Two recent paintings.

Do not be afraid.
You cannot be afraid.
Your arms are wrapped around.
Do not be afraid.
There's nothing to do.
And the claps your hands resound.
Do not be afraid.
Do you feel really afraid?
Your feet they map the ground.
Do not be afraid.
It's not being afraid.
You'll have night visions.
Do not be afraid of not being afraid.
Your window when it's jostled.
Do not be afraid.
Do not be afraid.
We'll spend time.
Do not be afraid.
To go.
Around friends.
Over and over.
Do not be afraid.
We'll spend time in the mountains.


The biblical story of Jezebel is only a few sentences long. It seems that she and her husband, King Ahab, were accused of practicing idolatry by a young right-winger named Jehu, who had designs on the throne. Earlier, Ahab had acquired by devious means some real estate belonging to a neighbor, and Jezebel was said to have sparked a rumor that led to the neighbor's death. Ahab, a Hebrew, was king of northern Israel; Jezebel was the daughter of a king and queen of Phoenicia. Being a foreigner, she didn't wholeheartedly worship the god of the Jews, which may have led to the "idolatry" charges, but aside from loyally supporting her husband in his suspect land deal, she apparently had been as properly behaved as, say, Queen Elizabeth.
Then, there was a curious and fatal episode. The ambitious Jehu, having secretly murdered Jezebel's son (Ahab, in the meantime, had died in battle), came riding up to the palace. When Jezebel heard of his unscheduled visit, she, according to Scripture, "painted her face and tired her head and looked out a window." Another translation had her painting her "eyes" and "arranging her hair." In any case, there she was, freshly groomed, looking out at the Hebrew rebel, when he incited "two of three eunuchs" to "throw her down." "Her blood spattered on the wall," according to the gory old Bible, and Jehu left her in the courtyard for the dogs to eat while he went inside and helped himself to the wine. After a few flagons, he must have felt a prick of guilt because he ordered his flunkies to go bury her, but by that time the mutts had left nothing but "her skull, her feet, and the palms of her hands."

Paints & Poetry.

First time using water colors since I was a child.
Angry poetry and high doodling.
Lonely, happy memories and thoughts.
Paint your orgasm. Left side: orgasm from a partner right side: orgasm from myself.
Sad memory poetry.
Faryn-leaving poetry.
(also posted in text form at my other jrnl: http://seafeatures.livejournal.com/ )
Anti-poetry, drunk poetry.
Drunk painting.
One of my favorite poems, not mine.
High thoughts.

Creation as a form of distraction.

The Start is the Hardest Part.

I guess I consider myself to be a collector of journals. How could I not be? I still have journals I wrote when I was still learning to read (filled mostly with things like, "I learned how to spell Yugoslavia today. That's how it's spelled." and "Dad is really strict.") and I write in several journals to this day. I have my disease journal which hardly ever get updated and even when it is it's mostly, "Getting treatments every 6 weeks. Feel fine. No veins left. Mom still won't let me get a port. Blehhhh." Then there's my "art" journal which hasn't contained any art for several months. No photos, no poetry, no love. It's just there. Of course there's my main journal which is updated pretty frequently but censored to the point that sometimes I look back and wonder what the hell I was going on about. The past month of so of posts have been so extremely annoying to look back on, I almost want to delete them. Post after post of, "I hate my life." and then "Everything is so beautiful. I want to share it with you." It's restraining and uncomfortable. I've had that journal since I was 14 or 15 and sometimes I feel like it hasn't grown up with me and sometimes I feel like it's the only thing I've been able to keep.

Then there's this journal which will exist on it's own but also feature stuff from the physical journal I take everywhere. Jesse gave it to me for a Susanukkah present and I have used and abused the hell out of it. I was flipping and slipping through it this afternoon. The beginning is mostly poetry about the most mundane shit but I remember how I felt as I was writing it. There's photos as well as "tell so-and-so if I die..." stuff but I'm getting ahead of myself here.

I'm going to be selecting random things from my dearest journal, the physical representation of my soul over time, and posting it here. I find my biggest problem to be not knowing what I want and maybe by analyzing it here, I will. One can hope.

So, first thing? I painted in my journal for the first time last night. Faryn and I were smoking and she was making cards for her relatives and I was trying to figure what came next in the song I have been writing for the last eight years. Faryn finished and I decided to paint and for some reason, I decided to in my journal.

I am not a painter. I feel weird creating just about anything. I can't paint things, only patterns and shapes. If I know someone will see something I'm painting/drawing/whatever I get really uncomfortable and just fucking suck. However, since I was painting in my journal which I don't share with anyone, it was really freeing. I just painted what I felt and this is it:

It's not that great but I like it.