Black Doggerel

Today I officially love Facebook. I've always been massively wary of getting in contact with anyone I went to school with, for a bunch of reasons - we change so very, very much, we're all basically dickheads as teenagers, and my school career can be succinctly described as nasty, brutish and short.

Nevertheless, two people I was at school with have tracked me down anyway. One, Carolyn, was my BFF at prep school when we were both pony-mad prepubescents. I am enormously tickled to discover that she's still into horses, has herding dogs and keeps bees. I can't exactly say we know each other well any more, but she's plainly awesome.

She was someone I played pretending games and made up stories with. That, far more than ponies or even sheepdogs, is the thread between us that hasn't snapped in thirty years.

The other friend, Sarah, went to my last school when we were both in our mid-to-late teens. My memory of those times is spotty at best; I didn't know it at the time but I was already starting to fall through the cracks in my own brain. That last school was a good one, but the two before it had left me skittish as a trapped wild animal; I didn't have enough trust or resilience left to let it do me any good. I ran like hell the moment I could and never went back.

Today Sarah showed me a scan of a painting I did for her at the time. I am awed. See, I don't have any of my old work left any more, and haven't had for decades. For a long time now I've been certain my memories of being able to produce good work were false, the same as my memories of flying.

Except, bugger me, they're not. I can remember doing that painting, although without seeing it again I would never have remembered what it looked like or what I was trying to do. I don't really remember if I felt I'd succeeded at the time, but looking at it now, I certainly succeeded at something. And I think I might be able to use it to rediscover the part of me that's capable of doing that; because these unkept promises have been sitting here a year now. I haven't forgotten.

Thank you, Sarah <3

Bye now, 2010. I can't call this one a bad year or a good year - I lost my Dad, but my greatest fear had been that I'd lose him without finding him first, and that didn't happen. Spike got cancer, but we fought it and (touch wood) we won. The DWP and my own glands conspired to undermine every foundation holding me up, but I'm still standing.

2010's been the year with no middle ground. I've been wrestling a tiger all year, and some days he wins and some days I do. I've been holding my own, I'm even starting to move forward, but I am so godfucked tired and gunshy now. I really need a break from "interesting times." I hope to fuck 2011 can do that for me.

For everyone reading this, I wish you ease from pain, rain where it's needed, sunshine where it's wanted, snow where it's relished, and all the peace, love, joy and plenty you can take. I love you all.

And a special note to some of you - you know who you are. Thank you. I've kept a list of all your addresses, saved in two places so as not to lose it. I said when I promised artwork-for-help that I might take some time doing it; thanks to deathtired I've already taken more than I meant. I just wanted to say I'm not forgetting, I'm not going to break that promise. But please be patient a bit longer. The pills are working, but I still don't have enough energy to throw balls for the dogs two days running and making art takes a lot out of me. Thank you, again, some more.

HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE.

Spike is doing awesome well. I had this great long mental list of Things I Was Worried he Might Not Be Able To Do After His Surgery and he has now cleared the list completely. He can eat whole raw chicken quarters, albeit more slowly than before, and he does require them to be handed to him because he has trouble picking them up without his front canines, but once I do that he's good to go. He can gnaw on recreational beef bones, though he has voluntarily ceased his annoying habit of running round the room carrying one when he's very excited or wants to piss Squish off. He can play tug, although he needs to go carefully getting his initial grip right and his back teeth are far more destructive on the tug object than his front teeth were. He can catch tennis balls in midair. He can pick up and carry a football (soccer ball to you Colonials) although it does need to be a bit flabby for him to get a grip - I doubt he could do a fully inflated one any more. He can play the I'M A BIG HARD PROTECTION DOG BITING YOU game with me and he still drops my sleeve the moment I tell him.

My heart thumps every time I look at him. You didn't die, I say to myself in wonder. I got to keep you.

I have not forgotten gratitude or the list of people I am making art for. I love all of you.

I've been having a bad brain week, or more accurately few weeks, hence the lack of updateage. I sort of wanted to write a great long post about panic attacks, drugs, fear and mental illness but ...I don't think I can get any of that out right now. It's too loud and tangled and I doubt my ability to make sense about it. It'll go away and maybe I'll try and write it then. I don't know.


meanwhile, it is my niece Maya's fourth birthday today. FOUR. Holy crap.

oh yes - you know that TV meme that's been going the rounds? I'm too weltschmerzy and low energy to do it myself but my thanks to whoever it was that recommended Fringe. TOTALLY IN LOVE. Am also, as a direct result of said meme, in love with Justified, but I remember who recommended that and she isn't on my list. ANYWAY THANK YOU.

I have started and deleted this entry several times, because it's uncomfortable and I feel as though I'm doing something wrong.

The lovely people on Khimeros (which you should join because they are lovely people and there are pretty shiny fake pets on it like this) set up an art auction, unasked, to help pay for Spike's surgery. So I am finally making this entry because more than one of you has asked me to, and while I don't like to ask, I am not too proud to turn down help offered.

Well, the surgery's been paid for. So it isn't urgent. It isn't one of those "help me or my dog will have to stay sick" deals. But it was a lot. The diagnostic work pre-surgery came to £1500 - that was my DWP back pay and some that my Mum kicked in. The surgery itself came to £3000. It was paid for by my mother killing off her savings and running two credit cards up to the limit and my sister putting in £500 and now Mum doesn't have an emergency fallback if anything goes wrong in her life. I'm paying her back, but even if I live on ramen noodles and Smartprice baked beans for the rest of my life I can only pay it back pretty slowly.

So since I've been asked, if you want to help, if you can spare it, here it is:

That goes to Mum's bank account, it was set up specifically to help cover the surgery. Please don't think you have to or that you're a bad friend if you don't for any reason. You've already all been awesome; like a huge tidal wave of love and supportive.

My original idea was to try and do art commissions, but I have something close to a panic attack every time I think too hard about that one. What I thought I'd do is a kind of compromise: if anyone puts in more than £7 or $10 (i.e. enough to cover postage and a bit over) I will mail you something I painted. You'll need to give me a mailing address (comments to this entry are screened) and tell me what kind of thing you want. I don't guarantee I'll be able to do exactly what you want, and may fall back on dragons or flying unicorns instead, and it may take me some time, but I promise there'll be SOMETHING.

Meanwhile, Spike is doing good. His teeth need cleaning and his lower lip is getting all dry and cracked where it used to be covered by his upper lip but isn't any more, but these are minor things. He also informed me that handfeeding is for invalids and if I hold the bowl up for him he can eat out of it fine by himself, thanks.

I've caught Mum's bronchitis and have twisted my knee (that first night when Spike puked twice? I slipped in a small pool of it, landed on my arse and apparently near-crippled myself.) so I'm feeling like shit on a stick. But that's minor too, in the larger scale of things.

Love you all.

ugh ugh ugh. I'm committing art again. Or something. I don't even know yet if Spike is even a viable candidate for surgery, but I already know I can't afford it. My mother and sisters have all expressed themselves willing to help but it's still liable to be more than we can raise between us.

Also, I spoke to the vet's and they're not willing to accept bits of my bill being paid by third parties (no, I don't know why and I was too shredded to ask by this point). This being so, I'm not willing to just ask people to send me money for it, because I've got no way of proving I'm not just scamming everyone with a fake sick dog story.

I know you don't believe I would do that; as it happens you're right. But that's not the point.

...anyway, my sisters talked me into this when I was over there on Sunday. Personally I'd rather sell a kidney without an anaesthetic, but I'm fairly sure my age and medical history rule that out, so I'm giving this a whirl.

I'm thinking I might attempt dog portraits; it's possible I can do those acceptably enough for people who are crazy about their dogs and feel sorry for mine. Under the cut are two quickie attempts I did yesterday. Don't mistake them for any manner of finished thing, they're literally five-minute jobs that happened spontaneously after someone in the Khimeros chatroom posted pics of her doxie puppy and someone else retaliated with a pit bull mix.

The third is also unfinished; it's something that happened after I needed to step away from the Internet for a bit this afternoon and remembered to take my shiny box of unopened acrylic paints with me. Gods help me, this shit's insidious.

( aaaaaaaugh )

I've managed to cripple my fucking right hand somehow. It's not my usual swollen finger joints that I get when I type too much. this time it's the tendon that runs down the back of my thumb into my wrist. typing isn't TOO bad but mousing is near impossible, as is picking anything up. also, right now the shift key feels too much like fucking hard work - my apologies. okay, I went back and edited in most of the caps. too picky for my own good sometimes.

dunno if it was dog-inflicted - they have this way of suddenly pulling hard in opposite directions on-leash that's hell on any wrists and fingers caught in the middle - or if I did it to myself battling imaginary dragonslayers or playing stupid solitaire and slots games online for fake money. either way, I'm pissed off. fucking stupid shoddy meat-thing. shame I voided the warranty and replacement parts are such a bitch to source.

the only good thing about it is it's given me an excuse to continue not attempting to commit art for just a little while longer. now, I have been successfully avoiding the making of art for something like fifteen years - I've even got to the point where if I didn't have two living parents, all traces of my former artcrimes would have been expunged from existence.

but - once an addict, alway an addict. I've been running with the wrong crowd lately. I deluded myself into believing that I could stick to words. maybe I still can, but I'm increasingly conscious lately of my stash of unused paper, brushes, pencils, Fimo and acrylic paint. I'm seeing mind-pictures of the sweep of grey wings over waves, the flash of white teeth in the green, the spray of sand under hooves. I'm getting dangerously near that place where not attempting art hurts more than attempting it. I hate that so much.

my chosen soundtrack sums up the relationship between me and art so well that I need to show it to you. bob dylan is god.