So I decided that I needed a pen name. I am a poet and a children’s author. The last few stories I have felt inappropriate for children. So I decided that I might want a adult name for the tales that do not fit. Now being as I struggle with doing the blog at all…. I really don’t want to separate the blog for both names. I plan instead to note which of the two is the author if I speak of my writing. Thank you for understanding.I am hoping to update this blog a bit more often now as my phone has the app.
Just like the
Freedom a lie,
In the land of
Stolen from life,
Forced to live
No longer human,
A bought toy
Forced to endure.
No one sees
What is left of me.
Except a commodity.
(Just a note)
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According to Wikipedia… An artist is : An artist is a person engaged in one or more of any of a broad spectrum of activities related to creating art, practicing the arts or demonstrating an art. The common usage in both everyday speech and academic discourse is a practitioner in the visual arts only.
I find myself so often considering whether or not I should use the title of artist. I know that I am an artist… But I feel like what I do doesn’t seem as good. Yes this is my anxiety talking. But part of the issue is art is truly subjective. I can look at a picture and feel like it is genius, and then you can look and see it as garbage. The same thing goes for any kind of art…. Paintings, poetry, yarnwork, music. With no baseline to measure the art against, is it really any wonder how many artists fail to have strong self esteem? Add the fact that you then are expected to, if you want to make a living from the art, find the way to sell these small expressions of your soul. It takes a huge amount of courage to even show another soul what you have done. Then deciding what you are worth? Bah I see it as nearly crippling.
Ok… Let’s stop right now. The use of the word bored. I had someone who I dearly love use this word recently and it stuck in my craw. Boredom is a flawed concept. There is always something that you can do to engage the mind. As the parent of a very active pre-teen, this is a lesson I have tried repeatedly to ingraine. Money doesn’t have to be a block either. Oh you are broke? Is there a library or a park near you? Well those are usually free. Nature walks allow time for contemplation. Also one could gather supplies to do simple crafts (easily found via the Internet…) I am not saying crafting is for everyone. I did a I’m bored jar for my girl… Slips of paper to give her ideas. If she said that she was bored then we would draw out a slip and do what was on it. Not all were fun…
Here is some examples..
1. Sweep all of the floors in one room.
2. Play half an hour of a video game.
3. Read for thirty minutes.
4. Color one page in a coloring book.
5. Draw a picture…
6. Write a story /poem
7. Walk at least fifteen minutes, take notice of all of your surroundings.
8. Do a craft… Any craft.
9. Listen to music and dance…
10. Write a letter to someone.
These are merely some possible ideas. We play d&d, so another option is to find a group of players and start an adventure. Most libraries offer free Wi-Fi for card holders. There is many places to get free books for the Kindle app(which is available from the play store for Android, not sure on Apple)…. Bookbub, bookgorilla, and a few others. So even if you can’t do borrowing from the library there is a way for free books. If you message a writer on Twitter or Facebook, and offer to review for the chance to read it… Well some will be willing to do it. Check your community for free events. Home depot and lowes both have a craft each month that is free for kids. I think that they also have ones for adults. Saying that you are bored is in my opinion denoting a bit of a lack of imagination. Let’s not have that!
Last night was not a good one. I doubt that I slept even a full hour. Every time I would try it would be falling into yet another nightmare. I have had them all of my life, as far back as I remember. I rarely remember them, only wake feeling afraid and small.
So I have been sleep deprived and shaky… Not a good combo. Well it has had me trying to gather all of the random thoughts swimming in my head. Quite unsuccessfully I should add. So much so that I have decided to post some here to help my mind to relax. And that it is a glimpse for you of my chaos? Bonus.
1. I miss my grandmother, well both of them. But mostly my maternal grandmother. I have been trying to learn to crochet. And she was amazing at it. She was just plain amazing, but it is the crochet that is bringing her to mind this time.
2. Samhain. Yes I am pagan. And this is a time for family.
3. I am very likely not going to end up with the death of neverland as anything but a novella. The halfway point is 5000 words. So I find myself wondering if I am trying to exceed my reach. I am a poet. I am a children’s author. I apparently can do short stories (aka novella). But can I do a novel?
3 i really am enjoying doing the art thing. If you are curious about how my art is… Myne drawings album is public on my personal Facebook (Patti Harris). Go ahead, look! I would love new input.
4. My daughter is starting to get into create music. I really want to encourage that.
5. Yule. I have a idea for a few of the people on my list. Not that my list is big. I am not able to afford much for even those.
6. Butt coasters. A friend of mine on Facebook is doing novelty crocheted coasters (www.facebook.com/nothingbuttcoasters/) and I am so tickled by the pug ones… (Thinking about them for one of my list…
7 money. Always a issue.
8. After the first of the year, do I want to do another bedtime tales?
9. Zombie castaways. Android game.. The villa (a building to make needed items in the game) if you combine love and rubber… You get bedsheets….
10. I really want a small crockpot for the truck. I wonder if I can pull it off this month.
11.whether I should do a blog post about religion. Or poets that I love and why….
12 my sister’s faeries. I feel like I should help more than I do…
So much rambling. I am heading to bed soon. I hope that I sleep better tonight.
Some one I care very deeply for was upset because she couldn’t face someone who had abused her. Well I got to thinking about that. Fear is a healthy reaction to danger. If you have ever survived any form of abuse, you understand that. I am a survivor. I have been raped, molested, beaten. I have been in abusive relationships. I am not now, because I found my way out of that darkness. I don’t think I could be brave enough to face those who abused me. When I tried to stand up, and tell someone…. Well I was not believed. I was told I was lying. Even though I showed the signs of the abuse. So when I was raped by a group of five at thirteen, Fear kept me silent. Fear turned into the backbone I needed to become who I am. So I would not be a victim again. However, even as strong as I have become, I doubt that I could face my molester or the five who raped me. And if I did, I doubt that I would have anything to say. The piece of me that was stolen is gone. I am not that girl anymore. Nor do I want to be. So I will keep my fear, as it strengthens me. It allows me to realize that there are really monsters out there. It allows me a chance to know that I won’t break, for life has tried. Be proud of what you are, and do not hide your truth. For that is what made you.
I am a writer, a poet. A lot of what I write is gibberish to start. I then go back and polish, much as one would polish a gem. It is for me the easiest way I know to deal with major issues is to write it out. However here lately I often find myself needing to watch more of what I say. It’s so easy to be careless with our words….and those careless words can do more harm than we realize. I have always understood this. One of my favorite poems, that i discovered in High School, spoke of this….
By Wilfred Wilson Gibson
“And will you cut a stone for him,
To set above his head?
And will you cut a stone for him–
A stone for him?” she said.
Three days before, a splintered rock
Had struck her lover dead–
Had struck him in the quarry dead,
Where, careless of a warning call,
He loitered, while the shot was fired–
A lively stripling, brave and tall,
And sure of all his heart desired . . .
A flash, a shock,
A rumbling fall . . .
And, broken ‘neath the broken rock,
A lifeless heap, with face of clay,
And still as any stone he lay,
With eyes that saw the end of all.
I went to break the news to her:
And I could hear my own heart beat
With dread of what my lips might say;
But some poor fool had sped before;
And, flinging wide her father’s door,
Had blurted out the news to her,
Had struck her lover dead for her,
Had struck the girl’s heart dead in her,
Had struck life, lifeless, at a word,
And dropped it at her feet:
Then hurried on his witless way,
Scarce knowing she had heard.
And when I came, she stood alone–
A woman, turned to stone:
And, though no word at all she said,
I knew that all was known.
Because her heart was dead,
She did not sigh nor moan.
His mother wept:
She could not weep.
Her lover slept:
She could not sleep.
Three days, three nights,
She did not stir:
Three days, three nights,
Were one to her,
Who never closed her eyes
From sunset to sunrise,
From dawn to evenfall–
Her tearless, staring eyes,
That, seeing naught, saw all.
The fourth night when I came from work,
I found her at my door.
“And will you cut a stone for him?”
She said: and spoke no more:
But followed me, as I went in,
And sank upon a chair;
And fixed her grey eyes on my face,
With still, unseeing stare.
And, as she waited patiently,
I could not bear to feel
Those still, grey eyes that followed me,
Those eyes that plucked the heart from me,
Those eyes that sucked the breath from me
And curdled the warm blood in me,
Those eyes that cut me to the bone,
And cut my marrow like cold steel.
And so I rose and sought a stone;
And cut it smooth and square:
And, as I worked, she sat and watched,
Beside me, in her chair.
Night after night, by candlelight,
I cut her lover’s name:
Night after night, so still and white,
And like a ghost she came;
And sat beside me, in her chair,
And watched with eyes aflame.
She eyed each stroke,
And hardly stirred:
she never spoke
A single word:
And not a sound or murmur broke
The quiet, save the mallet stroke.
With still eyes ever on my hands,
With eyes that seemed to burn my hands,
My wincing, overwearied hands,
She watched, with bloodless lips apart,
And silent, indrawn breath:
And every stroke my chisel cut,
Death cut still deeper in her heart:
The two of us were chiselling,
Together, I and Death.
And when at length my job was done,
And I had laid the mallet by,
As if, at last, her peace were won,
She breathed his name, and, with a sigh,
Passed slowly through the open door:
And never crossed my threshold more.
Next night I laboured late, alone,
To cut her name upon the stone.
So I try to think before I speak… but I really have no filter. Most people who know me realize this and overlook the random strange that occasionally comes out from me. However I do try to be kind. So much so that I have avoided a few topics because I know I cannot be kind. While I would feel no problem with my actions when it comes to being cruel to those involved… being mean there brings me to close to acting like them. Do you censor yourself on any topic? If so why?