Life Doesn't Have an Instagram Filter...

Post computer frustrations of this morning and bulk of the afternoon, I took a shower- used all my fancy cost too much Lush soaps and did half an hour of yoga. While doing yoga I realized I only blog from two rooms of my house. My office or the kitchen. So I left the yoga mat down, set up everything I need to write a blog and took a picture with my phone (naturally!). New perspective. Sitting in the room that’s 85% used as a pass through to either the living room we spend evenings in or my office and guest room. The remaining 15% of use is my art and my yoga. Let’s see if this works… writing in a new place. Fresh idea or epic ass cramp waiting to happen? Let’s be real… I’m sitting on the floor, on a pillow- total ass crampage just waiting to happen! Oh well.

Perspective. New favor word. New life goal. Look at things differently. See misfortune as an opportunity to grow and defeat. See less than perfect situations in life for what they are- stepping stones to something better at some point. Life doesn’t have Instagram filters. Nothing is perfect with a little color correcting and a fancy vintage filter. Life is life. Totally less than perfect and mostly not what we want it to be.

Yes- to answer that question that just popped up into your minds- I haven’t been sleeping well. Insomnia breeds a whole lot of going down that rabbit hole known as my brain. Over analyzing, self hating (which we all know is from the first marriage- it was always my fault so let’s just jump right to that conclusion at the first shake of instability), ridicule, sadness, and anger… Pretty much a constant in my life for the last… (looks at calendar and sighed deeply) three weeks. Brought on initially by SWMCCC stress, but really hasn’t let up since and we’re two weeks past SWMCCC. It’s gotten better, I’d say I sleep at least three out of seven nights a week. My brain just really won’t stop. Just spinning and spinning like an out of control kids toy down an empty hospital hallway- it bounces off walls and skitters across the polished tile floor but keeps right on going. Alcohol helps. I’m not a drunk, I’m not an alcoholic- but I’m not going to lie- a glass of wine, a beer (a real beer i.e. Dragon’s Milk, Oberon…), or vodka mixed with juice. That helps the sleep come.

Honestly however- there have been minimal “I hate myself, I suck, everything I touch turns to shit” mind trips- which I would totally count as progress from exactly eight months ago when depression and anxiety were as assured as the sun rising and setting. Yes- there was a seriously bad, walls crumbling down around my ears, sobbing ball of human in the middle of my bed evening last week, but we’re past that. That was brought on by talking to Hubby about SWMCCC and how much it meant to me this year. With all the stress, the broken toilet, the drama, the bad weather… There was a lot- A LOT more that meant good things. Things that made me feel closer to who I really want to be- a kickass photographer and awesome artist. I had my pretty hair- pink, blue, purples… I was my inner unicorn self on the outside for a short lived six days. In real life- it’s hair color found in nature or no job. Someday society will realize that ink and funny colored hair doesn’t mean incompetent f**k incapable of a job. But I digress…

Spending time with my favorite Canadian let me pretend I had my old friend back- like he wasn’t gone. Somethings just really don’t stop hurting- they just fall away to the side and let life keep happening until a moment arises and it all comes back with that burning lump in the throat, stinging eyes, and the inability to swallow. Just because there’s a band-aid covering the bullet wound doesn’t mean it isn’t there.

Shooting in the “studio” set ups made me feel back at home in a studio. Sadly, not the case in real life anymore or should I say- for the time being. I’ve been told that I don’t need a studio. I’m creative enough to use my kitchen table and make it look good. It’s just a thing. Funny how actually being in a box makes claustrophobic me feel right at home.  At SWMCCC- I was looked at as an equal to photographers that I love the work of instead of “gas station girl” in charge of cleaning the roller-grill and bagging ice- asking to check ID’s of douchbag little boys back here in reality. I had stress, but it wasn’t home stress. It was different. It’s hard to explain it, really.

 One morning- I sat on a dresser near the huge windows of my dorm room at 3:30 in the morning listening to my favorite Pet Shop Boys song on repeat watching a thunderstorm roll in. Wearing my fancy pajama pants, a tank top, and wrapped up in my chicken print quilt… There I felt so happy, so sad, and prettier then I have felt in a long time. How does that make any sense? That was the second night of no sleep and evening nightcaps but I was wide awake, loving life, and feeling beautiful.  Maybe it was the “lack” of responsibility I have here at home. I didn’t have to worry about Sienna because she was getting better and being taken care of. I didn’t have to worry about bills, my truck, who I work with next… None of it. It was like a vacation. God- I am so weird. Like- I am right? I’m a total head case with self-esteem issues- (Wait. Don’t you need to actually have self-esteem to have self-esteem issues??)

There is a co-worker of mine that always replies to the customer’s “How ya doing?” on their way thru the door with- “Livin’ the dream, man!” Living the dream. Working at a gas station? Really? It bugs the hell out of me to hear him say that 30 times a shift. You’re in the early twenties, barely making it thru college and working at a gas station is living the dream? I still haven’t figured out if he’s actually telling the truth or being a sarcastic twit because I’ve heard him say it so much!!

I am so much happier then I was at the manure store. Please- don’t misunderstand that, I really do love the people I work with. But I’m not a lifer. Like my coworker “A”- she’s a seriously popular Youtube gamer that works at the gas station until she can afford bills and play money from the live streaming gamer gig she’s rocking. Coworker “L”- she’s going back to school to get a degree in dinosaur bones and rocks. Then there’s me- “Sorta good/ mildly chicken shit” photographer/artist with a sizeable following… Someday it’ll pay off. I’ll have funny colored hair, wear too much jewelry, have paint stains behind my ear, pretending to have a higher purpose for taking pictures of flowers and nude women, and I’ll make money off all of it someday. I hope. I need to push myself harder is all. Hence- “Mildly Chicken shit…” I am. I am damn near panic attack nervous about being rejected.

Which is total bullshit because I know I can’t please everyone- nor do I give a fuck if I please everyone as long as those important to me keeping saying they like my work- that’s all that matters. That and give me a loving nudge now and then, and ya know… maybe buy a print or a painting once and while?? Maybe?? Maybe???
(SIDEABAR: Is it actually unhealthy to keep listening to the same four songs? Over and over? Just curious. But, my left leg is dead asleep so pardon as I take a walk around the house for a couple minutes…)

I’d like to thank all of you for taking this lovely little journey into the many ways why I need therapy. Or electroshock. Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to back away slow enough to go unnoticed. Clawing at the doorknob pressing into your back, praying the hinges don’t squeak as you ease it open. You’re all free to go. Promise. But look at the pretty pictures first…

New Work- Starry Nights and Black Light Paints

New Phone App Addiction- Prisma


Proof of Artistic Life

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