I love soft sheets

I love strong coffee

I love cold, clear blue mornings

I love painting

I love books

I love stationary in general

I love dogs

I love the moment that you realize that things are getting better

I love relief

I love baths

I love sashimi

I love funny people

I love most people

I especially love my friends

I love fireplaces

I love vintage quilts

I love deep conversations

I love laughing

I love cooking for people

I love long drives in the country

I love music

I love big cozy sweaters

I love red wine

I love christmas lights

I love cuddling

I love really long walks

I love being happy

I hate it when people stand too close behind me in stores.

I hate florescent and or bright lighting.

I hate it when people don’t know what I mean.

I hate raisins.

I hate it when you tell someone something personal and they find some way to make it about themselves. and not in an: I understand, because I’ve been through something similar kind of way. but in a: what do they want from me... or: this must somehow be about ME kind of way. and then they don’t really hear you, cause they are too busy thinking about how whatever you told them might possibly affect them, or what they’ll have to do about it, instead of just being supportive or human about it. and then you just feel worse than before you said anything about it at all.

I hate jerks.

I hate being told what to do.

I hate it when people say really mean things instead of just saying the truth.

I hate waking up at 3 am or 5 am and not being able to get back to sleep, but too tired to do anything but just lay there.

I hate itches that can’t be scratched.

I hate dry hands.

I hate pleated pants.

I hate non-symmetrical hedges

I hate decorative grasses

I hate wanting to go out but being too exhausted, even though you haven’t done anything exhausting.

I hate crabby neighbors.

I hate being in the last lane off loaded from the BC ferries.

I hate dirty nails.

I hate it when I want to say something and the words all come out wrong.

I hate the smell of BO masked with cologne

I hate disappointment.

storm by brynmeadows on Polyvore.com

Yesterday when I sat at the coffee shop there was a mirrored wall in front of me and I caught my reflection, and all I saw were the pitch black circles under my eyes and I was mesmerized... when did those get there?

I’m freezing. why can’t I warm up.

I realized today that I haven’t changed most of my clocks for daylight savings yet and that was like, a month ago. I am defiantly stubborn to look after the little details... it’s always the little things.

I’m so tired. I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.

now that I’m in therapy I think I’m going to start wearing tweed blazers like Diane Keaton in Manhattan and saying things like: “well, my analyst said...”.

I’m scattered...

a good Psychologist won’t let you hide behind kleenex.
I knew this. I’ve seen it.

I’ve seen it in treatment and I’ve learned it in classes. I’ve been in groups at work when the doctor is in session and the patient is BAWLING and nope, there’s no kleenex for you. not until it gets really messy, and not even then sometimes.
I’ve always felt it: ooooh I want to hand them a tissue so bad. but, that’s my stuff. that’s me wanting to caretake them. when really, they need to feel this shit. they need to not hide behind a tissue, not wipe it up, but just be there and FEEL it. snot and all.

handing a kleenex is like saying: stop crying. I don’t want to see it. and really, that just defeats the purpose.

I know this.

yesterday when I walked into the doctors office I scanned for kleenex... and there was none to be found. and I felt it: the resistance. the little defiant voice in me saying: I’m onto you lady, I know what you’re trying to do, I know this move....
but then I just decided, you know what- fuck it. I’m here, and I’m going to surrender to this process.
and then I started to cry within like, 0.01 seconds, sans kleenex, and she never offered me one.
it was awesome.

Guernica by Picasso is 11 feet tall by 26 feet wide.
it’s one of those things that you can’t possibly understand until you’ve been there. until you’ve stood there in front of it. the scope and the magnitude is humbling. it’s almost overwhelming.

I’ve been looking at this picture a lot lately.

Guernica shows suffering people, animals, and buildings wrenched by violence and chaos

it shows people torn apart. and you can’t understand it until you’ve seen it for yourself.

I started therapy today.

why? I want to be a better person, a better counselor, have better relationships.
I don’t want to be a hypocrite.
I want go glean some insight and I want to break destructive patterns.
is it hard? yeah it’s hard. I want it to be hard. I told the dr that today. I told her: “don’t let me get away with anything, if you see me resisting, don’t let me”.
then she asked if I was possibly being a perfectionist, if i wanted to be perfect at therapy...

she can ask me that, because she knows what to do with the answers. she can give me advice and ask me hard questions, because that is our agreement. she can poke around and provoke emotional responses in me, because she knows how to handle the outcome. I have to trust that.

that is something that I really see so clearly, now that I am on the other side of the couch, now that I’m faced with it:

never, ever open someone up or provoke them emotionally if :A: you are going to walk away and just leave them open and B: if you aren’t 100% fucking certain that you know how to put them back together...

I always had this vision of myself as becoming this eccentric old lady, drinking brandy from my exotic teacup collection and regaling the neighborhood children with stories of my exciting and torrid past.

My life has been exciting.

I’ve had great love affairs, had my heart broken, and broken hearts. I’ve been romanced in Paris and been poor in Prague. I drank wine on the left bank out of the bottle at midnight. I’ve danced with hash high guides to Spanish dub music on a rooftop in Morocco. I’ve roughed it in the wilderness. I’ve been to the Rhodes ball. I’ve eaten dinner with the one of the richest people in the world, looking across the domes and spires of Rome (and I paid the bill). I’ve been drunk and wearing flip flops on 5th Avenue. I’ve used chop sticks at Sam Wo’s in San Francisco. I’ve driven the coast highway, under California stars. I’ve seen Guernica, the Sagrada Familia, the David, the Trevi Fountain, the Mona Lisa and the Starry Night, all so close I could touch them. I drank beer at the Heiniken factory at 11 am. I’ve ridden the trains across Hungary and the underground in London. I’ve scattered pigeons in Piazza San Marco. I’ve seen lightening strike in Kansas. I’ve stayed up all night and kissed the morning. I’ve had the hearts of handsome and interesting men in my hands. I’ve sailed the high seas, I’ve escaped death. I’ve pulled a man to safety from a burning building.
I bought my very own house and I’ve filled it with love and friends.

All before I turned 30.


So, now what?

has it been 2 years... has it been 3? I don’t want to look it up. I don’t want to google: Dave Wenger
and see: Dave Wenger was killed by a hit and run... Dave Wenger was a great musician... M-blanket, Wolf Parade, blah, blah, blah. I don’t want to see it. there was so much more than that.

I dreamt about him last night. and then this morning I remembered- yesterday was the anniversary of his death. Maybe 2, maybe 3 years ago.

Dave was more than a friend.
Have you ever loved anyone who has died?

The feeling is just like you think it might be.
When I got the call it felt like the blood was being pulled from my body. I felt sick. my knees crumpled like paper beneath me.
it was a truly primal kind of pain.

Dave loved me. He really loved me. I know that.
I’d known him since I was 16, since when we were both younger and prettier. I’ve spent many, many nights with Dave. over lots of Tom Waits and Billie Holiday and red wine and cigarettes and love.
I could have told Dave anything. and I mean anything. and he would have not only stayed by me, he would have crawled inside the cave with me. in that way, he was a glorious human being. he wasn’t afraid of feelings. he’d be there, he’d get right fucking in there and not back down. he was brave, and he would not accept anything less than a total baring of it all.
God, I miss him.

the last time I saw him he stayed with me. we stayed up all night. all night until the sun came up. We listened to Chet Baker Sings and we talked. we talked and talked. we talked about everything. it was epic. we sat on my deck on the roof and in the morning sun he looked at me and said: “you’re so fucking beautiful bryn meadows”.
and then he called me the next day and left me a message, before he left town, and he said only: “I love you bryn meadows”

and then he died a few weeks later, on the fucking road in fucking montreal.

it only hurts when I think about him.

today I thought about him. all day.. I wanted to get out. I tried to. I wanted to be around people that didn’t know him. I wanted to distract myself with people who people didn’t remind me of him, to get away from the feelings. but there weren’t any around. so today, today it was just me and Dave’s ghost.

people have asked if this one is a picture of me. it isn’t. but I suppose it could be.

A very kind and insightful friend came by last week to talk about the paintings with me. I told him that I didn’t really like this one and he he asked it if was because it was the most like me... I can imagine that I just responded with a scrunched up face and mumbled something like, “maybe”.
I hadn’t thought about it.
but then, contrary to what you might think, my introspection doesn’t tend to get too deep. I keep it suspended by string over the well, and don’t often look directly in.
I consider myself at times: untranslatable, a la Walt Whitman...

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I only stay a minute
longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then, I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

TAGSpaintings

you know how some cats will go directly to the people who don’t like cats?
That’s me, that’s what I do

I’m compelled to confide in the one person who has openly said that they do not want to talk to me.

that is seriously messed up.

We are never so vulnerable as when we trust someone. it’s the most frightening thing.
I wonder how we choose people to trust? I wonder what is it that makes the voice inside say: you. I am going to trust you. regardless of the circumstance.

and then, what do you do when they don’t want it? when they don’t want your trust?
you are left, open on the table... or your psyche is blown, like dandelion dust into the wind.

that’s the risk.

Me. me, me, me.

This summer I made a decision. I was working on a little project about what I want- about the things that I want in my life, about how I want my life to look.

and as a part of this I realized something: I realized that everything I want and need in my life- I am a part of.

Therefore, if I want a healthy and balanced and full and happy life, then it all has to start with me.

As a person who has literally spent her whole life caring for other people, this was/is a wall to climb.
it’s all about me.
and so, I decided that before I embarked on the relationship that I want to ultimately have, I have to get to a better place.
Physically, spiritually, and emotionally.
I decided that I want and need to be as happy and healthy and as whole as I can be, and I decided that if I never get there, if I don’t reach those goals... well then, the only relationship I have, will have to be with me.
That was the decision I made.

I started working towards those goals this summer, and then I fell off course. I was thwarted by anxiety. My goals started to shift and become darker, and I went back to some old patterns...
part of me becoming the best me I can be, comes with facing some formidable demons, and facing some things, that are very hard to face.

but here I am . I am trying. and come what may. I will try.

Last night I dream that a woman with two heads was sweeping my hallway.

When I woke up, I looked up the meaning for dreams of conjoined twins and found this:

conjoined twins: A bond between two individuals (emotional bond, family bond, marital bond, etc.)—for better or for worse, taking the good (companionship, support, etc.) with the bad (disagreements, irritations, etc.).

For some reason, it made me think of a quote by Thurgood Marshall:

“What is the quality of your intent?
When we intend to do good, we do. When we intend to do harm, it happens. What each of us must come to realize is that our intent always comes through. We cannot sugarcoat the feelings in our heart of hearts. The emotion is the energy that motivates. We cannot ignore what we really want to create. We should be honest and do it the way we feel it. What we owe to ourselves and everyone around is to examine the reasons of our true intent.
My intent will be evident in the results.”

And I realized that I have not been acting in a way that is congruent with my intent. I did a lot of soul searching this summer and worked on some things and came out with a clear idea of a path I wanted to take, of what I felt in my heart was right.
For the past couple of months, maybe because of some external circumstances... maybe because I was trying to not feel what I was feeling, or maybe because I was gauging my self and my actions on other people. I spun off of that path. I haven’t been being true to my intent.
My path is my path, regardless of other people’s choices. and to be true to that, I have to take the good, with the bad.

My intent will be evident in the results.

I keep fighting off this random urge to cry.

Maybe it’s the weather. I don’t know.

I’ve been keeping so busy. I’ve been doing so much. I have so many things going on. it’s like the centrifugal force has been the force that is keeping me together. I’ve been so busy and then this rain started and all of a sudden I just. started. thinking...

For a while there everything was feeling like it was getting better, like life was starting to make sense. and then all of a sudden, it wasn’t. and I’m just trying to figure out what happened.

Around the end of August I started to feel almost overwhelmingly anxious. I thought it must just be something in me, like a cold, or a glitch in my system, rushing in the adrenaline, because I couldn’t explain why I was feeling so upset. I mean, there were some things going on, but nothing that I would think that could trigger such uneasiness.
I felt like the princess and the pea, like there was something going on under the surface, but I just didn’t know what it was. and this feeling just kept hanging around. loitering.
ever have the feeling that something is going on, whispers behind closed doors, or that something is being kept from you? that’s what I felt like. I don’t know why, but I did. there was no reason to feel this way. I checked things out, asked questions... people told me to work, to stay busy. they said that nothing was going on, nothing had changed, everything was fine. and so, at that time I started feeling like I must be losing it. it must just all be in my mind. I started feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.
intuition is a real bitch.

i read somewhere that expecting the world to treat you nicely because you’re a nice person, is like expecting a lion to not eat you because you’re a vegetarian.
it’s true.
but that truth is not comforting.

This past summer, I took a pretty significant emotional risk. I put my heart on the line, and made a difficult choice to open myself up again to a friendship with someone who had come back into my life. I took a big gamble, and I lost.
The kicker is: it’s my fault. taking the risk was my choice. Therefore, losing was my fault.
I guess that deep down I wanted to believe that if I took a leap of faith and opened up, that it would mean something. I wanted to trust that it would be okay. That was stupid and naive of me.

I don’t know why it’s on my mind today, but it is, and I’m feeling sad about it.
it hurts.

I am going to be a model.

really. This afternoon I am going to be a model at the Igloo Fashion show at the Marriott Ballroom.

Last week my friend the lovely and talented Marcy asked me. I responded by saying that getting into some of the clothes might be like putting toothpaste back in the tube, but what the hell! So, I’m going to be a model.

Body image is something that I am constantly aware of. I have been surrounded by issues my whole life. I have spent the past 10 years immersed in the world of body image. When I make cracks like the one above, people look at me with slight shock, like: you should not have any body image issues!? you’re a counselor!? well, I’m also a woman and I am also not a slender woman. so, it crops up.

It’s funny, people always think that I am going to be thinner than I am. If I have ever emailed or spoken with someone and then meet them, I can tell that they expected me to be thinner. Like, my confidence didn’t match my looks or something.
I’ve actually had people say that to me: “wow, it’s great that you are so confident, being that you are the size you are”. That, my friends, is called: “a backhanded compliment” and I have heard it, or statements like it more times than I can count. and always from women (men aren’t that nasty). When I was a young woman, that would have devastated me, I’d seriously consider slitting my wrists over it (no exaggeration). but now, I just see those comments for what they are, mean, said by spiteful and unintelligent people. What kind of woman would make disrespectful and negative comments about another woman’s body? that’s just so... evil . They might have their own issues, and that is their problem (I only get concerned if they have children. Women who pass on body hate and have kids should be thrown in front of a bus charged with abuse).

I am a size 14. that’s not good, or bad. it’s just what it is, so who cares? I am who I am. it’s no reflection on my worth as a person. some people think I’m pretty, some don’t. it’s all subjective.
as I am maturing, beauty is becoming less important to me. I just want to be a good person, a kind, fun, healthy and loving person. I want to accept myself as I am, not as I think I should be.
it’s a process.


*that is a photo of Janeane Garofalo, with the words ‘do I look fat’ written on her stomach. It was given to me by the photographer, Chris Buck (check out his work!). It’s an actual photo he took and signed for me. I met him when he was staying with my boyfriend in London (they were old friends). We spent time talking, and he was interested in the work I was doing with eating disorders. He gave me this as a thank you. I love this photo and treasure it.

Character: the aggregate of features and traits that form the individual nature of some person or thing.

what are my character traits? well, they aren’t murky or ambivalent. They’re clear, and sometimes difficult. They are either good, or bad; depending if people are mad at me or not...

When they are good, they say I am funny, warm, charming and insightful. When they are bad they say I am demanding, moralizing, reactive and dogmatic.

and while the latter are difficult things to hear. I suppose it could be worse, because at least all those things are all driven from a passion of some sort.

I’m trying to get better with the bad stuff, trying to just like, accept it.

I want to learn to be able to be true to my character, be myself and to fight the impulses to hide the imperfections. I want to learn to get down with the dirty bits. it’s hard though, it’s hard to accept the darker and not so nice side. it’s difficult to be challenged and to not react by trying to change something about myself to accommodate.... whatever. it causes me discomfort.
this is something that I am learning to just, sit with and let settle in: I’m never going to be perfect.

TAGSmy life

I hate talking about art. I hate it, because I don’t know how to. I don’t know the language. I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never taken a class, or read a book on the subject. I know nothing about theory or technique. I mean, there was art in high school, but I went to an alternative school and I spent most of the time by myself in the darkroom- the teachers were just happy that I was producing things and not out smoking pot in the parking lot...

however, making art is something that I’ve always done. it runs in my family. it’s just what we do. there was never a shortage of supplies kicking around, there was never any pressure or stress about it. there weren’t any cares or standards if it was good or not. it actually isn’t even something that I’ve considered. because I’ve always just made it purely for the sake of making it, not for showing it.
therefore, most of it has been shit. really, I’m not being self deprecating, it’s just what was.

until now.

I feel like I’m finally making something that is good. I’m proud of these paintings.
as such, I actually am thinking of doing something with them, showing them. which means, I’ll probably have to talk about them...

I purposely waited to think about them until I was done the series. 6 in total. they are made with cheap acrylic paint and paper on vintage canvases, that still had the Woolco price stickers on the back: 2 for $1.78.

The only one that I gave any planning to was the first of the series. I had the thought of wanting to say something and imagined that instead of words, birds flew out of my mouth. I thought about the things I want to say, but don’t. the things people say versus what people hear. the things we withhold, for whatever reason... the feeling behind words. wanting to talk, but not being able to, not feeling allowed to- and how that creates some kind of erosion in us. that was the conception point. the rest just evolved organically.

I didn’t want to think too much about it. I didn’t want to impose a contrived feeling, or put words to them. cause that would defeat the purpose. which is to express something in a non-linear way, to express something without words; to express what those feelings would look like.

Of course they are all about something, they all have some kind of meaning. but it’s complicated, as all feelings are.

What I will say is that I was drawn to make the figures reflect some kind of nostalgic melancholy. the 50’s, in particular. I personally tend to romanticize that era, for whatever reason. In some ways it seemed so much more simple. The image of the nuclear family, Mom and Pop... etc. but like anything that we romanticize, the reality of it tends to be very different. There are the flaws, the cracks and the faults. We romanticize past people, places and times, because we aren’t there, it’s the past. The past always appears more romantic than the present and more romantic than it actually was... (we pine for what we wanted, not what we had).

there is the truth and there is what really happened. the contrast lies between the clean images and the messy feelings.

The underside of that time is something that I am interested in. I’m interested in the repression that hovered in that era. The fact that it wasn’t the glossy picture that we can make it out to be. It was the era of the creation of the suburbs and of growing discontent. John Cheever wrote about that: “My God, the suburbs!” They encircled the city’s boundaries like enemy territory and we thought of them as a loss of privacy, a cesspool of conformity, and a life of indescribable dreariness in some split-level village where the place name appeared in the New York Times only when some bored housewife blew off her head with a shotgun.”
(he could write about it, the reality of it, cause he lived there).

there is a kind of discomfort that these images provoke, which I like, but don’t fully understand.

TAGSpaintings

acrylic and paper on canvas.

crushes
mod podge
time and want to paint
chivalry
inspiration
my grandfathers canvases
patience
cozying up with red wine in green glass glasses by the fire
kimonos
clarity

I imagine drawing our relationships as rooms. I imagine what those rooms would look like, what they’d feel and smell like, and what we’d keep there.

Relatedness can create its own space sometimes.

have you ever felt that? like when you are with another person, that the space between you becomes its own room? everything else fades into the background. and all there is, is the space between you. like there is an almost tactile connection, like the dynamic itself becomes the room in which you sit.

it’s rare. it’s rare to find people that we can relate with. rare to meet people and feel, if even for a short time that we aren’t so separate.

some people prefer to experience relatedness indirectly. they may delve into books and music and films and words, looking at, observing the emotional experience, but are unable or unwilling to engage directly in it. they might choose to relate from a distance, but are always just out of reach, out of the room. they have their own emotional experience, but are not capable of overcoming their separateness with other people. they prefer having the room to themselves.

some people you don’t relate to at all. or maybe there are pieces of relation; some common ground. but not enough to build anything.

and then with some people, the room just creates itself. whether we want it to or not.

Talking.

You think that it would be easy for me. Most people think it must be easy, or natural for me. I am a counselor after all, that’s what I do, I communicate.

But it’s much more complicated than that. It’s easy when it’s other people’s stuff. It’s easy when it’s detached from me and I can see clearly. It comes naturally when I’m not personally emotionally involved.

When it’s me, about me, when it involves me... that’s a whole different story.

When I have to have a difficult or emotional conversation, I literally shake. My hands and my knees shake uncontrollably. I feel dizzy and faint. I feel like I am falling, slipping or standing outside of myself, the room spins, my heart pounds, blood rushes to my ears, I can’t catch my breath.
I am amazed that the words coming out of my mouth could actually make sense. I am amazed that sound even comes out sometimes... I always ask: ‘did that make sense?’ because a piece of me is sure that the words must have come out in the wrong order.

it’s so very hard.

Of course It’d be easier to write. but it’s not the same. Something is always lost in translation. 90% of communication is body language, so when we communicate via letters and emails, we are only hearing 10% of the real story. We are only saying 10% of what we need to say.
and when something, or more to the point someone is important, that’s not good enough.

it’s always better to talk. It’s worth it, worth the struggle. Even when it’s hard. especially when it’s hard.

TAGSrelationships, my life

last year I sat on the side of the road with a dying deer. someone had hit her and drove off, leaving her there on the road with her legs broken.
as I sat there, she was calm. it just looked like she was sitting up, like we were having a conversation, sitting on together on the road. it might sound strange, but I think she wanted me there...
the year before I had a dream that there was a deer in my bed. it startled me out of sleep and for a moment in the space between asleep and awake I could have sworn there was a deer, a stag with antlers laying beside me. I actually shot up and turned on the light to check...

deer keep weaving into my life. I see them all of the time. in my neighborhood, walking down the sidewalk at night.

and I’ve been dreaming about them again this week.

so of course I looked up the significance of deer- the meaning of seeing them or dreaming of them- and I found that it’s all about gentleness, compassion and unconditional love:

People with Deer Medicine are often described as being swift and alert. They are intuitive, often appearing to have well developed, even extrasensory perceptions. Sometimes their thoughts seem to race ahead, and they appear not to be listening. Deer's medicine includes gentleness in word, thought and touch, ability to listen, grace and appreciation for the beauty of balance, understanding of what's necessary for survival, power of gratitude and giving, ability to sacrifice for the higher good,and to find alternative paths to a goal. Deer teaches us to find the gentleness of spirit that heals all wounds, to stop pushing to get others to change and to love and accept them as they are. The only true balance to power is love and compassion.

it’s true. I have to remember that, because that all makes sense to me. it resonates with me. I’ve been feeling angry lately, but that doesn’t work for me. it doesn’t serve anything other than to make me feel bad. and the moment I allow myself to feel compassion I feel somewhat relieved, I feel better.

yes, I’m part hippie.

TAGSrandom thoughts

I watched that old paean to bachelorhood: “How to Murder Your Wife” on TV this morning (It’s totally sexist- but it’s also totally stylish and hilarious).
There was this one scene when Jack Lemmon is talking to his lawyer in the courtroom scene about his wife and about marriage- and he asks him: “what’s good about being married?” and the lawyer looks to his wife who is glaring at him from the gallery and answers: “well, she makes dinner and grocery shops and cleans my clothes..” to which Jack Lemmon replies: “that’s your problem, you’re confusing love with laundry”.

That’s a great line.

I think that lots of people do that, confuse love with laundry...

TAGSrandom thoughts