Rising From the Asthma Gods’ Hungry Pit

The scary, mechanized, Hindu, Baby-Doll Deity is a piece by Michael deMeng.  I thought since it had wheels, all the Asthma gods and minions should, too.

The rising Venus has a lot of air-born helpers.

Venus holds a sprig of licorice, the root of which is helpful in treating bronchitis.

The Tarot Queen of Clubs can mean motivation to take charge of one’s health.  While I need a two hour nap afterward, I started back to water aerobics class this week.  I’m hoping I don’t see any rusted pick-up trucks on the bottom of the pool.

The Tarot Star indicates a time of recovery.

Every mythological resurrection needs a Herald.  I really like this cynical Highlander, piping Venus out of the Pit.

Illustration Friday: Resist

I haven’t participated in Illustration Friday in years.  I thought I might get back to it.  This is a piece that used to hang over my art table.

 

You can see more rebellious art here.

I Must Be Getting Better…

…because I have no more fucks to give.

Oddly, my bipolar and binge eating symptoms hibernated while I was sick with bronchitis, sinus and ear infections (Can my body not multi-task?  Is my brain too small to hold it all?), so the return of mixed-state depression/rage must mean the other stuff is on the way out.  Yaay (?)

While being physically sick is no fun, the vacation from mental shit-storms and out of control compulsion is heavenly.  It’s like being normal, only full of snot and really, really tired.

I’m still tired and semi-full of snot, but yesterday I rode sad anger back to bed and built a nest of portable projects around me to keep the yammering in my head at bay.

Henry and Emmett attended, but even they knew not to poke the bipolar bear who had no fucks left to give.

One of the hard things about coming back to my normal state of mental abnormality is that I’ve done so much cool art stuff these past two months.  When I could barely breathe, I read a bit in Susan Wooldridge’s Poemcrazy about collecting words, then made Word Cookies out of old art magazines.

I carry them in this little bag that fits nicely in my purse, and offer them like Fortune Cookies to whomever I’m with (which has mostly been people at the drug store, my therapist’s staff, and a few civilians willing to chance my germs).

I’ve been brave about drawing in my journal.

And I created a spread that fell together like a story.  Poor Tom Hiddleston, dumped by the harlot Taylor Swift, gave a heart-wrenching interview in February’s GQ that reminded me of Sting’s song Why Should I Cry For You?  A little research gave me details I’d missed just listening to the song, like “under the Dog Star sail,” which refers to Sirius, and “north, northwest, the Stones of Faroe,” which led me to the tiny cluster of Faroe Islands off the coast of Iceland.  I loved the metaphor of a broken-hearted sailor on the bleak, Arctic seas.  And I loved pulling together all the elements for the collage.

The wall quilt I started before I got sick is turning into a fabric collage—a place to try new skills like painting and stenciling on fabric.  Tearing apart my old art magazines for the Word Cookies, I found wonderful tips and examples.  When I gave a fuck, the possibilities thrilled me.

The materials to make three new art journals came out of my cupboard.  I finished two.  The third now languishes on my table, waiting for the fucks to come back.

The Buckaroo Banzai journal

My favorite quote from the movie by evil Emilio Lazardo.

Art by Andrea Matus DeMeng

I took a class with Andrea at ArtFest.

One week in therapy, Megan and I looked at commitment, not just making commitments to others, but also keeping promises to myself.  I realized that my longterm goal of writing a book to be published carried no joy for me anymore.  In fact, working on it was often painful.  Why was I doing this again?  So people at my funeral could get a party favor?  Morbid, bipolar-based reasoning.

I don’t have to prove myself a writer anymore, or leave something “of substance” behind.  I can spend my life pleasuring myself with weird art that practically falls out of me, instead of grunting over tortured prose.  So, I let that ancient goal go.  There are, my friend Sue tells me, only so many fucks a person can give.

Yesterday, in my Nest of Apathy and Rage, I emailed Megan, just to whine.  I knew, eventually, that the anger and depression would shift, but it was big and ugly yesterday.  Even if I had none, I wanted someone to give a fuck.

Have I mentioned that my therapist is awesome?  And funny?  She wrote back later:

I hope a fuck ton that you feel better soon. 

The Adventure Continues.

Holding Teesha

Last week I learned that Teesha Moore, the art journalist who organized ArtFest last spring, suffered a stroke while undergoing emergency surgery.

It was a thrill for me to meet her last year after using her rubber stamps and collage sheets for years, and to get life-changing advice from her artist-husband, Tracy, about how to embrace art journaling—Keep it Simple.

I knew I needed to spend time holding Teesha in my heart, sending positive and healing juju just like the thousands of other artists who love and respect her and Tracy.  To do that I needed a focus, so I pulled out every scrap of “Teesha Stuff” I had—stamps, collage sheets, ‘zines, postcards, sticky notes, pictures from Artfest—and started a spread in my journal.

Her work is so fanciful, full of life and color—image layered on image, altered figures, funky lettering. But Teesha is also a Seeker, her artistic path cuts through a spiritual landscape.  She inspires many beginning and veteran artists with words of encouragement and a directive to go deep.

It was a joyous five days of altering her altered images, recombining them in my own way, paying homage while holding her gently in love and gratitude.

I knew I would send a copy of the pages to Teesha once I was done.  I wanted her to see her own creations speaking back to her, encouraging her, reminding her of the deep, creative core that disaster and disability could never touch.

She is a remarkable woman.  I have no doubt that with the support and love of her husband and girls, she will rise and recreate her life.

Wonder Teesha.

Remembering

I felt like when I left home that I was on a journey, and I still am.—Heath Ledger

Dangerous Beads and Other Distractions

Bronchitis: Start of Week 4

Sometimes I wonder if the total of my existence is a practice in patience.  The Art of Waiting.  The Zen of Dealing in the Now.  I get so many opportunities.

Anyhoo, this is what I’m up to while I wait for my lungs to clear and my voice to come back.

I found a British detective series at the library starring the 5th Doctor Who (Peter Davison). “Dangerous” Davies is literally the Last Detective his boss would send on a case.  He’s a milquetoast, a butt of all jokes, a kind and gentle copper in a department full of cynical creeps.  I loved it.

I always need something to do at my craft table when I’m sick.  Luckily, the birthday present I made for my therapist took a wrong turn, and I had to rethink it. I’ve been sewing beads for six days now, which is a perfect, mindless activity for a head full of snot.  And I like where the piece is heading.

Before I got croupy, I’d cut squares for a quilted wall hanging.  A friend, who works at a paint/flooring shop, gave me all their upholstery sample books last summer, and I pulled out bits I thought might look nice in my bedroom.  I used a very old scarf of my grandma’s as a focus and built the progression of squares around that.  In my infirmary, I’ve sewn the top together, layered it with batting and a back, and am now ready to start quilting.  I think it will look lovely on my wall.

I’m not journaling much, but I did try something new.  I’ve shifted from paint to organic stuff that stains.  Organics like tea and spices are subtle and leave the paper soft.  Coffee is my favorite.  I make a pot, then take the filter full of wet grounds and scrub it over the paper.  The thin filter eventually ruptures and I leave the scattered grounds on the paper all day.  Sometimes I add a few drops of ink to the grounds for subtle color.

This time I sprinkled sea salt on top and spritzed the pages with water just to see what would happen.  I’m sorta loving the result.

Taking a shower may still zap all my energy, and trying to talk gives me a headache, but I’m doing stuff, which makes me feel less like a zombie.  And it makes waiting so much easier.

Fever Dreams & Cats in Motion

Bronchitis: End of Week 2

Things are getting weird.

But also, things are in motion.

 

Reset

It’s Week 2 of the latest Bronchitis Bout.  Like bipolar disorder, there’s really nothing new about getting month-long lung crud.  It happens.

Sorta amazing, really, this blasé acceptance of whatever the day brings.  I’m not always this cool, but it’s such a gift when I can be.  Seems to me I was raging right up to the point of chills and fever.

A physical shock often resets my bipolar rheostats.  Two weeks ago, I was text-wailing at my friend Lily, taking offense wherever I could find it, and wrestling paranoid thoughts to the mat.  Today, I did laundry and cleaned up cat barf with nary an emotion in sight.

Except a little glee.  I started a goofy spread in my art journal based on something I cut out of an old magazine years ago: “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.”  I worked on this one little piece while my laundry tumbled, and it just made me happy.

Sorta amazing, really.

Fury Road

I woke up this morning feeling like—as my friend, Lily, so delicately puts it—dog shit on the bottom of God’s shoe.  Also, furious.  But I pulled on my swimsuit, intending to take it out in the water.  Except I was 90 minutes early.

Fury boiled.

I raced to the nearest salon.  “Can someone cut my hair right now?”

“Yes!” the hapless pixie piped.  “And today all haircuts are $10!”

“Great.  Shave it all off.  I can’t stand it another second.  I’m tired of trying to look like something.”

She did.

And I left feeling like my outside finally matched my inside.  Furious.  And the closest I’ll ever come to looking like Charlize Theron.

Furious helps.  Furious brings the Bad-Ass, which is now in full display.

I roared off to misbehave and brought home two bags full of art supplies. Now we’ll see what fury can really do.

ψ

Muttering

mousy-ladiesI’ve stalled out in a mixed-state depression.  It’s nothing new, not even very noteworthy, but I’m always surprised by how it changes everything.  My perception becomes bleak and twisted, my body slow and creaky.  I miscommunicate and send mixed messages, because every part of my brain is mixed.  I’m confused and confusing.

Depression with rage is so uncomfortable, and so isolating.  I hate everyone.  Or am scared of them.  Ancient resentments and regrets rise up like specters out of unholy ground.  This is the part of my bipolarly existence that sees a life as a hermit as the only option.

I have a couple of mantras during these times:

Keep Your Mouth Shut

It Will Shift Soon

Just Wait

pretty-magazinesSo, I’m muttering mantras.  And looking at pretty magazines.

temp-poldark-poster2And watching Poldark.

 

 

 

And making art.

making-art

 

Lots of art.

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