When I woke up this morning my intentions were to do the following:
*Go to the bank
*Go to class until mid-afternoon
*Come home and clean
*Spend time with the kiddo
*Paint
My day actually went like this:
*Went to the bank
*Didn't go to class - found out later class was canceled anyway. Talk about luck.
*Went to my mom's until noonish
*Courthouse/Tag office visit...not for my car.
*Goodwill trip
*Grocery Shopping for fifteen hundred hours
*Came home, and the kiddo decided to watch wrestling, of all things.
So now, it's 12:35 in the morning and I have accomplished zilch today with the exception of filling my entire kitchen with 2 extremely overfull shopping carts of food for just under $250.
Lets try this again tomorrow.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Sunday, June 27, 2010
I Miss Him.
I promise I'm not in a parent-bashing mood this evening, as I do have a somewhat decent relationship with all of them at this point in my life. I'm more...reflecting.
In the past 6 years, I've gone from being a minimum-wage, part-time worker and SAHM in a miserable marriage to putting myself through college, raising my daughter, running my own business, and doing it all with a gigantic smile on my face. One family member, other than my fiance, has said that they were proud of me: my aunt. I love my aunt dearly (and got to see her today, actually), and it meant so much that I cried when she said it. I can't help but be baffled that my friends and even people I've never met in person will send me emails and call me to tell me how awesome they think I am, but when it comes to my parents/family I feel very much like the black sheep that made all the bad choices. I did make bad choices. So did they (insert my untimely existence here). I'm doing something about mine. It shouldn't matter if they like my fiance, have a problem with my schedule, or are frustrated with my lack of time due to my crazy schedule. I'm happy. My fiance absolutely adores both me and my daughter, and I'm busy because I'm working on my first of three degrees and have a successful business. When my aunt and I talked about how she was the first and only person to really even acknowledge what I'm doing, she said that maybe they didn't know how to tell me. I'm more apt to believe that they haven't really even noticed.
I know one person that would have noticed...and said something, although it would have probably been a simple smile and a 'Well, good!'. This guy:
This is my grandfather. My grandmother ran across this picture of him today while going through a few things, and I came close to bursting into tears. Grandpa died of lung cancer when I was 15, and this is the first picture I have come across since where he looks just as I remember. The rest are either profile views, dark, blurry, or from before my time. This, though...this is Grandpa. When he died, I was sort of numb to it. I didn't cry when he died. I didn't cry during the funeral. I do remember that at one of the viewings, my aunt and I were alone in the room with him as the others left and the place was closing up, and I absolutely broke down. She left me there with him, and I just cried hysterically...me and my grandpa, and I had a chance to sort of say goodbye. Sort of. The grandpa in that casket looked nothing like the grandpa I knew, thanks to the cancer. For the longest time, that's what I remembered of him. Maybe that's why I stayed so 'unaffected'. Then, a few Christmas' ago, my step-mom gave me a DVD of my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary. I came home and watched it repeatedly from midnight until 4am. I'm pretty sure I've never cried that hard in my life. It was him...just like in that picture. Not only was it him, it was his voice. He only talked a couple of times, and I would rewind and play it over, and over, and over. I watched that video and some sort of emotional dam broke. As my daughter gets older, I miss him. As I accomplish more, I miss him. Every day, something little reminds me of him, and I cry...and miss him. I'm pretty sure I'm hell bent on torturing myself where he's concerned, because I even make garlic salted popcorn with a glass of milk when I want a midnight snack simply because that's what he used to make me. When I do it...I miss him, and I cry. I'm not sure why it's harder for me ten years later than it has been the entire ride, but it is.
Grandpa wasn't the kind of guy to show his emotions (might explain my dad, actually). He did talk, though. When I was saved and Baptised around the age of eight, he told me he was proud of me and bought me dove earrings. He bought me a Red Rider bb gun for my birthday once because I asked for it. Then, he taught me how to shoot it, smiled and said I was a good shot. As a child, whenever I brought him drawings of whatever I had decided to scribble, he would talk to me about them and tell me how good they were. When I was an early teen and still spending Saturday nights with him and my grandmother for church the next day, I would stay up watching tv with him and study...and he would ask how I was doing in school, smile, and say 'That's good!'. Just little things...never big, but there were alot of them and they were always something I remembered.
So today, as I have yet another 'I really, really miss Grandpa' day combined with a 'Why can I never be good enough for them?' day, I remember all that I'm doing, his half-smirk half-smile, and a simple 'That's good!' ♥
In the past 6 years, I've gone from being a minimum-wage, part-time worker and SAHM in a miserable marriage to putting myself through college, raising my daughter, running my own business, and doing it all with a gigantic smile on my face. One family member, other than my fiance, has said that they were proud of me: my aunt. I love my aunt dearly (and got to see her today, actually), and it meant so much that I cried when she said it. I can't help but be baffled that my friends and even people I've never met in person will send me emails and call me to tell me how awesome they think I am, but when it comes to my parents/family I feel very much like the black sheep that made all the bad choices. I did make bad choices. So did they (insert my untimely existence here)
I know one person that would have noticed...and said something, although it would have probably been a simple smile and a 'Well, good!'. This guy:
This is my grandfather. My grandmother ran across this picture of him today while going through a few things, and I came close to bursting into tears. Grandpa died of lung cancer when I was 15, and this is the first picture I have come across since where he looks just as I remember. The rest are either profile views, dark, blurry, or from before my time. This, though...this is Grandpa. When he died, I was sort of numb to it. I didn't cry when he died. I didn't cry during the funeral. I do remember that at one of the viewings, my aunt and I were alone in the room with him as the others left and the place was closing up, and I absolutely broke down. She left me there with him, and I just cried hysterically...me and my grandpa, and I had a chance to sort of say goodbye. Sort of. The grandpa in that casket looked nothing like the grandpa I knew, thanks to the cancer. For the longest time, that's what I remembered of him. Maybe that's why I stayed so 'unaffected'. Then, a few Christmas' ago, my step-mom gave me a DVD of my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary. I came home and watched it repeatedly from midnight until 4am. I'm pretty sure I've never cried that hard in my life. It was him...just like in that picture. Not only was it him, it was his voice. He only talked a couple of times, and I would rewind and play it over, and over, and over. I watched that video and some sort of emotional dam broke. As my daughter gets older, I miss him. As I accomplish more, I miss him. Every day, something little reminds me of him, and I cry...and miss him. I'm pretty sure I'm hell bent on torturing myself where he's concerned, because I even make garlic salted popcorn with a glass of milk when I want a midnight snack simply because that's what he used to make me. When I do it...I miss him, and I cry. I'm not sure why it's harder for me ten years later than it has been the entire ride, but it is.Grandpa wasn't the kind of guy to show his emotions (might explain my dad, actually). He did talk, though. When I was saved and Baptised around the age of eight, he told me he was proud of me and bought me dove earrings. He bought me a Red Rider bb gun for my birthday once because I asked for it. Then, he taught me how to shoot it, smiled and said I was a good shot. As a child, whenever I brought him drawings of whatever I had decided to scribble, he would talk to me about them and tell me how good they were. When I was an early teen and still spending Saturday nights with him and my grandmother for church the next day, I would stay up watching tv with him and study...and he would ask how I was doing in school, smile, and say 'That's good!'. Just little things...never big, but there were alot of them and they were always something I remembered.
So today, as I have yet another 'I really, really miss Grandpa' day combined with a 'Why can I never be good enough for them?' day, I remember all that I'm doing, his half-smirk half-smile, and a simple 'That's good!' ♥
Friday, June 25, 2010
Saltwater and an 'Aha!' moment.
I'm Buddhist. Most who know me know this, although some are still surprised when the subject comes up. I literally fell into this belief several years ago when I worked at a bookstore and knocked over a table of books called Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. My coworker, while laughing at yet another display of my clumsiness, asked if I had read the book. It was an 'Oprah' book, and I had strict personal rules against reading anything endorsed by Oprah. As an avid book reader and lover of the classics, I've always felt that Oprah's endorsement enhanced the sales and popularity of decently written books while leaving incredible work on the shelves to be remaindered - that, however, is a vent for another day. This coworker somehow talked me into reading the book, even though I promised not to enjoy it.
I lied. Not only did I enjoy it, but I laughed, cried, and cheered. The memoir has very little to do with actual Buddhism but it opened my eyes to a religion and spirituality which, I found, closely resembled my personal beliefs. I thought I was unique in my beliefs, especially considering the reactions I received from others when discussing them. The realization that an entire religion was based around the same beliefs that I held was invigorating - so I read. And, I read. And, I read. What else is there to do when one works at a bookstore? I devoured every book on Buddhism I could get my hands on and moved to the works of the Dalai Lama (who I've always admired, but knew very little about in terms of religion), and then to other memoirs.
I know - you want my point. I can't say that I have one this time. I'm currently reading a book my dad lent me, called Saltwater Buddha by Jaimal Yogis. I no longer work at a bookstore, so it takes awhile for me to get through a book, but this one has been pretty good so far. Jaimal is a surfer...or trying to be a surfer, as well as a Buddhist. My favorite parts of the book are when he pops off with something a Zen master has said and the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. I flipped through last night and reread some of the quotes and ran across this one by T.P. Sakulis: Studying about Zen should never be confused with practicing Zen, just as studying aesthetics should not be confused with being an artist. I've had more than one discussion about Buddhists and Buddhism, due to knowing so many 'Buddhists' who actually practice other religions or simply read about Buddhism without practicing anything at all. Reading Buddhist books does not a Buddhist make. Buddhism is a mindset - a reality all in it's own, and very few 'Buddhists' that I know are anything more than trend-jumpers or people who are interested in the theory of Buddhism. That's not what resounded in this quote, although it is what caught my eye originally. Did you catch that last part? - 'Just as studying aesthetics should not be confused with being an artist.'
Wow! 'Aha' moment something fierce, I would say. I'm not an artist, I study art! I study how to be an artist. Like the great de Vinvi said: “I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do."
I lied. Not only did I enjoy it, but I laughed, cried, and cheered. The memoir has very little to do with actual Buddhism but it opened my eyes to a religion and spirituality which, I found, closely resembled my personal beliefs. I thought I was unique in my beliefs, especially considering the reactions I received from others when discussing them. The realization that an entire religion was based around the same beliefs that I held was invigorating - so I read. And, I read. And, I read. What else is there to do when one works at a bookstore? I devoured every book on Buddhism I could get my hands on and moved to the works of the Dalai Lama (who I've always admired, but knew very little about in terms of religion), and then to other memoirs.
I know - you want my point. I can't say that I have one this time. I'm currently reading a book my dad lent me, called Saltwater Buddha by Jaimal Yogis. I no longer work at a bookstore, so it takes awhile for me to get through a book, but this one has been pretty good so far. Jaimal is a surfer...or trying to be a surfer, as well as a Buddhist. My favorite parts of the book are when he pops off with something a Zen master has said and the quotes at the beginning of each chapter. I flipped through last night and reread some of the quotes and ran across this one by T.P. Sakulis: Studying about Zen should never be confused with practicing Zen, just as studying aesthetics should not be confused with being an artist. I've had more than one discussion about Buddhists and Buddhism, due to knowing so many 'Buddhists' who actually practice other religions or simply read about Buddhism without practicing anything at all. Reading Buddhist books does not a Buddhist make. Buddhism is a mindset - a reality all in it's own, and very few 'Buddhists' that I know are anything more than trend-jumpers or people who are interested in the theory of Buddhism. That's not what resounded in this quote, although it is what caught my eye originally. Did you catch that last part? - 'Just as studying aesthetics should not be confused with being an artist.'
Wow! 'Aha' moment something fierce, I would say. I'm not an artist, I study art! I study how to be an artist. Like the great de Vinvi said: “I have been impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowing is not enough; we must apply. Being willing is not enough; we must do."
Inventing Creativity
Somehow, between being a mom and a college student, my creativity has packed it's bags and sailed to Tahiti. I imagine it's a nice place -a perfect home for creativity, actually- but the new locale is doing nothing spectacular for this non-existent portfolio of mine. Most of my creativity, I'm sure, came from the creative life I led for quite some time. Funny how, now that I'm an art student, I lead a busy and less creative life than I did when I was a stay-at-home-mom or a bookseller. I need to get out more. I'm sure even a trip to Kennesaw Mountain for a hike would spark up some creative juices. Mister and I took an incredibly awesome trip to Savannah in February, but we were so busy with 'stuff' (and, er, each other) that I didn't have time to produce like I had originally intended. My plans to sit in Forsyth Park and paint trees were trumped by Leopold's ice cream - not even Rocky Road ice cream, seeing as how I still haven't convinced them to carry it. Bitter? Probably a little. My plans to come home and become inspired by the hundreds of photographs I took in Bonaventure and the squares were mauled by school work and the aforementioned inability to access my studio. Because, you know, an artist has to have a studio. /s
Tonight I sat down, after running across a high school AP Art course description/summer assignment list, and made a list for myself. Not just any list, but a list of ideas. Whoooooa! I'm really moving now!! I wonder how long it will take for those ideas to move from notebook paper to watercolor paper? /curious/ Atleast I'm coming to terms with my amazing ability to procrastinate, I guess. Or, my amazing ability to procrastinate, still accomplish the things I need to, AND make the Dean's List at the same time. I'm blaming it on Buddha.
Tonight I sat down, after running across a high school AP Art course description/summer assignment list, and made a list for myself. Not just any list, but a list of ideas. Whoooooa! I'm really moving now!! I wonder how long it will take for those ideas to move from notebook paper to watercolor paper? /curious/ Atleast I'm coming to terms with my amazing ability to procrastinate, I guess. Or, my amazing ability to procrastinate, still accomplish the things I need to, AND make the Dean's List at the same time. I'm blaming it on Buddha.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Jungle...
...it's really the only way I can describe the current state of my 'studio'. In all it's multi-windowed fourth-floor glory, it has literally turned into a junk yard of sorts. The problem is a complex yet very simple one - complex because we can't figure out how to fix it, simple because it's a problem easy to pinpoint. The studio is full of 'stuff'...but it's all 'stuff' with nowhere else to go. /sigh/. I'm pretty sure it started the downhill slide to overgrowth with the purchase of an incredibly awesome full-sized drum set for my 5 year old daughter. Why a drum set? Well, because her daddy is a drummer and she wants to be just like him, of course. Why full-sized? It was $25 at a yard sale, in almost perfect condition. Since this purchase, I have accumulated more art supplies than I could possibly need, a very large filing cabinet for Slumber Parties folders, etc., 8 chairs that seem to have no home, and 6 (yes, SIX) luggage bags full of Slumber Parties products. How many other artists can honestly say that they can't fit their tiny 108lb body into their studio because there are too many vibrators in the way? I could probably paint or draw in either the coffee or dining room table but alas...back to that five year old daughter - sticky fingers make for sticky furniture. I swear I can clean the furniture five times a day and still wind up with grape kool-aid on the back of my half-finished portrait.
In other news, I made the Dean's list last semester. ♥ I'm pretty darn close to making it again this semester, if I can somehow convince myself to study instead of...well, blogging, for instance... or reading the same book to my daughter for the thirtieth time. Laundry...laundry seems to get in the way of everything. Then again, when you have a daughter who insists on changing clothes thirteen times a day and always manages to spill something on the 'new' outfit before you even realize she's wearing something different, laundry will pile up quickly. I'm taking Theater this semester. Yes, me - the queen of performance anxiety unless I have an adult product in my hand and am talking to a room full of half-lit women. So far, it's awesome. So far, I haven't had to go on stage. I am learning alot though, and I think my 'group' for the play we're doing may break me out of my 'performance' shell before it's all said and done, no matter how unwilling I am. I'm also in Philosophy this semeser - interesting, because we seem to talk about the same things in Theater that we do in Philosophy on the same day. My professors both rock - one is amazigly cooky and the other has a penchant for the phrase 'bullshit'. The first time he said this in relation to God, I though the entire class would fall over in a mass heart attack. If you've ever seen An Evening with Kevin Smith (Kevin Smith being Silent Bob from Mallrats/Clerk, etc.), Philosophy is very much like sitting in the audience. Same mannerisms, same language, same belly laughing - ratemyprofessor.com wins again this semster. ♥
In other news, I made the Dean's list last semester. ♥ I'm pretty darn close to making it again this semester, if I can somehow convince myself to study instead of...well, blogging, for instance... or reading the same book to my daughter for the thirtieth time. Laundry...laundry seems to get in the way of everything. Then again, when you have a daughter who insists on changing clothes thirteen times a day and always manages to spill something on the 'new' outfit before you even realize she's wearing something different, laundry will pile up quickly. I'm taking Theater this semester. Yes, me - the queen of performance anxiety unless I have an adult product in my hand and am talking to a room full of half-lit women. So far, it's awesome. So far, I haven't had to go on stage. I am learning alot though, and I think my 'group' for the play we're doing may break me out of my 'performance' shell before it's all said and done, no matter how unwilling I am. I'm also in Philosophy this semeser - interesting, because we seem to talk about the same things in Theater that we do in Philosophy on the same day. My professors both rock - one is amazigly cooky and the other has a penchant for the phrase 'bullshit'. The first time he said this in relation to God, I though the entire class would fall over in a mass heart attack. If you've ever seen An Evening with Kevin Smith (Kevin Smith being Silent Bob from Mallrats/Clerk, etc.), Philosophy is very much like sitting in the audience. Same mannerisms, same language, same belly laughing - ratemyprofessor.com wins again this semster. ♥
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