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Vulnerability

March 19, 2012
mixed-media and personification

mixed-media and personification

Vulnerability waits patiently outside the shuttered fortress you’ve expertly constructed out of unuttered words, blank stares, and 50 lb. bags of isolation. You’re somewhat impressed when she makes it through the gates of “I’m fine, thank you” and “No, I don’t need anything,” but when she swims across the moat of Fuck-You-Very-Much-infested waters, your jaw drops. “Who the hell does she think she is?” you ask your pet rock. Before you know it, Vulnerability is sitting on the porch swing admiring the view. She can’t hear you yelling at her to go away due to the lead-lined sheetrock and spray foam insulation.

Your first mistake is to crack the door open an inch in an effort to swat her away with your long-handled broom. A ray of sunlight blinds you temporarily and like a shadow, Vulnerability slinks inside. She’s a mess which is no surprise. It’s to be expected of someone who walks with open arms into streams of cascading arrows. She’s used a few to hold her hair together in a loose bun. There are creases around her eyes where life lives. Her skin is mottled, a patchwork quilt of life’s residue: smooth glowing patches where Love struck, angry red welts from pricks of Shame, pinpoints of light where Joy pierced her ears, Grief-stained fingertips, freckles born of Beauty’s stinging blows, and translucent scars on knees scraped bloody tripping over Rejection’s outstretched foot.

Vulnerability’s sudden presence causes your skin to tingle and your brain explodes with memories of sound and color and taste. You watch helplessly as your brick-and-mortar mausoleum starts to shake and crumble. Shutters break apart and clatter to the floor, letting in a flood of light that washes you outside. “You can either sink or swim,” Vulnerability shouts across the gushing waves of electromagnetic radiation. You grab hold of the color purple and reach for a wavelength of green to steady yourself. There’s light in your eyes, your nose, your mouth, and ears. You can hardly breathe.

Once you are tossed back into Vulnerability’s river, you draw from the reservoirs of everything you once knew in order to survive. You ignore the inane ranting and raving of Fear who insists you get out of the light right now. You lean heavily on Trust to guide you through the rapids. You float without direction until you hit solid ground, where you walk again toward cascading arrows with open arms.

Flower Series #6: One Little, Two Little, Three Little Flowers…

February 26, 2012

mixed-media collage

Flower Series #5: Wall Flowers

February 7, 2012

mixed-media collage

Wall Flowers – aka – Flowers you can hang on your wall – Enjoy!

Flower Series #4: Emflower Thyself

January 9, 2012

mixed-media collage

Flower Series #3: Rain Flowers

August 22, 2011

mixed-media on wood panel

Rain Flowers

Flower Series #2: Go With the Flow-er

August 15, 2011

mixed-media on wood panel

Go With the Flow – er

Rage

August 11, 2011

    

mixed-media and personification

mixed-media and personification

     Rage is the sister of Betrayal. She shared her love with Arrogance and found it the next day crumpled and torn in the garbage. Wounded and sad, she mistook Cruelty for Tenderness and asked for his help removing the dagger from her heart. Instead, he drove the dagger deeper until it unleashed a storm of self-destruction that blew entire cities in her soul to smithereens. Now, Rage lives in the dark corners of rooms, counting and recounting the hurts she keeps in a tiny blue box, filed in alphabetical order.
     Rage stays hidden until she senses another wounding on the horizon, no matter how small. Then, she whips herself out from the darkened corners where she lives and snatches it from your fingers, like a pearl from an oyster, before you even know what has happened. She sniffs and coddles the fresh wound like a newborn baby and spends hours selecting its name. Ever so carefully, she finds its rightful place in her tiny blue box and tucks it in.
     Rage defends her hurts like a mother wolf, baring her razor sharp teeth at anything that threatens to wake them from their peaceful slumber. She sharpens words on stones and swallows them whole, rendering herself speechless. Each night she howls hollowly at the moon, a silent bellowing that rattles the stars and sends some into death spirals across the sky.
     What Rage hungers for most is Understanding, but her ravenous appetite keeps her from getting close to him anymore. Sometimes, she thinks he might be nearby, but when she reaches out to grab onto him, her hands come up empty, and she realizes he wasn’t there at all. She calls out to him in her dreams, but her words are muted and her movements erratic. The more she runs toward him, the more distant his image grows.

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