I think it was the girl...One of my children has jammed a penny into the SD slot of my computer. The inner crazy woman in me, that I have to pacify with "ooooh, one of these days, boom bow straight to the moon!" rhetoric wants to go H.A.M. sammiches right now. But the inner inner INNER hippie is tucking sunflowers behind my ears singing "all we need is love." *sigh* In 2014 I didn't paint, draw, and barely barely wrote a thing (except the occasional crude tweet). I kept waiting on inspiration to strike, motivation to pull me outa bed, tenacity to kick me into gear. Nothing happened, until I realized that I just have to GO. Do it. Sketch anything. Pick up my brush and paint something, no matter if it was shitty just STOP procrastinating. Be like Francis Underwood without all the murdering. And so I did. I did a drip painting over a thin broadstroked painted background of acrylic cool tones. I spent two days and six hours on it. A drop in the bucket compare to the time I've put into other works. I really love it too, like it's the last thing I look at every night before bed and naps. Inspiration, tenacity, motivation...eh? I can't say I got a surge of artist adrenalin but I feel like going on, you know? I may never be the great artist, or a published writer, but that's not why I do it. I do it because it makes me feel more alive. It's like getting out of a stuffy party, filled with incessant talking and stepping around toward the back part of the building for a dose of quiet and clean air. -Grace K.

Forbidden Fruit

Billie Holiday was born 100 years ago today. Her rendition of 'Strange Fruit' was one I wrote about in college. It still inspires me. It's a haunting song that I've loved and revered for years. My grandmother used to whistle it sharply through the house as she swept the hall in the afternoon. She looked so much like Ms. Holiday that it used to creep me out, now it just makes me smile. In fact, her most famed song it inspired me to paint a serious of memorial like pieces in dedication and individual acknowledgement of our attempted genocide in American history. Geez, this sounds so serious and heavy (and it kinda is), but my intention within the artwork was to say "I see you." And isn't that what we all want? To just be seen. Acknowledged. Felt. Represented. Heard. Hear my art.

I Miss You, Sometimes...

Let me tell you how lazy I am. And how trifflin' I am. The 'c' key has been missing from my keyboard for 3 months now and I've yet to go buy another keyboard. I have three friends whom I've been meaning to call (Esti, Sabrina, & B.) since last fall, and I've yet to call not nan one of them. Since. LAST. YEAR. They probably hate my guts by now, who could blame them. I can't even hide behind my introversion, because I know that's just bullshit (not the introversion, but the excuses). In addition to that, it's been almost a year since I've blogged here and I'm not going to apologize or promise to do better. So let's just move on. Yesterday, I watched the documentary "Life Itself," a film chronicles the life and last days of famed film critic, Roger Ebert. I knew it was going to be sad, and I'm not normally one to cry...like it takes a lot to get me to that relm of emotional expression but when they spoke of Gene Siskel's death my heart got really heavy. I think it was what Roger said about how if he were to discover he had a serious illness, he wouldn't hesitate to tell those whom he loves and who love him about it. I thought that was profound. I felt compelled to share part of this poem I wrote about missing my mother, who also died of a fatal and debilitating disease. I miss you but then I don't. Mostly I do but it chokes out my voice. It clenches my stomach with longing for you. I swallow hard the nine-year-old scream I hold at the thought of you lying forever in a casket. I subdue my fingers from balling into fists to fight in your stead; you the mother who should have protected me from your molesting man. I shut my eyes tight at the tears that threaten to spill when I remember that we will never share anymore inside jokes or laughs over phone lines. Sometimes, on rainy cold afternoons,I sit by window blocking out the warm memory of those slouchy black boots you loved to wear... You see my mother died of Multiple Sclerosis. She died just a few days shy of Valentines Day, 2010. She told virtually no one, until the disease had progressed so much that she was experiencing memory loss, dementia, and a whole host of physical set-backs. If given a few years warning, because she knew for at least 10 years, I think we could have surely prepared better. People who knew her, that I didn't know knew her, could have said goodbye. I understand sparing your loved ones the sorry of watching you slip away, but remaining secretive is not the way to go. It's selfish. Yes, it's self-serving. You don't have the right to inflict your sudden departure (when you know it's immenent) on anyone...unless you're some supervillan...or my Uncle Rodney (same difference). Adieu, Grace K.