Pet Pages

Some mornings, my thoughts greet me at the door like an excited large fluffy dog, licking and jumping all over me before I can open my eyes, leaving drool all over the page.

Other mornings, they tiptoe in like a cat on quiet soft pads, slyly approaching and rubbing against my legs before finally jumping into my lap where it sits purring lovingly all across the page.

Then there are the mornings where my ideas are like my bearded dragon lizard that has found a good hiding nook. I go room to room calling out to no avail. I look under the tables, sofas and chairs. I pull out the couch and move the large Amazon box that arrived last week (the one filled with that thing I just had to have – but now I know not what's even in there.) I look behind my planters and inside my closets. Finally, I see the tip of its tail sticking out from behind a shelf. I grab it and drag it out with its claws scraping the floor. The cold blood that runs through him has paralyzed him motionless. He lays there waiting for me to put him under a light so he can warm up and come alive and finally fill my page.  

A Stinky Rascal

 March 5, 2026

A Stinky Rascal

They say be careful what you wish for. 

I am an artist. I draw, paint, and write. And I do each one fairly well. No, I do not live my life in a profession that allows me to hone these skills/hobbies/talents/gifts. Well, I suppose one might say I do as I try to teach 75 totally uninterested sixth graders the long lost and quickly disappearing art of writing due to AI. Instead, I live my life feeling stifled by a lack of time to ever perform any of them, (this writing aside of course.) In the last year, I made a pledge to myself to make time. So I re-read the Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and proceeded to spend the entire summer writing Morning Pages. I spent afternoons working on and finishing a short story that I vowed to publish on Amazon KDP – no it’s not there yet, but at least I finished. I purposely chose a short story to allay the overwhelming feeling of tackling a whole novel while I’m in this baby step phase of reclaiming my long lost loves.  I also began painting. I painted tiny little pictures that were portable for my upcoming first art fair. You see, I have an MFA and used to paint on canvases that were 4’x3’ at the smallest and 4’x7’ at the tallest. That will not happen again. It literally takes a room to store all those paintings from grad school 25 years ago that I cannot seem to part with. (Emotional attachment is real.) But I digress, so as I near retirement I have vowed to start honing my skills to prepare for a life of artistry in my leisure time. I will write, and create works of art. 

Well, someone got wind of my talent, maybe it was the art fair, maybe it was me seeking praise and confirmation for my long lost art skills. And now I have been invited to show at a huge fundraiser. I am to stand there and perform like a trained monkey painting on site (something I would never do), while displaying other completed pieces that I have not even started yet because I was also given a theme to paint. Meanwhile, people who do not value true art but want a piece of it will clamor for me to sell it at ridiculously devalued prices as if it is a machine made giclee print being sold in TJ Maxx for $40.00. Even if I sell it at a very reasonable $500 for time, materials, framing, and execution. The organization will want their cut to go towards their scholarships. 

Maybe that's why I dreamed last night that I went out foraging. I came in and some mushrooms fell out of my bag. Then, I put it in the corner, and it began to move. Next a baby skunk crawled out and before I could react, a baby racoon popped its head out of the bag too. I guess something stinks, and I am going to be dealing with a relentless mischievous rascal. Be careful what you wish for.

Leaving a Glass Slipper

I made a promise to myself that I would write every week. After all, it is the least that I could do for myself. You see, I love writing. However, I tend to put everything and everybody from classwork to housework, ahead of myself, so there is no time left for me. So tonight, as I sit here pounding out a quickie just to satisfy my goal, I ponder the usefulness in this act. This  writing falls way short of my normal pages long cathartic pieces that also double as euphoric endorphin releasers. Instead, I race the clock and hammer out perfunctory pieces that waste my time as well as that of other SOL readers. I said I would be ready this week, yet, as the clock nears 10:50 pm, I sit here once again, tip tapping away. I suppose, the flip side to not writing with depth is that I am writing, though I must admit, I feel like Cinderella coming out for just one dance at the ball before the clock strikes twelve leaving you with this glass slipper.