Jump Start

Forget New Year Resolutions… I’m starting now. This “Weigh on Friday” chart went up on the fridge December 1st. My goal is to drop 24 kg in 2018. I’m starting now because (1) hey, a jump start gives me a whole extra month to get it done,  (2) I really, really hate ending a year with a gain, and (3) to remind me not to nibble too wide of a path through holiday goodies.

Am I dieting?

Hell NO… I can’t do that. I have a history of binge eating disorder. Dieting is like Trigger #1.  The chart is just to remind me to eat like a “normal” person who can be satisfied with one serving of anything, where nothing is off limits… normal people eat cake and pizza or whatever. Oh well. The theory is, just eat like a “normal” person and all the excess weight will slowly vanish. Yeah, just magically disappear.

I’m weighing in kilograms because the scales are not mine. Thankfully, it does not have a memory function as I like to pretend my digits on the scale (and in the bank) are lower than reality. One kg is ye 2.2 lbs, which yields nicer numbers. It sounds better when the bitch announces my weight in a voice loud enough for anyone in the house to hear, even without his hearing aids. I can’t shut her up, so I flipped the switch to Spanish. In kilograms, the first number is ONE and by the time his mind shifts past the “huh?” of hearing an unexpected language, the weighing is done and over.

Okay, so I’m weird… odds are, he won’t be here anyway. I wake up alone ye 44% of my days now but no longer fret about things I cannot control. It is what it is, come what may.

It’s okay. I’d walk away but when I fall asleep in his arms, snuggled all safe and warm, feeling his heart beating next to mine… those other nights don’t matter. I’m with the man I love and he is a good man, a kind man, a loving man who also happens to be a flawed man. He’s a strong man with a weakness, and that’s just how it is. I’m flawed, too.

 

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Fluff, Fluff Not?

Once upon a time ago, when we were still friends, the artist/writer Rodney Douce told me that writing fluff was not being honest with myself.  When the subject matter is hard, when it feels too personal, too private, too whatever, backing off is equivalent to denial. Or complacency, a refusal to deal with whatever it is that I don’t want to write about. Perhaps when I don’t want to write about something is the time when I need to write about it the most.

I feel like I am crossing the line because the personal shit I need to write about is not just mine. On one hand, the crackerjack man brought this shit into my life, his addiction affects me… I don’t know what to do about it, the only control I have over anything is my own reaction. Writing helps me sort my own thoughts. On the other hand, writing about it outs his deepest secret, what he kept hidden from me for so long and what he thinks is still hidden from his children, casual acquaintances, and other people who, because they also know me and/or read this blog, might put two and two together.

Alas, I’m not writing from his perspective; this is not his story.

Straight up, I write for me… yeah, I’m selfish like that. I don’t cater to an audience. I don’t have thousands of followers hanging on to my every word; none of my posts go viral. I’m surprised when my daily stats top ten views and most people tip-toe back out without even clicking LIKE, so I don’t write to please other people. This is my blog. It’s just here, kind of like an open diary. If you want to read it, fine… if not, oh well.

Tunes… I need tunes. Here’s a song that’s reminds me of crackerjacks.

Yeah, I have to write. Silence is complacency. Thanks for reading.

Acrylic Dreams

Art whispers, sneaks into dreams. I awake before dawn, open my eyes to this old painting, one of my first on canvas.

Yes, it is a bad photo and the room itself needs painted (haven’t done much to the house since I bought it last September due to health issues: torn ligaments, that little stroke thing in November, adjusting to a blind eye, bouts with vertigo, etc.) We tended to necessary repairs, plumbing issues and the “to do” list from the home inspection, but cosmetics left as is… everything on walls is hung on preexisting nails.

That’s one of my favorite paintings… passed on selling it twice. Just something about it, maybe because it was a first on canvas. Dr. Day at KSU had us painting on Masonite before we were allowed to use canvas, like go buy your own 4 x 8 sheets, cut it up, prime it yourself; make your own ground.

I was an engineering student, working on an EERT degree (electrical tech) at a branch campus when art found me again. She knew me as a child, when I was winning kiddie art contests and attending workshops, then I grew up and satisfied my need to make things with home crafts. I ended up in Dr. Day’s art courses because I saw an old worn out paint brush laying on the sidewalk early on a Spring morning, not a soul around except a few Robins pecking for worms in the grass. The urge to paint came over me so strong that I had to go back and pick it up. A few days later, I was down in an art room between classes, talking to Dr. Day. He didn’t care what your major was… he’ll sign off permission for anyone. KSU cared… I took so many art classes that the university wouldn’t let me take any more until I signed up for a concurrent study in Studio Art.

I quit painting about ten years ago for several reasons:

  1. I royally sucked at it, my best work was just ho-hum.
  2. When I did get a piece in a show, no one I cared about bothered to go (one exception: my parents attended one art opening). It is important to note that my sister Jai lived out of state in my painting years… when in town, she has seen my colored pencil drawings in group shows and even brought friends in from Illinois to see my work when I had the coffee shop exhibit. Come to think of it, even the vet has passed on opportunities to see my colored pencil drawings on display.
  3. In my mother’s opinion, if you don’t paint like Thomas Kincaid, you have no business painting at all. On the other hand, my father has always encouraged and supported my art.
  4. My aluminum easels got stolen off the truck when I moved to Salem.
  5. I took up colored pencils post disability, when I needed something to do to take my mind off pain while stuck in a chair for endless hours. (Dry medium, small scale, min. body movement.)

Did I really suck as a painter?

Nah, not totally… there is enough of my art hanging in other people’s houses to say no… I had a thin skin back then, lacked essential confidence, thought my efforts were amateur at best. I also had this whacked idea that if people didn’t like my art, they didn’t like ME. To show art is like hanging a part of yourself on the wall, open for public ridicule, so maybe I needed ten years of drawing little bizarre things with colored pencil to develop a thicker skin.

I told the vet that I wanted to paint again… he was like oh, like you’re really going to do that.

WTF?

He wakes up every morning seeing the same paintings I do (or he used to, before he starting wandering off to go do that thing he does). Maybe he doesn’t realize that painting is mine as it was signed “Tomlin, 91” instead of with my art symbol, but the 1998 painting on the other wall has my symbol, he knows everything with that symbol is mine.

Considering that he had just asked what that thing was in the corner (an easel my father gave me) and then asked what it is for, and recalling how he refers to my drawings as pictures, I really shouldn’t let that comment get to me… but, it has jacked my determination… I need to buy some paints.

Every day I wake up alone, the urge comes stronger. I need to paint, now more than ever.

Making art will help me get through this, whatever this is… he logged 25 hours incommunicado since my groundhog post, then came in Saturday afternoon as if he had only been gone for an hour or two. He left Sunday morning, said he was going for a walk to buy a pack of cigarettes, and I haven’t seen him since.

He did text Sunday night… instead of texting back, I called him because I wanted to hear his voice… see how messed up he was. He answered with, “Hello beautiful… ” three sheets to the wind.

Did I get bitchy with him? No, but I did ask if he walked all the way to Nebraska to buy cigs and he laughed, told me he had to watch a football game. Texted again this morning… he’ll be home in a few.

It’s getting to the point where I do not expect him to come home. I am surprised when he walks in the door. HE calls this place home… but, he’s not here more often than he is lately.  In some ways, I’m grateful that he sneaks off to do what he does.

Oh well… I need a diversion, I need paints. Art keeps whispering, she won’t leave me alone. Perhaps that’s my own addiction. Fuck drugs, I need art.

I went on Dick Blick to price the line that replaced my favorite Finity acrylics and found a Dear Santa wish list created last year with plans to start ordering supplies in January. Well, here it is October.

I edited the wish list down to basics, with boards instead of canvas because I’m starting over, can’t haul 4 x 8 sheets of Masonite home via city bus. The mini-tube set will get me started. I’d love to buy every color available and replace neglected brushes, but money is tight.

It will take awhile to raise funds… I’m selling stuff off on eBay, got a few things on Etsy now, plan to add more in the coming days.

I’m also listing things for my dad on eBay, like his carving knives. He’ll be 81 next week, thinks he’s getting too old to be playing with sharp tools, time to take up some less dangerous hobbies.

Yep, doing what daddy does: when you want new toys, sell stuff to raise the funds to do it.

Here’s some links for the curious… if you want to peek at my wish list or see what is currently for sale.

My eBay page

My “Mice4Mars” Etsy Shop

My Dick Blick Wish List

Thanks for reading!