When you have an endless layover at the airport, or you’re sitting in a hospital bedside someone who is sick, the feeling of the doing of it, that misplacement, that crouching down in suspended time may thrust you into a different place of consciousness. It is exhausting this habitation of a false space, a reality that is not fully your own. But then, at some point, you pass from feeling misplaced to a sort of pervasive numbness as though you have…

Tomorrow will be a week. I am so zoned out on dextromethorphan that I think I should just take it on the regular. I have, for me, endless patience and understanding. I'm taking everything in stride. Why would I ever, why did I ever bark at spoons and dishtowels? Life has become a slow journey on a swiftly flying horse. I cough. My throat hurts. I wonder at tiny things, little gnats that seem gathered at the lights, at the windows,…

If I had a garret, a drafty, unheated, freezing upper-room sort of garret, I would be writing this there. The sickness is settling in in new ways--I feel I may be coughing by morning. I am too tired. But have done useful things. In spite of it. Not many, but a few. Tomorrow may be a day of nothing. Null and void as though God has turned his face away from the waters of my garret-tomb. Or I may be smiled…

Actually, in spite of this relentless neausea nausea I am feeling an upswing in mood. I went down at noon to open gifts, then I dragged myself back upstairs. I don't particuallry particularly want to be alone up here, but I'm bad company, and I also feel cocooned up here, snugged in, just not as vulnerable. And as I write this I realize that my feeling of "Robo-Tripping" is very real. Either it's the Max-DM, or the Steriods, Steroids or the…

Xmas is canceled postponed. Dale has COVID. He is marooned upstairs. I keep thinking of the Anne Frank house. I listen to his footsteps upstairs. Pound. Pound. Pound. An occasional crashing sound that is actually nothing, maybe a shoebox slipping absently into the floor. I hear his coughing, coughing, coughing traveling down the stairs. I hear all his small and large movements existing entirely apart from me. This is what it must sound like for him when things are ordinary, me…

Yesterday Dale ordered a slender, almost needly tree and it was delivered a little after 7. Which gave us time to decorate it. Roslin was over so it was our special family time, though James wasn't really interested in hanging anything for some reason. Well...we had played 3 games of magic earlier and we were all a little tired from that. The tree is so small it's weird, but I am tired of dealing with the large tree. We had taken…

my level of exhaustion is hard to measure. this virus is unknown, a.k.a no-way-of-knowing-if-we-are-still-contagious*, a.k.a the soul crusher. it is relentless. it will not let us go. it's a terrible trickster, making one think it is gone but then roaring back. a week ago i stood in the kitchen thinking of Job and how maybe God has allowed Satan to corrupt my body which already has enough problems without this life/death struggle to REWRITE MY FREAKING DNA. for that is what…

Tomorrow night, Friday Dec. 1st, Clearstory Arts will...what...premier? Open the show? What do artists say? I don't know. In any case, my two pieces with "angels" in them will be in the Holiday/gift-giving show. My pieces don't fit this theme at all. I even went to the meeting about the show and thought I was in the "spirit" of the thing and now I realize just really NOT. AT. ALL. But that's okay. I wanted to "get my work out there"…

I picked up the canvases from the gallery today. I love them so much. It is beyond gratifying to see my work, images that before today only existed on my computer screen, in living I-can-TOUCH-them color. They are vivid. Strange. Weird. Scary. Ugly. Lovely. Provocotive. I only wish they were on larger canvases. I want everyone in the world to see them and go WTF? Also, learned that my idea of not "caring" about criticism about my art is...BS? We will…

A few years ago I had to have a pain-blocking surgery on my knee. While I was at the small surgical center waiting to be called back for my procedure, I walked around marveling at these paintings on the wall by an artist I had never heard of. Hans Paus. These are either early works by him or someone’s efforts to copy him. In any case, these paintings (on simple canvases—very large, in this tiny waiting room) struck such a chord…