Heather is wrapped around a Juniper tree
Doesn’t know when to let beauty simply be
Without feeling the need to own it
She can’t sleep
Dreams wicked things
The body that failed another is sore from the distraction
From the the desires of perfection
Seven stars settle to the earth
Sprout a birth
Cardboard and packing tape and yoga and libido
Enough synchronicity to drive one completely mad
To drive one to drink
To think about having him taken away
I can’t stay here in this place
Too exhausted to explain, and the images pretty much speak for themselves! (May not be suitable for younger viewers.) Here are some photos from AZ Fetish Ball held at The Venue of Scottsdale October 11, 2008.
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Today is the one year anniversary of the completion of this acrylic piece, and I thought now would be a good time to finally post it on my own site.
May of 2007 I suffered a placental abruption at twenty weeks and gave birth prematurely to a baby boy who lived for only an hour. If my pregnancy had been healthy and I carried him to term, I would be celebrating his first birthday this September. We were immediately blessed with another pregnancy after his death, and I now have a fat and happy six month old boy to keep his four year old brother busy.
Last fall when I completed this painting, I had emotions ranging from one end of the spectrum to the other. On one hand, there was the grief of a life lost, and on the other, the hope of one to come. I never stopped feeling little Jeremy Logan kick, a sensation some miscarriage/still birth/infant death survivors refer to as “phantom kicks,” and I really don’t know when I felt the real movement of the new baby. I carried him when I should have been pregnant with his brother. The above photo is how I worked out the duality sadness of and joy that I felt at that time.
The only thing I remember about the color pink growing up was avoiding it. I don’t know why exactly, but it seems that I was always trying so hard to prove myself as un-girly. I scoffed at the senior prom, shaved my head and refused to shave my legs. So all these years later grown up and living in a house full of boys, I am starting to appriciate the feminine a little and am drawn to child-like ethereality. So today, I wear a tutu. Ever since I saw a photo of that hottie house cleaning in a tutu on Flicker I’ve been vying to tie up some tulle. It isn’t pink, but it’s a step in that direction.
We joke that we will never be “settled in” our new home. Ten months after we moved boxes can still be seen in various corners of rooms and the previous owner’s drapes are still hung with care. Despite this fact, our house is starting to feel more like a home because when I sit in my living room I can see Persephone Rising. I’m not talking about the changing seasons or a visit from lady underworld, but literally “Persephone Rising,” a piece by the Cuban photographic artist Alba Elena. My Grandmother returned from a trip to New Mexico last year with several of her pieces. She offered one of the embellished photographs to me as souvenir, and knowing that art is a personal taste, assured me that she would not be offended if I did not hang it. It was one of the first pieces to be hung, and in full view of our main room. Elena describes her art as “magical, multicultural and multidimensional.” She uses textures and layers to bring mood to her models, and bring out feminine beauty. I love this piece, and it resonates a feeling of hope within me. It is quiet and dark, foreshadowing a spring of life to come.
10% of all proceeds from albaelena.com go to support women’s shelters and other women’s’ causes.
Today marks the midpoint between life and death. Just one month after the birth of a son, and exactly one month before the one year anniversary of one passed. Balancing joy and grief. Holding, feeding, and loving a fat healthy baby brings a welcome distraction to the planning we need to do to celebrate our angel. So far, the only thing I have come up with to honor the baby we knew for only a short time is to compile the songs that have hit us on a very deep level over the past year. One of the songs in considerations for our little boy’s CD is off the Modest Mouse album The Moon and Antarctica. On our one-thousand mile road trip to our new home last fall, I noticed for the first time how much the lyrical content brings up ephemeral existence. Life and death is all over the album. Some examples follow.
“Baby cum angels fly around you reminding you we used
to be three and not just two
And that’s how the world began
And that’s how the world will end”
Gravity Rides Everything:
“As fruit drops, flesh it sags
Everything will fall right into place
When we die, some sink and some lay
But at least I don’t see you float away”
Dark Center of the Universe:
“Well, died sayin’ something, but didn’t mean it
Everyone’s life ends, but no one ever completes it
Dry or wet ice, they both melt and you’re equally cheated”
The Cold Part:
“So long to this sad, sad part of the world”
“It’s hard to remember, it’s hard to remember
We’re alive for the first time
It’s hard to remember were alive for the last time
It’s hard to remember, it’s hard to remember
To live before you die
It’s hard to remember, it’s hard to remember
That our lives are such a short time”
What People are Made of:
“At the battle at the bottom of the ocean, well the dead do rise
You need proof I got proof at the surface you can watch em float by”
Those are just a few from beginning to end. The one about the “baby cum angels” obviously is of particular interest to me. Though our boy was gestationally far along enough to be considered a live birth and not a miscarriage, it was close enough to where the line is drawn that I feel like I share a similar pain to those who endure miscarriage, abortion, and early infant death. The so-called silent loss that very few talk about, and even less that understand. The Moon and Antartica is beautiful, and I am listening to it quite often these days, as I ponder life and death. It makes me wonder what experiences Isaac Brock has lived through, or if these words are even from him. Perhaps he and I could compare stories of being a human scale, balancing this grief and joy.