Doom in the Plumbing

Hey, folks.

There's no picture this time, because our plumbing has been backed up all weekend, and no one wants a picture related to the mess that has ensued. It's my gift to you.

My landlords thought it would be nice to plant a tree on top of our main waterline. Last year when the plumbing was backed up, the tree was cut down, but the roots were never removed ... as they had fused themselves to the pipes. This sets up a glorious picture of its own, does it not?

So the plumbers were supposed to be here yesterday. They didn't come. Then today, "between 2pm and 4pm." No show (as of yet). It's 10 to 5pm as I write this, and our toilets are backed up into the bathtubs, we cannot do laundry or wash dishes, and the house smells ... not to mention the fact that we are unable to shower. (We smell, too.)

I will keep waiting and calling until someone shows up, but that's all I can do. Meanwhile, enjoy the fact that your toilet flushes, that your dishes and bodies are clean, and Bryan and I will suffer.

4 a.m. Adventure

Pastel in progress, 2011

I might have an art show coming up in Spring. I've been racking my brain, trying to come up with pictures that hold a narrative in some way. Or at least have interesting images.

I have a friend with magenta-pink and snow white hair. She's a botanist. Someone took a lovely photo of her, surrounded by flowers as tall as she, which were the exact same colour as her hair. It's a striking photo. So I thought I'd add it to my list of projects to do for my possible show, hoping someone would be imaginative enough to find a story behind it of their own and take it home with them.

The search began for a pastel pencil that could capture the radiant beauty in the flowers and her hair. I was halfway done with the face when I realised my carmine red just didn't cut it. It was 4 a.m. What else is open, but Wal*Mart?

Bravely fighting his fatigue, Bryan trudged with me in full winter attire, 2 hours before dawn this morning, to the local behemoth of chain stores across town. The only drivers out were police, so I mindfully watched my speed while I dreamed of finding that exact pink at the exact time I needed it.

I wondered as we strolled the empty aisles how fun it might be to work the extreme night-shift at one of these stores. Observation revealed it would be no fun at all - all the employees were stocking shelves and buffing the floors with giant, whirring machines. I couldn't imagine staying interested in such tasks for long.

Finally, we arrived at the crafts section, which was disappointingly small. In some pre-holiday frenzy, the art supplies were stripped down to ONE 8 pack of chalk pastels. None of the eight colours was even approximate, much less close, to what I needed. Frustrated, exhausted, and cold, we left for home.

At 8 this morning, I was up again, ready to scour the local art supply shop with the friendly manager and playful dog. They always carry everything an artist could possibly need ...

And there it was. Red Violet. The colour of dreams.

Journals!

I admit it, I am a paper whore.

I have stacks of both used and blank journals. Some are in various stages of use, and I always have at least 3 separate journals going for different projects. One for a log, one for dreams, one for poetry, and well, you get the idea. My journals go on and on.

Today I was spurred on by a spontaneous rediscovery of that mistress of journals and honesty, that master of language, Anais Nin. There is a small and very brief record of my recent adventures with the ideas of journaling here. It was a nonsensical, playful distraction for one night of insomnia, but shall go no further than that. (If you're worried you'll have to check it for updates, thank you, but it won't be necessary.)

*waits*
So you read that? Great!

On to my new project. I need space on my bookshelves. I would like an old, beat-up looking journal. I want a thick, hardbacked, evil thing, so ... THE DESTRUCTION OF BOOKS IS IMMINENT. I am a book-lover, and just in case you are too, I won't even mention which poor volume met its fate under the acrylic brush you see above. All I can say is this: those poor Russians!

And while on the topic of projects, I finally got to register for that drawing class today. I will soon be up to my elbows in pencils as well as journals! For me, the happy hero of this story is the paper involved.

If you can't create something new, see an old thing in a new way. And then draw it. Or write it. Or be it.

Little Things

            The house has been filled with anxiety. It wraps around the doors and windows like holiday lights; it is bright enough to read by.

Crossword Doodle 2011

Time creeps up on Bryan with padded feet. He is afraid his everyday will creep on the same, noiseless tread. The stealth with which his middle age has reached him undoes him. It unravels his projects and lists of things to do. Despite my protests that life is an uphill tread to a finish where the journey is everything, he remains goal oriented. He is always working toward an achievement. I admire his tenacity.

But the smallest things disturb his peace of mind. A flutter in the heart makes him fearful that the shadows of death are waiting behind him always, just to the left of his vision. This peripheral phantom haunts his days and nights, until he begins to make lists that never come to fruition. He obsesses over all the Little Things that bring on the assailants of depression.

He is scared to die.

I’ve noticed that he focuses on the small stuff that turn fixation into a complex ballet on the edge of neurosis. I am no less faulty, but most of the time I am skewed into spazz attacks for entirely different reasons. Perhaps since, in my body, I hold all the mechanics of life, I am less likely to shun the vehicles of death. Perhaps because I’ve already dived my death and I am still standing, it makes me more likely to celebrate the tiny diversities of living in this world, rather than becoming immersed in their potential dangers. To me, death is just another glib remark from my accidental existence. Whatever my reason, I still watch my lover struggle with his mortality in all the small ways.

It’s always the Little Things.

So I have been pulling on my support hats, and wearing them as best I can while he frets and worries. I bite my tongue and watch my tone of voice. I make suggestions when he says he needs a project. I try to make living easy.

It is not so much a burden when I am stable and my meds are holding me up in their firm hands. I have floaties in this deep water, but it still hurts to watch Bryan tread tirelessly through it. All I can do is offer a hand.

And pay attention to the Little Things. 

Fishes and Friendships

I've recently come back to the world from a foray into my unconscious.

I was swallowed by that great fish from the depths. I am so enormous in my delusional grandeur that it took a week to suck me all in. Being admitted to the hospital was like being spit out, being born again from the awful death I dived in my own deep water.

One of the things that calms me greatly is reading and drawing. I like the meditative quality paper has. I am allowed in its embrace to remain still while travelling the corridors of fancy and dream. Unable to cling to the moment (here, now) that I craved after discharge, I found refuge in my awesome friend's blog.

The link is here: http://aquietweek.com/

A Quiet Week in the House is exactly what it promises for me. If I am reading Lori's genius blog, you can be sure things are going well for me mentally. It means there is a small respite in the corner of my confused and overwhelmed grey matter. So I revisited the blog this week. I found peace and serenity in her arty collages and inspiration in the calm way she expresses her own frenetic flights. I am pleased to say she is my friend.

I give her some credit for the neurotic drawings that have spilled from my pen these last few days.

I have been advised to keep my hands busy, and so I have.

With a little help from Da Vinci

Leonardo's Hands Sketch (with my text)

Wednesday night.

5 PM.

Psych ward.

I'm finally home.
After a rough week in which I was in and out of reality, I went into the hospital voluntarily. My mom stayed with me until I was settled in bed and had eaten dinner. Bryan stayed home with the dog, and was ever present in my thoughts. He handled the night alone, playing the game of distraction. Distressed, the dog slept in bed with him.

But these things were the farthest from my mind as I chatted with apparitions only I could see. I giggled to myself and tried hard to ignore the fact that the cameras I believed to be in every room of the hospital ward were unbelievably REAL.

By the next day, I discovered they were.



I worried about nothing but myself and felt no remorse for my egocentric absorption. I was in a hospital to be taken care of, to declare a full time out from the rigorous stresses of the real world. The planet stopped on its axis and took no notice of my small hands and worried mind.

Alas, one of my medications was too new to be on the hospital formulary, so I was taken off of it. I was given a higher dose of another medication instead. It did the trick. Well, that and a break in perspective and a distance from the delusional. I slept nearly 11 hours, and by lunch I was ready to leave. It warmed my heart to know my psychiatrist trusted my judgment enough to discharge me within an hour.

Mom brought me home, and I am a new person. From now on, I plan to channel my emotional stress into art and words. I frequently write and draw, but not the frustrated murals I've been doing the past few days in my crossword puzzle book/doodle pad. Some things shouldn't be kept under the skin, but drawn out like an infection with all the creativity I can muster.

The universe is real again, and I remember why it's interesting and worth it again.