11/01 Direct Link
Don't give up on the 100words. It's okay if a startup takes 5, 20 years. That determination to press forward without necessarily delivering when expected is related and a relief at that. I've been promising this and that wonderful production on my part. A calendar, spiral notebooks, my quotes on a napkin or mug with my art on it. One tragedy and inconvenience after another and I sold one set of stationery of 3 greeting cards, for a profit of $1.12. It's bleak progress, but onward direction. Don't give up. Let's ride this out together at whatever pace we manage.
11/02 Direct Link
It's been a while I share through the channel of altered state of mind. The ever search for balance and a slight entrance into the ether world. I no longer do it the fun way, the damn it all to hell approach. I'm still feeling somewhat connected and aware, enough to cringe at the typos and misprints that I will catch tomorrow. They'll glare at me, trying to shame me for lack of self control. I've acquired the wisdom that guilt is useless past 10 seconds. Then we sack up, and own what our inner selves are dying to expose.
11/03 Direct Link
Poetry is useful and practical, sentimental, but I don't fancy it. It's also self indulgent and pretentious. I've never liked it, lest a few pieces that truly get to the bottom of living without dramatics. Not a criticism to those who use it therapeutically or have made careers out of it. Each his own. But some iterations of prose and unassuming alliterations with a little cadence with a deep waterfall of truth can move a piece of lodged soul matter. As long as it's not some redneck finding the rhythm in his tool box or yet another depiction of a naked body.
11/04 Direct Link
This blues are expanding my inhibitions. They want to let go, but still so intrinsically trained to caution for consequence. The unbearable confession of a truth I cannot unhear. Once it's out there, there is no going back. Red pill. Time to rock my world, my foundations again. Time to harangue and question my friends and family and add my welcome interrogations and disrupt their black and white world. I feel I would rightly fit it in with a Wiccan or an anarchist, but those ordered don't answer questions either. My own authored holy texts would be wrought with contradiction.
11/05 Direct Link
There's a wild mix of brain chemicals being tossed around in there, firing and missing. I can almost grasp the certainty and the concepts that I so desperately want to manifest and materialize into words and pictures, but instead they direct my eyeballs to fixate on a wall and tune into some strange plane of existence that isn't reality, but also it is not the world of illusion which we most likely all project. I'm in a purgatory of existence where dark matter floats aimlessly. Only I live there. I voicelessly call out with my spirit force into hollow static.
11/06 Direct Link
We have started buying DVDs again, after going on a purge fest. We wanted to declutter, but went overboard, accidentally chucking some of our favorite memories. Television programming, film quality is degrading. We are not relating to this new dumbed-down schizophrenic action, painfully PC, or blind patriotism vibe that's going on. Some new films are great: Maudie, Christopher Robin. Those are good for the sick days, for the emo days. Then we are repurchasing The Goonies, Mrs. Doubtfire. Yes, we are grown ass adults, but we have chosen to stop inviting ultra violent or reckless sexual behavior in our home.
11/07 Direct Link
Perspective is a viewpoint I lose everyday. Every morning I start from below zero and must start over. Chronic illnesses are not for pussies. Even when you aim to control it, the dopamine levels are only as balanced as your hormones, which prefer to battle inflammation, infection, and attacks over a peaceful and reasonable state of mind. So, I fight for that. Sometimes I will desperately take the artificial aid of some mood regulating straggler I find like Sudafed or Adderall. But the perspective is always there if you search for it. We are not alone. It can be better.
11/08 Direct Link
Maybe I've failed consistency with 100words because I've tried to curate the content too much. The pressure to share a colorful, deep, intelligent, meaningful experience. It must reflect a higher representation of my potential, not the ordinary life I lead. The fear of mediocrity in a world where YOU are the center of the world. Follow your dreams. Treat yoself. Do you, boo. Be extraordinary. That's marketing. Individuality has its merit, but we're still just a speck of dust in this giant hurling mass of dirt. If I can get over that, maybe I can just share my reality, fearlessly.
11/09 Direct Link
I'm within a circle of friends, my bubble, that I have not chosen. Where have I heard we do not chose our friends, they choose us? That phrase irks me. I attract get the weirdos, the needy ones, outcasts, the projects. I can't help but love them, only to drown in empathy and it takes me over. Next thing you know, I've neglected my sanity. I've never believed in a measure of selflessness. That has been my undoing. At 35, I learned what an empath is. An empath must draw boundaries before we build a brick wall. There's still time.
11/10 Direct Link
That existential dread. The ever looming death spiral into a black hole. It's only one thought away, no matter how emotionally stable I might think I am. But it's not necessary to live there. I accept it when it whooshes by, and I'll ride that wave if I have to, but there are always teensy little things that start bringing me back. Sprinkles. Ice cream. Purring cats. Dueling cats. A friend in need. A watercolor greeting card. A homemade soup. The gratification of making. A phone call received. A phone call made. The swinging hammock in the sun. The sun.
11/11 Direct Link
I am a creator. I don't know if I'm creative because I still lack technique and skills. The ideas do not come naturally unless I put myself in that space, but unstable cell and tissue activity time and again prevents me from progressing. One step forward, two steps back. The attack is often in the brain itself and I forget simple practices. Start from scratch each time. How very infuriating. But I'll never stop. I'll never surrender. Who knows when memory neurons will fire off in remembrance and allow for some wild idea that my body can carry out successfully?
11/12 Direct Link
Terrified. I'm terrified of painting, although that's my only chance for joy and fulfillment today. I get one pain-free opportunity every blue moon. You see, in our chemically drenched world, with my severe intolerance to foreign agents, it will cause excruciating pain to be exposed to such seemingly innocent materials. Medium grade watercolor paper usually contains biocides, dioxins, chlorine. I immediately react with sinus pain, swelling in the reproductive organs, mood swings, spinal pain, confusion. Just as I am beginning to immerse myself in a little piece of colorful heaven and creation, the symptoms begin their dance of disorientation.
11/13 Direct Link
Where does it begin? An abused abusive mom beats neglects her child. The cycle is perpetuated by another child with genes instantly unprepared for the stressors of the world. Too early start the brain damaging seizures. The mentally challenged child stars recklessly self medicating and procreating. The system ignores her cries of abuse, the mother hides them. Four dysfunctional sickly kids later, as mom's attacks have become fierce and unforgiving toward her basic cognitive right, as her flaming brain blurts fire to her autistic and suicidal child to go kill himself. She has no memory of it. Who's at fault?
11/14 Direct Link
Why would I want to sleep when I can think in pictures? A little blurry, but uninhibited and ready to explore anything. I can feel colors and I can experiment without fear. But alas, the chlorine paper allergies will kick in, the arthritis will descend from the cervical spine down, the fingers will curl up, the breathing will become compromised. I cannot make sure of my excitement and insomnia, my traverse into the midnight life where everyone finally let's me wander the silent realm and see the things you never conjured vividly enough to experience. I have dreams to paint.
11/15 Direct Link
I once had my physical health, but very poor emotional awareness and control. I know have emotional awareness and control, but my genetics have been mutating and ravaging my most prized functions. Like the young energetic man who is too broke to travel. Or the old man who has the means to travel, but no energy or enzymes to enjoy it. I had no prime of life. I went straight into an isolated purgatory. I am not a victim. In fact, I could market some silly, "We are warriors," kinds of bullshit t-shirt or coaster, but that's not me anymore
11/16 Direct Link
Did the full moon do that? Did it pull my blood away from the bones or the forcefully separate my cells from it's powerhouse from the sheer rotation of the spherical bodies? It felt my soul was was t the mercy of a centrifuge, the human Graviton, waiting for the ride to stop while my skin was sinking into my skull trying to ensure nothing horrifically imploded. Holy celestial discomfort! There was bugs crawling in and out of my pores, my bruises rose and hit the wall of the top epidermal layer. I was pressed down, push out, oozed everywhere.
11/17 Direct Link
Passwords are a bigger deal than I ever imagined. I thought Stop, Drop, and Roll would be more relevant in life. The remembering passwords, the complexity of them, the forgotten ones, the re-used ones, retrieving them. It's something that we weren't prepared to manage and so we thought we would just remember them. Next thing you know, you can't find your little notebook with the ever-changing new codes and you forgot to scratch out the last one you had. Most difficult though is those security questions. Your first dog, your first job ... I'm trying to forget all that!
11/18 Direct Link
Breathing is hard. Not just the air quality, but the existence of it all. The involuntary job of the lungs is requiring and extra reminder from the brain, preceded my soul's permission, to inhale and inhale deeply so I can last a little longer. Maybe it's just physical and I'm being dramatic, but who knows. When you're lacking this much oxygen it's hard to think clearer anyway. It's hard to remember you have to not just breath, but move, and sometimes live. I would like to sleep until the next life. I just needed extended rest in a hyperbaric chamber.
11/19 Direct Link
More paint. Mijello Mission Gold. Five Prima Marketing Watercolor confection tins. Daniel Smiths, two basic sets, 12. Beginner Prangs and Artist loft, 16 and 36. 56 Dr. Ph. Martin's Radiance Concentrated Liquid Watercolors. 12 Hydrus liquid watercolors. If I weren't so sensitive to acrylic, it would be gouache galore. When you have this number of endless options and can't even pick what to work with, doesn't even begin to address which paper is best for the job. But really, the trick is in the technique. All the color in the world, but if you don't practice, it's just muddled blobs.
11/20 Direct Link
My little rabbit turds, the Traditional Chinese teapills, has saved my life once before and I hope it saves me from the knife again. The acupuncturist explains my labs to me from an Eastern standpoint. They don't just yank out organs willy nilly. They find a solution to bring your chi back to homeostasis. The last dose was miraculous, until it wasn't. This new herb is becoming a legend to me at a steady turtle pace, but I least I don't have to brew and extract amphibian juice to cure myself. If only we had easy access to Chinese shamans.
11/21 Direct Link
A preteen, arriving to my native land, we were greeting by post-war guerillas and their machine guns. I desperately cherished my American canned cheese and MTV. Today, I want to return and leave this place with their Kardashians and fascination with Escape Rooms and Cosplay. I could fit into their mountainous landscape and wring a chicken's neck for dinner (or just eat beans and cream instead). For the record, these memories aren't evoked by our political climate here. It's just memories bubbling up, poking my consciousness. But once there, I'd have to pay gang rent for looking the same.
11/22 Direct Link
Being sleepy is not enough to be rapt into slumber. I have to be severely teetering into that netherworld of a wakeful dreamlike state. Usually I'm late night in my couch waiting to be so confused by reality, wondering if I am already in my bed and I just don't remember the trip down the hallway. I let the blues carry me away that I'm ready to face the dreaded morning. When my eyelids flutter open, I won't remember the last few remnants of night's memories. It takes a bit of scanty recall to pinpoint the hazy moment I escaped.
11/23 Direct Link
In my own house, a drunk and an addict, too cowardly to make eye contact while addressing me, suggested voicing my opinions would lead to anger and fights. Silence is wisdom and I know two things, there's a level of complete self unawareness that would implode his reality if I spoke truth. Two, that to support my husband's brother, engaging with men who do not know how to simply not take an idea they don't like to heart respectfully, I silently fumed at the pig, keeping my pearls intact. I was proud of my choice, but outraged at the ignorance.
11/24 Direct Link
For years, Caribbean Latins I grew up with I viewed as culturally close minded and intolerant. What was recently explained to me blew my mind, and took some brain wrapping around to grasp it since I've married into the Aryan race. So clear in retrospect, is that they just can't process and interpret sarcasm. Their humor is simpler and on the nose. They are literal. Ah, how it explains everything. How enlightened I felt. Except ... Wait. When someone finds a crack in my conversation, guess who has adopted this painfully fucking literal view? I am not funny. I is them.
11/25 Direct Link
Isolation has driven me into not even wanting to ruminate on my own hermit thoughts, God forbid they start making sense. I've always entertained my inquisitive mind better than with most acquaintances and friends. In that silence, you start getting weird. It stops becomes useless to engage in your own wit. It gets so freakishly quiet to have your opinions wane away and all start sounding the same. The chemical exposure makes it even more bizarre. My goal, the new focus (because I refuse a descent into madness), the acquiring of funds to buy me a puppy. Time for motherhood.
11/26 Direct Link
Cat person, all the way. The independence, cleanliness, apathy. For an empath, we don't need extra emotions rattling our aura. But the humans wear us, chew us, and spit us out until there's a crusty core left. Time for a true engagement. Unconditional love, a forever friend, eye contact that will never be weird, a mutual understanding of happiness and pain. Middle class as we am, we are going to invest in a highly popular pedigree dog breed, a fucking royal, a corgi. The biggest eyes, the most responsive ear antennas, and the most genuine smile. It's going to happen.
11/27 Direct Link
My whole life has been fear based. A psychiatrist was kind enough to rip apart the fragile thread of my self awareness by bringing out the moment my life because based on pure insecurity and mistrust. The last seven years was enhanced trauma. Guess what? I'm done with that shit. I'm fucking fearless. Like a dementia patient with swiss cheese for a frontal lobe, I'm going rogue. Once I thought I was aware, but dirty 30s brings about a beautiful liberation of fuck you and I don't five to flying turds about what you threaten me with. Gonna get mine.
11/28 Direct Link
The thing about finally knowing who you will become and having to devise the tools to achieve that bad ass goddess is your confidence has bloomed, glittered, glowed, and skyrocketed, but your ass ain't as tight, bat wings are descending, and crows feet are making you look less confident. It's there, but the younguns just think you're a raving lunatic. This funny lady talking out of her ass about her glory days. No, Gen Z, my glory days are now. They are empowered, I am grand, I am unstoppable. I just moan an grunt when I take off my stilettos.
11/29 Direct Link
So, I'm glad a tramp stamp never happened. No tasteful tattoos that suddenly have no meaning or have been multiplied into consciousness by a hashtag. No crazy mutilation marks. I stayed relatively intact, understanding my fickleness and need for options. I have some rogue cells slowing me down and guarding muscles creating asymmetry, but the less I give a shit, the more I heal. I will plank that pooch away, I will add more natural pigment, I will always, eternally, suffer in ass challenging plies. Women, don't get dumpy. I have three horrible chronic diseases. No excuse for back fat.
11/30 Direct Link
It's happening, Hypnos is coming to take me away. I have nothing in particular to dream about. Taking my white boy to my third world country and getting separated without life saving technology. Dirty, filthy things husband can do to me right before I have some unintentional asphyxiation episode. Tidal waves to run from and inevitably get swept over. Ex boyfriends challenging my loyalty and ex best friends rejecting me all over again. It's no wonder I fight this surrender into my pressure point blocking bed. Could I once dream of cotton candy clouds and a million kittens licking me?