everyday life is not centered in a tourist trap. Even if it is just another weekend trip to visit friends and wake up in the middle of the night to find that your leg has fallen asleep because of the dog using it as a bed.

Opportunity

I have recently been asked to do the cover art for a former professor's book. This is a fantastic opportunity as in it could lead to a contract. His idea is very specific and will be difficult, but utterly thrilling to accomplish. If five years ago someone had told me a would be a painter, I would have laughed at them. Yet, from that fateful moment I swirled that Titanium White with that Alizarin Crimson and paint thinner permeated my hair, something clicked.

A White Christmas

I remember a time like this, years ago, sitting on the back porch watching the snow fall in silence. A time before the hustle of adulthood set in, before the years of college, the bills, the jobs, the general demands of civilized society. Back in a time when the greatest expectation was a finished chore and the sharing of a toy. There’s something magic in the falling of snow. Something that allows deep breaths of renewal and general cleansing of the spirit. There are few things as powerful, majestic, and God given as the mighty roar of the ocean, but the silence of the falling snow, the world covered in white and purity, is a close competitor.

24

I recently turned 24. It shocks me to think in less than a year I will be a quarter of a century. And in all this birthday confusion, ponderings have bubbled to the surface. What am I doing? Why am I here? Why am I so damn scared to leave yet petrified to stay? Ya know, all those quarter-life crisis questions that haunt you in the middle of the night and force your exhausted self to count jumping mermaids which slowly start to lose solid form like "The Persistence of Memory" as sleep covers you causing bizarre and startling dreams.

I worry and wait and sit, confounded by what I think I want to do and what I am actually doing.

I long for something I'm not quite sure of yet.

I want to break away from society.

I want to run.

I want to see mermaids playing on the shore and follow their laughter into the future.

Sevierville

Already I feel as if my soul is being sucked out. This place does that to a person. I feel as if I’ve been placed in purgatory with every piece of my car I unload and job application I fill out. It is so much more than hate I have for this place—it’s fear. As I listen to a neighbor’s morning alarm go off (at 10AM, I may add), I realize that I’ve been up for a few hours and done nothing. That’s what my life will be like if I stay in this place. I keep telling myself that this is just another summer break, that I’m biding my time till August, but the truth is that it’s not. College is done. I won’t return to Lee in the fall. While I plan to move to Atlanta and live with Dana, I’m afraid of what this place does to a person. I saw my brother yesterday, and it appears as if he’s given up. He told me that he’s realized that it doesn’t matter where you are because it’s all the same. I don’t want that to happen to me. He used to want to get out of here. I don’t want that to happen to me. I can’t let that happen to me. If it does, my art is lost—the loss of that would be too much. All these telephone wires and cars and apartments—they offend my sense of purpose. Such destruction and death we have wrought for the sake of money. Such an evil thing. A piece of paper or cloth and people murder for it. It is ridiculous the emphasis put on possessions. Watching a mother finch teach her baby finches to hunt for food, I realize how much of joke humans are. So much potential destroyed by greed. Tis disheartening.

Never going to graduate

Frustration mounts as the end nears. Oh, wait, it doesn't near. It keeps on and on. 

This stupid cross cultural is driving me crazy. It looks as if I won't be able to graduate till December now. And I still have to find a cross cultural. Someone shoot me now, please. I promise I won't sue.

Enough melancholy. Art time.

"Water Nymph"
This was an assignment where we had to take part of a painting and recreate it. This is from Franz Marc's "Waterfall" piece.

"A Girl and Her Book"

This piece was commissioned. It is untitled.

"Van Gogh Meets Ocoee"

"Love in the Time of Hollywood"

"A Lovely Cup of Tea"

Bouncy Ball

Last week was my last spring break ever. It was delightful and full of mirth and enjoyment, but I came to realize just how scared I am with graduating and moving on in the world. What if I never get to live with my fairy friend again? What if my marvelous college friends fall into the abyss of lost communication? I always shudder at change. I remember going through this exact ball of emotion when graduating high school. In fact, I chose the college that I did because my best friend was going here. Life is a giant bouncy ball. One that's out of control. You're bouncing on the wall, desk, floor--hitting everything. Then you finally stop.