Balls are easier to draw than chairs.
If anything this is a love letter to every person I never got a chance to come clean with.
After someone I knew died last Spring, I realized that I had never told him what an amazing person I thought he was turning out to be. I thought it would be weird and intense to say, “I just really understand you. I was so much like you.” I mean, who am I say that I know anything about anybody. But, I swore I recognized in him the strange and staggering hope that I once held in my heart. When I realized how vast the human experience could be, I was promptly overwhelmed. I knew for sure that he understood things in a way that was uniquely mature, timeless, at times almost wise. However, I saw weight in his eyes sometimes and I just told myself that teenagers are melodramatic. That it would be creepy if a 32-year-old mom tried to be his friend in a sincere way. So, I never really told him how much I enjoyed his company. I told his mom, but not him.
After his memorial, I got the words: “Be True…” tattooed on my wrist. To remind me that truth is is sometimes weird and intense. And to remind me to always try to let people know how much I notice them impacting my heart.
I really feel sad right now. I’m sorry.
Here is an email I sent myself earlier:
show details 4:47 PM (4 hours ago)
Things I need to do tonight. Find an agent. Wash the dog. Hang more hardware cloth in the castle.
Fold laundry. Repaint the trim in the kitchen. Mock up document for work. (I don’t know what ‘mock-up’ really means)(but I like the way it sounds)
Oh…and draw. I am so reluctant to give up my leaping off point. The act that – surprisingly quickly – taught me the power of daily (any resemblance to a self-help title is totally accidental.)
So, I guess I’ll draw. Keep the gate open. I have been suspiciously empathic to the point of seeing signs in everyone, in everything. The check number matched the bill amount (1486 – 148.62 okay so there is the issue of the 2, but come on.) Strange coincidence abounds.
A lovely word, coincidence. It’s a sharing sort of word.
So, a letter to an agent would read: hello. I am full of ideas and have been in full production mode for months. The recent dissolution of a trumped-up family structure has torn off the roof and swung the door wide. In addition to the 2-3 per week blog I maintain (excerpts of which are attached,) I have numerous, numerous, numerous drawings, and some rare paintings. I am a somewhat heavily tattooed mother of two. In my free time, I am reclusive in a way that I imagine to be charming, but which is probably a little odd.
In my non-free time, I am able to relate well to humans. As a museum educator, I teach local school K-12 groups about everything from parthenogenesis in Vietnamese stick insects, to human reproduction and proper contraceptive usage. I love my job. I live in a hundred year old house. I have five cats, two dogs, 1 hedgehog, 1 Holland Lop rabbit, 2 finches, two aquariums one of which is saltwater. I also have eight 2 week old chickens living in my spare room.
I could do any number of perfectly amazing and legitimate things. (I want to do everything I always dreamed of.) I want to walk around the whole entire world and build a new boat everytime I cross an ocean.
But not until the dogs die and the kids are in college.
I need help focusing on a project outside of the project that is http://www.the365daysoffaith. I need an assignment. A rubric, however loose. (Gosh, that was a sexy sentence.)
I have a million stories inside of me. Some of them are mine. Most of them are daydreams. Help me cull the wheat.
(Presently, I feel ridiculous. I am going to go fold laundry.)