Becomimg

I am becoming something. Although what that is I am unsure. I have been writing my entire life, I never considered myself a writer. I became an artist at 40 when I pursued art as a degree. I am an educator as a current form of work. But I have never really described myself other than related to what I do, in particular what I do for others.

 In my 20s and 30s I was a mom, wife and horsewoman. My 40s a student, artist and divorced mom. 

My 50s have been more an artist and educator. 

But I feel like I am becoming more than that. Its something I cannot describe well without simply using words describing what I do.

I am revising a short story. Then I will start revising the 3 drafts that comprise 3 novels or something. I still draw, sew my own clothes and travel sometimes. I am not sure what I am becoming.

But I welcome the next chapter.

Pieces of her

 

The hot air clung to her skin the way a damp piece of silk lingers before falling. 

Skin moist with the heat of the end summer when it refuses to release its grip. 

Thoughts whirring in her mind like the motor of the fan on the old dresser. 

What if she could go back, back before all of this. 

Before the big move and the job in a the foreign land. 

She did love it there but her thoughts had a way of running back through time on a Friday night. 

Back before she bought the house in a town she barely knew because the house was cheap and she was desperate. 

Back before the inheritance that sent her seeking security in a property that would become the bane of her existence. 

Winding back before the injury that left her nearly homeless but a stroke of luck gave her a wonderful couple years with her siblings. 

Back before she went seeking her education that refused to follow a sensible path and left her with a degree in art, no one does that in midlife what was she thinking. 

Back before she was fed up and decided to leave the only life she had known for 20+ years. 

Before the pain of selling the animals and quitting on a marriage that had never quite worked. 

Her mind reeled and then said no, further back go all the way back. 

Start over near the beginning what if everything had been different. 

What if instead of being traumatized she had been supported. 

What if instead of being told she was never working, trying, or doing enough what if she had been told its ok you are a child go play. 

What if she had learned to play, to relax, to unmask when young. 

What if life had taken a completely different road. The wish of something less difficult.

Then like a flash of lightning in the midst of a storm she reels back into her body, the ceiling the fan blade turning, the heat clinging to her and she remembers she has often gotten everything she ever wished for and some of the other things along the way pushed or lead to what she said she wanted.

But that didn’t stop her from wishing she had never had the trauma.

The forest for the trees?

The aspens stared at her with their unblinking eyes, 

never feeling so watched she found it difficult to move forward on the path.

Watchers were everywhere in the forest, 

they saw everything there was no need for cameras the trees had eyes.

The owls silent in the canopy watched over the glen

 as the being crept through silence was not their forte,

 snapping branches and crispy dried leaves crunched underfoot like crackers in bed at midnight.

Fans of gold fell from the heavens when fall arrived,

the rancid smell permeating the air above the golden walks.
Pink fairies fluttered in their frilly dresses on the buds of every tree when spring arrived,

the slightest breeze undressing them on a whim exposed at once to the elements.

Old and gnarled the dragon unfurls itself upwards then reaching outward and sheltering those unafraid of the embrace of the ancient.
Black and gold as the summer sun bakes the flesh and fills the air with a fragrance not unlike incense,

summer ends days rage and nights grow somber in the forests she briefly knew as home.

Outstretched twisted limbs ending in many brooms reaching for the glittering dust that fills the air with each breath of spring. 

Waking the under story from its slumber keeping watch and time.
Emerald mounds dot the hills, remains of a past that wont be forgotten and a glimpse of what the future holds for all of us.

When carving out the canyons you must be as old as time itself.

The waters have never stopped running and when they do everything halts.
Petrichlor suffocates the senses in the rising heat, 

channels carved in the path unearthing new delights, 

a bit of glass, a stone unearthed an undulating root reaching out to trip a passerby.   

The many colored snakes undulate through the forest,

grabbing at feet and tripping those who fail to notice them. 
Stumbling down passages well worn, 

roping roots and jutting rocks waiting to seize the careless.

A stillness so dark it enshrouds all that are within,

the entrance looks daunting like a veil to another realm,

invites the forest on a dark winters day. 

 
They call from the trees screaming epitaphs and cursing,  

those who dare to enter have been warned, 

you agree to walk among the ancients, 

the worn and weary, 

do not stray from the path what lies beyond is mystery.

They come to rob her of her fruits

they climb her laughter and joy fills the air, 

with each tug and pull as they rip what she bore from her limbs

 they care only for the sweet flesh of the fruits stolen.

Limbs drooping as heavy golden tears pour forth,

the burden she carries

fruits for another her labor the price of admission.
The buzzing threat of stinging rage

the base of her skirt

 her fruits spilled they to rot, wasted.

Benevolent

 

Benevolent

This is a tiny tale of a celestial being going for a walk.  It was originally published on Tapas I am currently exploring alternative means of self publishing.  please excuse the ads sadly ad inundation is the norm free or paid these days.

2:37 EST (a tiny tale of something)

 2:37 EST

A short story. Follow the link, I cannot embed on blogger as of yet. I have other projects I may move here if this works well and I can figure out embedding.  or not i am a flighty creative like that.

another project in the works

 I am once again consumed by some idea that sprung into my brain. Its strange sometimes to be taken over so completely by ideas, thought trains and creation.  I can have 3 or 4 going on at once in my head and then trying to also work my 40-50 hr week no wonder I struggle with perpetual burnout.  I am moving toward some improvement in my health, no miracles but slightly better breathing and trying to root out my actual allergies. Amidst this I am writing and working and avoiding the heat. 

I want to travel more, I want to create and write and be invested in that part of my life more, I want to work less.  But I have really enjoyed not living a constant struggle. I am not rich by any means but I do live comfortably here I can afford utilities and food. I can have little luxuries like buying some fabric to sew a new skirt and it doesn't break me. I can buy medicine and see doctors, having good medical coverage is so nice.  So I want to work less for others wealth and focus more on what makes me healthy and fulfilled and i want to continue to live this nice lower middle class existence. I feel like as humans we should all be given that option. We should be doing that which pleases us and not grinding as slaves for others.  I will go to my pyre with the dream of a utopia where mankind is kind and humans are humane.

that is all for now updates will arrive when I have finished the first stage of the new project.

Life carries on

 This past week for work we took some of our students to a museum. I love museums, always have. So this trip was enjoyable to me. there was an exhibition about pottery. There are frequently pottery exhibitions. Korea is a ceramicists dream, I am not a ceramicist. 

 

But I am a lover of all things art and art history and human history.  Some of the exhibits have translations of the information, the tour was given in Korean to our students. As I listened to the guide speak and picked out a word here and there or a tiny phrase I realized I didn't need to know Korean to understand what she was speaking about.  

I have read much about the pottery and the evolution of pottery with each wave of conquest. their kilns are incredible. It strikes me that the history of pottery in Korea is a history of human adaptation and cultural survival against the constant pressure of colonization by other people, war and infighting.  

This particular pottery was from the three kingdoms era 50bce-700ce roughly, and most was from the Baekje region.  I have seen this pottery many times in museum visits all over Korea, but the real moment for me was standing in a museum looking at pieced together shards of pottery with the same markings and features as the shards of pottery I walk over when when walking park forest trails. 

Where I walk barefoot is known to have had settlements its a historical landmark and the rains wash stuff up out of the ground. So its not uncommon to walk and see ancient pottery shards alongside stones and sticks and pine cones.  You do not pick things up here. We leave things alone. I take pictures for my records of my life. They left behind pottery. I leave behind words and photos and art. 

And life marches on 

 I walk among the dead and the living I realize just how connected we all are