The Value of My Memories

I struggle to get words to come forward that make sense to someone other than me. I struggle to verify memories. This is now a life of he said – she said. My brain almost doesn’t care as it has come so far down the stretch, towards the end.

When I was younger I wanted to drag people by the heels in public and force open confessions. I wanted everyone to know I. was. hurt. I wanted even more for someone to care about the hurt. Does my life matter?

What I remember the most is fear, abject fear. What I felt the most was cold but here we are half a century later in, “he said she said” and I ask myself why I ever said anything at all?

Hope. I was looking for hope. I remember.

It’s Just a Foot

I owe you an apology. Please, wake up, I owe you an apology. I said it was just a foot and not worth dying over because I didn’t understand. Tears swell in my eyes. My lips begin to trimble as I stand before headstone after headstone. Wake up! every Granny, aunt, uncle with a leg, arm, hand or foot they let get too bad until it was too late and tell them I was wrong. It’s not just a foot is it? No. Not when it happens to you. Instantly you understand your humanity.

The wind hesitates. I pretend to breathe. I owe you an apology.

I didn’t know the brain would need to rewire. I didn’t know the fear you’d live in of another amputation, or of physical therapy.

“She’s your nurse” doesn’t contain the impact a stranger has of touching every inch of your body at all times, of dangling fingernails over all your belongings leaving nothing untouched, feeding garbage food you can barely taste because life itself is stale.

Sweetheart wake up. Wake up. I touch another headstone. I didn’t know it would be this hard.

For the living

I’m colder than I’ve ever been. I’ve felt more pain and fear in the last 7 years than the previous years of life. Only 2% of the time do I think to myself, I should have died. Most of the time I’m happy I made it but I’m in the crowd that has to say I was wrong to pass judgment on people who couldn’t see the amputation through. It’s not just a foot. I was young. I didn’t know what I was saying. Who am I to say who does or doesn’t have the strength to endure an amputation?

Faith Magdalene

Sometimes I Feel Like A Freak

This is about the stress and pressure from people telling me what I should be doing and me having a hard time finishing projects. Slowly but surely they are being completed, this one too very, very soon. –

Sometimes I feel like a freak but I try to hide it.

I try to blend in.

Say the right things, the right way.

I want to hold my face in the expression allowing emotions of the moment to show, balancing them on my brow and tongue like a real live woman.

I’m not normal. I’m not and the effort it takes to be, exhausts my tired spirit.

Sometimes I feel lost.

I’m lost

as ink scratches on

9×12 pads

roads and hills,

lands of dramatic color and wonder.

With each stroke of the pen to paper you hear the symphony of my madness.

There’s stress in the ink, acrylic and experimental designs. Stress to do it your way.

Change. Spotlight. Museum. Gallery. Gala. Teach. Speak, Lead!

Don’t waste your voice, your voice, your voice, your voice.

The art stops. The freak is seen clearer. And everyone finally goes home.

Faith Magdalene

You can. You will.

I’m pleased to have been able to finish this piece with its color symbolism and Scripture favorites. I like Jonah a lot. It often feels like I’m in the belly of a big fish with no way out just like he was.

I love the original meaning of the rainbow and how it is on God’s thrown as a symbol of peace so I added that to the image.

I know for a fact that hope does not lead to disappointment.

The last part of the image shows three distinct figures, a date and two blue hearts. The black child’s hair is hearts. Of course there are sunflowers. There must always be sunflowers. 🙂

Faith

Nesting Place; for rest, sight and purpose.

Nesting Place

Abstract beginnings grew into a trio of birds resting in the hair of a young woman.

This Asian flair painting shows her rooted in the earth, facing forward at the flowers that stand tall.

There aren’t as many flowers as before, she might think, but there are indeed flowers.

Her purpose remains and is confirmed by those who have chosen to rest upon her head and make a home.

Lets take a look at some details.

“Nesting Place” is a 6.5 x 5 inches and is on heavy board. On the back of the board is an original, spontaneous writing which reads: Continue reading “Nesting Place; for rest, sight and purpose.”

Everything – Fast forward

Everything Sundrip

DECEMBER 27,2015.

Times 32 on the multifunctional remote, flash blurred scenes for you. My eyes have processed them all, bit by bit, no translation of hue or tone lost to speed.
I see. I hear. I can’t make it stop.
Pulled plugs, short circuit, a hundred failed attempts to rewire.
Still I hear
every car honk, every cellphone ring and every exasperated, exhausted,
needy inner plea, burned in the screen of my mind .

Robert

Sweet Gardenia Folk Art

Sweet, sweet Gardenia why won’t you smile?
The earth offers the power of blossoms as the
Heavens exhale in color
Sweet, sweet Gardenia, why won’t you open your eyes?
Crumbling soul, child of despair
Please I say, open your eyes.

Poem and painting are Copyright @ Sundrip.com All rights reserved

Painting details: 4 x 6 mixed media painting, wood crackle medium, black folk art child, eyes closed, purple and red dress. Signed, dated, mounted on black mat. A handwritten copy of the poem is included with the painting.

Sweet Gardenia is available in my Etsy shop or via PayPal. Please see sidebar for contact details and links.

Thank you for visiting SUNDRIP – Art for Life
F. Magdalene Austin

Diary of an Uninspired Artist

Goodbye flowers, hello cold.  It seems during the cold I’ve lost artistic inspiration so I filled my sketch diary with paintings inspired by lack of inspiration.

Goodbye sunny flowers. It’s oh so cold these days.

Goodbye flowers

The sun rays have left, they took with them my ability to create.

Cold Outside

At the table in my under pants I sit and wait.

Inspiration

Continue reading “Diary of an Uninspired Artist”