Eek And Yikes!

I think I’m reviving this for art purposes. Out with the grungy mental illness phase phase and in with the creative adult shit!

[thatdamnpigeon]

10/11/22 - 8:29 pm - standing under a burning hot shower, kinda tipsy

It’s time to live independently, I remind myself.

Every night I look for someplace to call home for a bit.

You’re an adult and you can do this.

You’re a grownup with a grownup job.

That’s not really the issue, I fear.

I’ve never lived alone, but I sure have felt it. I sure do work hard to not feel it.

I love being alone.

I love the noise I control and the light I allow.

I love the isolation in a way that makes me hate life outside.

I love the quiet I mandate and the darkness I make. I love it in an all encompassing hate that seeps into my bones and clouds my brain.

That is the issue, I fear.

If I’m not forced to converse or respect a space, how deep can I self-isolate?

How many blackout curtains can I buy?

How many weighted blankets are too many?

How many times can I tell myself I’m being dramatic?

Probably a lot. There are a lot of hours in the day when you spend them in the dark.

[thatdamnpigeon]

9/10/22 - 10:36 pm - laying in bed at my moms

My suitcase is open on the floor.

It’s full of clothes that don’t match and can’t be paired together.

I threw everything I could find into it and ran out the door.

I needed to make it home before she was gone. I made it.

It hits me that we don’t talk about the intricacies of universal experiences.

It also hits me that this thought is about as deep as her beloved dog’s bowl.

There are sobs from a cousin, talk about the sunset from an aunt, deep breaths coming from my grandma…and they’re all drinking Busch Lite.

It’s a memorial activity. A homage. A way to pay respects.

Now I’m sitting on an auger.

I am drinking a Busch Lite too.

I hug them all.

We talk about the past.

We laugh and we cry.

We comment that this is exactly what she would have wanted, all the way down to the Busch Lite.

And tomorrow we’ll be at a 7:45 am church service at a church none of us regularly if ever attend, with her husband.

Because the woman who gave everyone everything she had dedicated her soul to someone else too.

That’s just the kind of woman she was.

[thatdamnpigeon]

8/20/22 - 9:00 pm - driving home

How can you tell the difference between imposter syndrome and general lack of talent?

I wonder while I’m driving home.

Stampede is playing to remind me how long I’ve wondered this.

Is it imposter syndrome if you’re actually just not good enough?

With your hair tied back and my t shirt on and the universe rattlin’ through your bones.

I stop to take some self portraits. I don’t know what I look like most days.

I feel inspired for a moment.

The feeling passes with the next car on the desolate road I’m stopped on.

Well I know how this story goes, I know.

In my previous life, I listened to this song while taking public transit on my way home.

I have a lot of ideas and nothing to show for them. Partly because I won’t show anything I have from them.

How do you continue to make things you are embarrassed to claim as yours?

I wondered this on those cold walks from the station as well.

But I know, I’m gonna lose you in the stampede.

[thatdamnpigeon]

8/7/22 - 7:19 pm - Driving home from home.

I’m decompressing on my drive home.

I’m resetting my social clock after a weekend with family.

My little sister is buying a house.

I’m so happy for her. I’m so happy for them.

I try to remind myself that being happy where I am means the same thing when others are happy somewhere else.

I’m trying but I also kind of want to pierce my ears myself, sell all of my belongings, and run for 2 hours.

I don’t know the correlation between or even the relevance of these feelings. I just know that’s how I feel.

So I’ll put on my playlist.

Turn my headphones to an unhealthy volume.

Try to cry, but decide screaming will suffice when the tears don’t fall.

I’ll begin my drive.

And when I arrive home, I’ll be a little bit better.

[thatdamnpigeon]

8/2/22 - 8:09 pm - getting ice cream

I drove to my favorite rural ice cream spot tonight.

It’s funny or strange or even ironic, depending on how you look at it.

It’s become my one of favorite self- care activities.

The drive is 20 minutes long at max but it feels so far removed from my everyday.

The sun, the weather, the music, the wind, and the open roads let me detach just enough.

And by the time I return home, I’ve got a new outlook on life. A new warmth in my chest.

Maybe that’s the vitamin D deficiency talking though.

[thatdamnpigeon]

8/1/22 - 11:10 pm - running in my neighborhood in the dark.

Today I Feel Weird.

My water bottle still tastes like the tap water from the beach and not the tap water from home.

My neighbors dog barked yesterday but it’s never outside so it never barks.

Three people have commented on how fast I move. They say I move with purpose; I’m focussed.

I vent in a group chat.

A reply tells me I’m overstimulated. I need to do some grounding.

I say you’re right, wow.

It’s funny how I have no idea why I’m buzzing and my hamster wheel is spinning so fast.

So I go for a run. My friends tell me to be careful, it’s dark.

I say I will.

I feel better now.

I’m still going to go scrub my skin in the shower.

But I feel better.

[thatdamnpigeon]

7/31/22 - 10:28pm - in the shower

I drive home in silence.

A stark contrast to the 8 hours prior.

They missed me, they said. It feels good to have been missed.

I check Facebook to see if maybe my photos were uploaded and the text was forgotten.

They weren’t.

And it wasn’t.

I tell myself it’s a stupid thing to have feelings about.

I have people who missed me. People who need me to tell them what to do.

So I do more than is necessary.

Check in 100 times to make sure everyone is good.

And I drive home in silence.

[huariqueje]

Blackbirds   -   Jesse Dayan , 2016.

Australian, b.  1982  -

Oil on linen, 40 × 30 in.

[thatdamnpigeon]

7/3/22 - 7:36am - boarding my flight.

I hate flying.

I love traveling.

I hate flying.

Locked in a tube in the sky with strangers is a nightmare.

I take my panic pill an hour early so it hits on time.

I shake while holding my boarding pass.

I’m seated next to a nice woman who reminds me of my grandma. She pats my leg.

I scratch a hole in my leg.

She gives me her last tissues.

We land. I want off the plane immediately.

They don’t let you do that.

I walk through the airport.

I’m glad to be here.

[huariqueje]

Still life by the window    -    Mona Huss Walin

Swedish, b. 1944  -

color lithograph ,59  x  45 cm.

[psikonauti]

Anna Valdez (American, b. 1985)

Cats and Patterns ,2021

oil and acrylic on canvas

[nevver]

Standing in the shadows, Mia Risberg

[fordarkmornings]

Cuno Amiet (Swiss, 1868-1961)

Dancing Bathers, 1891

[thatdamnpigeon]

7/29/22 - 7:44pm - another solo walk on the beach, it’s light out for now

My flight is scheduled to take off at 8am tomorrow.

My grandpa will have me at the airport at 6am.

A last minute beach walk is permissible for me, an adult who wanders.

My grandma asks if I will be back before it gets dark.

I say no.

She says be careful.

I’ll finish packing when I get back. It’ll be fine.

My dad asked us how vacation was.

I said it was good and sent a picture of my shells.

They aren’t special shells and I am 25 years old.

I wonder if it’ll be different when I’m 26, but I doubt it.

Maybe next year I’ll bring a flashlight. It’s getting hard to see.

[thatdamnpigeon]

7/28/22 - 9:03pm - Walking solo on a public beach in the dark.

Every year my family goes to the same beach on the same week of the year.

I survive through the 328 days in order to reach the 7 days I spend here.

Sometimes, moving here seems like an option.

I’m so happy here. I’ve always been so happy here.

Over time I’ve built a pretty solid list of reasons that I can’t.

It starts with family and circles back there several times.

Bust mostly I worry that living here would ruin the magic.

I worry that the warmth and sense of belonging in my soul will dissipate and leave me a sad, lonely transplant once again.

But this time, a transplant who has soured the week of consistency she clung to as a child.

So I return to my list.

Family. Hurricanes. Moving car registration.

I take a few more beach walks.

And eventually, I resume my reality.

[huariqueje]

On the porch twig    -    Mona Huss Walin

Swedish, b. 1944  -

color lithograph ,  59 x 45 cm.

[corporationkills]

6.27.22