When Malificent Learned to Heal

She tried to fuck the pain away. The girl, now a woman, feels like she’s still 19…and tried everything to get over him. She tried to forget the pain away.

He left. He left her, as Bob Dylan sings, “standing at the doorway crying”. He was the love of her life, and now he was gone. He was gone, and there was nothing she could do to stop him from being with her. That woman. That whore.

He told everyone that SHE wanted him to go away, and when he left, all her friends fell by the wayside too. She had no one. So she tried to forget the pain away. She just wanted all of the pain to go away. It was too much to hold, too much sadness. Her entire world had collapsed. Here she was, June Cleaver, when suddenly her world collides with Malificent. With Gloria Steinem. What’s a good girl to do? June Cleaver got a divorce and she started growing indigo wings and curved horns on her head, she….was becoming a dark goddess with a soul black as night.

So he was gone, and she tried to fuck the pain away. After so many years of mediocre sex with a passionless man, she was ready for real sex. She couldn’t believe all the attention she got from men. Men seemed to want her. She’d felt ugly and forgotten for so many years, that she scarcely remembered what it was like to feel pretty again. They wanted her, and she wanted to forget; to feel pretty again. She wanted to forget the pain away, to forget the memories of feeling neglected by him, to forget the memory of what his skin smelled like, and what it felt like to kiss his neck. So she tried to fuck the pain away.

She tried to drink the pain away. She never drank when she belonged to him. He never allowed that. No alcohol in the house, due to his alcoholic step-father. But she tried to drink the pain away. She tried to. She had gotten a decent enough job working in Western Central New Jersey, working in an office, and made enough money to go out once in a while. She discovered a bar in South Jersey that plays live music (one of her favorite things), and so she went. And drank. And when she drank, the pain seemed to melt away, even just for a moment. And since she could afford to, she tried to drink the pain away.

She tried to wish the pain away. She was Wiccan, so she could do that sort of thing. She could light a candle and perhaps he’d come back. She’d do a come to me boy spell, and make him come back to her. He could come back to her, if only she wished hard enough. She just needed to consult her cards, and wish hard enough: a purple candle for power, blue for healing, and red for passion. There now; candles were lit. He’ll come back to me, she thought. All I have to do is wish the pain away, and the pain will leave and he will come back. The pain will leave when he comes back. It will. Just one more thing-a rose crystal-for healing true love. The Rose crystal-the crystal of soulmates, twin souls, and love. He was my soul mate. It’ll work, she says to herself as she tries to wish the pain away. She could wish. She could do it. It could happen. If I just wish hard enough, he’ll come back. He just needs a bit of time to sew his wild oats. He was a good boy all his life. He just needs time. I’ll wish it, and it will be so. It will be. It could happen. She tried. She tried to wish the pain away.

She tried to put the pain away in box. And pack it up for later. There now. It never happened. Let’s never speak of it. Never cry over it. Never think of it. It’s away. Far away, in Minnesota with the snow and the hipsters that once lived in Williamsburg. She put it away. It’s in a neat little box, next to the wedding album and pictures of the road trip to New Hampshire. She tried to put the pain away. Away, away. And every now and again, when lovers would leave, she’d take the pain out and look at it and hold it. It felt good to be angry at him. It felt good to hate him. Hate is better than love, she thought. Love makes you weak. Love makes you pathetic. Hate makes you strong. Makes you tough. Makes you powerful. Hate is powerful, and it felt better than the pain. I can be Maleficent. I AM Maleficent. I am the once beautiful fairy queen, turned into a forloned and neglected but powerful witch. I am the scorned woman, with my spells and my anger, I am made stronger. Love makes a woman pathetic, and I am anything but that. So she tried to put the pain away.

This painting is for sale. To purchase, please email me at: thecraftaholic (at) gmail dot com

She tried to heal the pain away. And there it went, she let it go. Finally tired of carrying the burden of hate, finally tired of carrying the load of fear, and sadness and abandonment issues, she chose to heal the pain away. And so with the aforementioned rose crystal-the stone of love-she chose to love herself. No longer would she fuck the pain away. No longer would she drink the pain away, or wish it away. She willed it away by learning one word: forgiveness. Tired. She was tired of the burden of anger and hate and bitterness.  She didn’t want to carry it anymore. She had wasted too many years, and too much of herself on him already. She was done. Done with the hate, and done with looking back longingly at the past that she only selectively recalled. So, Maleficent chose to forgive him. And though she would never forget what he did to her, and though she never would forget the pain, the pain didn’t matter anymore. The anger melted away. She healed, and her heart grew ten sizes that day-the day Maleficent learned to move on. And so, she healed the pain away.

Finally. Finally she could breathe. After two and a half years of wishing for him. After two and a half years of pushing good men away over fear that he’d come back to her. After two and a half years of abandonment issues, and insecurities and fears….she felt free. No longer did she feel the need to chase after unavailable men. She was okay, all by herself. She was okay alone. Okay being in her own space. Just her and her daughters. She was okay now. She was free. Finally. After three years, she was finally free. She could breathe again.

Love a Wild Woman

Love a wild woman. Do it.

Love her in her beauty and carefree attitude

love her when she cries emotional tears over sappy movies you watch a dozen times with her and

they still affect her

love her when she wakes up early to drink coffee and meditate

love her when she has a glass of vodka and orange juice before painting the night away

love a wild woman

love her and do not box her into the image of June Cleaver, she’s

been there done that

does not want that

anymore

love a wild woman

she will spend the days sleeping and painting and laughing

dancing with her children that are wild as she

and the evenings she spends writing poetry and reading Keats to you

love a wild woman

She will laugh in her dark places

her smile is unending

her heart is pure

her love never dies

love a wild woman

though she has been broken in the past

though many have tried strict regulations

she still moves

she still gets up and is ready to love

ready to give

she is a bird that flies

she is a bird, not able to be captured

but perhaps

just perhaps

you can fly with her

as do the children she birthed

those that love her

fly with her

so love a wild woman

She’s worth it

I promise.

Maybe I’m Just Too Much Woman

To be honest, I blamed myself. I chase. I text. It’s my fault. I’m driving him away. I guess I was so lonely I forgot my own worth.

In between lovers I am reminded of how good it is to be alone; to have all the space in my head only for me. But layers and layers of me wish for someone to wrap my arms around, for someone to give goodnight texts to and good morning hellos. In between lovers, I get lonely. I cry sad and lonely tears and feel like the sad and tragic salsa songs that a forlorn Hector Lavoe and Eddie Palmieri sang about. I feel like the song, Triste y Vacia. I listened to that song today. I listened to it and thought of the first man I ever loved. I suppose a part of me always will. I know what you’re thinking. Not in that way. Just in the way that I look at my daughters and see his nose and his “good” taino hair. In that sort of way. But I moved on.

Or perhaps I pick lousy men. Maybe I don’t chose well. I pick men who are emotionally unavailable and have inflated egos. Maybe that’s my thing. Maybe it’s what I like. I don’t know.

Or maybe I’m just enjoying life too much to be attached to someone who will only want to domesticate me. I never ever in my life will allow a man to domesticate me. Not ever. I was June Cleaver for 15 years. That was enough. I do not long to be June Cleaver, I long to be a sort of morph between Frida Kahlo and Gloria Steinem. That, my lover, is who I am. I shan’t be domesticated. No.

Sometimes I find myself talking about my latest someone, telling a friend what he said or didn’t do that every man should, and I cannot believe what I settled for. I settled. I never settle. I always kick men to the curb with the quickness for any deal breaker I may have on my list. Among them: alcoholism, drug addiction (current or former), bad relationship with his mother, and laziness. I cannot nor will not ever date a man who does not work and/or is lazy. No.

I think that I am done with searching. For two years, searching has been fun. It was nice to look and search and date. But it isn’t fun anymore. It isn’t fun to search anymore. It was. It can be at times. But I am no longer interested in searching. I am no longer interested in finding a tie to a person who turns out to not be what I need.

This of course, will lead to a few quiet Saturdays. But I’d much prefer a quiet and sober Saturday to being with a person who does not own up to who they are, or waste my time chasing shadows thinking that they are rainbows. I do not want empty rainbows.

If you are to be with me, understand that I am a wild woman. I am not a safe place. I am not a plane Jane little girl who has a safe little life. Oh, I am a good mother and a family woman. But I am wild. I am a wild woman and I will always be such. This is the heart of who I am. So if you are to be with me, know this about me and do not wish to tame me because you will fail.


I made those. I have them for sale HERE.

Back to Reality

Looking into my creative process is a lot like looking into my head. I have many things going on at once. I really do prefer having a million different things floating around all at once, it sort of helps me think better.

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This is how I work. I lay out a bunch of canvases all at once, and paint away, scraping a brush on one, and using my fingers on another. It’s the best way, really.

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All the canvas laid out all at once, helps me think.

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I also use copy paper sheets, and make art on that, while working on canvas. I really enjoy working on abstract art. It’s a whole experience for me. I drink a glass of Cabernet, put on some good music, shake my ass a little (to get me in the zone for painting) and then I just paint the night away.

Art completes me. It makes me a better me. Without art, I am a cranky sort of girl.

I was thinking today about a conversation I had, and I realized I really do need people to bring me back to reality. Without that, I tend to have my head stuck in the clouds, in NeverNever Land or some such.

Recently someone brought me back to reality as I had taken my “mama bear – don’t fuck with my kids” a bit too far. And they snapped sense into me. Understand, that I was being protective. I am nothing if not a protective mother. But, there was no need for me to protect my daughters in this particular situation. So I went back to reality and came to my senses. I still believe that what I reacted to do was justified, but if I reacted in haste, then I let go. But I am not admitting I was wrong, because I was not. Simply, I should not have been quite so bitchy. Maybe.

Plaster of Paris

 

 

We all have plaster of Paris on some part of our life

In some place within us, there’s a bone that was broken

A promise not made

Or not fulfilled

Each of us has plaster of Paris slathered somewhere

Painted over with hopes and dreams

Sparkles of hope

Over layers and layers of plaster of Paris over the bone once broken by a person

We often call them the devil

Or evil

I wonder if there are bones broken on their body over us

I wonder if the brokenness was mutual

We are all wonderfully broken creatures meandering through life

Wondering where our next love will come from

Or our next broken bone

Wondering how to go through life without the existence of that one

Because we are all broken somehow

We all have plaster of Paris, broken bones and sparkles

We thrive on the sparkly goodness

So that we can somehow fool ourselves into thinking the brokenness isn’t there, that the

Hurt is gone

Erased

Done

But it isn’t. And that’s OK

It’s okay to still be angry

To still feel pain

To still not so secretly wish that the person would suffer the pain they put you through

It’s okay to feel broken

And still want love

Again

 

bear

This is a new painting I recently finished. I have it up for sale in my shop, if you’re interested in purchasing. The bear is a totem of mine, and reminds me of myself this time of year-hibernating and painting and healing in my little cocoon.

Spur of the Moment

At the spur of the moment, my friend Lauren invited me to Salem. It’s fun living in my part of the world, because we live quite close to many major cities. Anyway, since I enjoy photography a little bit, here’s a bit of our trip on photographs:

At the Salem Witch house. That is an original spinning wheel.

At the Salem Witch house. That is an original spinning wheel.

Another wheel.

Another wheel.

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They had a little library!

The local library had a beautiful garden. I love photographing nature.

The local library had a beautiful garden. I love photographing nature.

close up.

close up.

The method to my madness

workspace-desk

There’s a method to my madness, I assure you. It may look like I am a scrambled hot mess by the looks of my desk while I paint, but I promise you I generally know where everything is. Usually. I call it organized chaos. It’s like my life-I know where everything is and where things are going, but sometimes things are messy and chaotic. And that’s okay.

Recently I learned that I cannot go out of my way to try to make a person see my worth. See, if I like you, I come on strong. I text a lot if I like you. If I don’t, basically my heart is cold. That’s just facts. It’s who I am. Just like my messy desk. My desk may be messy, and cluttered, but it is how my art gets made. And I may be talkative and ramble often, but I am that way, and if I chase you, I like you. And if I text a lot, I like you. If a day passes, or I don’t text until evening, you did something the fuck wrong, probably.

Too often we look at our lives much as we do that messy desk thinking we have to go out of our way to make things just so, so that this person or that will align themselves to what we want from them, but I’m done doing that. I’m too old and come too far to have someone else blow me off, and only contact me when they need something from me. But when I need something, they go missing. If I clean up my desk, I won’t find crap. If I go out of my way to be something or someone else for you, I am not being authentic. My messy desk is authentic. It is real. It is a piece of who I am, and it’s raw. I will never be anything less than raw.

I think I came to the conclusion that there are probably no real friends, and maybe no god. I prayed for 4 years that god would send me love from a man-a loving relationship. So far, I’ve gotten a coke head, two alcoholics, a psychopath (by definition, because he had no feelings,-or so he professed last year when we dated-that he had no capacity to feel).  So, I give up. I give up on dating, on love, and even, on friendship. Everyone wants something. No one loves the way I do-at no cost. Everyone looks at their messy desk of life, and puts a cloth over it so no one can see the metaphoric mess of their life. Not me. I am not that woman. I am not the woman to put a mask over anything. I will always be me, unabashedly. And so, I am done trying. If you cannot see my worth after me being here, then you likely will never see it. And I know that I must give you up, since you do not want what I want, you only want to give me just enough so that I’ll stay, without having any added responsibility of actually having to go out of your way in any kind of way. That is not who I am, and I will not clean myself for anyone anymore.

 

art-journal-page-1

I work on many canvases all at the same time while usually also having an art journal handy as well. I prefer to make my journals or recycle old planners. I find it’s more fun to recycle an old planner, or make an art journal out of copy paper or old papers and things.

So that’s a bit about my workspace and how I work. And my philosophy as of late, is that I believe in me. There may or may not be a god in heaven, but if there is, it hasn’t been listening to me at all. In fact, the god you may believe in, has only served me to satan, time and time again. And so, I have hope and faith in myself. I love myself. I know I am not a perfect woman, but I’m good the way I am. Perfectly imperfect. Flawed but beautiful. For so many years I sought approval from people who were obviously not into me, or not paying the proper attention to me, and last night while I slept, I had a breakthrough. And so I am finished. I am finished with seeking others, I seek myself now. God may be dead. Or he/she may not be. And love may exist, but it never has for me. And I say this, not in a sort of “feel sorry for me” kind of way, but as a matter of fact. I think everyone I have felt something for has been extremely selfish.

And so, I make art to heal myself a bit. Soothe the savage beast, and all that.

Currently listening to (courtesy of someone whom I’m fortunate to enjoy spending time with on occasion):

It’s like magic

We all have that one thing that makes us feel good and makes us happy. For me, it’s music. Music makes me happy. I love good live music because I just feel good. It makes me feel inspired. When I first moved to NJ I was pretty happy, since one thing New Jersey has is a lot of good quality live music (if you know where to look).

Music raises your vibration and makes you feel alive, like everything wrong will just melt away. It’s like magic, you know? Music is like magic. It is.  I like to listen to music while I paint, too. What I listen to depends on my current mood. Sometimes it’s the Grateful Dead, and other times it’s Sean Paul.

The other day, I discovered this one song that I now absolutely love:

I love it. I love when the single mother is praised. Being a mother is tough, especially when  you’re being both mother and father to your babies. I told the boy I’ve been seeing that often it can be very overwhelming. But as women, as mothers, we do what needs to be done. Right?

I love when you can listen to a song and it personifies everything you feel. I fucking love that. It’s just magic, you know? It’s like, how could this person who does not know me, write a song almost completely about me? I have been there. But that’s probably why I love music so fucking much.

band

It’s like you go to a show, you see the band play, but there’s more to it than that. It’s more than just the band playing, and you being there. It’s the excitement of the people around you. It’s the vibe of the band performing and doing what they are meant to be doing. It’s all magic. All of it. And that is why music, inspires the shit out of me.

What inspires you to create or feel happy?

Morning Pages and being happy

 

 

morningpages

For me, there’s a method to it all. People ask me how I can accomplish all that I have going on, and I really have no idea other than the fact that I’m a workaholic. I really am. I work and I work and I keep on working. Why? Because it fucking feels awesome to keep busy. Sleeping all day is something I really can’t do, even if I wanted to (which I have absolutely no interest in doing).

As a matter of fact, even in men I date, I must date men who work a lot or are very very athletic or active; because I cannot respect a lazy man. This is probably because my father is not a lazy man either. He is always active, always busy doing one thing or another. Or he’s watching the news, which as I’ve been told, is a very old school Puerto Rican man thing. I hate stereotypes, but if that’s true that it does apply to him.

As of late, I’ve neglected much of my art and things, not for any other reason except for time. I felt I hadn’t had the time to create, to paint, or to even write. But my morning pages keep it all together for me. I write about the goings on, about things I am pondering, and write my list of good things in my life.

That’s sort of an inside peak into my creative process today. I swear by morning pages. I wake up early in the morning, reflect on the day before, drink my coffee and go into my own haven-my own space. And I just write. I write about all the stuff in my head, and do it for a good 15 to 20 minutes. I feel like it’s good for you to write early in the morning, before you start your day off and get distracted by one thing or another. It sets an intention for the day, and so I try to keep everything on a positive level.

The intention of the journal pages sets the tone for my day, and I want my day to fucking sing out loud. I want to grab the day, and know that I lived it up, and lived to my fullest potential. You cannot do that if you are a negative nelly. I can’t stand negative people. You know the type. The ones that have everything, yet they are not happy. It’s one thing to be down once in a while or moody. We all get that way. But….try to remember that happiness is a choice that you make, and while we live this short little life, we might as well be happy. Be fucking happy, because this all fades away. Do it, man. It’s good for you.

I am currently working on a book. This will be a book of poems, and I am compiling a list of poems that I am writing and working on now. Usually my chapbooks are quite small and I make them myself, but this will be a proper book, and will be done using Lulu. I’m rather excited about it.

What’s your process like? Do you keep a journal? When do you write in it?

 

Plaster of Paris

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We all have plaster of paris on some part of our life
In some place within us, there’s a bone that was broken
A promise not made
Or not fulfilled
Each of us has plaster of paris slathered somewhere
Painted over with hopes and dreams
Sparkles of hope
Over layers and layers of plaster of paris over the bone once broken by a person
We often call them the devil
Or evil
I wonder if there are bones broken on their body over us
I wonder if the brokenness was mutual
We are all wonderfully broken creatures meandering through life
Wondering where our next love will come from
Or our next broken bone
Wondering how to go through life without the existence of that one
Because we are all broken somehow
We all have plaster of paris, broken bones and sparkles
We thrive on the sparkly goodness
So that we can somehow fool ourselves into thinking the brokenness isn’t there, that the
Hurt is gone
Erased
Done
But it isn’t. And that’s ok
It’s okay to still be angry
To still feel pain
To still not so secretly wish that the person would suffer the pain they put you through
It’s okay to feel broken
And still want love
Again