He says I look like a ninja now

Last night I moved like a ninja while someone chased me, I think it was a man. The woman who was supposed to kill me decided not to kill me after all, and we faked my death. But this man discovered that I was still alive and started hunting me again.

I was afraid of the water, as always, but I would climb out of windows and safely maneuver down to the ground. During waking hours, I am not so certain of my balance and strength. It’s tempting, though.

One of these days, I will take pictures of the work in my sketchbook and developing in my paintings. In the meantime, here are some things I have found somehow or other:







The last time I checked, we were heading out into the snow-covered wilderness to escape a powerful group of men who were trying to assert permanent dominance by raping and impregnating us. Some of the women were not trust-worthy, more crab-like. They found my secret room.

It’s time to go.

don’t call me cupcake

A couple months ago I started regularly dreaming about situations that involved me trying to lock someone or something out only to find it was already inside or that it came inside anyway. On one occasion I was locking the door and as I backed away from it, a man lunged forward from the corner. On another occasion, I fussed with the locks and thought I had managed to lock the door, but it wasn’t actually locked and the man found me hiding in the bathroom. (The latter was much more common.)

It was usually in this house that I dream of often, although there are a few different houses, and they’re only common component is a secret passageway and room that I think I am the only one who knows about. I often used the passageway and room to escape and hide. Hiding and escaping has seemed to replace the not-really-locked doors scenario. I’m still trying to escape, but now I have to leave the house. If I stay in my secret room, I risk being found. In fact, I’ve been forced out a few times and caught once because I waited too long to leave.

Of course, last night I dreamed that I was scavenging for weapons and make-up, as in a video game, and decided to hide in a bathroom instead of going out to fight my enemies since I couldn’t find any ammo. Just orange mascara, red nail polish, and blue nail polish. Suddenly aroused, I started surveying the room for something to use to rub on myself. (The backside of a mens’ shaver, anyone?) When two women found me, instead of shooting me they brought me outside into their van. As I sat between them with bags of flour, sugar, and blocks of butter on my lap, they groped me and tried to convince me that my husband wouldn’t care if I had sex with them.

Mostly what I’m left with is the odd recollection of melted butter between my thighs.

I’m not entirely confident in my abilities to understand my dreams, but they have demonstrated on multiple occasions – especially the reoccurring dreams – that they are somehow important. They tend to show me things that I am not addressing, for one reason or another.

When I was about 9 years-old I made a decision not to tell my parents something important because I didn’t want to deal with the unintended punishment. I wanted to play outside and run around and have time alone. I didn’t want to be afraid all the time, like they appeared to be.

Surely, you understand why this is funny now.

Hiroshi Sugimoto

I had a dream not too long ago that I was performing on a stage for a handful of men and one woman. Over the course of my performance, I became more and more changed – seaweed, barnacles, shells, crabs, octopus. They were all over me. Most of the men didn’t seem to see it. Or I assumed they didn’t because they were still interested, giving me That Look. (But maybe they did. And maybe that’s why?) One of the men tried to intervene. I stood on stage after the performance, dripping sea water onto the hardwood stage, spot lite still on me. I watched him argue with the others.

I’m not off the hook either.

Texas plays

It’s raining. It was raining in my dream this morning, too. There was a naked girl and I gave her a piggy back ride, running through a parking lot. The idea behind this was that if I carried her, people wouldn’t be able to see as much of her body. Men would stop leering. Her menstruation blood left an ink blot on the back of my sweater that looked like a voice recording. I couldn’t carry her, she kept sliding. People were staring. We ran.

Yesterday I spent a few hours working in my sketchbook, today feels like it will be similar, with some painting mixed in there. My studio and the kitchen are right next to each other with a swinging door separating both rooms from the rest of the apartment. Most of the time I prop the door open, but if I decide to close it, it’s like Rapunzel in her tower. And I cut off all my hair, so you can’t fucking come in.

Unless you bring me a soy dirty chai latte.

I’ve had many studios, including my bedroom years ago, which I turned into a studio when I got rid of my bed to make more room for painting. It’s tricky, figuring out how to make a space work. If it will work at all. This is one of the better studios I’ve had, despite it’s rather small size.

A bluejay christened it when he found himself trapped in here a couple months ago. In some cultures, poop is a good sign. I’ll take it.