The sun is blood red
My hand slipped from yours
Ice is my next step
The sun is blood red
Last night I was walking and the grass was wet on my feet. You were there too. You are still there.
Morning sunshine I thought
was my salvation only became
a taste that you hinted was
OH so recognizable when
your breath smells of passion
flowers in your hair and me
the thief who stole tomorrow.
Nothing changes, things just look different because I have stuffed so deeply that I hardly notice I no longer know who I am.
I tasted your breath this morning
and the honey and bitter love you
shared with me will never be mine.
Two days from now I’ll look at your
hand and wish they were on my skin
but you drink another women’s love
You are in my mind a sad tree frog
that looked into my loveless life and
you taste like pure heaven but you’re not mine.
I found this today. No idea who this composer is. Seemed to fit this post.
I haven’t been posting much because it has been busy as hell around here. I’ve been reading though. Reading all the posts, typically when I’m in between things at work as a kind of pallet cleanser. I spend hours in numbers then read up on what humanity is doing…back to numbers.
I’d rather read about what you folks are up to, regardless of how sad, than read the news for even five minutes. Crimes against the world. That is all I read and see. Crimes, sadness and no solutions. And I so love solutions.
No painting to post today. I’ve been busy digging my entire yard up with an electric tiller. There is something strangely satisfying in that. Erasing my yard so that native things can grow here. Cactus, lantana, Texas heather. Sunflowers. Especially the sunflowers. The unsung hero of summer, at least for me.
There are a few spring wildflowers still lingering by the side of the road. Last night there was this lone metallic green bee quietly pollinating one of them. The red and yellow flower, the metallic green bee. Why end it when there is such beauty to be found along the side of a city road? People don’t stop in their lives and just look.
The need to go here and there do this and that. It consumes us all. I look around and folks are talking, singing, screaming, fucking, driving drinking, eating.
Few are just sitting by the side of the road and looking. Looking at this little green bee that lives a solitary life. Not a famous bee like the honey bee or the bumble bee. A quiet bee that lives alone. I’d have missed it if I hadn’t stopped to look. Like the little green bee most beautiful people are missed because no one bothers to stop and look. When I look at the screen names here I see each as such beauty. Each of you. Quietly going about your day. Pollinating some left over wildflower that is still lingering from spring. Consumed in thought. Sad or happy. Perhaps your toes are just over the edge of the cliff and you are looking down on the river below, turbulent and shallow. Maybe treading water but no one notices that you are in fact drowning. Hands under the water looking like you are climbing the latter, your head bobbing up and down.
Or maybe today you are the quiet little metallic bee. Mindfully perched on one of the last spring wildflowers by the side of the road during a hot Texas summer. Cicadas and cars loud in the background. But you don’t notice tonight because you have found this flower. And the beauty of it? It allowed you to live one more day.
I haven’t been posting a lot. I’ve been reading but not commenting. Lurking. I’m in a valley of sorts, which I’ll take. I’ll take this over the rollercoaster I have been living for months now. I was painting a thisle but thought this cropped stem portion was lovely.
Here have an interesting take on an old French favorite.
Well I’ve been overworking the shit out of this all day. It is pointless, I just don’t have it today. So I scrapped it and went abstract. I don’t have the vision nor do I have the forsight to make this something spectacular. Here you go SP:
Hazy and a chance of let the fuck go.
Much like this this painting, I’m over worked. Seriously doubt myself today or the point of walking forward.
Act in haste, regret at leisure. Life’s lesson is that sometimes the race was finished and I forgot to start running. So obsessed with one step in front of the other I didn’t lift my head long enough to see the forest fire that was headed my way. Funny how forest fires have a cool humid breeze as headway. Sometimes I stop and it is just there.
I was going to make this spectacular. A beautiful thing because the original was indeed beautiful. It is just out of focus now. Like life. Like living. It smells a little off but I can’t pinpoint where the smell is coming from. Fairly certain that smell is coming from me.
Sunay is my recharge day.
I’ve been fairly stable these last few weeks. Not sure exactly why, but I’ll take it, God I’ll take it. Any small win in my life I grab up. I’m greedy like that. I look around and think perhaps people aren’t greedy enough. Let me rephrase that, perhaps they aren’t greedy about good things enough, like love, friendship. Breathing.
One day in a lifetime of insanity that I stuff so deep down it is just par for the course when I do something batshit crazy like hide everything of value in the house because I’m going out to dinner and no one will be home for three hours. Nuts. The other day I stashed all my jewelry in a sock and wedged it under a piece of furniture only to come home and find the sock in the middle of the room and my jewelry scattered on the floor.
Fucking cats. Fucking thief cats. They don’t even like to wear jewelry. They don’t have pierced ears and their tiny cat paws are too dainty to wear my charm bracelet. Even if they figured out how, it doesn’t have any cat things on it, like mice or laser pointers. Fucking cats.
It took me all day to find all of it and right up until the end of the day I was in a blind panic that one set of earings in particular were pairless. Until my son came over to me and asked if this was what I was looking for. Apparently the cat carried it away like some kind of bling prize into the other room and stashed it under a stool. Fucking cats.
I have been reading a lot of posts here, even if I am not commenting. I don’t have a lot to say lately regarding ending your life or me ending my life. I’m on cruise control right now, until I am not. Which could be today, tomorrow. Next week. I roll the dice daily and it keeps coming up stable. I’ll take it, I’ll fucking take it any day of the week.
I’m out of love right now. Which is to say I don’t have enough love to go around for all the folks in my life. So I am saving it up and parceling it out in lumps of love. Yesterday the oldest gets my undivided attention, three days ago the youngest gets me all day. The autistic boy always needs part of me. So the 100% for the other kids is more like 76% or 41% depending on his level of functioning. How engaged he is with navigating his life and the people around him. My husband gets maybe 11% on a good day. It is more like 3% on average.
Painting has been strangely gratifying lately. I’ve never in my life painted flowers or realism. This year I just decided that I would start to paint beauty, because deep inside there is a pit of shame and doubt that will never be cleared away. So I’ll paint how I want to be. A flower on the beach. A flower that looks so very fragile but can withstand a hurricane. A flower in the yard that patiently waits to be noticed by that little blue bee that keep laying eggs in the tiny holes left open when the shutters were taken off the side of the brick house the bee lives next to. A glorious orange cactus flower that can’t be reached by any person, but that little green anole perches on top of it each morning grabbing up the little flies that land in the flower to lap up a little nectar.
Those white cluster flowers folks think are weeks but are just so beautiful, I need to look closely to see their beauty, but it is there. Weeds are only flowers growing where selfish folks don’t want plants growing.
Folks here, we are the worlds weeds. Growing where we aren’t supposed to be growing, but who says that we are weeds? Certainly we call ourselves weeds. Point fingers at ourselves and accuse ourselves of all manner of societal wrongs. Pretty tiny white flowers growing where folks don’t want us to grow. Where we don’t think we should be allowed to grow, or where we won’t allow ourselves to grow.
I look out in my yard and I have so many plants others consider weeds. Towering sunflowers eight feet tall, a century plant that has sent up into the sky a 25 foot tall flower stem in a swan song of beauty. Prickly aloe with red bell flowers. All three considered weeds by regular folks out there. Folks who would rather have store bought beauty than the wild of my yard.
Which brings me back to all the folks here on SP. You are flowers each of you. Flowers growing where you don’t think you should grow. Growing in places others would rather you not. Unnoticed many times. The little blue bee sees you. I see you. But do you see you? Do you see your beauty? I do. I wish you would too.
Be kind, love yourself.
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