Sapph0

Hi DA. I miss you. I've been so stupid busy that any free time I find is spent sleeping or watching Game of Thrones, when really I should be doing something creative. But on the upside, I just quit my rather good, steady job so that I could go back to art school and collect myself a nice chunk of debt. So that's exciting. Hopefully I will log on here more often.

I have recently been tossing around the idea of trying to get something published. Granted, I really have no idea what yet. Somehow the idea of writing/illustrating a children's book somewhat appeals to me. Also considering a book of poetry or fiction. Hmm. Anyone out there have experience getting published, and if so would you like to share with the class?

Hi there, inexplicable and probably lost visitor to my page!

I am not dead, just medicated. I could have been a poet or an artist, instead I decided to take the prescribed dosage. There is nothing I despise more than the ignorant bliss of the drugged mind. DeviantArt must be where I run to when I go off my meds and wake up in this haze, like an addict shuffling back to his favorite urine soaked street corner.

The urge to write, to paint, is irresistible and somewhat sexual, and completely nonexistent to my rational, functioning mind.  My rational, functioning mind, that traitorous bitch. I don't think the Discordia of the Bi-Polar Mind and the battle with the well-meaning Drugs can ever been fully understood by the outsider. The Sacrifice and the Safety, Ignorance and Overdose. I'm going on a decade of barraging my body and lobotomizing my mind with the state of the art medication of the day. I'm too fucking old for this angst shit.

Have you ever woken up from a coma and found out the nurses stopped wiping your ass about 2 weeks ago? Me neither, but I have a vivid imagination. Everything is atrophied, everything is rotting away, gangrene of the cerebral cortex. Andholyshit my kingdom for a fucking paintbrush.

So hello, DA. We meet again. Maybe I am too lazy for this. Maybe I will decide to stop flushing my meds, for the sake of my wife and daughter. It will be a brief visit but maybe we can write a country song about our summer of awkward sex.

Did you know I paint? I do. Kind of. This is my poetry account but there is a little visual artist in me. The poetic slice of my brain is buried under about a ton of grey mush most of the time, but the painterly tendencies aren't quite as closeted and occasionally make an appearance with a little coaxing. I am going to start with dumping some old paintings on this account, see if I can't kick some motivation into my ass to keep up with it. It's badly photographed, fuzzy like webcam porn, but I need a kick in the nuts to see if I can keep this creative bubble from bursting.







And also, if you're reading this, I love you my dear. You Know who you are.



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An artist is always alone - if he is an artist. No, what the artist needs is loneliness.
Henry Miller

Been trying to get some writing down, but I'm too damn busy. I've fallen off the wagon and gone back to snorting political news, god damn this election. Speaking of which, happy Sept 11th everyone.

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We talked of the other worlds we'd discover
as she gave up her body to me
And as I chopped up her mainsail for timber
I told her of all that we still had to see
As the frost turned her moorings to nine-tail
and the wind lashed her sides in the cold
I burned her to keep me alive every night
in the lover's embrace of her hold

I won't call it rescue what brought me here back to
the old world to drink and decline
And to pretend that the search for another new world
was well-worth the burning of mine
But sometimes at night in my dreams comes the singing
of some unknown tropical bird
And I smile in my sleep thinking Annabelle Lee
has finally made it to another new world.


-Josh Ritter, Another New World

Well hello there. You remember me, I'm that obscure writer/poet that you once added to your watch list on a whim and forgot was there.

Certain news, interesting to me but perhaps rather mundane to the rest of you: my partner and I just welcomed a little girl into the family. She poops and spits and drools and screams. Sometimes she sleeps. It's kind of like living with a tiny drunken old man.

My newest insight to share with all of you: Steal the hospital panties. They're comfy and disposable! Also my vagina will never be the same.

Having had my anti-psychotics and mood stabilizers doubled to keep me in check during hormone swings, I've been a zombie, more or less, and haven't had a creative thought since last spring. I did put brown sugar in my coffee this morning, I thought that was pretty clever of me.


Also, I have a big fat bone to pick with you, California. I was promised San Francisco fog and Humbolt rain storms and Los Angeles mud slides. I was promised ice over the Sierras and 10 car pile ups toward Tahoe, with bloodied snowboards scattered on the ice.  I was promised chains required on 80 and the thrill of fitting into my pre-pregnancy winter jackets. So what the fuck, man? I am starting to forget what rain is, and what it feels like for the weather to require those queer items such as shoes that neither flip nor flop or sweatshirts that are not only used as nostalgic reminders of times past. Fuck this sunny, warm shit, I want some goddamn winter weather!