The Long Con of a Creative Coward’s Lament

What has the coward accomplished since birthing a blog on Valentine’s Day, eight years ago? The crayon cornucopia of glib lines on her “About Me” page wax-on-purple. Over the last few years, this writing & art site has often been left fending for itself. So, what is it she’s trying to get at?

And, how the coward impressed herself in 2016, pairing beastly illustrations with ‘romantic poetry.’ Today, those shiny published business cards prop up crooked things. I also heard from a reliable source, “Boxes of her ‘auspicious’ books retain squatters’ rights in some basement storage area.” Why not ask what she’s achieved while she’s chest-strapped to a lie detector from her father’s generation? Let’s give this creative coward no room for fictionalizing excuses.

The coward excels at dog-paddling through quicksand while ignoring swinging vines. Ah, how malaise sparks the creative fires! In truth, misery is the pissing trope that replaces tenacity; an unavailable quality on any coward’s spectrum. The coward uses all unauthorized life changes in her orbit to self-justify any lack of progress beginning with the demise of a dear German shepherd who flat-lined across the coward’s feet the night before her mother-in-law moved in. Afterward, the gentle mother-in-law succumbed to a blinding fear of death making all six feet of her inextricably wired with depression. It must be noted that before  her dark metamorphosis, the generous mother-in-law had gifted a large sum toward the coward’s self-publishing aspirations. As for repayment, the mother-in-law asked for one signed copy.

The mother-in-law lived on for three years before the rug beneath the coward’s family feet was hijacked. It was November 2017. The coward’s father died, her mother suffered a massive stroke and her mother-in-law passed away all within the span of eleven weeks. The coward magicked into a ‘dutiful daughter’ and served as her mother’s primary caregiver. Despite hearing that the ‘dutiful daughter’ couldn’t take care of her beyond a year, despite her unrelenting pain and a deteriorating body, the mother’s joy never diminished. She powered past the end-of-life administered morphine to mutter, “I love you,” to the coward. The stroke-addled mouth with the fabulous pearl teeth brokered a final smile for the ‘dutiful daughter’ whose joy had left willingly long ago. ‘Dutiful?’ forever engraved upon the coward’s thin heart.

Months after the coward’s mother died, her husband and she decided it was time to downsize. They discarded some, sold some and packed up whatever massive inventory remained inside their big shiny colonial to press fast forward change. Their daughter and son would recover from the tragic loss of ample closet space. The family relocated to an old farm town. They purchased a home with a rich history built during the Great Depression. Their daughter and son have since moved onto earning their graduate-level degrees. The coward’s ‘old’ new home is officially barren of offspring.

After settling along the edge of the Hudson Valley, the coward entered more creative brinkmanship. She worked little and wallowed in memory blues and vineyard reds— strategizing wine selections by label imagery.  The coward did not fight back like her pugilist-loving father. Nor did she emulate her joyful mother’s dignity and grace. Any words or images leaving the coward’s head were effortlessly dark.

Months after the coward set up her studio, a close family member called. They’d been diagnosed with cancer. The coward kicked into high-gear her martyr imposter. She accompanied her family member to the hospital. After the family member’s double-mastectomy, the dutiful imposter remained at the family member’s home several few weeks. (The news is positive — the family member is “cancer-free.”)

A few calendar pages have been torn off since the coward’s close family member’s close call. The coward has finally arrived at the banal conclusion; the answers, she’d always known. The test she’d always avoided. Her pity-party candle is no longer lit. The coward rucks (her children had suggested adding weights in a backpack for a more powerful walking experience). Every morning, the coward looking like an old fool, swings her arms while carrying ten pounds in a pack and boppin’ to Phantom of the Opera.

To push the coward into using her creative muscles, her ass was recently kicked. If Ms. Levy lived closer, the kick might’ve been literal. Not only an exceptional writer, DS Levy is a dedicated runner and a sprinter. This Midwestern author suffers no fools, yet, she occasionally humors the coward’s ‘artful’ woe-is-me bullshit till KA POW! In the coward’s head, she hears flyover country improv, ‘no flyin’ unless you’ soarin’ with them damn wings on!’

‘The Millie & Billy show,’ as the coward and her large Italian family affectionately once called the dynamic duo, doesn’t come around anymore. Today, two monumental Italians live on between the coward’s ears, in images and inside memories. Though the coward’s monstrous heart has fractured, she more wisely appreciates the brittle quickness of the days, the months and the years.

Back to those boxes of books stored in the coward’s basement, the books her mother and her were going to hawk at local festivals while continuing their search for the perfect anisette cookie, they’ll stay crated a while longer. The coward is no longer enthusiastic over the poems and the images. She notes off tempo-ness in several pieces, stanzas smacking loquacious and others waxing purple-handed. The style no longer represents her. Perhaps it never did.

Should the coward ever grow as courageous as Vito and Carmella, she might one day find herself at some little festival selling monster books cheap, ever grateful for her mother-in-law’s generosity, while seeking out the perfect anisette cookie.

The coward will always treasure creating creatures with redemption in their souls if she herself is willing to look beyond their mistrusting eyes.

Fun fact: When the coward self-published, Love of the Monster, in 2016, her supportive husband gifted books to his friends. Months afterward, one of his friends called him to share a laugh over confessing how his new girlfriend, after reading some monster poetry, ‘got real cozy, real quick.’

This coward wishes you all a warm, safe and wonderful Thanksgiving.❤️dad mom me

was November 20, 1994, really so long ago
left to right: Vito/Billy, coward/dutiful daughter, Carmella/Millie
❤️xo

Peppermint Pigs, Not Pickles

Peppermint PigsI still remember about two decades ago being amazed that a Christmas enthusiast such as myself had never heard of Peppermint Pigs—hard-candy peppermint (pig-shaped of course) broken into sharable pieces for good luck in the new year. I also recall learning about the Christmas Pickle, but due to studio ventilation issues at the time, I opted for pig models over vinegar.😉

I enjoyed creating this piece a few years back for my talented friend, DS Levy. ‘Twas my first crack at a peppermint family🎄 click to check out DS Levy’s creative mind!

it is

well
it is
done
a book
mine
thin and monochromatic
beast and verse
love and madness
what we do to ourselves
what I’ve held
and continue
to store in my own heart
through personal trials
and gentle outward observations
it is
done
a book
for my children
something to hold in their hands
one day
when they need my heart nearby
I might be here
when they seek my heart
but if I’m not
it is

I’m of the old school belief if something is worthwhile eventually it will find its way, not a wonderful sales person for my own work, I must make an effort especially for my talented and generous friends and family who helped me realize this first publishing dream, so my friends, my very first illustrated book of free verse (some call them poems, my father believes poetry should rhyme – these verses do not) is available on my booksite – loveofthemonster.com
cover-image-jpegI thank you – how very exciting it is this morning to write this as the first white of winter presses against my studio door:)

warm queen of the night

to be a queen
of the night
is far better
than
to be a
princess
by the day

to be happy
single
is far better
than
to be a mismatched
duo

to be warm
while living
is far better
than
to be
cold
while–

swirl skating

swirl skating


Queen Waiting created today while waiting in a waiting room

at the beyond

Nothing is the same
All the lights are on
yet the dark is oppressive
I imagine you’re out there
Dreaming
lets me smile
I think you’re in the next room
Pretending
is a talent of mine
I miss you completely
Maybe one day
we’ll be together again
at the beyond
when I grow tired of pretending
and short
of breath

Rocky

Rocky

missing you greatly, my dear friend and companion

our blue boys

the mantle has been empty far too long
I’ve been meaning to create another portrait
what else is an empty fireplace wall for?

it seems an eternity has passed
since working with a linen base and liquid pigment
pencil and paper are sometimes sorry replacements

on August 3, I set out my paints
and selected a canvas
large enough for a big dog
yet, not overwhelming
for a little one

our last Shepherd, Chama was a regal type
her stoic beauty typified her grace
I did my best to present these qualities
when I painted her formal portrait in 2002

Appreciating

our current dogs
hmm
Rocky the Shepherd
Mojo the Dachshund
what is it about this dynamic duo
that makes my family laugh often

they are quite goofy
yet, they can be fearless too
as small dogs usually go-
Mojo’s 13 pounds sees 90 in our Pella glass door
and
while a Shepherd cuts an intimidating figure
most times
Rocky acts quite silly

when conceptualizing a portrait
there is but one goal–
doing justice to
the subject(s)
outlook(s) on life
natural as the air they breath

in the case of Rocky and Mojo
I’d say joy
and since purple was not quite right
I chose the colors of a
blissful sky, a wistful ocean,
an icy fruit-sickle on a steamy day

our blue boys…
blue boys.largerBlue Boys, acrylic – 3′ x 2 1/2′
finished a few days ago, in between doing loads of laundry – ah, if only they could help with the chores, now that would be something 😉

Chama (Chama the Shepherd looking at her portrait), oils – 2′ x 1 1/2′
painted in 2002  (sorry for poor photo quality)

sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer

dude won
sippin’ shit from the satellite saucer
that’s brain milk in there
did you know?
swallow hard and wait for the
Mensa explosion
a thousand stations
to blow your mind out your ears
snort reality
heady up
here comes the gong show
whoa, get your damn greasy stumps off my pristine screen

dude too
looks soreal

dude won
that’s surreal, jack
hey, step back from the ultra hd
and hands off her ass
you’re crapping up my visual

dude too
freakin’ sharp ass glass
realist trip I ever fell over
‘n I slept in a needle
space powder in my orfeces
oh wait, shit
orifecal holes
man, her ass is sublimb-ded

dude won
you’re pot ROASTED, jack
SUBLIME ass and yes, it is
now repeat after me, “ORIFICE”
hey, get your damn hands
off my ultra hd
I already wiped your last scum off there

dude too
shit man
yer satellite saucer
runnin’ outta menses milk
you got one of them cage-free cows
back there in the yard
maybe hangin’ out in them cannibal plants

dude won
you must be allergic to dairy, jack
that’s cannabis
you fuckin’ idiot!
cow pasture with bullcows brought to graze in 2008, find the little green bull…
Experimentally expressing 😉