happiness is…

this is one of those rare instances where I call upon my face to serve as art replacement – I believe I was about 16-17 years old here – I do remember the t-shirt – very fond of it at the time – Happiness is a German Shepherd 😘

unloving yourself


this is for all beautiful young girls–inside and out–they all are born beautiful–they must believe this and not allow life to turn them otherwise–my daughter has grown into a confidant young woman–this was not always the case–and she’s so much more confidant than I ever was at the ripe age of 19đŸ€—

it’s different today

alone with people 
lonely inside himself
like her
it’s different today

there are those who are complete
with Barbie accessories
used to be days-of-the-week underwear
she’s dating herself
how fun it was back then to misplace Friday
nothing humorous about G-strings
unless you count the wedge itch
you can’t scratch in public
that’s the problem with this new crop of lovers
no sense of humor
‘cleverness’ is their wheelhouse

those pouting cell phone faces
hair calculatingly tousled
upper and lower bulges endlessly optimized
in faux snake scale

elegant mystery lost on past illusions
the past

he covets one
a sense of humor
present when
he’s not trying to be so hard
with thoughts
or backstories
like her
prancing around boldness
except on the dance floor
’80’s disco gloriously simplistic

they are alike
they are alone
in a world beset by shiny upstarts
bedazzled with
Barbie accessories
they summon old-school dreams
and pray these fading thoughts will keep them company
when they are alone
slithered out of my head last night-thank you

even I can’t outrun my bull (fact and fiction)

I’ve been reading some of my older posts, back to the beginning. The beginning. Beginning of what. Capturing words in a public place not private. I wanted my ‘thoughts’ out–real and imagined. Sick. Genuine. Caring. Angry. I can be… I read my earlier words and I no longer recognize the voice. All that sweetness. Amazing how many things change year to year. I am a bull charging until I hit a wall harder than my head. Maybe.

Why am I wired this way? Not sure. We all spend much time considering ourselves. Our motivations–real, fantasized, imagined. I drown in the people around me, immerse myself in supporting others because I don’t want to think about who I am. Maybe. I’m often called an angel by those closest to me, there is nothing further from the truth. I easily imagine myself painted red, dancing around flames. Angels don’t complain. I do. It serves me well until it doesn’t. I spend too much time hating my hair, yet I don’t cut it. Why? It’s heavy and gives me headaches sometimes.

It takes me a long time to believe someone genuinely cares. Childhood is a difficult thing to erase. We do it. It’s the adult thing to do. I’ve done my best to teach my own children independence, self-love and caring for humankind–otherwise–what is the point of this all. Why do we possess these magnificent brains and tortured souls to compliment the farce of the heart. Heart, soul, brain–not the Holy Trinity. We must help one another. Maybe.

I struggle to appreciate who I am now. When I was younger, I imagined I was an Amazon warrior who wore her war paint on the inside. Boys called me Amazon. I hated it. My outside shield covered my disdain for admiration, yet it was what I craved. Maybe. Equating roving eyes with acceptance and warped love. Somewhere you learn about the world. Pain, sorrow, breaking. You search deep down into places. Places unlock truths sometimes, if you’re willing to open the creaking dark doors in shadowy abandoned haunts.

Have I said too much. Or nothing at all. Is this all bullshit. Maybe.

Blue Bull/Prisma

Blue Bull/Prisma

taurean bull created a few years back – me in bull world

selfie-centered society

“Go back to the healing huts,” yarps an Avatar voice. Not watching, the big son is. Every once in awhile a neat phrase escapes cartoon lips. I hear these animated words while noting black crap on the kitchen floor. The college-bound daughter and gal pals went globetrotting last night in search of charcoal. Much to the chagrin of her perplexed mom who enjoys using charcoal for paper not flesh. Activated charcoal capsules, broken then mixed with Elmer’s glue make a fab face mask. Apparently, it’s a thing. Did you know? Try telling a precocious lass “non-toxic” labels occasionally list half-truths. And don’t put glue on your face, I don’t give a shit if it’s Elmer’s.

The real sticky stuff is in the why’s of putting Cow Stick on the face. Raised in positivity all-around, peppered with lessons in humanity, unfocused on exteriors, try as one might–THEY suck impressionable minds in like the BLOB–these harbingers of “beauty.” This from a woman who was boy-banished during her formative years. These young girls are not unpopular with opposites. Nonetheless, it doesn’t matter. Pretty pressure pushes hard and fast. Worrying about flawless skin, optimal eyebrow shape, plumped lips, over-blown chests and asses…it’s sometimes too much to ‘bare’ in today’s selfie-centered society.

We are fast becoming excessively outside people. Maybe we always were. Narcissism–the ancient Greeks lived it, called it, coined it. We are a brilliant, colorful society reducing ourselves–at all ages–to so much less than who we are. Scott Westerfeld smartly uses his young adult titles to demonstrate. The Uglies live in book one. The Pretties flap inside book two. The Specials or those with wide wallets get special billing can bump to book two if they’re willing to rain money. The Extras don’t make the cut through no fault of their own. Is this anyone’s fault or all of ours.

Looking back to my teens and twenties, I regret getting caught in the very same crap. Wasted too many hours trying to buy the word “pretty.” And feel “special” for that moment.
MM super close upthis is Marilyn, you might not know her;) -created with contĂ© crayon on paper in 1983 to decorate an empty college wall (used talented photographer, Philippe Halsman’s image as ref)-over the years she has graced my garage wall, but I fear she will eventually die again there-she has many thumbtack holes in her corners, smudges and is torn in a few places (you can see a forehead tear in this pic detail)-at some point she is going on ebay (never tried to sell anything this way) -if she doesn’t sell-she will be rolled up and placed in storage or a time capsule, not a charcoal one though;) -oh, there is one other thing about this particular lady-this drawing is 7 feet tall and 3 1/2 feet wide-why I ever did this, I can’t recall…

Westerfeld’s YA series is a tantalizing read-I read quite a bit of YA a few years back while writing YA stories. Mr. Westerfeld’s stories are much more than the titles might have you believe. I used Mr. Westerfeld’s titles in my post above just for the ‘illustrative’ wording – the books are quite different – thank you

waiting to become fearless

I am not a fearless artist
I am not a fearless writer
I am not a fearless poet
I am not a fearless mother

I am a fearless friend
until you break my heart

and then

I must wait

to become fearless again
pukwidgiethis little guy was first created in purples back in 2007, since then we’ve become great pals and this past year we went clothes shopping;)

I was thinking this morning about how often I doubt my work and how important it is to be friends with yourself
so you can keep creating forward…thank you

it was to be of us

it was to be a universe of us
out there
we started so strong
perfect was the word I used
delightful was your deal
we matched
didn’t we?
spirited thoroughbreds out of the gate
but we weren’t ready
were we?
the world was loaded with faces
ripened bodies luring us away
from our interlocked hands
we fell to weakness
or was it easy desperation?
no better than horses in heat doing what comes naturally
missteps out of that gate
from the house
our glossy domicile collapsed upon itself
crumbling as it stood
on us
this neo-perfect world piled high with rubble
no longer hard and shiny
those other faces disappeared
in the din of our breaking mortar
none of them ever planned on staying
I guess
did we
rocky torso


all that time
she’d been adrift
wings on spinning thermals
never searching
but secretly looking
for validation

never wanting to find
a man
who would see her
as the someone she feared most
a nearly complete person
with no understanding of themselves
and compassion for too many

  when her over involvements
left him out
he watched from afar

this woman
was someone to be near
even when she was not present

to this day
whenever she returns
to those
reflecting pools
in his warm eyes
she sees and believes
she deserves

most especially

Autumn Leaves

 “I do” put Keith on the fast track to Crazy Town
with a show tune singing maniac;)
(for my husband)

that skin of hers

to get beneath that skin of hers
and force it perfect
I need her to understand
she is beautiful
I need her to see her entirety
to stop doing
what young girls do
not love themselves completely
permit shiny surfaces
and slick ink
to render their forms inferior

these cultures of ours
composed of humanity
but populated by shallow eyes
and deep pockets
should not so easily crawl
into young ears like robotic insects
and sting frail esteem
these young girls are all breathtaking
if we give them some space

they could stop hiding below hard water
and come up for air

if they gaze beyond
how blue the sky can be

Caroline Hands Crossed

Caroline Hands Crossed