The Sound of My Voice

Today's question for REVERB14 is What is the sound of your own voice?

"I couldn't hear myself.
So I sought out a quiet place
to feel the sun on my tired face
for no one else, it was my choice:
a quiet room to hear my timid voice.
But try as I might, I could never find
a silent space for my noisy mind.
So all my words learned how to spill
onto blank pages until
I'd said my peace and I was at rest
and saw that painted words were best."

My voice is quiet.  

Don't laugh...I think it would come as a surprise to a lot of people to know I think of it like that...because I am loud...and boisterous...and I say a lot of crazy, crazy things...

But that's just a lot of flash...a distraction.

Fake it till you make it, right?  I've heard that expression my whole life.  And I'm a pro at faking it...I'm fantastic at coming across as confident and fearless of other people's opinions.  But for a long time, even still, that's just some slight of hand I learned along the way...

I figured out very early in life that if I said an opinion loud enough, if I stuck to my guns and kept up the show, people would believe that it was my opinion.  But the trick to it was to never, ever let anyone know the truth.  Because if people know the truth, they can hurt you with it.  I learned that I could spout any old nonsense and when someone tried to use it against me, it didn't hurt because it wasn't what I really thought or felt.

And that's all fine and dandy...until it got to the point where I realized that no one really saw me.  They saw the person I pretended to be.  The saw the person I wanted them to see...but that wasn't me.  And I didn't see me either.

I was in my late 20s before I ever realized it, but I didn't see me.  I didn't know what it was that I wanted.  I didn't know how I really felt about anything.  I spent so much time saying things I didn't mean that I couldn't separate that fiction from my true self.  When I finally did see it, I knew I wanted to take action.  And it's been a process.  I struggled with it.  

I have a bad habit of assuming.  And the thing I assumed for most of my life is that, if I am myself,  I will disappoint someone.  I can't be who I am.  I have to be better than that.

Then one day, out of the blue, there was this tiny whisper in my head.  It was an angry whisper...it was a disappointed whisper...a little whisper in a voice I thought I recognized.  And it was telling me I can't be better than who I am.  No one can.  And my instant reaction was to try to squash that whisper...to push it out of my head...because I didn't want to hear that...because it was telling me something I didn't want to believe...something that scared me.  But that little voice was persistent.

And at some point, I got the message.  The whisper wasn't telling me I was perfect the way I was.  It was telling me I could be...but not in the way I had always tried to be.  

No, that nagging little voice was telling me something much grander...  That I needed to figure out who I was and what I wanted...and then work to let that version of me out into the world.  And that version of me, said the little voice, is the one that I wouldn't be able to improve on.

It's a scary thing to put yourself out in the world, but I knew I had to be brave and do it...otherwise that little voice would never shut up.

I owe a lot of thanks to art journaling in this battle.  My journals have become a sounding board...a series of conversations I have with myself.  Through art, I've discovered what kind of person I want to be.  I've been able to say things with my art supplies that I couldn't have said in any other way.  It's helped me come to terms with the past, appreciate the present, and decide what direction I want to take in the future.

I thought for a while that all the changes that I'd gone through were only internal...that all those steps I'd taken to be ME were in my head...that I couldn't act on them.  But it turns out that wasn't true.

I've noticed changes in the way I interact with people...it hasn't been a huge leap all at once...more like it just creeps out into the world a little at a time...but it's out there.  

I've let people know I care about them.  I've had hard conversations where I let people know my needs weren't being met.  I've been honest with people, even when it wasn't what they wanted to hear.  When once wasn't enough, I've repeated myself...I've explained myself...I've consoled and advised...I've argued and discussed and demanded.  All these things are new to me.

It took a lot of time and energy and courage, but I have started to be able to say what I really want to say.  I admit that I'm not without fear of judgement...that I still worry about disappointing people...but I think I'm becoming more afraid of disappointing myself.  I'm slowly losing the need for other people's approval.  And it's a loss I don't mourn.

What is the sound of my voice?

It's quiet...it's shaking and timid...but it's out in the world demanding, in it's own way, to be heard for what it is: MY voice.

Rhyming Words

Great coogally moogallies, I've got some catching up to do!

I went to the beach and then...well then, wallowing in misery because I couldn't stay at the beach...  I've got some pictures to share, but I have to edit them a little first, so for now, let's play art journal catch-up...and I'll show you one beach picture this time (at the end).  Deal?

First, I'm going to share my JOURNAL 52 (J52) pages for two weeks ago and last week.

The first one is for the "Rhyme Time" prompt, aka the unfinished page I shared before I went to the beach, but she's finished now:

"It's never us, it's you and me -an unrequited melody."

I am still gloating to myself over FINALLY making a decent profile face!

My rhyming words came from a poem that I wrote...this is the entire thing:

I don't know how the song must sound.

Only, my dear, that you have found

a way to play, upon my skin, 

an ancient melody I held within.

As, tenderly, you strike the keys, 

I go weak in my tired knees,

but your habit is only to play the tune

when I get used to ignoring you.

If I pay too much attention

to the sweet chords I've mentioned, 

you take your hand away, 

decide that you don't want to play.

I wish that I could let it go

but you somehow tap the perfect notes

and I turn to you again, at last, 

hear the song rushing past, 

till I do some unknown harm

and you take your fingers off my arm.

It's never us, it's you and me 

-an unrequited melody.

I saw the girl's 'tattoo' on Pinterest...I totally stole somebody's tattoo...but in a complimentary way, as it was so cool that I had NO CHOICE but to steal it!

I did the page with this poem in mind, and so I had a plan of attack before I started drawing the girl.  The thought behind the page is that the girl is looking over at the guy...he's just off the edge of the page...wishing he would make a move, one way or the other, and let her know how he feels about her. She knows what she wants to happen, but his ambiguity is frustrating the crap out of this girl!


Next is my page for the J52 prompt "In the City":

"I have dreams of far off cities."

This page was simple, but I really like how it turned out!  I just cut random shapes from scrapbook papers, which hopefully give the impression of city skylines...then a rolling hill and, lastly, a small forest of pine trees (Which, for the record, used to be x-mas trees till I cut off their stars...I felt very smart about it indeed!)  Then came the point where I added the outlines in a watercolor pencil, which didn't show up that great, and then a grease pencil, which showed up a little too well...next time, I'll use my black Neocolor II (which is what I should have done this time!) and everything will be perfect.

Just for the record, I don't know if it's exactly true that I have dreams of far off cities, or if it would be more correct to say towns...or villages...aka smaller than cities...  I think I would like to see Paris...that's probably the only city I have the desire to go visit.  Otherwise, I'd much rather stick to the road less traveled and see the small towns of the world!  Although, I do have to say, I really enjoy going to Charlotte (North Carolina, USA), which is a big city (at least in my eyes anyway)...but I don't really think it feels like a big city...it's like a home-y big city.  The people there seem much classier (in a friendly/nice/elegant way) than the country bumpkin who's talking to you now...

I've also got my DOCUMENTED LIFE (DLP) spread for last week, where the prompt was to "Paint or color with three colors you never use."  And this is my page:

"Two black kitty cats"

I used pink, green and brown as my colors, but I think I use the whole rainbow of colors fairly often...  I try to mix it up when I can!  I'm not uber thrilled with the way the background turned out, but I am really enjoying the two kitten silhouettes!

This past week, my husband brought home two wild kittens from his work.  His job is on a pretty busy street and the kittens probably would not have made it if he didn't catch them.  Plus, they're both black cats, and with Halloween coming up and the fact that there are some crazy sick weirdos out in the world, they're in a safer place now.  

They're very young, so it's not been too hard to get them used to civilization.  They've only been here since Wednesday and they've already stopped hissing at us when we get near them.  (Which was actually adorable, because they're so little that their hisses sounded like "keh, keh"!)  They let us pick them up and have stopped huddling together in terror when we come in the room.  

We think we are going to call them Pauly and Fat Tony.  If you pick them up, the one likes to crawl up on your shoulder and sit there like a parrot, hence we went with Polly...but since they're both boys, we changed it to Pauly.  I said we should name the other one Vinny (because, you know, Mafia reasons)...which Andy was ok with except he said, let's call him "Fat Tony" because that's the mob boss from The Simpsons.  And my husband has a deep, deep obsession with The Simpsons.

Hey Fat Tony, we're gonna name a kitten after you!

He's cool with it.

Plus, the kitten we're calling Fat Tony has a lazy cat personality (whereas Pauly is more...adventurous and feisty), so Fat Tony will probably end up being a pudgy cat and the name will fit him well...

And lastly, as promised, here is a picture of my mom and me at the beach in Pawley's Island, South Carolina.  It was cool and overcast the whole time we were there, which was actually a-ok with me...I'll take cool and overcast over boiling lava hot and a sunburn ANY DAY (must preserve the pale)!!!

My adorable mom and, my adorable (to a lesser extent) self...

I've got a few other pictures to share with you guys, but like I said I have to do a little editing before I do.  I'll probably sneak them in with my current J52 and DLP stuff a little later this week...as soon as my DLP polka dots dry!

Monsters and Found Poetry

Today, I've got both the Journal 52 (read more about J52 HERE) and Documented Life (DL is HERE) spreads ready to share with you.

The J52 prompt was "Found Poetry" and here's what I came up with:

"flickering ribbons of life; I have to face facts.  I'm not like them.
Her words felt like weights.
There is indeed something: a moment, a knowing.
He'll lose her if he doesn't learn to talk.
I was just letting you be."

I used a kids book that I got from my nephew for this page.  He was right...the book was 'pretty lame'...so I didn't mind cutting it up.  There was some pretty interesting phrasing happening in there though and it made good fodder for found poetry.  I used the scraps of the book page I had used and a few other back up pages I had for the background...we don't waste the written word in this house! :)

For DL, the prompt was "Collage something you recycled." and here's what I made:

"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster." -Nietzsche
"Being against evil doesn't make you good." -Hemingway

I was kind of sad to cover up the paper I had for the background; it was awesome...but I am forcing myself to go in order in my DL journal...so I painted the pages red.  I feel a little like the heartless Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland now..."Off with their heads!"  ("Painting the roses red...We're painting the roses red." ...you get a long-distance high five if you started singing those lyrics from the old animated Alice...and a double high-five if you changed 'roses' to 'pages')

I used some gauze I had from my many dentist visits as my 'recycled' bits...important side note: these were NOT in my mouth at any point...I wasn't willing to go that far with recycling!  I sprayed them with Dylusions to color them.  I also used the dried up paint that forms around the tops of my tubes...that's what those little circles are (well, mostly circles...some of them broke).

Before I put the gauze down, I used a mask I had from Maya Road (the wing), traced around it and colored it in, then flipped it over and did the same on the other page.  I really like the way the gauze looks over the wing on the right page.

"I am gonna love. I'm gonna overcome."  -John Butler
I mentioned last time (the 'flap on flap prompt) that my original calendar flap was on the next page, and so there it is above.    I like my monster, but she is also extra creepy...

Somewhere in my brain, deep down, I like to believe that I'm fighting the good fight.  In my case, the 'good fight' is against the general douchebaggery of others and my own tendencies towards being a one.  It's kind of easy to be a jerk to people who are jerks, you know what I mean?  But I try not to let that happen...not because I'm an angel or anything, but more because of what Mark Twain said: 

It's true...It's so true...

Sometimes the jerk side of me wins though.  I can actually be a really good jerk when I let myself be one.  I think the key to being a really good jerk is to bide your time and observe...because then you can be a truthful jerk!  If you're patient, people will give you huge amounts of ammunition which they have no defense against, because it's the truth.

I got called a BAD WORD at work this week.  Actually two bad words...or one bad word with a descriptive bad word to accompany it...I don't know how to quantify it...but swear words (or "square" words, as one of my nephews used to call them) were said about me at work.  Just for the record, if you don't want someone to hear you say something, make sure you're not saying it someplace where the walls are thin ( if you hear your name being said, you kinda stop and listen to the conversation before interrupting it...).  But I didn't get mad, it was actually kind of funny...because if I'm a B----, then the person who said this about me is my queen...

I've been called a lot of things in my life...and really, I don't mind it...I mean, people are going to say and think things about you and you don't control that...and I'd rather they talk bad about me than talk bad about somebody who cares what they say...But, for Pete's sake, be an adult and say it to my face.  Honestly, I've worked with high school students who were more mature...sheesh.  The best part was, I wasn't even being a B----!  Don't get me wrong, I'm positive I have my days...but this particular instance, I'm pretty sure, was not one of them.   

 Ok...the actual best part was that the person who was doing the 'listening' to the rant about me didn't agree with the one who said it...despite the many attempts to get her to agree...and then later, she told me the conversation...she had no clue I had already heard.  That actually makes me feel really good.  To me, it's worth being called ugly names if only because you get to know who has your back.

So now I have my little angel and devil sitting on my shoulders, telling me what they think.  On the one hand, let it go...always the good and moral thing to do, I suppose...because eventually a bad person's actions catch up with them...  On the opposite side, hold a grudge...bide your time...continue to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut...because maybe someday the universe will let you be the 'karma' implementer...and if that's the case, you should be adequately prepared...

Normally, my little halo-wearer wins...but, honestly, I get a little tired of being the good guy.  I don't want to be the pleasant doormat.  I want to be the BRINGER OF DOOM!!!  My little conscience is tired of having situations come up where she has to be the bigger person...I think even she might be secretly rooting for me to be the smaller person and exact well-implemented revenge.

That's what this week's DL spread is really about, I guess.  If my good side is telling me to be bad, I figure I should make my bad side, my little monster, tell me to be good.  Love and overcome. 

Hmm...I don't know if I can muster love...but I'm pretty sure I can at least not jab anyone with my horns...just yet...

Inner Excavations Week 3

I 'finished' my spread for week 3 of Inner Excavations today.  Finished gets quotation marks, because I'm thinking I may add a little bit of personal writing in there now that I've photographed it.

I'm a little behind, thanks to my fabulous trip to Ohio and the horrible amount of overtime I've been working since then...but that's ok, it's not a race, right?

This chapter, entitled "I gather..." deals with the things that we collect.  Maybe you saw my cheating post from yesterday...the post I posted so I could post SOMETHING.  Well it was fifteen minutes till midnight when I started that post and wrote in in all of five minutes, so I thought I should go back and re-read it because I doubt the intelligence of my brain when it's almost midnight and I try to use said brain for thinking...

I laughed as I was looking at it this morning, because despite the fact that it was a post for the sake of posting, there is a lot of real life truth going on in the picture in that post.  And by that I mean, WOW what a mess...

But I also mean, in that messy picture, there was a lot of meaning for me.

Someone once told me that the reason I collected my various creative hobbies was because I didn't have anything better to do.  He said that I did these things because I didn't have a life.  Egads, it broke my heart when he said that.  At the time , I did what I always did: I wrote a poem about it.

Analysis

I'm tired of writing pretty words 

and making pretty pictures to pass the time.

I think I must create these things 

to forget myself and that I mind

that I can't feel like others do,

and only to forget a moment.

Things will never be as they once were.

The time for it is lost to me and can't be found again.

I think I finally understand 

actions I could not comprehend before.

To be loved is not enough, 

a person needs to feel it.

My heart refuses to understand.

And friendship isn't going to fix it

and I long for someone to hold my hand

without having to believe it's pity, 

without having to believe it's a lie.

But that never comes.

So I keep writing lines 

and I keep making marks on blank pages

to pass the precious time.

I wish he hadn't said what he did 

because he ruined my words 

and he ruined my pictures

by telling me the truth:

that I wish I didn't have to write

and I wish I didn't have to make marks

but that's all I have.

Even though that's not a life, 

that's all I have.

I don't know if the person who said those things to me realized what he set off in my brain.  I don't think it was said with malice.  It was just an offhand statement.  But for a long time after that, it was hard to do anything creative.  I guess I resented my artistic side.  Because my brain kept adding things to what he'd said: If you were pretty, if you were thin, if you were more interesting, people would want to be around you and you'd have better things to do than waste your life sloshing paint or sewing toys or crocheting scarves.  My brain kept telling me that the only reason I wanted to be creative was to make up for what I lacked in other areas.

But because I don't listen to my jerk brain for long when it starts spouting crap like that, I decided to grab my brushes and an art journal and figure out the real reason I wanted to be creative.

And what I figured out is that I LIKE to be creative.  It makes me HAPPY.  I can't sit there in front of a television for hours a day like 'normal' people do.  I couldn't stand that!  It's not relaxing to me.  It does nothing for me but waste time.  And yeah, maybe I 'waste' time doing my creative stuff.  But here's the clincher...WHAT ELSE DO I HAVE?  At least when I MAKE something, there's an end result!  There's something that I can look at and say "I did that, it made me happy to do that, and I grew as a person while I was doing it".

The over-analyzer in my brain knows that maybe there's a little bit of truth in the statement that I wouldn't do these creative things if I had a life.  Or, more correctly, if I had a different life.  I have a life.  If I had a different life though, in all honesty, I probably wouldn't be creative...at least not as much as I am now.

The big issue for me is kids.  I don't have kids.  It's just not in the cards for me.  I've talked about it before, so I won't go into detail in that regard, but I will say this: If I had kids (a kid, whatever) I probably wouldn't be so creative or at least wouldn't spend so much time with it.  Not because I wouldn't have as much time, although clearly that's a factor...but it's more about the fact that kids are...proof that you were here.  They're your legacy to the world.  When you die, there will be someone to remember you, because you were their mom or dad.  I don't have that.  I'm never gonna have that.  So how will anybody remember me?  Sure I have nephews and nieces and co-workers and all that, but how much easier will it be to remember me when you're looking at a 6 foot long crochet snake that I made?  And you'd know more about me...clearly, that I'm fun...and that I really LOVE my nephew (because I DID NOT want to crochet a 6 foot long snake...but I did...because he asked for it, and I love him...).

I art journal in case this technology is not available at the time of my inevitable demise....

It's the same with art journaling.  If at some point I die...and they haven't perfected Futurama technology (...you know, that whole 'living head in a jar' thing...) my art is still gonna be there.  For someone to look at and say, "so that's who she was and how she felt"...

To quote Edna St. Vincent Millay:  "This book, when I am dead, will be a little faint perfume of me.  People who knew me well will say: "She really used to think that way.""


In the end, you want to know what I really gather?

"I gather wisdom"  

I gather wisdom.  It's not always like picking flowers...it's not all beauty and fun and good times.  I think it's more like mining diamonds...it's dark, its dangerous, sometimes people die, and there are times when you question whether all that effort is really worth it.  But, you know, there's tremendous value in wisdom...infinitely more than there is in diamonds...

Dylusions over washi tape and using stencils.  Then craft acrylic and black sharpie for lettering.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that there will be an end result.  I do enjoy the immediate benefits of the self-knowledge I gain every time I work in one of my journals.  But there's accumulated value as well.  One day, I know I am going to feel like a complete person.  The complete person I choose to be.  And I learn more and more about the person I want to be, the person I'm ACTUALLY BECOMING every time I let myself do something creative.

I think this is quite a comical looking owl for such a serious topic, but hey, I am an mish mash of all kinds of stuff, it's ok if the cartoonish owl represents something deep and meaningful!

Going back to the moral of the story...do I think I "wouldn't art journal if I had a life"?  Not really.  In fact, I honestly believe the art journaling is helping me create a life...helping me reclaim my right to my own life...helping me to live the life that I choose.  

Inner Excavations Week 2

Ok...so you know my usual disdain for the hippy dippy/emotions/hard stuff...well, fair warning...  Be prepared for the opposite side of that today...also for a lot of talking...

Chapter 2 in the Inner Excavations book (IE) is called "I seek".  It deals with looking into the past, but it also talks about our senses and noticing the details around us in any given moment.  

These days, I'm pretty good at noticing the details around me.  For instance, this morning I was noticing that the ceiling fan was casting shadows on the wall that circled around me like a mini strobe light.  It's still doing it, and it's very distracting now that I mentioned it...  I heard the scratching sound my favorite pen makes when I was writing some journaling.  I can smell this little tiny left-over smell of cinnamon from an almost empty plug-in air freshener in the kitchen.  

The hard part about this chapter for me was looking into the past.  I don't have a lot of memories about my childhood.  If I think about it really hard, or if I talk about it with other members of my family, then I can remember specific details of my childhood.  I can pick out pieces of certain days that were good.  

There are also a lot of unpleasant things that come up.  I've learned to deal with these things over time.  I choose not to dwell on the bad stuff that happened to me as a kid. Maybe one day, when there's money for a therapist, then yes...but for the most part, I've got a handle on it. I know what's there, and I know that I didn't deserve it (no one deserves bad things...not even bad people...but especially not children) or cause it.  I also recognize that, at a certain point, you can't use these things as an excuse anymore.  Of course I've been shaped by the things I went through, but I'm an adult, and, as such, I am the one responsible for my actions now.  It's taken me a long time to come to terms with that.  It's something I still struggle with.  But I do struggle, I do try.

Of all the things that bother me about my childhood, the thing that bothers me the most is that there wasn't a permanent place where I felt safe to be myself.  There was a lot of "this is right" and "that is wrong", which isn't bad in and of itself.  The hypocrisy that I grew up with, however, was very wrong.  It was confusing to a child and caused a lot of resentment later on.  I learned to be fake at a very early age.  No one can know the truth.  People don't need to know our business.  People don't like sad people, so you just have to be happy all the time.  It doesn't matter whether you're actually happy or not.  These are things I still have a hard time with.  I feel the need to conceal my feelings about certain things.  I feel the need to smile even when I'm a wreck.  If it does manage to seep out, I apologize for it.  

I think it's one of the reasons I like this blog so much.  Because I can just be myself.  If people like me, that's great.  If not, that's fine too.  I am working to make my real life, the day to day person I am, more like that.  It's hard, because online I've met a lot of really supportive people.  I can say what I need to say and they aren't telling me I should think a different way or be a different person.  I don't feel like I've really got that as much in my real life.  I feel like I can't share things.  I get the eye rolls when I talk about certain ambitions of mine.  There are things I've learned not to share because they are judged harshly.  I've heard 'you wouldn't care if you didn't know it was wrong' more times than I can count.  The thing is, sometimes I'm not ashamed of these things, but I don't want the other person to be ashamed of me either.  And that doesn't work, because we have different outlooks.  It's not anybody's fault, it's just how things are.  

So when I thought about all of that, it occurred to me that I'm looking for my 'home'.  I'm longing for a place where I can be entirely myself and be appreciated and encouraged, instead of feeling like I'm squashed into the mold of another person's ideals.  And I think that most people are looking for that 'home' in some form or another.  Maybe a few very lucky people already have it, but I think that, for the most part, it's a place that doesn't actually exist.  Because we want that 'home' to be perfect, and it's just not going to be.  We either have to take what we've got and learn to live with it or we've got to find a way to make what we've got change into what we need or else we've got to leave what we have where it's at and start looking for something more.  

I had all that in mind when I made the assemblage piece for this weeks chapter in IE: 

On the inside, I'm just a crusty, bearded, weather-worn sea captain wanting to go home.

When I went to do my journal spread for this chapter, I had a slight shift.  I was thinking about this evasive 'home' I long for and realized that I feel like I've had it and lost it.

There are a lot of extra details I won't go into here, but I'll give you the gist of it.  

I had a very dear friend, Leonard, who was this home for me.  He was smart, funny, kind, insightful, and a million other things that made him precious to me.  He was the first person, the only person to date, that made me feel accepted for exactly who I was.  There were no outside reasons for him to like me, he had nothing to gain from liking me, he didn't have to like me.  But he did, simply because I was me.  And I believed it.  It's pretty much the only time in my life I've ever felt that way about someone...everyone else has a reason, everyone else has something to gain by befriending me...not Leonard.  

And he was a great friend.  He could be obnoxious and arrogant, he fought his demons but sometimes he quit fighting and let them reign over him.  Even then, he was the best friend I've ever had.  He would listen, actually listen, when I talked.  When I asked for it, he would give me good advise, tell me all the pros and cons of the different choices, and then tell me to go do what I wanted.  He'd make fun of things I'd do and in the same sentence he'd tell me he was proud of what I'd done.  He didn't make me feel inferior or that I was wrong for doing, saying, or thinking a certain way.  And he was the only person I have ever known that would ALWAYS tell me the truth.  Even when I didn't want to hear it, even when it was hard and I hated him for it, he never once lied to me.  I think it was my favorite thing about him.

Three years and a few months ago, Leonard killed himself.  There are a lot of extra details that come in to play that I won't be talking about here, to save the feelings of those that remain and because, frankly, I've cried enough this week.  

Looking back now, I think that there were things I should have noticed.  But you never really believe someone you know will do something like that...even once it's done, you can't believe it.  It takes a long time to accept it as the truth and so, so long to get to a place where you feel like you can breath again.  But then you have bad days and good days...I still do, and I think I will for the rest of my life.  Everything I do has his ghost in it.  I wish I could tell him things.  I wish I could hear his voice giving me good advise.  I wish he could see and experience all the things I see and all the things that happen in life.  He lost so much.

When it gets really bad, I write him.  Sometimes, they're long and sprawling letters.  Other times, they're just a sentence or a snip of a thought I'm having.  It helps though, either way, to get it out of my head.  I thought I would share the most recent thing I wrote (before I did the journal spread): 

"Sometimes I still catch glimpses of you, even though you've been gone for so long now.  It's hard to think about how life goes on in all the insignificant ways, how I get older and you never will.  I know I see you with rose-colored glasses, that my memory of you has become hazed over with half-truths and even entire lies and that no one would ever be able to live up to that harsh standard of perfection you've set by dying before your time.  And I hate so much that this knowledge is in my head, crammed down deep, next to the strong desire to find someone like you, when the truth is no one will ever be all of the things I know you were and all of the things I have imagined you had been.  And I feel the years and I feel the weight I carry and the burden that you've forced me to take possession of and this hollow person you've made me become: trying to find this beautiful thing that will never be found again, that was really never there at all."

I know that I'm not the only one who lost him.  I know that he touched the lives of many people.  And, honestly, the whole world is less for having lost him.  For all his flaws, he was a good person; there aren't a lot of those left.  

After he died, I started looking for someone like him.  To take his place, I guess, or to make up for what I lost, or to make it easier at least.  I look for pieces of him in every person I see.  And that's not fair.  No one will ever be what he was.  Because even he wasn't the person that is in my mind now.  His flaws are glossed over to the point where they never existed...and he was flawed, everybody is.  That's the way we are, and I'm sad that I've lost those pieces of him.

That's what was on my mind when I worked on this week's spread:

Inner Excavations, Week 2: "I seek"

Left page, close up:

This poem is by Lang Leav, and it fits the way I feel.  It's entitled "Closure":

Like time suspended,
a wound unmended-
you and I.

We had no ending,
no said goodbye,

For all my life,
I'll wonder why.

Right page, close up: 

The diagonal journaling that goes across the two pages is just some free writing I did.  This is a painting I did of Leonard, which doesn't do him justice (he was a very handsome man and I am an unskilled amateur at painting), but it does give me the impression of him over all.  The black shirt is actually a tip-in (I think that's what they call them), and you can see that in the picture below.

The black shirt lifts up in this way.  There is more journaling on the page, and then on the back of the tip-in, I wrote the poem I had written for this weeks prompts (basically memories and senses), which you can read below.

This is the 'memories and senses' poem I wrote:

I hear him say my name

and the words "I love you" rolling off his tongue

like his was the only mouth I was ever meant to hear it from.

I taste the cold on his lips 

and the warmth that radiated from within

like all the good in the world came from him.

I feel his hands running up and down,

slowly, over the length of my arms

like he was the only thing keeping me safe from harm.

I see the electric light

pulsing in his throat under the skin

like this was the moment we would always live in.

I smell his shirt:

lightly cologne and laundry soap so clean

like he was the innocence in this world so mean.

I know that life must teach us things

but life keeps showing me again and again

that beautiful things cannot last, as if I didn't know it then.

The thing about the past is this: it's over.  Whatever happened, it can't be undone, only dealt with.  The hard truth is that no one knows what consequences their actions might lead to.  Kind people consider the options before acting.  Foolish people either don't consider this or they do and simply don't care what the results will be.  And then there are people who are so afraid to make a move, afraid of what their actions will cause that they do nothing.  These people are basically martyrs.  I mean this in that they sacrifice something of great value over principal.  They suffer for it.  They end up being victims.  Because time and other people's actions make the choices for you if you don't decide for yourself.  I've been all three types of people.

These days, I feel like a martyr and a fool.  I have all these thoughts in my head, things I'd like to do, ways I'd like to be, but I'm so afraid to make the move.  Then I get resentful and I jump into doing stupid things that I don't really care about just to be able to say I did something.  Or in the end, because I don't choose, someone else chooses for me.  Time keeps ticking.  Opportunity passes with every second.  Going with the flow is fine, but if you never swim against the current, you end up in an ocean of someone else's troubles.  

And I hate it.  It's stupid and it's weak.  I only get one life.  I don't want to come to the end of it and regret that I live someone else's version of my life.  I want to live MY life.  I want to live it for me alone.  And I want to live it so that I can be proud of it and so that the people who have helped me along the way can be proud of me.  I want to live it so that if Leonard was watching he'd be proud.  He'd know I've learned the smart and beautiful lessons he taught me while he was here.  

I've spent too much time thinking about what I don't want, who I don't want to be.  Time has been wasted not being myself, hiding myself away.  I'm done with that.  The time has come to start being the person I am and thinking about the things I do want.  And not just thinking about them, but actually working to make them happen.