“I see…fields forever Growing wild and free.” Stuff I’ve learned the past five years. Good-bye,
Immersed in the land of Georgia Pine., a glimpse. The mysterious, ethereal image was the first I found. It helps shape the divine character I see in my imagination, so vividly. The cover, a sneak peek. The Vast Landscape sequel, is a steady work in progress. Harrison’s raw, honest beauty carries on, through Georgia Pine. ©Laura Makabresku photography Thank you dear Laura, for sharing, your art, haunting imagery and intimate, emotive, fairytale world. I am honored.
I like to fix things, the fixer am I. Without a toolbox filled with talisman, memory and crazy glue, the fixing proves difficult. A house is built with cement, nails, wood, copper and steel. A home is adjoining parts, veins, bones and good intention, feeding the heart. The most perfect, precise pump ever made, says the master journeyman, and my ancestor. Impossible to understand, at times impossible to fix.
When I’m stressed, I clean. When I’m confused, I clean. When I’m angry, I clean. Exhausted, nauseated, in full-blown Benzo withdrawal. Not permitted by my shrinks to travel, basically I’m assigned to the nut house. Only, this house arrest comes with a ton of perks, comfortable amenities. Yeah, you could this house is pretty clean. Benzo withdrawal is worse than heroine. You could say, that, yes could. Just when I think
This morning I told my mother to fuk off. I did not mean it, not exactly. Living here, where I don’t want to be, being sick, bad genes, I blame her. I can’t help it, I do. As I watch her walk to the car, a fragile, old woman it’s too much. She gave me her whole life, I can give her a fraction of mine. She knows I don’t mean
today is a three-part kind of day I know. I used to see Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the Village, head-down, unassuming posture. The year was 1995, I was studying acting and a mega fan. My brother saw him on the subway, asked for his autograph for me. He graciously signed a pack of matches, he was kind. Addiction, Mental Illness are merely misfirings, faulty wiring in the brain, that cannot be
I watched On the Road this week-end, and wanted to pack a bag, just go. I felt the itch crawling up and down my spine. Creative freedom at its maximum. Those boys drove sex, drugs and beats into the gravel cemented streets like hot gum melted in tar. I did not realize the date, 1950. Artistic freedom and exploration came early. I recognized a small piece of me on the
They ask too much, expect more from me. To sit in a room with gut wrenching, broken, beaten down souls. There is too much pain, upon the blood, stained walls. I cannot, I will not. I refuse to spill my intimate, tragic, sad story. This fight is personal, entirely my own. Between God and me, she is not the enemy. I wonder, I do. I can’t help but be curious, where
I never paid much attention to a normal, calendar year. When you have a serious illness, days are measured in hours, minutes and even seconds. On a good day, when the mind is quiet, belly laughs come and go. That usually happens when my favorite people are around, the ones that know me best. Yes, being loved without the label or judgment, counts. On a bad day, I fight.
We talk about it. Yeah, we do. In my house, we talk about a lot. The mundane living stuff, movies, books, music, groceries, even the weather. And, death. We talk about that, too. Well, I do most of the talking. The persistent, detective’s daughter, ever annoying and inquisitive. The fervent need to know what comes next, how it should look, the driving force. The uncomfortable, inevitable last chapter. Well, you