Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Late-Night Muse



Just a little something to awaken the muse.  I always say the best ideas happen late.  :)

Monday, December 7, 2015

The Dream Theater

“Yes: I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world.” 
― Oscar Wilde
The Critic as Artist

And it all began with a book...
My favorite time to read is before bed.

Created for the Books/Reading challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.



Resources Used:

model:  http://www.deviantart.com/art/Model-and-Tedy-bear-stock-png-207772321 
magical book:  http://moonglowlilly.deviantart.com/ 
background:  http://ashensorrow.deviantart.com/ 

other stock was nonrestricted and/or purchased

Sunday, December 6, 2015

Searching For Santa

“Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies!” 
― Francis Pharcellus Church

Created for the reindeer themed challenge at Collage Obsession.  That pesky reindeer has gone missing and it seems the children have just found him heading toward the North Pole, Christmas Tree in tow!

Most of the elements came from the ever-talented creators at Mischief Circus.

A Winter Walk

"A beautiful sight
We're happy tonight
Walking in a Winter Wonderland"

Frost has certainly fallen in my magical little wintery, vintage make-believe.  Lovely elements from the Mischief Circus shop.  We haven't had any snow here in Kentucky just yet, so it's good to know I can create my own!

Frost theme inspired by the current challenge at Digital Whisper.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

It's Been A While....



...since I've had an issue with eating.  But consistent thoughts of how much I weigh or how I should look or the politically correct BMI are a roiling boil that consumes the background of my mind most times (especially when I'm anticipating a meal).


I guess an eating problem (or would it be more properly deemed a dieting problem) never really goes away.


Once upon a time I was a grown woman who weighed 88 pounds.  I never want to be that woman again...


Today I love my body for what it does for me.  For the way it serves me, a vessel of sorts to experience the world.  I try to feed it properly, to moderately exercise for the proper health of my heart and lungs.  I have learned to appreciate myself.  To take care of myself.  To accept myself not upon the perception of a highly-flawed media, but for who I am as a unique human being.  Self love is a many-gratifying thing. 


In lieu of the older me (and hopes things never get that dire again), I've resurrected this lovely poem.  I guess a sort of remembrance to the way things have changed.  Truly, for inside an eating disorder sits a sad place.

Anorexic 
(written by Eavan Boland)




Flesh is heretic.

My body is a witch.

I am burning it.


Yes I am torching
her curves and paps and wiles.

They scorch in my self denials.
How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.


I vomited
her hungers.

Now the bitch is burning.


I am starved and curveless.

I am skin and bone.

She has learned her lesson.


Thin as a rib
I turn in sleep.

My dreams probe

a claustrophobia
a sensuous enclosure.

How warm it was and wide

once by a warm drum,
once by the song of his breath
and in his sleeping side.


Only a little more, 
only a few more days
sinless, foodless,

I will slip
back into him again
as if I had never been away.


Caged so
I will grow
angular and holy

past pain,
keeping his heart
such company

as will make me forget
in a small space
the fall

into forked dark,
into python needs
heaving to hips and breasts
and lips and heat
and sweat and fat and greed.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

Summer Is Over




Touch Me
by Stanley Kunitz

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
                   and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married?  Touch me,
remind me who I am.


Perhaps I enjoy this poem most for the parallels made between nature (as in mother earth) and the changeling-like heart of the human spirit.  How, as the seasons change, so do we.  Or, maybe, our lives enter into seasons all their own.

Time weathers the heart just as the forces of nature weather the outside world...house timber, storm-drain gutters, trees and the still small tweet of a bird.

Sometimes it's sad, the way things drag on...across clocks and ticks and  calendars full of days....a perpetual circle, seemingly never-ending so that sometimes we pay so much attention to the times, and hurts and unsaid words that we sort of forget who we were before the loophole swallowed the meaning from our lives.

Saturday, October 24, 2015

Memory Writes...



A Moonlit Walk Across the City

Since my teens
I have dated boys,
Cycled with them
In small American towns,
Tender to the small
Beating heart of
Neighborhood happenings;
Have munched frankfurters
And hamburgers at counters,
World of young love
Twirling its tendrils around
My ankles, though never holding.
I have whirled along highways
In compact sedans
And rebuilt sports cars,
My hair wild as wind,
Have consumed my share
Of cappuccinos in village
Coffee shops, dazzled by
The dance of book dust
Amidst candlelight and
Starched linen in fine restaurants
Before driving the evening
Through a fading post-storm twilight,
The panorama frequently shifting
My sense of place with time,
The cobblestones and courtyards
Cracking to the foot-pace of passersby
So that I am simply
Plunged back three centuries
And silenced by the shock.



Written for one of my prompts at Pink.Girl.Ink. Press.
And shared with fellow friends at Poets United.

Saturday, September 26, 2015

Visual Poetry: (Anti) Body Love

Ah, the ever-present flight of the modern-day female.
Part satire, part bitter truth.
I feel like burning a few beauty magazines.
Maybe I'm a feminist, but I blame the media for the young, intelligent girls who skipped their school lunch today.


**Each panel is approximately 6 inches by 8 inches.  Includes collage, marker, various papers, gems, sequins and acrylic paint.  They are meant to be displayed in the order they appear.  Although they are meant to stand alone...I merely was inspired to add descriptions below each one for the purpose of the blog.  But as display, they would not have any accompanying poetry.**

(The full display can be purchased for $75.  Email me at prettypoetstacy@gmail.com if interested)

"The Critics"
Magazines, news articles, tabloids, even television.
The perfect women, everywhere!
So thin, always thin and ever sleek...those female beauty machines.
As long as you look plastic, you can do anything!

"Effortless Perfection"
Make-up, body cream, cosmetics galore!
Power bands, body-shapers, you can wear one.
An hourglass figure is out of style,
lets bare bone, forget muscle, and who needs a brain?
Forget Shakespeare and grad school,
now lets all look the same!

"Body Love"
Are you hungry, are you lonely,
as the strangers knock at your door?
Are you worthy, are you respectable,
a perfectly manicured camera whore.
Are you happy or are you tired
of the face in the mirror?
Is it worth it, have you made it,
the no-name woman of the year.

I Think I'd Have to Agree...



Poem Not to be Read at Your Wedding
by Beth Ann Fennelly

You ask me for a poem about love
in lieu of a wedding present, trying to save me
money.  For three nights I've lain under
glow-in-the-dark stars I've stuck to the ceiling
over my bed.  I've listened to the songs
of the galaxy.  Well Carmen,  I would rather
give you your third set of steak knives
than tell you what I know.  Let me find you
some other store-bought present.  Don't
make me warn you of stars,  how they see us
from that distance as miniature and breakable,
from the bride who tops the wedding cake
to the Mary on Pinto dashboards
holding her ripe red heart in her hands.



I once glued those same, cheap plastic neon stars to my ceiling.  I thought it might help me sleep, at night, to lie awake and count the stars.  I love stars...I love the sky...and what better way to see it from the veil of your blanketed bed mid-winter than to create your own?  I remember how, one by one, they began to fall from the ceiling.  My false sky unglued itself.  Intermittently I'd find those stars, always a different size each time, floating amidst my sea of blankets.  And I don't think I ever remembered to wish upon even one.

I guess, in a way, what I'm saying is that I agree with this poem wholeheartedly.  Nothing I have to say of love is wedding-speech worthy.  Weddings are big white-washed dreams...and so far as I've ever known, whitewash chips away like pieces of led paint...each little dent upon the facade of some life you've half-created just another drop of poison to remember when the complete foundation caves.  And when natural disasters occur, I've never heard of someone fighting swift waters in rowboats to save wedding dresses...have you?

Makes you wonder what's real, and half-imagined, and only wishful thinking in this circus we call life.  Weddings being the biggest kind of wish of all!

Sunday, September 20, 2015

Sometimes I Feel Like I Wrote It Myself...

And, sometimes, no matter how well you are with words.....the right ones just never quite arrive on time.


Her Kind


Anne Sexton1928 - 1974

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

"Night Without Stars" by Nancy Eimers



A Night Without Stars
by Nancy Eimers

And the lake was a dark spot
on lung.
Some part of its peace was dead; the rest was temporary.  Sleeping ducks
and geese,
goose shit underfoot
and wet blades of grass.
The fingerlings like sleeping bullets
hung deep in the troughs of the hatchery,
such cold,
such distances.
We lay down in the grass on our backs-
beyond the hatchery the streetlights were mired in fog and so
there were no stars,
or stars would say there was no earth.

Just a single homesick firefly lit on a grass blade.
Just our fingers
curled and clutching grass,
this dark our outmost hide, and under it
true skin.


This poem reminds me that small moments can become so much more.  Fumbling hands in the dark, two separate beings tumbling toward each other under the dark veil of grass....two universes crossing each other beneath the lifeline of a sky on some otherwise insignificant night.

When I was younger it seemed like the lake was the place to be.  Couples would claim parking spots at the spiel-way for heavy make-out sessions and steal back into the secure teenage rooms full of movie posters and fashion magazines sometime past 1 am...just late enough to avoid the overt eyes of knowing parents....or at least that's how things were for me.

Sometimes it's nice to to be reminded that during this life, there were also other lives we lived.  Funny how time turns everyone into someone else, eventually.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

"Heat" by Deborah Stein (and My Commentary)





















Heat
by Deborah Stein

hot boys, she says, are sweet in the summertime
muscles burning taut and ripped
steam rising off their shoulders and hanging
in the air, heavy swirling auras of light
and cologne, making a greenhouse in her room
backing away coolly, i say i'm not so sure
with my sour apple gum and dry air-conditioning
(keep me from her heat sticking my hand to my cheek
eternal expression of awe) I watch her try
to bloom, bear fruit, or at least create honey
to boil in the fevered friction, wailing as she rubs up
against them and then they stand, patient shiny statues
sweat gleaming just beneath their skin.


This poem really calls to me of adolescent summer affairs, a first walk along the beach while holding the hand of a boy I could never really love.  It also takes me back to long, sultry summers and city swimming pools and neighborhood cookouts.  High school boyfriends and private picnics near baseballs fields and parking lots where, people who are my age now, probably drove by and marveled the freedom to be so young again.  A time of innocence that wasn't really so innocent at all where desires of the heart were concerned.  The burn of young love was remarkable but oh, so much simpler, than lasting love that ages.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

West Liberty Backroads



The leaves held secrets,
Words that buried
The sins of a late Fall
Between the rough brown
Edges of Dogwood and Pinecone,
Each hard-edge syllable
A rough palm-clasp
That couldn’t quite reach
Into forbidden places;
Country roads and rolling hills
Carrying us into a labyrinth
Of Appalachia and dead Meadow Flox,
The sweet smell of something changing,
An invisible thing to wish upon
As each curve rose up to reach
The rusty reels of your Oldsmobile,
They hugged the road like talons,
Twisting just beyond the quick-drilled
Caves and earth-holes,
Wishing wells of dead coal miners.
The drive was always a nostalgic,
Tight-chested lip-breath,
And the pot-holes between the
lineless roads would quake
my lungs and roll my heart
around like a lost pebble
from one of those dangling
roadside rock-slides just waiting
for the right wind to happen.


Written for a prompt at  Pink.Girl.Ink.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

It's Me Again...

Me Again
by Jacqueline Dash

I who wanted to talk
of a time inside my soul
that is always my poem-in-progress,
have found only myself whenever I looked
and missed the real happening.
With wary good faith
I opened myself to the wind, the lockers, clothes-closets, graveyards,
the calendar months of the year,
and in every opening crevice
my face looked back at me.
The more bored I became
with my unacceptable person,
the more I returned to the theme of my person;
worst of all,
I kept painting myself to myself
in the midst of a happening.
What an idiot (I said to myself
a thousand times over) to perfect all that craft
of description and describe only myself,
as though I had nothing to show but my head,
nothing better to tell than the mistake of a lifetime.


I read this poem as a certain looking inside one's self.

The author ruminates, almost obsesses, the idea that most of her poetry ultimately ends up being written about herself.  The plight resonates with me.  Many times I've carried my muse to the page...and written with fervor...only later to analyze that my subject matter was, indeed, myself.

I believe if one painted, literally painted, pictures of themselves over and over...perhaps they could properly be deemed an narcissist.  Writing, though, is something altogether different.  The words we bring forth...the analysis, the observations and memories...they are personal.  They come from inside us. And so I believe it is just and accurate that we find ourselves inside them too.

I always feel as if I go inside myself before I write.  There are whole worlds inside of me...I bring bits and pieces of those far-away destinations to the page each time I write.

This poem reminded me of myself in the agonizing that perhaps my poetry is too personal.  And then I have to remind myself that this is the way we relate to one another, the way galaxies are closed between us...being real, sharing stories, intertwining lives, remembering ourselves and each other...living other lives...in the pauses of spaces between the words we write.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Surprise! I Have Returned (A Few Days Earlier Than Expected)

Hello my lovely writers and friends....I have missed you (and all the poetry sites, and all your writings) something fierce these past weeks.  Though I did need some time to myself to recoup.  To organize some projects.  And, most importantly, to work on my own self.

I've picked up some great books since my departure.  I have written a few poems, and numerous articles for Pink.Girl.Ink. Press. (you'll see those posting in the coming months).

I'm excited to share a lovely poem I found during my absence.  Not only did this poem inspire me to write my own poem of untruth, but the concept just really got me.  Maybe it's my obsession with cafes, or perhaps it is my quick agility to try on new personas and new atmospheres (however prefabricated or imaginary) through words and writing.

This poem really just reminded me of myself, the plight I have to wish I could step into new skin sometimes.  The sight of all those people in the world, so busy, so interesting...most I do not know, yet feeling any one could belong to me...as a sister, friend, lover.  All the no-name faces in restaurant windows and news-stand lines, grocery store aisles and behind the wheels of shiny cars at stoplights...each one anonymous to me...yet a definite place-holder in someone else's life.

This poem made me wonder about chance meetings.  About coincidence.  About what we long for, verses what we get.  And that, perhaps, writing is the universal fix for whatever we find absent in our lives....as this writer obviously wishes for the sister she never had.



















More Lies
by Karin Gottshall

Sometimes I say I'm going to meet my sister at the cafe-
even though I have no sister- just because it's such
a beautiful thing to say.  I've always thought so, ever since
I read a novel in which two sisters were constantly meeting
in cafes.  Today, for example, I walked alone
on the wet sidewalk, wearing my rain boots, expecting
someone might ask where I was headed.  I bought
a steno pad and a watch battery, the store windows
fogged up.  Rain in April is a kind of promise, and it costs
nothing.  I carried a bag of books to the cafe and ordered
tea.  I like a place that's lit by lamps.  I like a place
where you can hear people talk about small things,
like the difference between azure and cerulean,
and the price of tulips.  It's going down.  I watched
someone who could be my sister walk in, shaking the rain
from her hair.  I thought, even now florists are filling
their coolers with tulips, five dollars a bundle.  All over
the city there are sisters.  Any one of them could be mine.

Friday, July 24, 2015

Taking a Sabbatical!

Just wanted to let everyone know that I'll be taking a break from the blogging world until September 1st.

These last few months have really just worn me out.

Currently I'm dealing with a family illness, creating lesson plans for my daughter (homeschooling a 2nd grader!), and my spirits just haven't been in the best shape lately (lost a friend, community was devastated by a flood).

So, my soul needs time to recuperate.

Writing, poetry, and art are usually my outlets but I'm really feeling the need to hibernate and turn inward, to replenish myself.

I think it's entirely possible to run ourselves completely dry without even knowing we've done so.

On the bright side, I did purchase a wonderful book recently.  Its a year-long workbook that will aid me in transforming my life, my mind, and my personal space into a much more peaceful place.  I have begun a deeply-Buddhist journey toward the Yogi lifestyle.

I need to rest, friends, so that when I return I can get on with all my blog projects.  My own writing.  And myself.

See you all in a little over a month.

Wishing you safe, and creative adventures in the meantime!

Monday, July 20, 2015

P!nk - Raise Your Glass





"So raise your glass if you are wrong in all the right ways."  



I'll always raise my glass.  <3

Natalie Merchant - Carnival



I've walked these streets
a virtual stage
it seemed to me
make up on their faces
actors took their
places next to me
I've walked these streets
in a carnival
of sights to see
all the cheap thrill seekers
the vendors & the dealers
they crowded around me
Have I been blind
have I been lost
inside myself and
my own mind
hypnotized
mesmerized
by what my eyes have seen?
I've walked these streets
in a spectacle of wealth & poverty
in the diamond market
the scarlet welcome carpet
that they just rolled out for me
I've walked these streets
in the mad house asylum
they can be
where a wild eyed misfit prophet
on a traffic island stopped
and he raved of saving me
Have I been blind
have I been lost
inside myself and
my own mind
hypnotized
mesmerized
by what my eyes have seen?
Have I been wrong
have I been wise
to shut my eyes
and play along
hypnotized
paralyzed
by what my eyes have found
by what my eyes have seen
what they have seen?
Have I been blind
have I been lost
have I been wrong
have I been wise
have I been strong
have I been
hypnotized
mesmerized
by what my eyes have found
in that great street carnival
in that carnival?

Sunday, July 12, 2015

Hats On!

"Strange City"


"This whole city's black and white
Tell me what is your color.

Could it be the same as mine?
Faded greens and blue street lights,
There's a red fire burning
In the sea up to the sky."
--Mat Kearney--



Created for the Hats challenge at Postcard Sunday.

**All elements used are referenced here.

"Clothes Pin" Art

"Hanging the Wash"



Created for the Clothes Pin challenge at Digital Whisper.


**All image resources cited and referenced here.

Saturday, July 11, 2015

Midnight Porch Song

"The Night Trip"


Vine swims the porch
Steady as the tap
Of a broken window pane.
This humid place,
Second-story perch
Where mosquitos
Live their last days,
Old cats climbing the gutters,
Sweet relief of wet roof-tile,
As night falls and
The spiders spin their webs,
Invisible graveyards
For the weary moths.


Written for a prompt at MindLoveMisery.
Artwork shared for the Wings theme at Take a Word.

Midsummer Moon

"Somewhere Soon"



Night, with her winged beams,
Tilts the cloud of her head,
Speaks gently to me,
Resonant  calm of the raven’s
‘how-to,’ spin of light rain,
A candle shared by two.
I tilt the tea of an iron pot,
Silent boil of sound
As shadows dance the walls,
Graceful as air on land.
The curtains slowly tilt,
Breeze of summer smells
Into the alcove of my livingroom.
I, too, dance with the invisible
Foot-mamba of each shadow,
secrets shared with the moon.
Then disappear into a book,
The one nearest the hand-clutch
Of my coffee-brown couch.



Written for the Night prompt at Poets United.


In The Style of Paul Celan

"An Afternoon Walk"


A Gravitation

July travels
Counterclockwise,
Another month
The moon has swallowed.
The buzz of jar-flies,
Flat-winged and heavy
As creek water,
Thick and muddy of
The twenty-five day rain
And deep as the siren call
Of the whippoorwill,
The winged song of
Summer birds and marigold,
A sort of whirlpool of sound
That pulls the season
Toward the center of itself
And is gone.


Written in the style of Paul Celan.

Written for a challenge at Toads.


Wednesday, July 8, 2015

Working With Stars


"Time Winding Backward"

"I'm selfish, impatient and a little insecure. I make mistakes, I am out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best."  --Marilyn Monroe


Created for the Star challenge at The Three Muses.

Sunday, July 5, 2015

Monday, June 29, 2015

Of Empty Rooms and Words



Somewhere there is a room
Where I long to write,
A private alcove
Meant mostly for words,
With walls private enough
To seal the sound
Of my dictionary-speak.
And somewhere below
The windowpanes of this room
A city undulates, a reverberation
Of footsteps and poet-talk,
A certain kind of language.
Inside this room, it’s always evening,
there’s always coffee
On the stove, familiar as old lips.
When my skin itches
For fresh air, the voice and flesh
Of an outside kind of world,
There’s a side-door verandah
With smooth wood for bare feet,
Friendly porch-bar birds
And a warm-blowing breeze,
Leaves spinning in the shape of text.
I close my eyes and write them
Across the inside of my wrist
With my mind:  a safe-keeping of sorts.


Written for a prompt at Magpie Tales.

Advice (and art-inspired) by Dr. Seuss

"Fancy That Cat"



“you find magic wherever you look. sit back and relax. all you need is a book” 



Created for the Dr. Seuss inspired challenge at Sunday Postcard Art.

Hot Colors

"Fall Me Down"

"I am the child I was,
living the life that was mine.
I am young and half asleep.
It is a time of water, a time of trees."
--Anne Sexton


Created for a the 'hot colors' challenge at Take A Word.  



Sunday, June 28, 2015

Barefoot Art and Words by Anne

"The Evening Wait"

Her Kind
(Anne Sexton)



I have gone out, a possessed witch, 
haunting the black air, braver at night; 

dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light: 
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.



I have found the warm caves in the woods, 
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves, 
closets, silks, innumerable goods; 
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves: 
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.



I have ridden in your cart, driver, 
waved my nude arms at villages going by, 
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind. 




Created for the 'barefoot' theme challenge at Digital Whisper.

Monday, June 22, 2015

Rod McKuen Poetry: Sometimes





I first discovered Rod McKuen when I found three hardback books of his poetry at a thrift shop.



I fell in love with the humanity inside his words.  I read them during a harsh winter, coffee at my right-hand, his books across my lap.



Such a lovely thing to fall into.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Me-Flection Day #12: Get Out of the Box



The Challenge: Create a self-portrait incorporating a box, to celebrate the ways in which you live "out of the box"!

The term ‘outside the box,’ in my opinion, means to live differently.  To be flowery, bend the rules, break them if you have to.  To pave your own way other than merely stepping into someone else’s old footsteps.  It’s about creating a life that invigorates you, a lifestyle that fits whatever unique abilities, gifts, and preferences you have.  It’s not ever allowing anyone to define you in a superficial way.  It’s being true to yourself, and living freely.

Found Poetry: The Traditional Ugly



A found poem that I put together from one of those silly, out-dated 'how to be beautiful' guides. 

Me-Flection Day #11: Be Puzzled



The Challenge: Create a self-portrait incorporating the theme of puzzles, allowing the exercise to provide insight into a particular question you're pondering.

My Question:  What can I do to figure out where and what I'm meant to be doing in life.

When it is complete, go back to the question you asked and set your timer for 10 minutes.  Answer the question, free-form, for the entire 10 minutes, and see what comes up.

The picture of the girl I created is standing beside a train track.  I think the train track could be symbolic of someone who is going somewhere, or traveling, or about to embark upon a journey.  The fact that she is barefoot makes me think that she is just wondering.  She's also looking off into the distance, which makes it appear as if she's looking for something or awaiting something.  Maybe she's eager for the train or a trip.  Another idea, she could be awaiting something/someone to arrive via the train.  The fact that she's barefoot makes me think she's a free spirit, she's eager for her feet to touch the earth.

I think my creating this picture in reflection to the question could be a message from myself to keep wondering, keep looking into the horizon in expectancy of good things to come...because through my personal voyages and the gifts of the universe, I'll eventually realize where I'm meant to be and what I'm meant to do.

Perhaps the self actualization occurs merely in the living of life.  To go do and be what I enjoy, and there I'll find my place.

Sunday, June 14, 2015

Me-Flection Day #10: Find Yourself in a Photo Finish

The picture of the lady isn't me (obviously, she's rather illustrated).  And if you actually own, or have ever taken, the Me-Flection workshop, you'll probably notice that I'm skipping around (only doing the ones I can integrate into Photoshop).



The Challenge: Discover something new about yourself as you create a self-portrait based on a photograph of yourself that you don't particularly like (as I said already, I used an image that i liked.  no rules for art, remember?)

The idea was to pause every 15 minutes and reflect upon what I might be discovering about myself as I worked.  The prompt came with the following fill-in-the-blank statements:

 "I'm discovering this about myself: I seem to favor bright colors, an eccentric sense of fashion."


"Maybe I'm discovering  that I'm a unique person.  I have an eccentric sense of fashion.  I used to hate my glasses, I would take them off for photos.  Today, I feel at home in them...I'm grateful I have means of seeing clearly."

"I could be discovering  I love literature.  Words mean a lot to me.  I'm perfectly happy inside my own little world with good literature, my imagination."


"If I were not afraid, I might discover that maybe I enjoy being alone.  I'm not as sociable as I used to be, nor as impressionable.  I'm happy inside my own skin...weird sense of fashion, dark framed glasses, books and all"

 "I discovered this about myself: I'm different and I embrace it.  I no longer view myself as an outsider, I'm merely unique.  What's even more important to me is I have reach an age of maturity where I don't care if I'm an outsider or not.  I don't long to fit in.  I don't seek validation from anyone anymore.  I feel a sense of self-liberation to be free of the expectations or the silly rules of anyone else.  There's a lot of things I'll never be, and most of those things come with boxes I don't fit inside.  Boxes and lifestyles I don't want to fit inside.  I'm happy and  content with who I am, and I feel I'm steadily gravitating toward who I'm meant to be.."