Beneath the surface

I am in a snarl. I have been having WAY too much contact with what is considered to be the "real world". YUCK!!!
My neighbor that I partied with is going back to the Mormon church. She sent the missionaries over here. Huh. Been there done that one, too. It is so BORING. might as well be dead, and I'd certainly rather be in hell doing great drugs than in their no-doubt-tedious and trite heaven. GeEz.
I went to an art thingie with wine and cheese afterward. They were all about how but no trace of why or what. What is Art? ...archival? conceptual? technique? True art can be smeared with menstrual blood onto a park bench.
Art says I am here. I am real. There are things in my heart and soul that I would like to share with you because it is too lonely otherwise. Oooohh! Look! Look! How beautiful! How mysterious!
I may indeed be crazy, (I AM) but if what goes on out there is sane, crazy is the only way to go. People, people! What are you thinking? Where is to joy, the transparency, the luminosity?
Why is there no magic in your life? What are you afraid of? Maybe it would be fun to actually live a bit before you die? Why choose so small?

Or perhaps there are no real people out there and you all are merely automata, concerned with money and statutes and real estate and other quantities?

"It's all about money
Ain't a damn thing funny
Gotta have a job
In this land of milk and honey"
-Grand Master Flash

Who wants to make love with automata? Besides it's against the "rules". Who's rules?
Beam me up Scotty! Sane folks is NUTS!

Actually, for the record, I tried sanity various times and just cannot develop a taste for it. Any therapy I've encountered is just cutting off your nose so you can't smell the shit you've gotta eat to be considered normal.
Choose your own adventure.

Back in Blog

Curiouser and curiouser....My computer had been refusing to allow me access to this blog, so, of course, I haven't been writing anything.
But today, I spent the afternoon with my sister-in-law, Sari Botton, a professional writer, t get advice on how to get this enormous heap of material I have accumulated both in and out of notebooks and sketchbooks throughout my long wanderings. One suggestion she gave was to resume this journal, so I gave it one more try after having given up for the past few months.
And, voila! Ca marche! Hooray!
While I was waiting for her to arrive, I wrote this blurb in case she told me to send a cover to a publisher or some such.
The poem I inserted here is not my own. I found it somewhere. It perfectly characterizes where I have been at in my life, so I have adopted it. Thanks! to whoever wrote it, though.

I am the stranger, the perennial outsider, viewed with bemusement even by my own family; the black sheep, the "other" daughter. I have lived a life full of trials and adventures. And as I take pause to gaze back upon my journey, I realize it is time to speak up for myself and for others like me.

"Form breaks up in the Bacchanal dance of life.
When I ceased to know right from wrong
I ceased to worry.
Then people worried on my behalf, thinking I was mad.
But I rejoiced.
Drunk as a sailor on life's liquor, what did it matter?
I lived.
And the blaming eyes that followed me, embarrassed on my behalf,
Were not mine.
They mourned for me while I rejoiced for myself.
Now tell me, which of us was smartest?"

My journey has demanded that I play many roles; daughter, sister, wife, mother, virgin, whore. I have toiled in fields and factories, lived in the woods and in cities and homeless shelters. I've been a nurse's aide, teacher's aide, gravedigger, file clerk, and barista, (just a few of the many jobs I've held in my gnarly career path). The story I have to tell encompasses heavens and hells, within and without, squalor and splendor. I have lived my life surfing the thin line between madness and inspiration, shooting the curls with trepidation and panache. Included in my story are musings and ramblings about religion, sex, politics, agriculture, social practice. There are poems and pictures , real life experience and imaginative exercises. The totality is chaotic, yet coherent, giving an outline of one woman's reality. Perhaps this humble story will be of interest to souls puzzled and curious about this mad mystery we call life.
So, here I am, back on the page after a long summer vacation.
I am writing on behalf of the child hiding inside every adult, wondering if it will ever be safe to come out and play, wondering if it is true that "life's a bitch and then you die", wondering if the truth of their self will ever be welcome.
Good news. It is.