I notice the sound of my hands on the paper as I smooth down a piece of collage. So quiet and peaceful. After days of no break, no studio, no writing, no quiet time, this feels right. It’s been a stressful week, politically it’s been just like FUCK!! Keeping up with the news is a fulltime affair, what kind of crazy shit is Trump going to do today I think as I get out of bed. Please don’t let us be entering another war or starting a new war. I obsess about what countries could hit us with a bomb, could we be invaded and taken over or is America going to just obliterate every population of people that disagrees or get in the way of “American Interests”? It’s frightening, so when I get my break, babies asleep, I NEED to write and paint, even if it’s just for an hour. So many things have happened lately I’ve wanted to write about. Sweet things being mom. The other day when I was packing our picnic for the beach I wrote everyone’s name on our sandwiches with a sharpie. When I got to mine, I wrote “MOM”, her name came into my mind at the exact moment. “Mines the one with Mom written on it” I say to Danny as he’s handing out the sandwiches from the cooler, on a sunny shore, Point Reyes in February, we celebrate our freedom. Alan is upset because I don’t have Dad written on his. “It was personal” I say. I can’t think of the right words to describe the emotions I’m feeling. But it was because I was thinking about my mom, how we were a family, Danny, me and Mom. For the first time, I realized I’m the mom in our group now, in our family. I have entered mom’s role, taking some of that space, breathing some of that air she used to. I call myself mom for the first time and own it. I just now notice the fan blowing. My hands are cold and I realize I am running out of time in my studio. I have several paintings started, I want to get more painting time. Yellows and blacks and whites, collage, notebooks, need to add some marks. Need to get back to painting before I’m back in the house, in my life of wonderment and surprise.
Category: American politics
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Afternoon. Monday the 30th of December. Studio. Painting. Just wrote a piece about how I’m “Feeling”, politically. Can’t publish it. I’m scared. Scared of a police state. Loop in my mind. Back to the same thing here, again. Nothing we can do to stop them. Except something I’m afraid to write publicly. I don’t feel safe anymore. My computer doesn’t feel safe. Maybe it’s best if I don’t write anything about politics. Every time I think about what’s happening now in our government I start thinking the worst. I don’t feel like the politicians we have on our side are tough enough to stand up to the Trumps and Bannons of the world. I need to stop thinking. Breath. Worked in my studio today. Made some nice marks, once I let go of my literal mind. I can only do that. Make art and let go of my literal mind. I am completely totally open. Even in my pessimism I am a walking talking fully engaged smiling person. I love people. Sometimes I hate people too, but mostly my heart is filled with love.
Saturday, we went to Limatour Beach. The weather was perfect, sunny, fine sand. Jack and Fiona ran their hands through the sand and watched it fall to the ground. My husband, brother, and I drank wine and ate roast beef sandwiches. I felt like I needed to celebrate the last days of life as I’ve known it. I felt things shifting, my brother told me not to worry, that the courts can prevent a lot of what Trump is doing. It was a great day at the beach, and every day is a great day for me. I work in my studio, I write, I take care of my family and my dog, and I enjoy life. I’m one of the lucky ones.
I have one hour left. I feel the toll the stress I’ve gone through over what’s happening has taken on me. My back is tight and I’m tired. I got in trouble by my friends on Facebook this morning for sounding pessimistic about our resistance against the Trump presidency. I apologized, I don’t want to sound discouraging. I feel right now that my body and mind are fried. I am frightened about the fate of our world. I am disturbed about what’s going on. I say I shouldn’t write about politics anymore and here I am again. Maybe I’m panicking?
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 