So, it's been a long time. A really long time. And honestly, I've missed it here. This place fills me when I feel empty, and I feel guilty for the long absence. Things have been absurdly crazy these last months, but while there's no order in sight, I can imagine its coming. That, at least, brings peace.
When I dream, I dream of such peculiar things that they defy explanation. In my dreams, I am so far away. From here. From this. From myself. And sometimes, just sometimes, I am somewhere so splendid that I want to stay there. Away from here. From this. From me. The journey is to bring that reality home. I just don't know how yet.
The house hunt is on, and I am hopeful about that I need space so badly that it's driving me insane. As soon as I have a place to expand and create, I imagine that the stir-craziness and depression will subside somewhat. It's been a hard run. My grandfather isn't long for this world, and there seems to be no way for me to go and see him. It stings. He was the music in my family. A father figure. And he's never even met my son. I feel an overwhelming surge of guilt over this. I put off my chances It was my own fault. His wife, my grandmother, is very thin and blonde, with pointed lips and pointed words. All my life, she always got on me about my weight. "You don't want to be fat, like your mother. "You don't want to be a bum, like your mother." "You're too fat to be a dancer." "You used to be bigger? Oh Lord!" When I hadn't seen her in person in 3 years (I was 14 at the time, and had started developing- I didn't wear form fitting things, but I was slimming out), her first words weren't I love you or How are you? or I've missed you! No. They were "Brianna! You used to be so skeeny! What howpened?" It stung. I don't doubt that she loved me, but it was hard to take. Even when I was anorexic, there was a comment or two. Or ten. Or more. And when I got sick, I lost the ability to lose weight for years. The pregnancy didn't help, either. I'm working on getting well, but it is a lot of trial and error at this point. Long story short, I hid from my family. All except for my mother an my siblings. For years, I avoided being seen by anyone after having my son, and even avoided sending them pictures. They aren't even shown family pictures that aren't retouched to no longer contain me. Everything is looks, money and success with them. I grew up poor and not too sporty, and artistic. Art is kind of widely considered pipe dream material in my family. Writing is for talented and already published, not for poor kids who don't know anyone. Healing arts are silly hippie voodoo nonsense. I should do something in business and numbers, despite having no talent for it. I stopped discussing my dreams with them a long time ago.
Not everyone in my family is that way. Just the loudest voices and the most glaring eyes. So, I hid. I hid from them all. I feel like I have so little to show for my time on this ball. I am not well off or published profitably or thin, and so I am made to feel like nothing. Honestly, logically, I know better. I just don't feel it. And so, it is an internal war. But waiting so long to reach out, I feel like I've missed my chance. I keep trying to raise the money to go out and see him, see if there's something that I can do for him, or at least just be there. But time is running out. Each day is a reminder. Each call. And my fear of disappointing them is costing me dearly. Everyone is already discussing the funeral, and I'm not ready to let him go.
At the moment, I'm writing some children's books (as well as illustrating), and I really want to get them published. They are helpful and educational, but still fun and silly, and they're meant to help with the many obstacles of growing up. That was redundant. Oh well. Wish me luck! And if anyone out there knows a publisher looking for something new, feel free to send that info my way.
Clubs that lay claim to my soul:
I, of course, give these guys permission to put my stuff in their galleries, with links back to me. :}