Cupcakes still on my mind

I must add as an afterthought, that I just realized during one of my Guilty Internet Window Shopping Black Friday weekend experiences, I put a cupcake watch in my cart. I put things in carts and then get off quickly after having spent too much time figuring out the 35% discount.

That cupcake watch, I thought about it today and sensibly told myself, you certainly don’t need another watch, another Bestsey Johnson watch, after all you have the sugar skull, that Alice looking one, the cat one, the Marilyn face one…

Writing this list, I realize I already went into the too too much so much that you can get more because the muchness has already gone over the top, so it’s again so tantalizing to think, after writing this Ode to Cupcakes, don’t I need to reward myself with that cupcake watch, if its’ still on sale of course. Oh no. I will try to resist it.

Cupcake watch

I confess I have a small “cake” wristlet bag that was one of those I must have this, things, It says let them eat cake on the bottom. But still, cupcakes are better…

Everyday Inspiration Day 1


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This is a topic, “I write because”, where I am excited to say that today, I wrote because my 9 year old daughter was writing; I have a love hate relationship with writing, but when we write at the same time, I enjoy writing and don’t feel all the usual crazy stuff and insecurity and everything else that comes with torturing yourself writing and in between writing.

The prompt was a great 4th grade prompt: Cake or Cupcakes, which do you prefer? A very important question that I have pondered quite a bit.

It just so happened that we went to get cupcakes today with her friends and friend’s babysitter Heidi. I already knew my daughter was writing in favor of cake.

So here is my writing that I did in the 20 minutes that she did her piece. I’d also like to say that writing for 20 minutes is great because you enjoy it and have fun but don’t go too much into it and get caught up. For the ADHD writer, it’s great. No time to get bored or distracted except within the topic.

Ok, here it is. I have to add that my daughter asked me to put it in this blog!

Actually it is probably more fun to read as a post on its own, so I will make a separate post right now, write now!

we can sketch it out.

I love these quotations and how they are placed in these great portraits!

malcolm-yelloThere is nothing better than adversity. Every defeat, every heartbreak, every loss, contains its own seed, its own lesson on how to improve your performance the next time. — Malcolm X

leonard-cohen There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in. — Leonard Cohen

tawakkol-karman In our hearts, we are just human beings who want a dignified life. Is that too much to ask? -Tawakkol Karman

bill-murray-yello The last time doesn’t exist. It’s only this time. And everything is going to be different this tie. There’s only now.  — Bill Murray

coetzee We are not by nature cruel. — J.M. Coetzee

mother-teresa Peace begins with a smile. — Mother Teresa

tim-gunn Life is not a solo act. It’s a huge collaboration.  — Tim Gunn

shermanWe are all products of what we want to project to the world. — Cindy Sherman

henry-jamesThree things in human life are important. The first is to be kind…

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there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

Great! So sad to lose Leonard Cohen.

We lost singer-songwriter-poet-artist-novelist Leonard Cohen, one of my personal heroes and the mentor I never met. Here’s my little tribute.

leonard-cohen There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.

cohen-color Act the way you’d like to be and soon you’ll be the way you act.

leonard-love Love is the only engine of survival.

cohen-yesterday-colorHow can I begin anything with all of yesterday in me?

cohen-trainingBTW, I’m training mediators in New Orleans this week, and Mr. Cohen was my co-trainer.

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What kind of American are you?

People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them. James A. Baldwin
Newly edited: what I’ve learned from this Election Process:
1.) Shut up and listen.
2.) Act, don’t react.
3.) Edit yourself.
5.) slow down and breathe.
6.) Be grateful.

I mostly turn to literature and writers and some other wise figures for explanation and important things to consider. American Literature is a place I go to to see how people answered this questions on what it is to be American. Here are quotations from them.

This passage in the Great Gatsby is etched in my brain. It comes up often when you work with oppressed people…

They were careless people, Tom and Daisy — they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money of their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”

In just a few sentences you see the complexity of American History since it was born starting with “smashing up” Native Americans, slavery…

James Baldwin has written so much about all of it that resonates today, it’s hard to choose what to put in here:

It is certain, in any case, that ignorance, allied with power, is the most ferocious enemy justice can have. James A. Baldwin

Here is a quote that speaks to a part of myself I certainly don’t like. Baldwin is talking about taking responsibility. When you are born or choose to become an American, you are agreeing to participation in its history and learning from it, I’m quite not sure how to say that; Baldwin articulates it well:

Nobody is more dangerous than he who imagines himself pure in heart; for his purity, by definition, is unassailable. James A. Baldwin
This one really gets at what is happening in this moment of our collective history:

I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.

Here are some from Leonard Cohen, whom I think about today and thank him for his magic.

“Act the way you’d like to be and soon you’ll be the way you act.”
This one above speaks to me as I remember many times when I’ve tried to figure out how to emulate someone’s behavior and it seemed like I needed to wear this person on me to be like them; you can strive but I get weary of chasing buses.

“We are ugly but we have the music.” this short sentence seems to sum up how it is to be an artist made in America.

Last one:

“Everybody knows that the dice are loaded,
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed,
Everybody knows that the war is over,
Everybody knows the good guys lost.”

American women writers:

Here are some words for today and tomorrow: Audre Lorde

There’s always someone asking you to underline one piece of yourself – whether it’s Black, woman, mother, dyke, teacher, etc. – because that’s the piece that they need to key in to. They want to dismiss everything else.

Only by learning to live in harmony with your contradictions can you keep it all afloat.

There are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt.

In other words, I would be giving in to a myth of sameness which I think can destroy us.
Emily Dickinson:

In other words, I would be giving in to a myth of sameness which I think can destroy us.
Here is a provocative one that speaks to the last year and last few days:

People need hard times and oppression to develop psychic muscles.


America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. Abraham Lincoln

Here is Malcolm X with a prescription for all of us people asking today what to do, what can be done:

“I for one believe that if you give people a thorough understanding of what confronts them and the basic causes that produce it, they’ll create their own program, and when the people create a program, you get action.” — Malcolm X

I will end with this. I always fantasized about just reading for the rest of my life:

“My alma mater was books, a good library… I could spend the rest of my life reading, just satisfying my curiosity.” — Malcolm X



Writing = Cutting Lemons

Writing has become quicksand filled at the bottom of the well. You take Alice potion to get to the size to go down to the water in a bucket, and there’s no water, it’s quicksand at the bottom. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be in quicksand and holding someone’s hand desperately pulling me out; like the Twilight Zone little girl stuck int he 4th dimension with her dog, her dad half in the wall reaching out for her, frantically pulling her back in to her bedroom.

I have wanted to go to the 4th dimension, to escape all the dirty corners of living, the things you like to pretend are not real inside you. It’s ok to imagine killing someone, that’s a clean piece of evil I’m familiar with and can enjoy, but there are dirtier secrets that pretend they aren’t there.

If you want clean water and clean air, writing is still some kind of curse, you throw a pebble in a pond and see the ripples of water. Each ripple is 4-10 pages of meandering writing, that starts out excited and full of clean water inspiration and goes to drinking out of a dirty glass that went through my dishwasher and still has pieces of dirt stuck to it.

My therapy homework is to find and read The Third Policeman. There is a different third policeman policing my writing; he is disgusted with it. When I was a kid I dreamed I was walking down a road and getting spanked by a policeman standing waiting for me. He’s back and he’s spanking every meandering piece of prose that gets saved, the names for the files are:  ProcessElection.docx, NewIdeas.docx, SmallPottatoes.docx, I have spent my life figuring out what books.docx, HilaryLemons.docx…

The Hilary lemons, the lemons is connected to cutting lemons the wrong way, somehow it was connected to something in my mind about Hilary, I don’t even want to read it. The lemons were what was important, not to do with the election or Hilary, buthey were about me and this maze of writing stop starting, how I must be the same me in some way with the me of my fifteen year old self, who got yelled at by my chef expert brother for cutting lemons wrong. He was right, I had shamed these poor lemons, messed them up, disrespected and disgraced them. There is something about lemons, and if you cut them wrong, it better not be for anyone else, just your own glass of water which if it would talk would yell at you too. Lemon cutting shaming. Cutting fruit wrong permeates my personality. My daughter is not please at my butchering her granny smith apple. My mind refuses to fall in and get the facts properly placed and numbered.

Trying to get a container thing you use to put electric things in the light socket, I go to that row in Home Depot, where inconsiderate customers have put all the different iterations of this box like thing in the wrong boxes, where the person helping you is jumping from box to box, pulling these boxes out, some have wings on the side to screw in, some are hexagonal. On a different day, I might have done something with this panoply of boxes for light to go to the switch you flick, enjoyed their strange shapes and sides, aluminum box trolls. I am too confused, my mind goes into words about 2 by 4s and tops without the holes, there are tops with circles that mean you punch through them. My daughter noticed this difference. Making decisions when FaceTime doesn’t work and you can’t take ten photos of these things to make sure you got the right ones. How important is it? The first time round my mind turns into quicksand. The stress of connecting words to sentences to actually getting the right ones. I thought it was 3 each of 2 and 3 inch ones. But it was 3 each of one and two light switch things. Lucky I caught that one.

I told my daughter I am learning the English language of real people all over again. It’s not my language at all. Off to the paint department, an island of my language, colored swatches and fantasy walls, where you can find the paint color errors and spend 50 cents to get some pink color you won’t use at home, but maybe I could paint my studio closet door with this. It’s a small container of random paint; of course it’s going to be useful.

What’s in the Hidden Box: Being a Writer

I have loved writing since I was a kid. I got more into it in high school. At the time, I wrote poetry. Recently, I dug up an old journal out of a box in a cabinet in my studio. It was there alongside my two failed Road tests.

I couldn’t even remember the notebook, a green Meade wire bound notebook. I started reading it. It was a strange time capsule to 1985, 11th grade. I will copy some entries and post them here soon.

Very bizarre to be in my high school self. There was also the teacher in the notebook/writer’s journal. I didn’t remember who she was, then I had an inkling that it might be a certain English teacher. Her presence was there as the reader and her gentle encouragement was woven through the journal

This writer I encountered was trying all kinds of things to get that key to open the door to the land of writing. It was like trying all different sizes and being the wrong size to get the key. And then transform again to get the key and the door in the same size match.

I wrote some things about people I knew. I made up some things too based on prompts, like a few paragraphs told from the point of view of a 38 year old father on the day of his birthday. The journal was a search, a frustrating, exciting, sometimes magical, erneast and sometimes desperate search for what writing is and most perplexing: WHAT TO WRITE/WRITE ABOUT.

I even wrote a sort of ode to writing itself in that journal. What do I write about? Do I write about the things I know and are familiar with and see them from a writer’s point of view? Do I make up things about stuff that I’ve never experienced and see where it leads? Do I take a prompt and try to get me pushed off? What is so important about my experience that anyone else would be interested in reading it? What is the secret key to the garden of writing well? Even if you are your first and/or only reader, what do you want your reader to be reading?

On to college, 4 years of wrestling with the same thing, along with, which things I write are in pursuit of writing and becoming a better writer? Again, who am I now as a writer?  I still write poems, which seem easier but much harder to like or find good enough. Somehow poetry was easier because it was shorter. I could hardly read any long poems even though I was assigned them. With reading, I could read long things and feel dumped and disappointed when they ended. With writing like in high school, I could take off and do the first moments of getting up in the sky, some turbulence and then to the point of taking off the seat belt sign.

That is where I will end this post. I hope to investigate further my quest to be a writer or at least someone who writes things that can be read. Words have always been my friends. Topics and content still enemies.

New try at Shaping My Story with New “Topic”: The Green Umbrella


The green umbrella was not mine.

I did not buy it the New York Rain Day way: It’s raining. Of course you didn’t bring an umbrella to work or wherever. You ran out the house without it. Maybe you noticed a few minutes into the rain, Damn I need an umbrella. There is always some kind of sidewalk person who sells an assortment of things: weird stuffed animals, Dora paraphernalia, iPhone cases with cats and other animals on them, cheap head phones, sunglasses of course, rain or shine, snow or sun, and other random items. This person will definitely have a few types of 5$ umbrellas: the small black ones with the old fashioned curved handle that last one shower and end up skeletons peaking out of the street garbage can where an angry person sick of the umbrella going the opposite way finally lost the struggle and stuck it there, looking like an upside down Barbie doll with one leg. This guy also sells bigger ones, maybe a few more bucks and some others. You buy one. If it doesn’t end up driving you nuts with the wind added to the rain, you will leave it in a restaurant soon.

I have a thing with umbrellas. I’m not sure how to describe it. I love looking at everyone else’s umbrellas, it’s like tattoo watching in a swimming pool; a total smorgasbord of colors, patterns, sizes and styles; I only have a temporary tattoo but I love seeing real ones on other people. Sort of like with umbrellas. I didn’t used to let myself spend more than 5-10$ on an umbrella for the obvious reason that I’d break it or lose it soon. Now I have a great rainbow umbrella that was cheaper than the red Ikea with white pattern that died a quick death. I was wanting a rainbow umbrella for quite a while. Like most things you yearn for, I found it when not looking. The kind where each segment is a different color. It’s a large one, also something I used to deny myself. There are umbrellas that do their job reluctantly and badly, keeping you from getting soaked but popping out with the wind so you have to hold it the other way to get it back to it’s shape. You forget that a useful umbrella needs to be shaped a certain way to avoid this back and forth thing and to keep you more dry than just somewhat dry.

I have other umbrellas. There is the pink one from Duane Reade that refuses to get broken or used up or lost. It’s just a small retractable one, not too tiny, probably cost 5-7$. There is always some cheap umbrella you hardly notice you’ve had for so many years; the survivor umbrella. This pink umbrella is a cat with nine lives.

Umbrellas for children. That’s a whole other category. I used to think cheap, but first it was: don’t get an umbrella for a child, just use yours with them; those dinky little kids umbrellas with annoying Dora or Disney characters on them – I refused to surrender for a long time. I relented and changed my philosophy to: get a really cheap tacky one made for kids in Chinatown at one of those places that sells that again strange assortment, where you could get a live turtle or this umbrella. Then recently, I finally got the concept of a child having an adult umbrella, and getting to start a whole relationship of their own with umbrellas and rain. It could be the making of a young pluviophile.

I do know a child who loves to be inside looking out her window and watching people outside getting wet in the rain. It’s that sadistic pleasure of watching others suffer and feeling extra cosy and not wet.

Last week I was in a New York kind of storm, the kind where you surrender and just get completely wet. The kind you can’t wait out under an awning crushed together with others. The kind where you have to pick your moment to just get in the wind and rain and take your chances.  I noticed that still, an umbrella seems useful, after you’re soaked to the point that your sneakers are full of water. Then you get to be soaked but no longer frantic and watch other people frantically holding things over their heads or fighting with their umbrellas or hiding under scaffolding waiting it out. By that time, you’re having fun finally getting to admit the real thing about rain: it’s water. It will get you wet and maybe cold.

This green one was just a symbol of my day to a terrible point. I took it by accident instead of the dependable pink one. Actually I confess I left the house with that pink one and stupidly gave my child the pink one and took the green one, a quick exchange that I didnt notice would shape the rest of my day and cause me to write this.’This innocent looking light yellow green umbrella came from someone who was moving to Berlin from Brooklyn and had the kind of extra stuff you take to your house and are both grateful and annoyed by more stuff you might need or maybe you didn’t know you needed it. Did I need another small collapsable umbrella? Maybe. Probably not. I had already forgotten my last battle with that damn umbrella. I took it out  for the first time and tried to open it but the sliding thing didn’t’ stick to the top, so I wrestled with it while getting wet and got so annoyed I was ready to throw it out, thinking it just doesn’t work and wondering why it was even existing there for me to get angry at.  I even walked with it open holding it at the top, very annoying way to use an umbrella Finally by luck or chance I put the umbrella up and it stayed. The trick was it had to be all the way down, then you push the button and it opens fine in one burst. You can’t push the button and push it up. I don’t know how I missed the simple way to open it. I figure it out a second before I was going to throw it out in a fit of fury that only exists when it’s raining and you’re pissed off at an umbrella.

Of course today i had the same problem, and again even more absurdly couldn’t figure it out. This time I had the added torture of knowing it was not broken, and that I was fighting with it because I couldn’t remember the simple way to get it open.

I actually yelled at the umbrella. I was already in a bad mood so the umbrella seemed right to take it out on. Nobody would think it was weird to see someone having a nasty fight with an umbrella on a street in NYC.

This umbrella with its secret simple way to open it represented my tussles with life. I even had seen a 9 year old open it fine, adding more fuel to the fire. This fight was saying, on a daily basis you waste extra energy fighting facts and the physical world, refusing to admit that not only are you doing it wrong, the right way is so much easier and less histrionic.

Why does this always happen to me? was the usual useless thought pattern. I fight and frustrate and struggle against the forces of my own brain’s inability to do simple tasks, then it makes sense to get angry at the object that has a superiority complex like that umbrella. It was saying, “You can’t remember the obvious way to open me. You’re again almost breaking me trying to figure it out. Just a while ago a child had no problem opening me. It was laughing at me and thumbing its nose at me.

I persisted, as I do these days with such struggles, because my mind says, if you can’t figure this out, your’e doomed; the whole rest of your life will be one endless struggle like this with everything and everyone, so you better figure it out now. Finally through chance I realized: it’s the button that says open/close on it, push it. My umbrella fully cooperated, laughing all the way up.

Well the next time today I was back home and left, I took my rainbow umbrella. It isn’t raining, but when it does, I will have my pride back and my ability to function like the other people who manage reality just fine; I can walk down the street holding my happy rainbow umbrella and pretend I know how to navigate the physical world.


Shaping Your Story, Week One: What’s Your Angle?


I’m taking another blogging class. It’s a writing one, so I’m taking a leap putting up some of my recent writing project I just started a few months ago. I’m taking a piece out of it near the beginning. I tried to edit it. What’s my angle? It’s kind of memoir but it’s about a job, it’s a loss, this program doesn’t exist; my angle is connecting with people with chronic mental illness, close to the homeless person you saw on the subway today. Not sure yet what makes it unique, what I’m doing to make it my story and a different take on a same old same old. Here is the excerpt:

The subway, if you’re alone you could go to the end of the line, the last stop, it’s where I would go if I was homeless sleeping on the subway, I’d pick the F line for Coney Island; I’d have one of those old supermarket carts, the red kind, there would be pieces of paper all over or maybe notebooks.. I think once in Boston I went to the end of the line. It was a horse race track, maybe actually a dog race track; yes it was a dog race track called Wonderland, well it would be; that’s my special book, doesn’t everyone have one book that they keep inside them for life, a book that is a place more than a story. I’ve never been to dog races or the horse races, but there are so many great movies you don’t have to go to the real one. I mean they stick horse races in good and bad and in between movies and those are the best scenes. The last one I saw was a movie you only watch cause your kid wants to watch it with you. This girl goes to the horse race because someone told her to put her money on a certain horse. It had only 3 legs, and she knows the place; it’s not the races, its where her grandfather bets all his money where you get betting tickets for your money and there are small old TVs you watch the races on those TVs. It’s always a kind of shabby place and it’s filled with all these people who bet all the time- they can’t stop. Of course she wins cause the money is to take place of the rent money her grandfather bet on and lost. He gets so excited when she wins and that she has the betting blood in her, it’s a great moment. He doesn’t really want her to be a gambler like he is. He just is so excited to see her win. Of course he loses all the time without her.

Then this reminds me of this guy I worked with a long time ago at that job, the day treatment place for people to go to and could even eat breakfast there so you woulnd’t stay in your room at your residences just staring at a wall. I get so mad when I think about how they got rid of all the continuing day treatment places I want to smash something it’s disgusting. A place much better than hospitals and not a place you had to leave after two weeks or a month or a year. It was a place to find and stay at and make your day home and that’s what the clients who stayed long term did. Wow to be part of that was magical every once in a while I’d be stunned by it. All the people there you just loved every one of them, the nasty ones and the sweet ones. You could have a great moment with anyone usually in the hallway or waiting for the elevator or in the kitchen helping the lunch expert clients with lunch.

This one guy I worked with he was a gambler. He was quiet, quiet like you know he is there but nothing can come out really he has no words he’s in a very small room in his head and I don’t remember him in groups at all, I just remember sitting with him I think in my office but maybe it was in the art room.

It was something else to watch him draw; I don’t know if I realized it at the time, but that was the one thing he had that nobody could take away from him that he could do it and keep doing more not like losing on a gambling ticket I can’t even remember what he gambled. His gambling wasn’t some big loud kidn of cowboy gambling; it was the kind where you use any money to buy a lottery ticket and scratch off looking for a few dollars. Maybe he had a secret life where he went to some racetrack. He used a pencil and colored pencils. He drew these buildings and trucks and I wish I could remember them exactly they were just great drawings the kind of drawing where watching him make them I felt like nothing else existed for a moment it was just him drawing and me watching him. Those drawings were of a city but it felt really peaceful; you could step into one of his drawings any one of them and, all the noise would be gone, all that noise of the world that made him sick and was making me sick too; he’s probably dead by now; still there I the same noise of the world and I feel sick just writing abou it. That is partly why he didn’t put people in his drawings. Putting people in there, it would be disgusting. He didn’t want to draw people, he was quiet but his not wanting people in there was good and loud; There was nothing sloppy about him but there was some softness. I was amazed I was there with him it was like being in a church with him his own mind’s church. When you don’t want to draw people, you just want to draw things or buildings it can last for years or it can be forever, but don’t tell the person to put people in a drawing where it’s like so peaceful you are in a part of the Twilight Zone.

I hate when people tell you to put something in your painting. Like I’m outside in the park on a beautiful day, and I’m drawing, filling a square with shapes. Someone says I should go outside and draw the landscape and I can’t draw landscapes: of course what I’m doing will not anything to do with the park and the sun; it might even be a lot of black. I can do dots forever and a day and they will not be in a park.

Yesterday I did birds. When I made my birds picture, I put too much in it and I still don’t know if it’s too much. Did I step over the cliff of too far same as talking too much. Was I into my too muchness there is so much in here it’s like you put a ton of paint on a piece of paper and the middle just goes and the paper can’t hold the paint, if you let it dry it’s a pile of paint and the paper sticks to the table anyway so you rip it pulling it off the table. I copied my birds from an IKEA tray, except I made two tracks so it’s like it’s outside, but you see birds on the first and second floor.

I love the birds on the IKEA tray; it’s black and white. I could get crazy wondering who the hell drew those birds because I know I’m connecting to that artist; I like that drawing on that tray better than some famous stuff in the museum. I put cartoons and the birds were saying things, and I don’t have a clue if it would have been better to have no words. It was already the kind of road on the way there where you stop and sit in a field with stuff in it not too much and you take a quiet nap there. Sometimess I just fill the paper with so much in there it just becomes patterns, and I don’t care; it’s a drawing. Like for the guy I worked with. He didn’t care when he was done. He had to draw the shapes that were the building and cars, so he wouldn’t shut in so far, when you get tuna out of a can and the top doesn’t go all the way off so you make the tuna come out the sides.


Grids: #BathroomArtOnly

I recently wrote about my new project, #BathroomArtOnly. These are images of recent paintings.

I got obsessed with grids and still am. I think they still relate to my concept around gender and the fight for basic public bathroom rights, as well as the bigger concept of getting people to understand gender fluidity and then connect it to gender non conformity and other types of gender identity.

The two approaches I’ve chose are the direct approach and the indirect approach. the medium matches the approach. Using mixed media and comics mostly about inanimate objects talking about gender and other topics lends itself to the direct in your face approach.

The grids and abstraction as well as specific lines/the grid/boundaries lends itself to the indirect approach.

Off the grid can mean, “Unrecorded, untraceable through normal means.” but also “not quite on track” and “hiding”. The phrase originally meant “not connected to utility-provided electricity, water, sewer, etc, having to deal with your own waste and sewage”. Usually people living simply away from urban areas nowadays make the choice to live “off the grid”; however as a metaphor, this connects to the idea of being forced off the grid, literally, not permitted in a specific restroom which is a source of living in most places, and public bathrooms are provided to not force us to live off the grid.

“On the grid” turns out to mean “the state of being under the influence of the energy/alcoholic drink” and also means living the opposite of off the grid.

I will look up “grid” in another post.

I started these just enjoying paint and didn’t put lines in until I started making drawings with lines.

So I see these as indirect images to promote my project about gender and gender diversity. More on that later—

Leaving you, if you got down here, with a thought experiment: what gender is this grid? Are these grids free of gender or could each grid have its own gender. Do colors and materials evoke gender? What gender is glitter? Blue? Silver? Bright colors? Drips of paint?

Going on a long vacation, not metaphorically. I’m actually going a bit off the grid, not away from bathrooms and electricity but in the woods! Happy rest of August, unless I post something during vacation. Please share your thoughts in comments!