I guess my brain's saying I have to

I guess my brains saying i have to

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*Excuse the flub in the audio—I misspoke. The anthology is called Experimental Files (it's stories based on or jump-off ideas from the book Experimental Film, and my brain always swaps the name). It's fixed in the blog post with a link!

Morning darklings,

The hubs and I went to the art museum last night. It was honestly a dreadful experience, though PAM was not to blame. Our car is making some god awful sounds, and the mechanic hasn't called me back, so we drove in traffic surrounded by rumbles, bumbles, and screeches. Once out of the car, things calmed down some. Sadly, given our heightened sensitivities, we noticed the bubblewrap flooring more than most. Whether they did not nail down the wood or it's already having troubles this early, I'm unsure. The vibrations of the popping boards and the squeak every step caused was a nightmare. My cane also seemed to be louder than thunder every time it touched down the floor. To top it off, much of the art we saw (though we did leave before we saw about 1/2 of the museum) was not our taste. The artists' statements are often beautiful and meaningful and explain the work in a way that makes me see their vision, but my back aches to the point of spasming to stand and read them all these days (which happened yesterday). Trying to appreciate the artists' intent for so many pieces that didn't immediately resonate with me ended up seeing me crying on the way home. Before my body gave out on me, we walked through the Impressionist section. There was joy and melancholy and study there. It felt like my place. It's clear that if I cannot sit on a cushioned bench now and again and still discuss and appreciate the art, that museum is unable to be a church to me. All religions aren't right for someone, so it's not shocking. The hubs and I had a lot of good discussions last night, though. I realized I've been lucky to see full exhibitions of Renoir (my favorite painter) and other Impressionist's work. I've been to the Vatican and seen Native art just existing on reservations more beautiful than many pieces in museums. I've been to costume and porcelain exhibitions, experienced photography exhibits like the "The Great Basin Murders" by Lily Martina Lee that took my breath away, seen unique pieces that made me cry or forced me to stand close and examine them from every angle. I've been all over from tiny galleries to the High in Atlanta. It's easy to think I just love art. But that's not real, is it? It's still subjective.

That thought feels very salient to the blog post I wrote for you (previous to this note I hurriedly added this morning)

I've been unmoored this last week. My brain has been floating from thought to thought, my body unsure if it can handle anything, my creativity unwilling to be harnessed in the way I expected. Only just Thursday morning did it occur to me that I'm still in the throes of my mid-life realignment. I thought I'd seen the other side once the house was put together. But, to be honest, it isn't fully. There is still art I haven't hung and doors haven't been attached to the dream box, not to mention the coffin needs painting. These are small things, but they feel like a sign. My wardrobe is done, yet I haven't finished designing all of the outfits—something I planned to do immediately so I had one less thing to think about on foggy days. And two days ago, I sat down to work on my non-fiction and tore it down again. It felt like a bout of mania, which wasn't my favorite news. It seems like it's me not seeing the other side of the re-alignment, though.

There are really beautiful things coming from this extended detour.

I've figured out that art is mandatory in my work now. I'm gravitating towards it in every aspect. Even this non-fiction piece feels like it needs art and photographs. The moment I chucked the idea of it being a traditional book out the window, the flood gates opened up.

Many of you know me as an author, a publisher. Maybe you know I was once a special effects makeup artist—depending on how long you've been with me here. But before all of that, I was an artist, a maker, a crafter, a creator. I think it started with playdough fast food and designing perfumes from flower petals when I was young. I liked creating something from scratch. I was always a collector, a little crow with the sharp stinging beak to match, but I realized I could use my collection of things to make things, and that was so thrilling. I played with colored sand and yarn and made miniature scenes from books I liked out of popsicle sticks and styrofoam and pony beads—which I still do today. As I got older, I tried encaustics and glass work and made jewelry with beads and learned to solder to make shadow boxes. I painted eyeballs and made mixed media feminist art, watercolored fruit and sketched dragons. I've not been good at everything. My crosshatching lines were wobbly, and I had no patience for oil. But I've always wanted to try things. Screenprinting, clay, pottery, web design, typography art, mosaic, there's never been enough time. I've taken classes, gotten certificated, tested things on my own, gone to free workshops, visited studios, and met artists who taught me a thing or two.

I've never stopped making art, but I stopped sharing it like I used to, stopped making it a priority. Much like my writing, it pours out, then I'm done. I have more to share, more to make, more to do. So I move on. If someone is in the room and sees the work or documents it, that's amazing. If they don't, I may forget to share the seven things I made in one afternoon. If a project I'm working on needs my attention, though, I may not even touch my art supplies for months. I don't make time for it, despite it bubbling at the surface all the time, as if it's only there as a breather or maybe to support my writing, an accouterment to the work at best..

Darklings, it is the work. Not that it feels like work. But it's The Work as much as writing. It's just another venue where I explore haunted bodies, challenge the norms, play with dark and light, share my point-of-view in a way I can't otherwise.

I am beginning to accept that my work is a little more experimental in presentation at the moment, and will be for at least for a while. I'm still figuring out what that looks like, but another miniature project (

We Used to Be Different) is definitely in order. But other things too. More periodicals, and in new ways. Stories that bleed off the page and onto... something else.

I've never seen things just on the page anyhow—they've always been film. Now I'm adding art and games and periodicals as an integral part of the work. It all goes together. Will my brain equalize one day, will I go back to words with a side of art? Maybe. But I know enough about brain chemistry from my years of studying to say it's highly unlikely. I've changed the way I think, I've rewired myself. I'd have to work to go back. And honestly, why would I do that? This way sees me talking to you, writing about fireflies, designing another game, and being covered in paint and glue for the same project. I see no downside.

*There's a periodical coming later this year that is an extension of a story published in Experimental Files. It's happening so naturally, darklings. If we both strap in, I know the ride will be wonderful!

How are you showing up for your authentic selves lately? It's hard being you in a world of horrors that gives us roles and labels everything and hands us boxes we're told we must fit in or else. Are you poking holes in the boxes? Coloring the labels? Renaming your roles?

You know I love hearing from you, and your emails in my inbox are my favorite part of my week. I sit down, I read them on Wednesday or Thursday just before I write the next blog post. They inspire me. Your stories, you telling me what you thought about mine—it's so meaningful! Please keep it up!

Not doing it yet? Hit reply or drop a comment on the blog itself! <3

Until next time, harness the Little darknesses and embrace the Little things.