Christine and Me.

I didn’t expect to meet Anyone at the party, when I say ‘Anyone’ you know what I mean don’t you? Anyone as in Someone.
It’s not like I really want to meet Anyone… I am feeling pretty cool about being just me, on my ownsome.
There is something very liberating about redefining yourself after a breakup. A clean slate ( alas a little scratched up and chipped in places) to write out what you want and how you want to do it.
That awakening’s arrival is usually heralded by questions
The question of "who am I?" smacked me around a bit.
The answer didn’t come to me in a blinding flash of self realisation, instead it has come in short staccato bursts. A Morse code of hints and whispers.
I am an artist.
I am an artist who is blocked.
For a while there I couldn’t even call myself an artist, I felt like a fraud. How can I be an artist if I don’t do anything.
My creativity has been caged up, caught in an indescribable web of self doubt and nagging insecurities.
Flapping around like a fish without water. I have come to realise that when I am not in contact with my creativity I am lost in this world.
I never took it seriously, those little pictures I drew or the wire sculptures I made. I did however take it for granted and as a result it left me.
My connection to myself ( and that’s what my creativity is) broke.
Like anything taken for granted.
Like a friendship you just expect to be there , yet never putting in the effort of cherishing that person . Not recognising the delicate balance that exists and must be maintained for the continuation of Goodstuff.
Goodstuff is the variety of delicious things that make life worth it.
Goodstuff is what makes you smile, laugh, feel safe, feel love…
Goodstuff is what we have our eye on when we dive headfirst into a relationship.
Goodstuff is not outranked by heartbreak.

Lately my hints and whispers have been coming thick and fast. Acting like an emotional spackle, slapped and pushed into the cracks that have made me feel weak.
Correcting my vision of the world and who I am in it.
I feel like Stephen Kings Christine,
Popping out my own dents and revving my own motor.
I am still a big scaredy pants though, but I just don’t go down Scaredy Pants Lane as much as use to. Shit, I was living on Scaredy Pants Lane.

So, my shout-out for this post goes to all the Goodstuff and it’s tenacious ability never to be outranked by Shittystuff.

Grover...Roadkill.

Yesterday I found myself in a stretch Expedition Limo cruising through midtown.
I rolled the window down just enough to ash my rollie cigarette. At red lights you could see people trying to get a better view of the sheila behind the partially rolled down mirrored window.
I tried to exude fame out of my exposed forehead and wrist.
I even wore my newly knitted wrist cuff that I feel also exudes fame. It looks like I shot Grover and skinned him.
Yes, it has fame written all over it.
I even felt justified in yelling at a stupid man who had parked in the middle of a lower east side road because a taxi had left a weenie yellow dot on his already scuffed, bumper. Afterall, I was famous, famous people yell abuse at nobodies.
I poked my head out of the window and said " You Silly Bugger!" ,I realise now in retrospect that wasn't very in character... " You Silly Bugger" probably wouldn't roll off the tongue of a famous person riding in a stretch Expedition limo.

Now if there is a run on people wearing fuzzy Grover-like cuffs, you know it is because of me.
If I had a digital camera I could take a photo of this rocking cuff and show you... Alas. A mouse drawn cartoon will have to do.