christmas paintings 2008

just thought I would share some of my paintings given as presents this season

fiesta of lights

No one can view or steal the mental photographs
I made of you last night underneath clear skies.
The pictures extended beyond the surface layer of skin
protecting our insides from bodily harm, but exposing
them to conversation, attraction, and permanent smiles.
No one can explain the image I hold of you in my head--
asking for a pen and writing thoughtful words onto paper.
Bright lights and pop music could not compete
with your intelligence or attention as you remained focused
on the mission at hand--impacting with words and meaning.
We forgot where we were for a brief moment last night,
but only the connection of our eyes could decipher
the direction our hearts were being taken.

los angeles at night

Waiting over red wine
your call comes nearer,
clearer, louder than before.
We are the revolution,
where our art manifests
and hopeless romantics
become one under the twilight
of a radical city. Jumping,
leaping, bounding over
parking meters, our hands
gently collide.

Mysterious writer

At night, she comes with her notebook and colors dreams
with words so vibrant sunglasses are needed to block the pigment.
The pen moves readily, steadily along the paper and paints
pictures with prose and music with harmonious rhythms.
The stunning silhouette of her tapping away on the vintage typewriter
triggers flooding and after-shocks within the human chest cavity.
Drinking tea and staring out the window at the view from above,
she moves to the beat of her mind and the ring of her heart.
In my unconscious fantasies, I am the paper she types upon,
the words she chooses, and the pauses she places for significance.
If only she were closer, my presence would filter into her writings
as I sit in the corner and watch her create books and make history.

joy to the world

I am pretty ecstatic right now…

- Lunch breaks become more than sleepy time, but art time
- Refinance at 5% means lower payments
- Christmas in Burbank/Oxnard
- Making presents for my family
- My sisters “bun in the oven”
- Cleaning out my closet
- My amazing friends/coworkers
- Being alone, broke, and happy

X

Trays of fudge and candy occupy tables with red and white clothes.
Turtlenecks and sweaters with glitter meet in a circle
and converse over red wine and mint fudge with sprinkles.
The false tree bares no presents, just shatterproof ornaments and
simple reminders of our first Christmas together long ago.
Silent hours are spent fluffing, decorating, designing,
and stringing lights no one will ever see or admire.
The corruption of a time that was meant to be a reminder
of something more than debt, chocolate brownies, and roasted turkey.

eight

Fighting to hold back the words I want to say. Since age 8, the words became hidden behind a violet jacket in the closet. Pulling the arms away, there were messages of help written with permanent marker on the walls—seeking visibility, but hidden in dismay. Always the mediator, holding back the tears until cracking that day on the playground when you caught me trying to run away. The whistle blew from afar, and taking off like a cheetah, I galloped across the hop scotches, Chinese jump ropes, and tether ball courts. Tears made rivulets on my rosy cheeks as you grabbed my arm and led me back to room 23. I left my soul on the black asphalt that day, only to be stepped on while kids played dodge ball and around the world. I am finally picking up the remaining pieces of soul dust imprinted with little Sketchers and wads of gum. I could have been re-baptized and submerged in salty tears this month, but no longer will I deny feelings that have been absent since age 8.

- 22 F

Freezing temperatures pollute the air, but I refuse to be frozen. The sharp burning from my skin and into my lungs attempts to rapture me into hibernation. As the weather draws colder, my heart remains warm because of those individuals that have drawn me into their homes and removed me from the cold. I will not become that girl from the X-Files movie that is trapped in the ice only to die without a change in appearance. I am constantly changing, and refuse to be frozen.

"Issued by The National Weather Service
Great Falls, MT
4:26 am MST, Mon., Dec. 15, 2008

A WIND CHILL WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL NOON MST TODAY.

LIGHT WINDS... COMBINED WITH THE VERY COLD TEMPERATURES... WILL ALLOW FOR WIND CHILL VALUES TO RANGE FROM 40 TO 55 DEGREES BELOW ZERO THROUGH MONDAY MORNING."

Rolled 20s

When traveling through the core of the earth,
each layer of rock becomes softer as we melt
together like the night we ate blue ladies.
Your back pressed against my bony chest,
feeling your heart beat through the layers of threads
and washcloths vaporizing with Vicks.
Kinetic energy flowed through the pink walls
and I forced myself to look away from you,
but was drawn to the pictures you painted in my head.
Across the vastness of the sky, tiny stars moved
as we sat in the hot tub sweating, thirsting for
one another’s presence in a trivial town.
Distant as we were, we chipped away with a breaker bar
at the crust. We reached the core, which was hot
like our elevated body temperatures in the cold snow.
Holding hands with you at the core caused my soul
to burst like lava in a moment of eruption.
I left you that blissful night for my best friend,
with only regrets and rolled 20s in my pocket.

Treading

People always think of a near-death experience as physical. I am here to inform my readers that emotional death exists and shares similarities to those individuals that come close to dying. No, there is not a bright light as the heart stops and suddenly revives itself again. No, there are no hospital gowns and tubes hooked to ones body like a breaker box. No, there are no priests reading last rights underneath florescent lights.

Yes, there is that gasp of air after being held underwater for two minutes and finally being able to breathe again. This time, it did not take a brush with death to change my perception of life. As I found myself drowning, my muscles gave their last hurrah and forced my head above water. The experience became life-altering, like those individuals that are given a second chance at life. Viewing life from a new set of eyes is refreshing and rewarding, if only I could share this with you.

North

Sitting on the bay window, and looking at the luminous colors that filter the sky. Internal questioning ceases only for a moment of tinted bliss. Looking out, the gravel road to my right curves, and I cannot envision where it ends. There is this constant search from afar, but without physically moving closer, there is no way to decipher where the road will take me. The last thing I desire is sitting on that crimson bay window for the remainder of my life with regrets—searching for something that does not exist. When really, I had that something all along, and took the perfect life for granted. Without hitting the rocks and bumps on the road and swerving from the furry things, life would become routine.

I slammed into a wall earlier this week going down that infamous gravel road. I was not looking for the rocks to dodge, but hitting them as I drove. Realizing in my mind the mistakes I made, I borrowed my father’s back hoe. Pushing the bad rocks to the side, I smoothed out what remained of the road, and started off new. Without change, how will an individual grow?

There are ways our routes will cross, but it will not be on Applegate.

Although the rope unravels, one thread holds it together. It reminds me of that frozen lake from the movies. Each chunk of ice dramatically breaks away, and two people are stranded on separate pieces going opposite directions. I toss you the rope and it begins to break, but I refuse to let you go. It is that one lonely string that hold us together.

Broken Chords

Waiting for the phone call that never comes,
and the ambiguous letter that is due to arrive.
Sitting in the room with blue and green walls,
I navigate toward the green—my internal envy.
Envious of the city that stole your heart from me,
and those constituents that kissed your cheeks
and held hands with you down the cobblestone streets.
Envious of the women who filled you with lust,
and the lack of guilt that filters the human soul on both ends.
Envious that I was cheated out of the truth when
making passionate love underneath overcast skies.
Each chord I play becomes flat, and each note
becomes sharp, like the razors that tickle my skin.
Pulse beating, ticking, heart stopping, reviving.
Cardiac arrest.

Glimpse of Happiness

Forcing my eyelids to close in the evening progressively gets harder each night. Thinking of you consumes my thoughts, and I lay awake dreaming of the day you will come back. I am not forcing the day to arrive, but am counting down in my head the seconds until the door opens and depression leaves. The clock slowly ticks from two to three, and sleeping becomes more difficult when I envision your face. The wind can be calm, and the weather reasonable, but my heart experiences a natural disaster—beating ferociously with the vision of your body curled up with a blanket on the couch. I glimpse around the corner, but you are not there. I must have been dreaming. If only each second could be spent sleeping, I would see you everyday until the door opens, and you are standing there.

Invisible Cloak

A professor once told me the worst
type of person is the one that steals.
They can steal meaningless physical possessions
and do little internal harm, but more importantly,
they can steal the truth--
your truth.

I wish I could hide like Harry Potter
under an invisible cloak.
Secretly running through buildings,
and listening to conversations in the streets.
I would be the superhero of honesty,
always searching for the visible truth.

Strength

She walks along ice easily until she falls.
She slips off the curb into the gutter,
and gets brown gravel on her hands and slacks.
Pulling herself up reminds her of being lifted
again—rejuvenated from the mundane activities
of life and organized routines.

She pulls her body upwards with brute strength
and purposely skids off the sidewalk again.
The more she falls, the stronger she becomes,
and the longer she waits to pull herself up,
the less she accomplishes. The voice in her head
whispers, “stand tall even when you feel small."

death by consumerism

When parents teach children to become responsible and respectful adults, the principles of sharing and courtesy are high on the list. If your elementary school buddy has a fire truck in their hand, you are taught to be patient and not grab the toy from their hand.

Thus… do we need to teach this philosophy to adults… again? Why is it that on Black Friday adults reverted back to childhood before rules and laws were implemented?

I awoke early on Friday morning, and drove to Wal-Mart to pick up bed sheets that were too irresistible to pass up. What I witnessed were adults grabbing and fighting over items, people shoving carts into shins and ankles, and impatient parents. There was not a kid to be found, but the adults had the behaviors and manners of 3 year olds in the peak of a temper tantrum. I witnessed women grabbing sheets out of people’s hands, and people raising voices in traffic jams.

After my near breakdown in the parking lot at Wal-Mart, my sister informed me that a temporary worker was stampeded to death over an electronic device. Where did the humanity go, and where are we going?