I’m doing something bad right now. I’m drinking a cup of coffee and eating cookies, it’s 1:00PM in the afternoon. There goes all that hard work on the spin bike, here comes a night of possible insomnia. But it tastes so good, so right. Now I have that rush of warmth, a full belly. One hour into my studio time. Dunce Nation and Dead Moles. Experimental Music, screeching, and hollering in the background. Already gone too far on a piece, want to keep working on it to “fix it” but we all know how that goes. Now, 2:46PM. Good painting session so far, see I told you I would feel differently again. The highs and the lows, the ups and the downs. Now the fan is on and The Bells by Lou Reed. The ambient noise is perfect for quiet awakenings, for R.I.P. Mole, and new beginnings. Perfect for reminiscing about yesterday’s daisies and tomorrows brunch. Do I come back to this moment or do I walk up the stairs to the dog house and the dead mole. “Oh no, the poor thing, Billy killed a mole. Don’t touch it. Should I bury it or throw it over the fence for the hawk or an owl? I should throw it over the fence. Poor thing, Billy killed it, it’s dead.” I tell Jack and Fiona. It’s right here, right in front of us. Happening live, I can’t hide reality. Maybe two’s too young to understand death, understand here today, gone tomorrow. I’ve never got the image of my mom’s mom lying in her casket. I imagine her in a light blue dress with a white lace collar, her casket taupe. My mom said I had to stay home because it wasn’t appropriate for little kids to look inside a casket. I’ve never seen anyone in a casket. I’ve only spread ashes. Felt the bits of bones run through my hands, had the wind blow my ancestors’ through my hair, in my mouth, on my teeth. What brought me here? The dead mole? My job as teacher to Jack and Fiona, reminding me of all my knowledge, all that I know. I had a good day in the studio today.
Category: Stream of conciousness
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I looked at my painting and thought it was my wall,
I thought i’ve gone too far this time, across the bridge and back again, over the rainbow, through the looking glass,
I told myself I’d change, I would be better, but realized I like myself just the way I am,
And I have my own nasty habits, my own vices, my own secrets,
Sitting here in my studio, cold hands, crazy legs and face and mouth and tongue,
You’re lucky they don’t cut it out.
I’m not Tommy, skitzo in the cabin, sledge hammer, burn the place down,
I passed a bunch of semis, fears of the cabins, with beds, engines, big wheels rolling down the dark highways with the radio lights on, blues and reds.
Then there was reality, I had to remember I’m still here, come back home, come back,
Women belong in museum collections, they deserve to be re-written back into art history books.
Back, come back, I’m reeling into outer space, I need my landing gear on, come back, behave.
Behave yourself.
That’s the end of my story today.
That’s how I feel like nothing and evetything all at once,
Like a flash of ice cold water on a cold February day, with little finches at my feet, the sun lowering behind the bay trees,
Moss and light.
That’s where I have to go right now. I need to take my dog on a walk.
Slugs, mud, bark, cold air.
Dirty Laundry Blog by Jennifer Hynes 