Pretty, Girly Things

Above: The Adultress

Above: Savoy

Both of these mixed media pieces are by Elizabeth McGrath. I love where she takes me. The artists and writers whom I respect make statements that I feel have already been growing inside me. They fertilize these ideas, incubate them, and coax them out. Then they know how to dress them up in paint or words. Occasionally I feel this way about my own work. That there are old words that ripen into poems every once in a while. Mostly, though, I am surprised at what I write and say. It's discovery. I didn't know that was in there! Either way, I get proud sometimes. And then sometimes I am impotent. The words go away unsatisfied, and I become embarrassed.

Harlot, the first piece is for you!

The second piece makes me want to be a ghost of the sea. Booing into bubbles and swimming right through sharks. Skipping inside the belly of the whale. Drinking invisible tea. Searching for the Water Babies.

I had a big crush on Tom!

When I was 7 I was really into the Flower Fairies.

I played matchmaker with the different plants and flowers--I have my old books to prove it. I wrote the name of the new love on the page of the mate. For example, I might pair a female rose with a male berry. I've always been such a girl!

The Lament of Dog

Oh, humans. I hate you sometimes. There are not enough pig's ears and rawhide playthings to make this worthwhile. I am a dignified creature. You--not so much. I understand very well the way you eat ice cream out of the tub. I can relate to that. Why do you sit so still and watch the bright box with the noisy men? You don't move for hours and you ignore me. What exactly are my daily duties? Because THIS was not in the job description.

Stop Eating Almonds and Cherries!

Stop eating the cherries! (freshly washed and crunchy)

Stop eating the almonds! (salted and roasted)

But I cannot. I cannot stop. I grab them by the fistfulls and try to go slow-ly. But I cannot. I get the hunger, just like Catherine Deneuve did.

Those little berries, slut berries, offer themselves to me. They are cold and smooth and I spank them with my tongue. The initial burst of juice--intravenous juice. Slutberry crack.

And, Oh! The Almonds! They taste like fancy rooms in architecture magazines. The 1,000 square foot living room with the regal fireplace and proud hardwood floors. There is one thing on the coffee table, and it is not a napkin. It is so classy.

But it is hard for ME to be classy when I'm making deals with the cupboard and the fridge (Don't let me in for an hour, Okay?) And then the belly-belly remorse. Whyyyyy?

I delight in problems like this. It's pretty gross when you think about it. Other people are dying and dead under rubble and water and mud and sand, and here I am worried about eating too much. I live in fear of being bourgeois. I think I already am. Damn.

This morning I saw a vomited-up rat. His little nose was identifiable. The vomit was richly yellow. Why can't I hide in my almond and cherry world?

Platypups!

Of course we know that platypi lay eggs--most people know this. That's one reason that they are such wacky mammals. But, hey, I did not know this until last night. How do you think they feed their young? Milk, sure, milk. But no nipples (I am so sorry, Mrs. Platypus):

The mother secretes this milk from large glands under the skin, the young platypus feed from this milk which ends up on the mothers fur.

Wow. Megawow. It oozes out. (Sorry, I could find no good pics of this).

But there's more. Even though they have no teeth, the males can kill a small dog (or something less cute) with their poison! They keep this in their legs:

The male platypi have a hollow spur about 15 milimetres in length on the inside of both hind legs.

A baby platypus is not called a puggle, which seems to be a common misconception. There is no official name for a baby platypus, but a common suggested name is "platypup".

I am going to adopt the term puggle. I'm not sure how I'll use it, but I must have puggle for my vocabulary.

This is another reason to wake up in the morning.

In other news, Cary and I celebrated our two year anniversary yesterday. We had breakfast at Kerby Lane, and we had dinner at Asti. Super yum! The chocolate mousse cannoli. Oh, yeah.

Cary is the very, very, very most.

La Despedida

Remedios Varo, my favorite painter, entitled this painting La Despedida--in English The Farewell. I keep going two directions at once. At 35 I still don't have the slightest idea what I'll be doing when I'm 50. Will I have to work until my 70's? Surely there will be no government support for me. And what would I do? Teach? It is unlikely that I have a future in teaching. Without a PhD I am pretty much stuck at ACC (assuming I stay in Austin). If I stay with ACC, it is unlikely that I will ever have a decent salary, job security, retirement, or even benefits that are paid for.

Where is the other half of me? Where is she going? There must be somewhere better to go. If I take a 9-5 job how long can it last? Would I be able to stand the loud bark of high school should I make my way towards teaching it? I am a great worker. I have a lot to offer, and I don't think there are any takers.

I am not alone.

I should have been more focused with grad school. Chosen a real career. I have a masters in Creative Writing. I have no books published yet. I have not received any grants. I feel like a fraud standing in a puddle of poetry.

The women in the painting are passing up so many hallways. Are they making mistakes? Are there great opportunities inside those arches?

I love painting. poetry, music, costumes. These are not marketable skills.

Almost every friend I have is drifting around, just like me. We are untethered--which is exciting--but we are not in any way safe. When we all grow old what will become of us?

Perhaps if I had some protective reef. . . I could swim out from under it and play in the waters for limited amounts of time. Then I would dutifully go back to my reef.

I could have taken the stairs. The floor has fallen out, and underneath--the dark water.

This entry comes with a symphony of tiny violins.