I’ve always been a loner. I feel comfortable on the hills, the trails, looking out my window at the blue sky. Listening to the hawks on a cold January day. It’s quiet, my dogs by my side. Or sitting writing or painting in my studio. Nowadays to fill most of my social needs I join conversations on Facebook about instapots and menopause. In my radio interview the other day I said that I don’t have friends coming to my house, I live an isolated life as a stay at home mom, an artist, and a writer. I said my friends who I know and don’t know, my readers, the people who interact with my paintings, the collectors, I must communicate with them, with the outside world. I don’t know why. I am. Everything seems like a possibility. The farther I go into my artistic self the more real I become. The Sycamore tree outside is still bare, the sky is greyish blue. There’s not much warm sun to sit under outside or I would be there now. I’m in the house writing. I’ve been working on my manuscript for my new book. It’s all about babies. It’s raw and uncensored. My fertile and unfertile self. A guy at my art talk last week said while I was talking, and he was holding and leafing through one of my gigantic painterly notebooks, that the notebook was like my baby too, another baby I cared for and gave birth too. I realized that all the art I did during my early thirties has been destroyed and was all about fertility and babies and birth and secrets. They were made from wool, and glue, and plaster, and string, and musty old things. Stockings, black sheer and fishnets. Pods, fertility goddess inspired, death and rebirth. But during this time, I didn’t write. I was scared my husband would read my journal and think I was unhappy, or crazy, or just take everything out of context. So, I squeezed and pounded and stitched fabrics and canvas and old garments. I ripped and tore and scratched. I remember once I was in my studio at my old house, the house Alan and I lived in before this one. It was just a room in the house. Alan and the landlord were outside my room, looking at something in the house. I was working on a painting. I was scratching and scraping the paint off with my nails. I knew I should stop but I couldn’t. My nails were getting ground down, soft and black with paint. I knew the land lord was probably worried about what I was doing and that I sounded insane.
Month: January 2018
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My throat hurts. I took too much medicine to sooth myself and I feel like laying down, the kind of way you feel when there’s a gas leak in your house. I’ve done so well. I am so happy. I got my review from The Pacific Book Review’s and it is awesome! I can’t wait to share it! The reviewer also loved my art work. But I can’t celebrate because I fear I am getting the flu my kids have had all week. I’m also scared my husband is getting it and he’ll be super tired when he gets home too. What if I must take care of everything tonight but I get a fever, because I feel I’m on the verge of a fever. The other day at the park I got this strange feeling, my body was so still, my mind, it was like a drug. But I had a feeling it was the Flu Virus, working its way into my body. Taking all my energy. The next day, which was yesterday I made broccoli and mushroom soup and I’ve been gorging on it to stay healthy. I washed my hands a million times and didn’t share food with the babies all week. I couldn’t keep it up well enough or maybe too much of Jack and Fiona’s sneezes and coughs in my face! So, I’m scared. I have one and a half hours until my babysitter is off. I think I should watch a trippy movie or take a nap. I’m just anxious to work on my next book and get back into the studio and start my next series. I think I’ll take the next few days off and rest.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 