Maybe Tuesday

Okay, there is no maybe about it. Today is Wednesday, but 35 years ago, the 8th of May was on a Tuesday. My daughter was born at 6:05 pm.

My perspective remains shifted. I feel like I’m laying down the under-painting for this, which may very well be, the last phase of my life.

I don’t have time for self-doubt, marginalization, or tamping myself down to play second fiddle for anyone. I’m coming out. This is me… all of me, bold and beautiful, vibrant, sarcastic, intelligent, creative, and caring. Dimming my light will not make yours shine any brighter.

I am not perfect, that’s for damn sure. I will never look or be how or what you, or anyone else, thinks I should. I have physical limitations, live with disability, make minor mistakes, and royally screw up now and then. The thing is, I don’t need anyone’s permission or approval to be me or to do what I want to do. If I’m not “good enough” or come off as “too much” for you, oh well. The next person who tries to put me in a box of their own limited expectations can go bang their self sideways. I’ll be in a box soon enough. This is my life. I only got one shot at this… reincarnation buffs might argue about that, but who knows? Even if I was here before, this could be my last go. I need to go out with no regrets.

Waxing well means nothing without implementing necessary changes. How do I want to live the rest of my life? What do I want to do?

Make art. I’ve always wanted to live a peaceful, creative life.

For the most part, I have… nothing makes me happier, feel more content, centered, and grounded than making art. At the same time, nothing has made me feel more vulnerable, inadequate, and unsure of myself as showing my art. I’ve always been an artist with a little a, as compared to Artists with a big A… amateur verses professional, real verses fake, a hobbyist. I play with art supplies.

Excuse me, the little birdie in my brain whispers, First Place Mixed Media?

Yes, this leather and copper art bra, donated to be auctioned off for charity at a black tie event that I could not afford to attend, did win first place mixed media. I didn’t even get a ribbon. I was notified by email and, so I was told, there was a card next to it during the month long show.

My automatic response is argue back: one award does not make me an “Award Winning Artist” and don’t say duh… easy count four. Nothing prestigious. Really? Third place cook, too. True on that, used to enter a newspaper’s annual recipe contest years ago, always landed third place in one category or another. And what about… Okay, I get the point. Chapter 12, with a twist.

So, I’m laying my under-painting down. I could tell you what steps I have taken, but action speaks louder than words. When I finish prepping this canvas, I’ll show ya.

Thanks for reading!

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Fear Factors

Once upon a time, an irate mother was up in arms over an elementary school teacher asking her child to read, “A Wrinkle in Time.”

She wanted the teacher fired. How dare she ask her child to read such blasphemy? The book promotes witchcraft and replaces God with a central brain called IT. She was joining an effort to have the book banned from their small, rural Ohio, public school system.

I listened to Four (sisters are labeled in birth order) rant and rave in my kitchen over the evil intent of the author. She bitterly quoted sentence fragments out of context to support why it should be banned, clearly echoing someone else’s opinion.

I asked a simple question: Have you read the book?

Oh no, of course not!

Ye gads… A Wrinkle in Time was one of my favorite childhood reads! The synchronized ball bouncing struck a rebel cord in my young mind, which lead to a tendency to question – even when I complied – all expectations for conformity.

Ironically, Four still believes the great liar will make her America great again and the little boy who was not allowed to read the book grew up to post racist bull about the Obamas on Facebook.

I have decided to explore how seemingly minor, inconsequential  fear factors play into controlling human behavior for my contribution to the Brooklyn Art Library’s writing project.

Tidbits of drafts may end up here as thoughts twirl down memory lane, gathering topics to write about. Who knows? This little project may be therapeutic.

Thanks for reading!