Drinking Sake from the bottle,( I snuck it out of the new Japanese kind of fast food and Udon Noodle restaurant in San Rafael. ) Alan’s down stairs playing with the babies. I can here older kids outside yelling, “I can see you”. The neighbors hung balloons at the entrance of Baywood Terrace. When I drive by tonight I say, “They’re having a party and we weren’t even invited” I had the strangest day with the babies. We stayed home all day. It’s been a crazy week. Alan had to work on the black mold in the garage bathroom; a copper pipe on our water heater corroded, water seeped though the sheetrock. It stunk. But me and the babies laid low. In the morning they watched cartoons(way longer than pediatrics recommend) I work on my book. Read through all my pieces from the past four years. I only used pieces from the past two years in my new book, since Jack and Fiona were born. I wrote pieces for graduate school, where I found my writing voice in Afro-futurism and Contemporary Art classes. Then in the 2013’s I wrote about going crazy, infertility, and the twitch. Most of those pieces were in journals that I have incorporated into several collages. I think I should use those in my remaining notebook entries. They are crazy and raw, but paint has splattered on them now, they are all torn up. I am 46 years old, I have three year old twins. My mom’s death in 2008, Christopher, my miscarriage, and infertility came up a lot since I started my blog two years ago. With the birth of Jack and Fiona letting information that I had to share pour out of me. I use the internet, Facebook and WordPress to share my work, communicate with the world. I have been working in my studio like crazy. I think Jack and Fiona actually respect me Being an artist. I have been trying to teach them about writing. I showed them a paperback and showed them the computer screen. I said that’s what happens first before it’s a book. I can show them the printing of some pages next time. But they respected it. Drinking Sake straight from the bottle is not bad, not bad at all. Nigori. I want to go check out my studio. I am so excited about getting my pieces photographed. It’s gonna be cool. What else can I say? I’m a painter and a momma and a wife. I have a dog and live in San Rafael. I’m a dreamer and a drifter. (in my before kids life) Do you know me yet?
Category: Domesticity
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Layers of skin and organs and blood and pain. Layers of joy and pleasure and softness. Layers of hardness and calluses and sun spots and crusty toe nails. Layers of stress and relaxation. Of noticing, of ignoring. Of panicking, of accepting. I hate myself. I love myself. I hate him, her, them, us, our world. I love him. I love her. I love our world. I love my dog. I hate my dog. I love my chair. I hate my chair. Fuck, I hit the corner of my toe again on this chair. Fuck I hit my shin again on this stroller. Yesterday, I’m watching a couple, drinking forty ounces of Miller high life outside the Big Rock Deli. I pull up, think Yum, wish that was me. I’m with Jack, ready to pick up Fiona. Just gotta pick up some lunch. The couple looks at his phone. All of the sudden they jump up in a hurry, get in the SUV with forties half gone in their laps and take off. What are they doing? Where are they going? I feel cool with only one kid right now, but he starts pushing, he starts climbing, he starts trying on sunglasses, touching everything. I feel helpless. I follow him saying no. I follow my children saying no. I have best intentions. I am open and happy. The more I give the more they take. “You’re never satisfied” I say. It’s always something. They take and take. I give and give. I make time to love myself. I make time to take hot baths and put on facial masks and take care of my feet and take yoga classes and do spin workouts and eat right. My stomach still always hurts. My best intentions can’t remove my frailty. My age. My premenopausal symptoms. My disconnection with my body. My painful, swollen, annoying body. I love you body. Thank you body. You are a good body. But I hate you. But I love you. I’m trying. I lay down now. I leave the dishes, I leave the picking up to lay down. I put a pillow under my knees. I rest. I feel guilty. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t say shouldn’t. I paint. I draw. I feel. I get excited, then exhausted. I get honked at as I’m driving and Jacks saying “I want to go home over and over again” and Fiona’s saying “I want tiny” over and over again. I’m sorry other driver. I’m sorry, maybe I cut you off on accident. I’m sorry. He drives behind me and when I make my left had turn he honks at me one last time to make sure I know how mad I made him. “It’s always the woman drivers” I hear my husband saying in my mind. We try. We try our best. We try to see you. We try to be good drivers with screaming kids in the car. O-Well. I take comfort in the fact that I never honk at people. I give them the benefit of the doubt. I am kind.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 