I was going to try to write something new tonight, but unfortunately I have LOADS on my mind.  I have lots I am doing on the other sites that I can’t seem to get any writing done for me… and if I did, it would be lacking to say the least.  I am in a writing rut once again, but hopefully it will pass soon.

I wanted to repost this one, because it is one of my favorites… it’s amazing where you can find inspiration.  Hopefully when I get my Green Room site up my inspiration will return… until then here’s a repost

CONNECT THE GAWD DAMN DOTS!!!! 

I have been in a bit of a funk lately… so uninspired.  Anyone who knows me, knows that writing is my passion, yet I have been unable to think of anything worthwhile to write.  Sure I wrote of my death, and I was pleasantly surprised that I didn’t lose a single reader.  I am guessing that they were all out of town over the weekend, and will drop my ass first thing this morning.

SO… uninspired, I turned to my trusty friend, my bathtub… up at 4 am… bleah.

Ok, ok… ANYway, I am in the tub thinking, as usual, and I can’t help but notice all my freckles.  The more sun I get, the more spots my body is littered with.  Apparently I don’t tan, my freckles just get bigger and closer together, giving the illusion of a tan.  Oh well, right… they are cute.  I have always loved freckles on other people, I have always had crushes on the boys with them, and always envied the girls with faces entirely covered in them. Weird,I know… but I can’t help it I am a weirdo.

Where was I, oh yeah, I am in the tub, soaking… thinking… looking for inspiration, and all I can think about is how many of these damn freckles I have on my chest and stomach.  Do I have more than I did yesterday?  Where did they come from?  What’s the deal here? 

I let the water out of the tub and just lay there. I always get it too hot, and if I stand up too fast I get really light headed and have to lay down, so I just stayed in the tub and let the water drain. As I am laying there cooling off, I notice a pen on the floor, and I quickly grab it up, and toss the lid.

Looking at my chest I quickly begin to connect the dots… one freckle to the next… interweaving the lines, running the ink down my stomach and across my breasts, not worrying about crossing lines or if they are completely straight or not.  Ink onto my shoulders and down my arm… across my theighs on to my feet… until I am a woven mess of brilliant blue.

What is wrong with me?  What have I done?  I look into the hugeASS mirror above my bathroom sink, and I am in awe.  What a beautiful mess I am!  A walking work of art!

I can make out many pictures… faces of people I have yet to meet, scenes of movies I have always loved… first kisses, new babies, chocolate bars, soft and fuzzy bunnies… ok I made that part up.  Really I could see anything if I looked long enough.

Strangely that stuff has always been there…. hidden inside, there is a beautiful work of art… I can feel it, and I so want to show you, but I am afraid that you will laugh, and only see a weirdo covered in blue ink… vulnerable… naked.

I hopped in the shower and undid the masterpiece… my heart hurts, I am hoping that I didn’t wash it all away.. and my soul is forever ink stained.

~2

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***I don’t remember, but I think I originally wrote this for The Blue Doodle right after we moved here from Oklahoma… so back in September or October of 2006 

Isn’t it strange how as we get older we forget about the things we enjoyed when we were young?  I took my kids to the park today, and I don’t usually do that; I am a bad mother.  I have little patience with my own children (the oldest really), and we don’t spend a lot of time doing things we really SHOULD be doing.  My son was pouty because dad wouldn’t let sister go down the slide with him, so I decided it might be fun to swing.  He got in his swing and I in mine, and I immediately took off.

Who can go higher?  Of course I can, and I am extremely competitive so the challenge is on.  The higher I got the more exhilarated I became.  The wind in my hair and the jump in my stomach as my swing traveled down.  The height I climbed and the speeding ground below.  Why did I give this up?  At what point in my life did this become a childish activity?

Those few moments on that swing freed me of all worries.  As I flew through the air, guided only by my imagination, my eyes were closed and all the world’s ailments where bandaged.  What else am I missing out on?

I have spent so much time viewing things from an adult perspective, that I forgot what it is like to see things as a child; to see the beauty in a rainbow, and the charm in making wishes.  To roll down a hill, not worrying what I will be covered with and how sick it can make me… but rolling for the roll – the tingles in my stomach and that dizzy feeling when I stand to my feet.

Just maybe this is what is wrong with me.  This is why I feel my life is lacking.  A few moments as a child and all my worries will disappear.  I don’t know.  I can tell you this… if I move again, I am getting a swing set.

~2

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I stumbled onto a site last night, and I wrote a very bland review of it for a new site I am writing on:  www.qwickly.com.  I am utterly upset with myself for not doing it a bit of justice.

The site is StrangeDolls.net.  I was just doing a search for something interesting to review for qwickly.com, and it stood out.  The home page definitely got my attention; a sort of eerie nostalgia which sparked my curiosity.

SO, I began to read…

Beth Robinson began making these dolls in 2003 and has created of more than 300 original pieces to date.  Some quite disturbing; all made with polymer clays, delicate vintage fabrics, and some even have human hair or teeth.  They have become quite popular with photographers, animators, and collectors around the world.  It seems that some collectors will even send her “props” to add to her dolls for special commissions; like dog teeth or even a kidney stone. 

I spent hours in her galleries at several different websites taking it all in.  The dolls are remarkable; beautifully hand crafted.  You can really tell that she has spent hour after hour delicately caring for each personality.  Their faces so incredibly fragile and soft, and each expression telling its own story.

The site states that these dolls are not for children, and entering the gallery you are completely aware.  Large sunken eyes, and some even nightmarish, definitely leaves a lasting impression.  That’s the beauty of it, so strangely beautiful, it leaves you longing for more… well at least me anyway. 

Intrigued by these dolls, I wanted to know more about their creator.  What is Beth Robinson like?  Is she your average everyday mom, is she a “tortured soul” like some of her masterpieces, would she stand out in a crowd, or just melt into her surroundings like most of us? 

Nothing… every site states the same as the last, and I am left curious still.

It’s weird, I know… I look into the eyes of those delicate faces in the galleries, and wonder… what’s their story?  Would they be upset if I wrote it for them?

 If you get a chance take a look and let me know what you think.
~2

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Recently I picked up a copy of the Daily Spark’s Journal writing.  It has page after page of journal writing inspiration.  I thought originally I would use it for the Green Room, but I have yet to get the site up… hopefully soon.

ANYway…

DAILY SPARK JOURNAL WRITING 1:  What was your most humiliating junior high experience?  Write a short, possibly funny, description of it.

Wow!  Where to start… junior high.  Well thankfully I can remember lots about junior high, but to be able to establish where one embarassing moment ends and the other begins… well that’s a different story.  Now if you would have asked me about high school, we would be in trouble.  Let’s just say that high school was not just a clever name…

In Elk City, Junior High officially starts in 7th grade.  The town isn’t all that big, and I basically shared classes with the same kids since 5th grade, when the three seperate elementary schools melded into middle school. 

This is the time in life where the girls get mean and the boys OH SO cute.  You have your cliques of various types which seem to be the same everywhere you go, and they seem to pass from one generation to the next.  I can intermingle between them, because I can get along with anyone… but that doesn’t necessarily mean that I like the people associated with those cliques… or they even like me for that matter.

A moment that stands out, would be a particular day the spring of 8th grade.  The country was facing AIDS in epedimic proportion, or so we were led to believe.  A local doctor was asked to come to the school and visit with the students and answer our questions about the virus.  8th and 9th graders were required to get parental permission, and we were of course seperated into two groups… boys vs. girls.  I didn’t necessarily want to go, I had heard the boys gave the doctor a run for his money with their ridiculous questions about aural (yes I spelled that right) sex and masturbation. 

After lunch we, the girls, were required to head to that auditorium.  I am not sure why I sat where I did.  I can recall fighting with my best friend and we weren’t speaking, so I damn sure wasn’t sitting next that “bitch” (did I mention how fickle a young teen is).  The content of the speech was embarassing to say the least, and I was very uncomfortable listening to the man speak, and I wasn’t about to ask a question… and I don’t think I even got that far into it when a teacher walking the isles pointed me out.
“You!” in her best whisper scream, “come with me” she gave me the finger (not that one) and I hopped up and tried not to make a scene as I rushed past others sitting there taking their verbal medicine from Dr. Gill.  She grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out of the auditorium.

I was at a loss for words.  I was just sitting there listening… not talking… not anything, and now I was getting a scolding like I had shot spitwads at the man from 25 feet. “Get to your class, you should be ashamed of yourself.” she scolded.

“um… what did I do?” I wasn’t being a smart ass or anything, I asked politely.

“Your were slouching… that is so disrespectful.  Get to your 5th hour.” and she scooted me along.

I walked back to my class… embarassed.  I think the scene the teacher made was more disrespectful than me…”slouching”.  What the fuck, really, who doesn’t slouch in 8th and 9th grade?  I am sure ever single catty,  junior high girl was aware that I walked out of that theater, escorted by the arm.  What did they think I was doing?

When I got to class, the boys got a big kick out of it…. “wow, what did SHE DO to get kicked out of that seminar?”  For some reason the slouching didn’t go over well, and my teacher sent me to the office to speak with the principal… for slouching, can you believe it?  He explained to me that it was an act of disrespect, and I explained I wasn’t even aware I was doing it.  I wasn’t sunk down in my seat hiding behind spread fingers… I was just sitting there, paying attention.

ANYway… he walked me back into the auditorium, and I got the priviledge of sitting next to another teacher for the remainder of the “ordeal”.

… and I didn’t even want to go.  I alread knew “everything” anyway.

~2

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