Rooful.

An informal poll.

I'm thinking of entering some writing to a local event. The submissions are supposed to be about "parenting."

I've written some pieces for this blog that seem appropriate for the reading. There are two in particular that could be good. One has a little more meat, a little more turmoil-- but would require that I come out about my mental status to my local RL community (which gives me some qualms.) The other, well-- I guess I'd call it atmospheric. It's just a little moment from very early in my mothering. There's no real plot or conflict. I like it, and I think a lot of local parents could identify with it, but I worry there's no there, there. And a bit that I'm chickening out of posting something more worthy (maybe) because of what it says about me.

So, I'm asking you for some perspective.

Here are the two pieces I'm considering:

Toxic Boobs

Momentary Deluge

Now, there is always a possibility I'll write something new, specifically for the reading, but ever since J stopped working from home and it's been just me with the baby all day, I've been finding it difficult to find time to write, and/or to have a perky, fertile brain when I do. (I'm hoping I'll get better at it as I adjust to our new regimen.)

Still, I'd like to try to take part in this event if I can-- as part of my commitment to putting my work out there, taking risks, being all I can be and shit...

Observe my elegant use of language.

...even if I can't compose something fresh.

So, which of the two pieces do you prefer? Can you explain why?

Alternately, is there something I've written that you remember that you think is a better choice?

I'd really appreciate some input.

42 pieces.

Isis kept me company when I was mad.
She used to babysit a prince, feeding him with a finger
while she thought of ways to free her lover
from an architectural detail.
Sometimes she turned into a bird.

My baby sits in his rainforest chair, sucking my finger,
denuded of carrots.
He pulls it out and shakes it. Still no milk.
His father's on site, arguing about architectural details.
No wings necessary.

Studio Saturday.

I had my final painting exam today.

This morning I had to gather up my bags of brushes, sketching supplies, lunch, and other sundries, and catch a train that took me to another train, which took me to yet another train, which left me in a busy yet barren-looking section of Queens. Then I walked, keeping one eye on the print-out of directions from the website, until I found the warehouse/studio space where the exam would take place.

Someone pointed me towards a steel gray door, that opened up on to a large room. The wide floor was covered with brown paper. Twenty-odd canvasses, primed in white, were mounted to the floor in rows.

I picked one, and started to unpack my stuff. Candidates made shy greetings to each other, arranged partnerships for certain things that require more than one person-- like snapping a chalk line, or sharing an electrical outlet. Candidates also checked each other out as competition. But it felt friendly.

A monitor passed out postcards of our project image. We were to reproduce this Diego Rivera painting. You might know it-- a man and a woman in a field of grain, napping together. His sombrero is resting on the side of his head. She's propped in a prone position over the side of his lap, with her breasts exposed. They both have giant hands and feet.

Anyway, the exam ran from 9 to 4. At four, we would be told to lift our brushes and stand.

I could tell most of the other candidates were already working in the field-- simply by the breadth of their supplies. I confess, money's tight, and even though bamboo extenders (long handles for holding a brush or charcoal) had been on a list we'd each received of recommended supplies, I decided against. I would have had to mail order one (or more), and I wasn't sure I wanted to be trying out a new piece of equipment during an exam. And I didn't really understand why I'd need one for a piece that's only roughly four feet by six feet.

But I've always worked upright. On the floor is another story. Other people could stand and draw, and really see what they were doing. I was sitting and hunching and reaching. I took off my shoes so I could walk on the painting, from dry spot to dry spot, gardener style.

So that slowed me down. And man, my back is KILLING me.

But I managed. There was a trestle table of paints along one end of the room, and some slop sinks on the other, and I stretched my arms and neck as I made the necessary trips, then got to come back and look at my work with a fresh eye.

There were probably five or six judges/monitors that wandered around the space, taking notes, talking to each other in low tones. Most of the other candidates were already working in paint while I was still sketching, and the judges radiated a certain unspoken "Hmm..." as they'd pass. But when I switched into paint and began to find my stride, all of a sudden there were clusters of judges, lingering in my periphery, or solitary ones off to one side, watching.

I was too busy to feel nervous about it.

And actually, at one point I was feeling quite good with what I was doing. I'd found a technique that was fast, but really seemed to capture Rivera's brushiness.

But there was a lot to do. And I'm new enough to this kind of work that I don't estimate my time with much accuracy. At two hours left, I had the background finished, but, beyond the sombrero, hadn't done a lick on either figure.

The man who runs the exam announced that unfinished work might be acceptable, if it was looking good. But unfinished work that wasn't looking so great, well...

I kept my eeek! internal-- the only way to win this game was to stay cool and keep my eyes on the prize. What absolutely needs to be done to convey the sense of this picture? If I have to stop before I'm done, what things can I leave out?

First, I painted skin, and hair, and faces. No one wants to look at figures with beautifully rendered clothes but no eyes. Well, at least not in this case. I think.

I tried to capitalize on the brushy texture, the emphasis on chunky shapes defined by fine lines. I tried to be smart about my color choices-- finding four to substitute for eight.

That'll do, That'll do-- NO. Leave it alone. Move on.

Then their shirts, because I could use the primed surface of the canvas to do some of the work. Then, okay, only a half-hour left! block in the color of her kerchief, his pants, her skirt...

"Time! Brushes up, everyone!"

I wouldn't say it was finished, exactly. But a lot of it was. The parts that I consider truly finished, I'm happy with. And all the colors were blocked in. I mean just blocked in-- I did this last little swoop just as the monitor called time.

I'm just grateful the entire canvas was covered with the correct colors of paint before I had to stop working.

We were told to go wash up while the judges had a last look around. Then we were given our home projects back. We were provided with staple-pullers. We each loosened the staples holding down our most recent paintings (now dry, or dry enough), peeled them up from the floor and rolled them with our other work.

The judges laughed and chatted while they rolled up the brown paper that had covered the floor. I gathered up my gear, and my giant roll of paintings, and wished them all a good weekend.

And then I had to haul all that stuff back through worn-out industrial Queens to the subway, to the other subway, to the final subway that would take me home.

My arms are sore. My neck is sore. My shoulders are sore. My back is sore.

I think I did okay. But I don't know. I won't know for sure until I get a letter, maybe next week.

All I can do is wait.

Process shots.

I finished.

Two days ago, I didn't think I would. And I cried and cried.

But I thought through my approach, made up a game plan, took a three-hour nap, then got to work.

And I finished. And it looks pretty good.

I had an interview this morning. I think it went all right. They seemed to like my stuff (my portfolio, not my paintings. Those will be assessed separately, by a blind jury.)

It's hard to tell, really.

Their faces fell when I mentioned I have a baby.

Oh, did I say I have a baby? I meant a dog. I have a dog.

Then they told me about how demanding the schedule can be sometimes, working in theatre.

Yes, well. Did you look at that resume you're holding? I've been working in theatre for eighteen years. More if you count pre-college stuff. I'm aware of the demanding schedule. Thanks, though.

I did not say any of this, fortunately. Even though I hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time for three days. While also having a baby. Amazing, huh?

But it's done. I handed over my work, with two projects I fully stand behind and one that is passable (the middle one-- turns out it's hard to jump right back into painting at a large scale, with time constraints, when I haven't done it in years. It sucks to have to turn in my learning curve, but ah well. The third one was good. And I finished it in less than half the time of the second one.)

I turned in my projects. They're theirs now. And now all I can do is wait.

So I feel somewhat relieved, in that I got all this work done, especially, since it really didn't seem possible that I would just a few days ago. But I don't get to thoroughly relax, because now they're deliberating, and I won't know how I did for some time.

But it's out of my hands. For good and for bad.

The tough part is that if I don't get in, I won't know if it's because I did a really crap verion of faux marble for their delectation, or if it's because I whiffed the interview, or if it's simply because they only need so many new members and I don't make the cut.

But I made my way back to the subway, at which point the juice that had gotten me to my appointment and seen me through my interview drained. I sat down on the train and passed into a coma. Miraculously, I woke up just in time to make my transfer, and then again to get off the train and stumble home.

I tried to sit on the couch to talk to J and spend a little time with my boy-o, but I passed out again. A few hours later, I woke up with cramps from the weird position I was in, and I made it to my bed, at which point I collapsed until midnight.

My hips hurt, from hours of sitting Indian-style to paint the last project. My back is sore. My eyes are dry. And my house is beyond messy.

Large-scale paintings, a husband working from home, and a five-month old baby, all in a New York one-bedroom... Yeah. It looks... I'll let you picture it.

But. I finished. Did I mention I finished? Yeah.

And just over two years ago, I was going to make this attempt, and I never got this far. Life and sickness intervened.

So. I accomplished something I've wanted to do for years. And even if it never goes any further than this, well. Look at my life.

A husband, working from home. And a baby. A beautiful baby boy, who likes to watch me paint. Seriously. J would set him up in his bouncy chair, and Sprog would be entertained for hours, intently watching my process.

So much better than a dog, you guys.

I'll take Potpourri for $500, Alex.

I've been sitting in front of my laptop, avoiding a post I'd theoretically like to write about comments policy and my thoughts about the policing of internet speech- influenced by this post at Anil Dash, as well as recent and long-past online socializing faux-pas (mine), and a surprising but pleasing request to become a moderator at an online forum I frequent.

Thoughts. I have them.

Unfortunately, I also have a head that is mostly filled with glue. Also, my right ear seems to be occupied by a tiny gnome, who allows sounds to squeal out the stretched opening of a pink balloon at a one-second delay from the left-side input. If I were Steve Reich, I might find this off-kilter stereo effect enchanting, rather than dizzying, mildly painful, and fucking annoying. Not to mention distracting, which is why I'm still sitting here, clicking from window to window, unable to assemble anything worthwhile.

So. I've decided to tell you about the balloon-wielding gnome who lives in my right ear, instead. Crazy, right?

Speaking of, my FIL left a message on J's phone, telling him I'd sent FIL a letter, and he'd like to talk to him about it.

Not me. J. That's strange, don't you think?

Honestly, I didn't expect him to contact me. I'd put 90% odds on my MIL calling J about it. But while I can predict J's family's WASPish lateral moves when it comes to addressing internal conflict, that's different from understanding them.

So far, J's response can best be summed up by this remark: "I don't know why he's calling me-- I didn't send him a letter." And leaving it at that.

Which seems sensible. Such sensibility surely will not stand, however. Sigh.

Well. At least he's read it.

The last few days I've been cleaning and preparing a workspace-- doing what I could in the moments between taking care of my head-cold and taking care of the Sprog. I'll be doing some painting in the next few weeks-- part of a campaign to shift into a new type of work that might suit my new vision of my life a bit better. I'm a bit nervous about it, but I'm not sure how much I can discuss it while the exam's still in process-- though I imagine general discussion is fine (i.e.- I'm taking an exam with several parts, with the hope of joining a professional organization. The current part involves making some large paintings.)

Today I analyzed the sample illustrations, did niggly sort of math to figure out scale, how best to approach blowing the images up to full size. I've done this before, but it's been a while. This analytical, preparation stage-- there's an analogy for this in other creative endeavors: blocking fabric, scaling a pattern, truing up... A still point between the sometimes pleasant drudgery of cleaning and preparation and the full-on creative endeavor, a moment to approach a task on the less-intimidating left-hand-side before taking a trust fall into your right mind. Ehhh, something like that-- this sort of work that has to be done and is important to the project but that doesn't even hint at requiring virtuosity, helps me to sneak up on work I want to do that my brain might try to frighten me away from doing.

In the spirit of not requiring virtuosity, I think I'll leave it at that.

A photo essay.

Body image has been on my mind quite a bit of late.

I thought it might be useful to have some images to hang the words from.

I considered posting some nudes, since I have some available from a project I was working on back in the day. But the photos I took then were for art-- I can look at them with a certain detachment because my body was simply an art object. Plus, I was in such a different frame of mind then, in part because of the project, in part because I was becoming manic for the first time, and in part because of the intense life experiences I've had since then, that have changed me.

The photos I took tonight were documentary. I needed clothes.

Speaking of, the shirt is the same in the photo from two years ago and the photo I just took. But I must have passed the pj bottoms on to Goodwill. I'm also standing in the same alcove in my apartment. But the times of day are different, and I have the bedroom door shut because the Sprog's asleep in there.

Other slight shifts, because I wasn't patient enough to get the recreation perfectly exact. But...

Here. A little over two years ago:

And a little over two hours ago:

But then, two years ago:

Six months ago:

And a few weeks ago:

I'll let you draw your own conclusions.

The voices in my head.

I have no one else to blame for my sudden stiltedness, my awkward flamingo steps...

Awkwardness continues.

Can I tell you about this morning? I woke up to J and the Sprog, sidled into bed next to me. When I reached out to rub the side of my boy-o's tummy, he smacked my hand and turned away.

Now, I realize full well that my son only has a small range of motions in his arsenal, and the spasmodic arm-slap is one of the go-to gestures. And there are any number of reasons my baby might have turned away at that moment-- some sunlight on the wall, a sound, a simple desire to change position, a momentary feeling of overstimulation...

But this squishy little part of my mind decided My baby hates me.

Ugh! No. He doesn't. And what a nasty load of guilt to dump on my child some day if I keep thinking like that. Unfortunately, there's no such thing as mind control-- not even over my own. So that little spot of quicksand sucks down more ugly thoughts: I went through so much physically to have him. I'm the one with the stretch marks and the flop sweat. I'm the one whose shoes don't fit. I'm the one reading up on products and theories and pediatricians and practices and teaching J what I learned. My baby should like me the best! Even better than he likes my husband.

You don't need to tell me how wrongheaded this is, on so many counts. That's my point-- I know. Being a mother is about loving your children and taking care of them. It is NOT about them doing that for you. My son is his own person, with his own emotions and opinions. He doesn't owe me pride of place in his psyche. And I hate, hate, hate the part of me that sometimes wants that anyway.

Keep it up, roo, and you'll get that place in his psyche-- just like a mother in an Alfred Hitchcock film.

This is not to say I feel this struggle all the time-- just now and then, when my guards are down.

But it ties into a similarly squishy problem I've been having writing here. Because I want everyone to like me. As if that were even possible. As if more than twelve people actually read this blog on a regular basis.

I'm having a hard time writing my mind. My self-censor is getting pushier and more comprehensive, because just about anything I might write about that's true is bound to be offensive to someone.

1. I'm an atheist. Being an atheist is an important part of my identity. I struggled thoughtfully for the first two-thirds of my life to figure out my relationship with God, and I've chosen to do without. I think I'm a better person for choosing to do without.

But I don't think that my journey towards this philosophy or lack thereof is so conclusive that I don't realize there are different, valid paths to better personhood-- to enlightenment, even. Still, while I have a lot to write on this subject, I hold back, for fear that readers who have a different relationship with religion might feel judged or excluded. And I don't want that.

2. We decided not to circumcise our son, and I'd like to write about that decision process. But it's difficult to find a more controversial subject in all of the Interwebs, and I think that many people, for and against, who write about it or comment about it are so totalitarian in their approach, so judgmental, so mean-spirited sometimes towards those who see things differently, that I'm hesitant to enter the fray.

3. In a similar vein, I've had some more thoughts about breastfeeding or the lack thereof, and... well, my emotions might be too close to the surface on that one even for me. But part of me thinks that's why my...testimony? something to that effect, could be a useful addition to the discussion. But then I worry that no one could hear civil and thoughtful discourse over all the shouting.

4. I'm crazy. Is it all right for me to call myself crazy? Wait, haven't I earned the right to call myself crazy if I want to? Well, do I want to? I sure don't like it when other people call me crazy-- even if they don't know I really am crazy. If I write about being crazy, people might know I'm crazy, and then they'll think I'm crazy instead of just crazy.

And... discuss.

5. I'm a feminist. But am I one of those feminists? What does that even mean? Can I call myself feminist if... (and so forth.)

6. I'm fat. No, I'm not really fat. Can I use that word? Is it a bad word? Is it a bad word if I'm only using it to talk about myself? What if it is? What should I do about it, if anything, and why?

7. I sometimes use stereotypes. And I sometimes use words that aren't acceptable in certain circles. Which ones, and why? Is this eeevil, like the fruuuits of the dayvil? Is it acceptable to quote Mike Myers in 2011?

So many questions.

8. I'm a new mother. If I write about parenting, will that turn off/bore/sadden those who are not parents? If I don't write about parenting, will I miss an important chance to connect with other readers who are parents? Will everything beyond cute pictures of my kid open me up for criticism and judgement?

Hey! Why are you posting cute pictures of your kid on the Internet? He didn't consent to that! And don't you know about evil Internet people who will want to make him into soup? Or... worse???

Okay, I'm going to stop now. You get the gist.

So these are all examples of the type of thing I'd like to be writing about, but can't, because my brain's full of quicksand and is also tied up with rope, and let's toss in some more metaphors, with horses and creeks that are pronounced like cricks.

I'd like to address this situation.

But then, finding time to write anything worthwhile is difficult with an infant (so let's hear it for Shirley Jackson, eh?) Particularly because even when I get the kidlet down for a nap, by the time my writing mind's really whirring again, he's woken back up.

In the meantime, I'm going to work on having courage in my convictions, and trust that the worthwhile folks will still be here when the dust settles.

Or I'll just post more cute photos of my kid. Because it's my job as his mother to provide his someday teenage self with plenty of sources of wholesome embarrassment. And it pleases me.

Oh, and it might not hurt to re-read this once in a while. Clearly, I need the reminder.

Introductions.

On Halloween, snozma (pay no attention to the woman with the prosthetic nose, lurking behind the curtain) made the following observation, in reference to this post about motherhood:

People make a HUGE DEAL out of the very very beginning. I don't know why --but it is much more complicated later. It actually gets super intense and yet no one seems interested in writing books about it anymore. As soon as they can talk people act like the mystery's gone. But it isn't!

I was really glad to hear her reassurance on this point, although it plays into a somewhat disquieting notion I've been considering lately, of what lies ahead for the Sprog and me.

A while back, I posted this piece of writing, which elicited the following comment from Monica C. :

Wow!

I'm breathless and rather spooked. Awesome writing.

But WTF?!

So... I'll give a little background. But first, thank you, Monica! I'm trying to take some more risks with my writing, which is scary, and comments like yours make me feel braver about it.

I submitted that piece to a local writers group, and it was chosen to be part of a night of readings. The title was the prompt/theme of all the pieces performed that evening.

It was my first reading.

Each reader was asked to prepare a
"chatty introduction" to her piece.

This was mine:

When I saw the prompt for this evening, I thought to myself, Parenting! I'll write about parenting. After all, I just became a mom at the end of August-- what better example of being in over my head?

But my little boy is only two months old. While I'm constantly amazed by what he's learning, what he can do, he's still mostly pudding. Taking care of him is a demanding job, sure, but (I hope I'm not jinxing it!) not overwhelming.

Not like when he's older, and he wants me to explain why there's war, or I have to let him go off into the city by himself.

That's in over my head.

Still, while I've been setting up my life for someone else's childhood, it's been impossible not to consider my own.

Weird things bubble up from the deep while the baby's napping...

[In Over My Head]
. . . .

I was nervous. My hands shook. But it went well.

Now all I have to do is keep doing it.

I have a feeling it might be like parenting--
the introduction's the easy part.

I'm in a mood to explain.

When I took the photo for the previous post, all I could see were my son's rosy cheeks against a fleecy field of off-white. Then I saw the picture.

Hm. Well that's... kinda creepy.

But I think it's a good photo. Actually, I like it because it's creepy. I'm almost tempted to do a whole series of slightly creepy photos of my son.

Here he is,
sweetly floating in a pool of congealed blood.

And here, I've posed him in a pie crust, with some sausage casings. Doesn't he look cute?

I don't worry about publishing these brilliant nuggets of creativity, because I'm not actually going to become some goth/horror version of Anne Geddes.

Once again, the fact that I've spent time in the looney bin makes me loath to try things that other parents could do under the guise of making art that's "edgy."

Also, I'm lazy.

So, I'll have to satisfy my urges with the occasional unwittingly weird kid photo. And since I don't think the grandparents want them, I'll share them with you.

You're welcome.