The Ones I Like...

I'm a very prolific artist, if nothing else, but since I'm working with the idea of patience, it dawned on me that I might like to admit that of all the work I did in 2012, I really only truly like a couple handfuls of the pieces, and I'm not sure why or how they happened. I feel like in 2013 I'd like to settle down a little bit into what I like, and make more of it, so I'm sharing the standard with as much courage as I can muster. I don't expect anyone else to share my opinion at all, to be honest. I only would like to aim for what I want to aim for and find a way to harness my prolific skills towards something that matters to me. So, in no order at all, here are the ones I like and will start aiming for:

Cabeceo, Oil Pastels on Black Paper, 24" x 28" ,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnons

Opens the Door, Oil Pastels on Archival Paper, 11" x 14",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Lauren, 8 1/2" x 11" Oil Pastel sketch,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Frequency, Oil Pastel sketch,
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Moonlight, Oil Pastel Sketch, 7" x 4",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Ups and Downs, Oil Pastels on Archival Paper, 11" x 14"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Cattle, Oil Pastels on Black Paper, 8" x 10"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

'Round, Oil Pastel Sketch, 8 1/2" x 11"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Hanged One, Oil Pastel on Black Paper, 8" x 10",
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

What if, Oil Pastel Sketch, 8" x 10"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson


An odd little collection to consider.

Such a Little Thing

Oh my, the reliance we have on our brains! One moment I was kissing my husband, "Hello!" and the next I was being carried down to a flashing ambulance. I see flashes of things happening in between, but no real sense of the timely quality of those moments. My brain was working ever so hard to make sense of things that cannot be made sense of - a seizure of electric current that has been captured by my system and blown to epic proportions inside my sweet little brain all because I have no patience. I have no patience, I know it. I know it and I want it and I have no idea how to gain it except via little calamities like a brain seizure.

"I have never been a patient person..."

Here are the waning days of an all too memorable year when I let them saw open my skull and cleanse the space between my ears. Recovery from such a thing is not so terrible. One cannot feel the brain sewing itself back together again, and, as the thinking continues, one can easily be fooled the work is done if one is not honed with patience. If one is not inclined to relax and let go of control even a bit to the benefits of anti-convulsive medications, then it could look like a leap of courage to go forth drug-free. It appears that it is just impatience and resistance in a new form. Without the medications I had a full brain seizure, lost minutes, spent hours regaining them in the ER at Avista Hospital in Louisville, CO. (The staff gets A+ for their sense of humor and thoroughness in getting the veins poked and the CAT scans done.)

I don't like the anti-seizure medications because they upset my tummy. So to offset that side effect, I take other medications. They also make me itch. So I take even more medications just to take this sort of reasonable drug that keeps me from having explosions going off in my head. It all makes me tired, and I don't like that either. I really must nap every day. Imagine that. Napping. Like a brain that has been invaded with gamma rays needs rest. Huh.

Never have I been in such a hurry to be alive as I have in 2012, and it is slow-going instead. Now, I've been forbidden to drive again (and anyone in the Denver Metro area should be counting that as a blessing really), and so I can't go any place on my own. I am a wanderer by nature and, believe me, I have covered the tracks around here with my walking. There is really no place new to go by foot. My kids will not be able to stay with me on school nights, until this driving rule changes, because there is no one to get them to their morning destinations. Everything seems to be upside down to where I would prefer it to be thanks to this impatient habit of mine to go directly for what I want against the wisdom of others. I can see now that I'm going to have to take a much more sinuous route towards my goals of independence.

In 2013 I'm going to work on patience. That's the umbrella goal under which all other aims shall be taken. Patience will help me to appreciate things that I think I appreciate, but obviously throw to the wind when I put down patience in favor of boldness. How lucky am I that my husband was home to catch me when I fell over convulsing without conscience? How lucky am I that my daughter walked me to the front of the apartment letting me argue about where we were, and LAUGHED with me about it later? How lucky am I that my wasband will take the children during the school week until I can drive again?  How lucky am I that my dog is not a needy dog and put up with scraps until I could pull myself together to get some food prepared? The list goes on and on. Patience feeds my good fortune with this kind of gratitude when bravado tried to steal it away forever.

Lio in 2012, Oil Pastels on Encausticbord, 11"x 14"
 2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

Bea in 2012, Oil Pastels on Encausticbord, 11" x 14"
2012 (c) Amanda Morris Johnson

With patience in 2013, I will rest. I will focus on things I rarely have given time - like just my body and mind and soul. My accomplishments from patience will be hidden like the warp of a textile without which the cloth would not exist. With patience I will seek the basis of me once more that, perhaps in a year, I will be ready to once again dismiss the medications that keep me stable because I will have given the invisible time to heal. I write all of this with blushing demure because I know it is all against my nature. I may as well be training for some amazing feat, but no, not at all. I will be training for patience. Patience. Patience.

Free

Mid-day, as the sun is high above,

When things should be obvious,

I am ever and always standing in a fog

On the narrowest of bridges, less than

The width of my foot and over an expanding

Canyon I am sure  there, where I’ve come from,

There are triumphant steps made certainly,

But also vast numbers of stumbles saved by the hooks

I’ve accepted in my heart when seemingly

No other way remained for standing. See how

They hold me up on this careful crossing? Later

I realized how slowly I have to move to

Keep the pain

Minimized as the illusion of safety nets

Reach up to whip me into line

On the tight, tight rope

While I dream of emancipation on the

Other side of this abyss even as Freedom

Emerges from the fog on a banner of promise

Suspended somehow, and leading me to

Believe that hope lies

Not on the other end of this bridge

But in the grace of letting

Hooks rip out as I fall into me.

2012 © Amanda Morris Johnson