Posted on by She Never Sleeps

A banner year… Not really

I don’t even know where to begin. All of it seems almost surreal.

I’ve had friends die. Almost die. Find out they could die.
Hearts broken, relationships gone to shit, marriages end.

People I never thought I’d give a hundred and second chance, I’ve opened myself to again – hesitantly. Wearily. But with hope. Because I am a soft soul at my core and can’t help but think that there is a speck of good in everyone. That a tiny particle has the ability to grow and blossom if given the opportunity.

I’ve taken stock of the absurd, the unfortunate, the blind ignorance (and arrogance) of so many. I lose myself in contemplation often. I think too much. I always have, lately has not been any different.

I’ve finally come to accept that even if you’re direct and straighforward, others don’t necessarily feel the need to do the same.

Even if you give of yourself completely, that is not usually how another person operates.

That your own truth may not match the truth of someone else.

Sadly, I’ve also come to find that sometimes the best option is simply walking away. Not every battle is a war. That there will be moments in life when conceding defeat is a victory, even if it doesn’t seem that way at the time.

And right now, I really need to take that last part to heart.

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

Lately

It is May 21 and the weather outside could have me fooled into thinking it is October. I don’t mind it. I’ve always loved the damp and chill, an opportunity for big thick comfy sweaters, many mugs of steaming beverages brimming with warmth and the excuse for not having to travel out into world unless absolutely necessary.

Though, it would still please me if I had to.

The light drizzle dampening denim covered legs, sliding off muddy soled, screaming red red rain boots, misting my hair like tiny beads of early morning dew on wispy blades of grass… I enjoy these small details. I don’t even mind the cold which comes with it. There is a freshness, an awakening, something which just shouts in your face, “HEY! You’re Fucking Alive!” Nothing like the burning, lazy, heat soaked days which leave you sticky and stagnant. A sweaty mess of discomfort. No. Days like these, I cherish.

On days like this, I am reminded of Lancaster. And Bristol. And almost all of the rest of England and of the love at that time which took me there. I am brought back to a period of adventure and curiosity. Of passion for Life and Living. And while that former version of self has long since grown and become something other, there had long been many instances where I missed that part of Me. I had chalked it up to furthering myself into adulthood. Into a new 2.0 representative of who I had become. I was fairly certain that the Woman of the past was no longer in existence.

Yet, not long ago on a colder Saturday night, I found myself free of immediate obligations. No husband. No small children. I was able to just go out and wander a bit, if I wanted to. I, naturally, didn’t feel the urge. I wanted to drown in streaming programming while I knit and kept the company of my cats. Yet, appealing to the logic of when was the next time I’d have this kind of freedom, I headed out.

Deciding to meet up with some friends, I spent a half hour looking for parking in a part of town booming with Trend and Cool. I hated it. I was already rueing my decision to make the trip into the city. After that battle, I found them in the bar, already filling up with people. And I hated that, too. But I was determined to see through the evening, if anything for the novelty of something different. Oh but wait – there’s a band playing and you know the guys and we should go check them out? At this point, I was considering calling it a night, but no. I agreed.

Here’s where my heart had a change. Three of us, walking to the next place, and my two friends stop to talk to a guitar player and his girlfriend with the ukelele, both sitting on the sidewalk, guitar case open for monetary gifts. They have a dog and he looks sleepy, but loved. They offer up a song and my friends say, Sure.

It’s about 40 degrees out, give or take. And this thin, scraggly looking guy starts playing one of the sweetest songs I’ve ever heard. His girlfriend, reminiscent of free love and hippies, joins in with her ukelele and soft fairy-like harmonic voice. My friends begin to dance and I am moved to take some record of this occurence.

And I realized I was smiling. Happy. Relishing this presence of spontaniety and True Beauty. I held up my phone to capture the best I could what was transpiring before my eyes… I didn’t do too well because I, also, was wrapped up in the vibrancy of the moment. I was vaguely aware of cars driving by, everyone walking past rapidly, in a hurry to get to the next bar/club/whathaveyou. For a brief interlude in time, I felt like all 5 of us were in a bubble, some magical window into a mirrored dimension of being able to experience and enjoy the Here and Now with no outside interruption.

Nothing lasts forever. The song ended, my friends gave them some cigarettes and cash, we kept going to the next place – but my heart felt lighter.

Joyous.

Alive.

So.

Lately, this has been on my mind. Of course, days like these… Days which remind me of previous excursions, long past days of foolhardy carefree whimsy, days which bring to mind bits and pieces of  the romantic and idealist I used to be… I am encouraged to once again find the magic and wonder of Living as opposed to simply Existing. I know now that those fanciful qualities I thought I lost to youth have only been shoved aside, forgotten and unused. The older a person becomes, the harder that feat. With age also comes some cynicism. Some convenience. Comfortablilty. All things which would hinder the search and stunt the growth of a curious soul. However, nothing which has been worth having has ever come easy, or so I’ve been told.

*shrugs*

I guess I’ll see.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

The Human Condition (pt. 112)

I sipped my bourbon. I was tired, I didn’t want to be out. In fact, I wanted to be home, in bed, surrounded by my cats, drifting into a comfortably uncomfortable sleep. I wanted my worn-in sweats, with the loosened waistband, saggy bottom, pilled fabric throughout, softened through multiple washes…  I lapped the Bulleit lightly wishing I was already under the fat knit blankets in my bedroom, falling away into unconsciousness.

Instead, here I was, listening to a man drone on about the artistic condition.

The Artistic Condition, the grueling self-doubt, the striving to be at least an equal to their peers in that specific field, the 24/7 struggle to be recognized – noticed, the sleepless 2 a.m. tossing and turning anxiety ridden nights, the booze and the drugs and the men and the women and some more of the booze with a side of drugs… just to take the edge off.

And I fiddled with my drink, swishing the amber liquid lazily out of semi-boredom and resignation. Why was I here? Because while I wanted the cozy comfy security of my bed, I didn’t want to go to the home in which it was inhabited. Problems were at Home. Fights were at Home. Anger and 7 years of built up Frustration were at Home. Things I was not overly eager to deal with. Yet, these all seemed like better options compared to the incessant droning of the gentleman seated to my left.

Finally, I said, “So, Human. You’re bitching about being Human.” He doubled back and looked as though he was going to argue the point. But I excused myself before we could go down that (I could only assume) long and winding road.

A short tumbler with a couple swallows left of liquor remained on the polished bar top. A man kept an eye on it, waiting for its owner to return. And I walked out into the night, head full, heart empty.

 

Posted on by She Never Sleeps

the balance of art and every day life in a dream

When the last things you do before bed is watch Hell’s Kitchen, look through your Instagram feed, comment about art, order slippers for your grandma online and curse to yourself that you didn’t do the sink full of dishes but fuck it, you’re tired so they’ll just have to be done in the morning…

You dream about sitting at your grandma’s table and talking to two local artists you admire, your best friend, Cortney and social acquaintance, Jim Terry about art and the creative process, but then the kitchen morphs into some crazy restaurant (who are all these people?) and wow all this food looks good and damn you’re hungry, but now you’re in some sort of barracks/cabin which you’re sharing with at least 6-8 other females (who the fuck are these chicks???) and you’re on a cot cuddling with the obnoxious lesbian from Hell’s Kitchen (her hair is foofy and her skin is soft at least) and you see piled Right Next to you dishes that need to be done, so you’re like Fuck. I can’t go to sleep with Soft and Foofy until these dishes are clean, so there you are… washing f**king dishes in your dream.