Sometimes a song really does say it all. This is "Goodbye California" by Jolie Holland. California sounds a lot more romantic than Fort Smith.

I’m pre-meditating crime of a personal kind
I’m about to go out of my mind
I’m just about sick to death of taking breath
And walking this line of mine
Now, folks that know what’s good for them
Are good at ignoring them
But I just can’t put these thoughts down
I’m harrowed and abused
And broken and pursued
By this notion that follows me around

My heart is hurting
My spirit’s burdened
I feel like a liar and a thief
For taking air
For being here
Unwanted
I look for my final release

Goodbye, goodbye, California
Goodbye and I’ll be moving on
I sang you my songs
I know i’m wrong
Fare thee well
And I’ll be moving on

When I’m dead and gone
My immortal home
Will hold me in its bosom
Safe and cold
No more desires
Will light their fires
Or disturb my immaculate calm
And the birds of the air
And the beasts of the soil
And the fishes of the desperate seas
Will know who I am
And our substance will expand
As part of everything

As part of everything, my God
As part of everything
And the clouds will roll
And the wind will blow
And the beautiful birds will sing

Goodbye, goodbye, California
Goodbye to your waving trees
To you succulent wind
And all my friends
Fare thee well
Goodbye
So be it
Amen
Amen

What a crappy date.

What a crappy last couple of days.

I haven't been home much at all lately. But when I have been, I've enjoyed the privacy. A LOT.

But...

I just received an offer from a very good friend to stay at his place for a mere $150 a month, utilities included. I would have two rooms for myself so I can have a bedroom and living area of my own, and a shared kitchen and bathroom. Free satellite, my pets are welcome.

Besides the fact that we lived together many years ago (try eleven) and he was the funnest roommate I've ever had, he demands a certain amount of alone time and privacy, like me.

I'm just trying not to rush into things because I haven't made the wisest decisions in the past few months.

The biggest factor, one that makes it seem like a no brainer, is that I would be getting out of my neighborhood. We had a few incidences of people (like Gene Hawkins) getting mugged and beaten outside my apartment. My stupid landlord was supposed to install a peek hole in the front door so I can avoid the weirdos, but he hasn't done anything at all, including not fixing the faucet that runs CONSTATLY and drives me batshit crazy.

A hundred and fifty bucks a month.

My mom is upset because I spent my grocery money on art supplies. I've been subsisting on bologne and onion sandwiches and some kind of sugar-free drink mix with lime wedges. I don't mind that I spent my grocery money on art stuff. I'd do it again. Moms don't want to hear that shit, though.

Wit-Knee and I have have been busier than a puppy with two peckers these last few days. We've been making stuff for our Pick Your Poison shop on Etsy. Next week will be all about trying to get our stuff into some local consignment boutiques. We are having a blast with this.

I'm going to go start this morning out right.

I would've been a wagon burner, back in the day

J.T. and I have gone our seperate ways. There are reasons, the biggest being that I can't, in good conscious, be with one man while I am still in love with another. I need time to let those feelings fade.

On a brighter note, I got a brand new bike. It is a baby-blue cruiser. I am thrilled! I plan on riding it down to Kevin and Wit-Knee's this weekend to go swimming for the first time this season. I can't wait. I bought a really good lock and a basket for it. I wonder if Tokyo and Kitty Kitty Bang Bang would let me take them for a ride? They are both asleep next to me. Kitty is spooning Tokes. It is beyond sweet.

I have to say that I'm looking forward to living alone again. Today I am going to rearrange the apartment and turn the dining room into my studio space, oh yes.

I've sworn off alcohol for a good while. I've been reflecting on the Disorderly Conduct charge and the repurcussions of that as well as what alcohol has done/is doing to so many people that I care about. When I go out lately, I tell the bartenders to make me something virgin and ridiculously girly. I love how they have taken it as a challenge and concocted some truly beuatiful drinks for me. La-la-la. More cherries, please!

I feel like I should be writing/thinking/feeling more on the fact that my marriage is over after 2 months. There just isn't much to say. It is simply over. Like everybody keeps saying, we got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. (We've been talking 'bout Jackson ever since the fire went out.)

I am going down to Hartford to visit with my parents tomorrow. I haven't seen my dad in 4 months. He's been so sick, he couldn't even make it to my wedding or Uncle David's funeral. The human body holds 16 pints of blood. When my dad went to the emergency room, he was low 5 pints of blood. FIVE. They x-rayed his stomach, checked his prostrate and sent a camera up the ole shoot, checking for blood in those areas, to no avail. They drew some more blood yesterday and the results should be back soon. I hope my dad is okay. I can't wait to walk through mom's garden, see their new puppy and just sit with my dad the way that we do when we are together.

I was thumbing through an old journal and found notes on a couple of photo projects I want to do. The first is to take a photo of every single person I talk to in a day. In this neighborhood, that should be very interesting. The other is to put together a book of pictures of people wearing hats. I think I will call it: People Wearing Hats. Anyway, here is Mr. Talent's cousin Phil, the first photo for the project:





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Later:...

I'm writing my blogs at home and then posting them when I go to someplace with intrnet acess, which is pretty much EVERYWHERE but my apartment. Grr.

I've spent the morning sitting outside, getting stoned with Gene Hawkins. It is a gorgeous day. Gene is an old man (he won't tell me his age) that sits under the shade tree not too far from my front door, just about every day. He is a really sweet fellow that looks out for my apartment when I'm gone, offers me the morning paper when he is through reading it, and brings me treasure that he finds in the trash, like a really decent set of speakers for my computer. He likes to smoke and drink, and sometimes he sings along to country music on his little radio. When he gets drunk you can't make out a word he says. That is most of the time. But today he was just high and we sat and talked and I worked on fine tuning my bike, oiling the chain, installing the basket and all that.

I heard a racial slut the other night that I had never heard before, and oddly enough, it was directed at me and my son. Haha. We were talking to Cowboy Curt about how our aunt is doing a lot of geneology and the paperwork necessary to register our family's roll number so that we may join the Cherokke tribe. Cowboy Curt called us WAGON BURNERS! Hahaha. Oh god, it still has me laughing.

Something I wrote this morning about having tattoos.


I have a postcard with a circa 1940 photograph of a tattooed lady. She probably worked the circus circuit, as there wasn't much else for a tattooed lady to do in that day when it comes to making a living.. The photograph has been tinted. Her dress is lavendar. She has red hair, hard eyes, a straight line for a mouth. She is quiet and powerful. Decorated and coy. Absolutely beautiful.
Fuck fashion magazines. I never wanted to look like a smiling stick. I hung the postcard by my mirror as I moved around over the years. My personal sex symbol, my muse, my ideal woman. She was what I wanted to be.
So I take my beauty and fashion sense from the circus rather than Cosmo. So what.
I had low self esteem like ever other American woman. I hated to look in the mirror.
I got a tattoo. When I looked in the mirror I found it interesting and complimentary. I got another tattoo. And so on.
I was looking in mirrors and seeing beauty there for the first time in my life.
I believed the tattoos made me beautiful.
I got stronger, more confident. My footing on this planet felt more sure, time was giving me a sense of serenity, I found a peace with my reflection.
And then I realized:
These tattoos do not make me beautiful. But they do enhance my beauty.
It has taken me 34 years to utter those words in the same breath: Me, beauty. Beauty, me.
I get stopped often in all kinds of situations by people that want a closer look at my tattoos or they'll have questions they want to ask. I try to be really accomodating and not get irritated by this because I did CHOOSE to put these bright colors and pictures on my body, so to be surprised or flustered or agitated by the situation would be silly on my part.
There is one time when a middle aged woman stopped me outside my doctor's office. She was a fine looking sister with attitude. She said to me, "Why did you do that to yourself? You're a pretty girl and you have a nice figure. Now, I could understand an ugly girl needing the attention and doing that, but why did you do that to yourself, sugar?"
I told her that I thought they were beautiful. Not ugly.
She went on, "But what about when you want to go out, and you want to put that nice dress on. You know the one I am talking about, sugar."
"I just put the dress on and wear it."
We were never going to see eye to eye. Only the girl in the lavendar dress, looking on at me as I put on my make-up and fix my hair, only the tattooed lady from the circus knows how I feel.

I had a nice, big blog post written up, chronicling the last week, but it must be space trash now.

I'm high on spray paint fumes. I did a three color design on 30 CDs and 30 cases for J.T. today. Whew.

Tomorrow I am going down to see my momma and daddy. I haven't seen my father in 4 months. I'm so excited to have a day of walking in the garden and just sitting next to my dad and talking.

Things are busy, but in a good way. Lots of projects going and plans for lots more.

But now that I am sitting in front of the computer I feel dull and distracted. Bah!