why I write...

Why I Write.

I write because I don’t have a choice. It’s a part of me. I write about little girls growing up into women and all of the adventure, sadness, joy and drama that exists in between. I write to let go of my past and to hope and dream about everything my future can be. I write because it's easy and I write because it's the most difficult thing ever. I write when I want to cry. I write to blow out the candle always burning in the back of my brain. I write to quiet the buzzing and to see through the blur. I write because I like myself when I see my words. I write to stop the hate. I write to show my anger. I write so I don't have to say it to your face. I write to forget you. I write to distract myself and to distract you from me. I write to avoid sleep. I write out of guilt and because of pain. I write to stay young. I write so I can pretend I know more than I do. I write for my child. I write for alternate lives I could have lived. I write to learn to love myself. I write so you remember me. I write to make myself miserable. I write when I'm afraid to paint. I write when paint inspires me. I write to avoid everything. I write because it makes me feel pretty. I write when I want to scream. I write to hang on. I write to keep my eyes wide open. I write when I smell funnel cake and cotton candy. I write when the fruit is ripe and gorgeous and it needs to be said. I write to feel the ocean. I write to celebrate your life. I write to bury you deep inside the earth. I write for the future of other little girls who run to books to help them understand their ever evolving worlds. I write when I feel like hiding. I write because the world is ending and there is no way other way to stop it.  I write to smell the night air and lose myself in the dusk. I write because there is no point. I write because the moon is ablaze, then it blinks and its gone. I write because I want to fly away. I write to try to understand if there is god or something like it and what that means. I write because I don't believe. I write because I want to believe something. The truth is buried deep down and it's a relief to break through the tangled mess of words woven throughout time. I write to live forever. 

I write to heal the broken and I write to break the strong. 

If you write...why do you?


If you don't write...why don't you start?

about memories...

I wrote this poem a while ago. It's about my brother, inspired by this photograph. 

I really would like to see this poem published, it would make my whole world.

Carousel


There is a photograph of us, taken
when we were children with sticky chins
and round eyes full of stories rich
like chocolate éclairs, fluffy
with the sweetest cream,
in our darling outfits, red and blue with stars,
orange soda can in my tiny hand,
candy fluff stuck to your little boy fingers,
at some festival before our turn
to ride the colorful horses


A curious girl full of questions,
I asked our mother if I could
rewind and fast forward
in my mind the way our then new
video recorder played back pictures.
She told me about memories
and how they are felt, how they live
in every smell and sound.
Now I see them as water
rolling in, around and
through my mind until
they freeze and fill in with time.


I picture you, still
little boy face on a man
in uniform, gun in hand
with grim look, dusty
and dirty in a land
I’ve never been to and
I can’t understand
muddy grit that fills
your old soul eyes and
shows hollows below.
That heavy look pulls
and twists me inside.
The feeling lulls
in the morning time
when the blender of ice
spins, shatters and slows.

sometimes art finds you

Do I believe in art by accident? I'm not so sure...I mean, when it happens it's really fun and exciting but is it okay? 


I struggled with these various ink paintings for weeks it seems and when I finally had enough and peeled the tape away, ripping them off the flimsy acrylic boards I used for backing...something interesting happened.


Those silly boards became art to me. I looked at each one in different light and wondered why they were so cool. They really are fascinating to me...they almost feel intentional.


Maybe the struggle was all about these final art works...maybe this was what was supposed to be all along and when I finally stopped fighting the process something new and incredible was revealed.


What do you think?


Are accidents in art okay?


I stuck them against white drawing paper to see what they would look like against the white background.


I was speechless.


There is movement and color and feeling.


There is the ghost of the original intention, still there, but no longer the focus.

spilling out of my head

This came to me while I was working out tonight... and I just had to write it down on a notepad I had doodled on yesterday. 

I distance myself when I'm worried

it is a part of my nature

to curl up inside

a broken shell

cutting a crude line

to curl inside

where i feels safe...

       yet it isn't

I'm afraid 

and my voice becomes inside 

   it cracks

and scratches

inside myself I distance me

it's cool in the air tonight and a haze inside my silent self.

love...all of us.

Michael made this oh-so lovely video after capturing  many quiet  and profound snapshots of our family spending time with our Grandmother...You can also view it here.

I knew I wanted to travel to Arizona see my Grandmother for a while.  It was important for me to go and for my mother to as well. I know how very difficult it is for her...how can it not be?Though there is sadness, pain and so much heartache surrounding the decline of my lovely Granny Kay, Katherine Johnston, we have so much to celebrate as well, the love and the lasting effects of her beautiful life...

I will celebrate my mother, my lovely aunts and my uncle, and the memory of my uncle Patrick so vividly described by my mother which allows me to celebrate him too.

I will celebrate my brother the most incredible person I know and my gorgeous cousins.


I will celebrate all of the wonderful partners we have in our lives that support us and cherish us as we all should be cherished. Family is not always bound by blood but formed by love...


I will celebrate my Grandfather, Mister Mike...the bravest man in my sight today. My heart breaks for him but also sings at the thought of his infinite memories of his wonderful wife.

And I will celebrate the moments. Seeing my Grandmother's sweet brown eyes and those same eyes reflected in the family, holding her hands, The Bean drawing Grandma in her wheelchair...spending time with my family and hearing all of the stories of the before and the now. 


I will hold these moments  inside, locked tight like a memory that doesn't always speak but simply knows, without a doubt, the love that resides within a family born from a promise, a wife, a mother, a grandmother...a heart within our hearts forever.

I knew you

A pocket of time was stitched

a hole settled in the soft fabric

threads loosened

and time slipped out

slowly

I caught it in my my head

like a memory

A drop of time was spattered

a silken piece fell in eyelashes

rested quietly

and rolled down

your face

I held it in my hand

a reflection

your smile

always inside this threadbare place

dear granny kay

oh, actually it is fall

I love looking out my window to see these colors. Soon they will be gone and I'll be sad until a pristine white blankets the earth, even if it's just for a few moments. 


I just got back from a trip to Arizona to see my grandfather and visit my grandmother and it turned into a mini family reunion, full of both joy and sadness, beauty and heartbreak all wrapped up into one tight package that I will carry with me always. I plan to write about the experience sometime soon and share some photographs that Mike and I  took of moments with our Granny Kay. For now, I am thrown back into my world of school work although I plan to take breaks to watch the shifting of the seasons through my windows.


I have a lot flowing through my mind and my heart is so heavy it's very full; my heart is pulling me down into this space that makes me want to snuggle up in the sweater weather and cry awhile.


I wrote the following poem in high school and it is curled up inside my mind today...


Under falling leaves
safe inside my shadowed space


Gaze past the starlit sky
into white moonlight on my face


While I dream of times passed by


Soft blur of orange drift past my eyes
melding red and golden hue


Beauty sought to help disguise
memory of my knowing you


Breath like haze, fills numbing air


Blue color floods pink fingertips
As I simply stay and stare


Remember honey from your lips. 

seeking inspiration and love

A while ago I painted over this odd little landscape with white paint and stuck on the word "passion" cut out of a magazine. A few weeks/months/possibly years passed and I tried to pull off the glued piece. This is the result:

I kind of enjoyed how it looked, envisioning raw passion just emerging from the rubble of...something. It was a little dry and fungus looking though so I added some more paint and other words to the painting, including a note that Jenn had given me a long time ago. The note was intended to inspire writing topics so it's definitely fitting. Here is the final version:

Love it. It moves me and motivates me. I liked the playing and mixing of paint with words so I decided to do another painting in honor of my love, Jeffrey. I have been going through old letters, cards, love notes, lots of memories lately. I found an email that he had written me when we were still in college, busy writing papers and doing a thousand things, missing each other always. In the email he wrote: "Even though I can't talk to you, I'm thinking about you Allison. Constantly." This is before we ever said those three significant words or maybe even totally knew how deep our love really was/is for each other. I included some other notes, a piece of my diary from that time and a postcard that has the word "talk." Communication is obviously a really important part of any relationship and my communication with Jeff has always been special and constant, right from the very beginning. I have boxes of letters and emails to prove it! I also found a map that Jeff had made for me to find him when I came to visit him one of the first times at his school. I still love the little trees he drew. The colors are a blend of colors we both like, some cool blues and greens and some more earthy tones. The vibe is kind of hazy which fits my floating feeling of falling in love and melding together with another soul.


This piece is for me and it fits right in with the desire for inspiration. I call it "Constantly."

I heart my journal

oh yes, I have had many a journal over the years. I have kept most of them, especially the ones I wrote diligently in through high school and my first year of college. Mysteriously I stopped writing my feelings in a journal when I was nineteen and starting dating Jeff...before that I must have had a lot to bitch about!

It is fun and silly and kind of sort of embarrassing to read old entries. Some are touching, others tragically over dramatic and some just plain sad. I have had a few sad moments in my life and I managed to chronicle those with a great intensity. There are also some moments that were just too hard to bear with and I never had the strength to write them down. I guess I never wanted to give those feelings a face and a name, even tucked away inside my private diary.

I have had journals of my poetry and journals where I wrote down other writers poetry and things that just spoke to me, things I wanted to remember. I have had journals full of pictures and bits and pieces I either collected or were given to me by friends.

I have had journals where I detailed everything I ate, what I weighed and my exercise, one I kept for almost a year. I threw it away because I didn't want a physical reminder of recording that kind of thing. Not saying it's a bad thing to do...just not the best thing for me.

I have a journal where I write things I want to include in my novel, little thoughts or phrases that form sentences and eventually inspire chapters or character actions essential to the story. I started writing potential song lyrics in there too.

I had a journal that was a notebook between me and one of my childhood friends Katie. We elevated the high school note writing to notebook status and wrote each other back and forth all year long. I was always so excited to see what she wrote me that day.

I decided I needed something like that for Jeff when we were dating and not living in the same city. We have a little journal full of notes and silly drawings, poems and thoughts between each other.


I have had many sketchbooks that doubled as journals because along with drawings I included scraps of other inspirational types of things and sometimes notes about what I was thinking or feeling at the time.


I have journals detailing trips I took, one special one from my life changing, thought altering alternative spring break in Chicago. 

Other than notes for my novel, I stopped writing in a journal for a long time and instead wrote things on pieces of paper. I made lists and reminders to myself. I even taped sticky notes to my phone (I have yet to invest in any kind of awesome phone due to my not answering the one I have) of things I wanted to remember. Some of these scraps of paper ended up folded and quartered and shoved in my purse and a few months ago I found myself digging through them, unfolding them to see what they said. Then I realized I had a new journal, one that Jenn made for me.

It's so pretty and perfect. I came to the realization I needed to start a journal again. Badly. This journal could have everything in it: my art wish list, goals for the week, recipes, reminders, lists and fun thoughts.


I have carried this new journal around with me everywhere. It sits on my desk at work and I find myself flipping it open to write all kinds of things, ideas, questions, new recipes I want to try and personal thoughts. Sometimes I will just glue stick different things in that I think are pretty. It goes in my purse and home with me too. I am learning to never leave home without it.


I especially love the bird cage and the reminder to spread my wings. It always makes me smile. 

the miracle of life...

we joked a lot about that phrase during Jalaine's long and rough labor but Saturday August 27th, at 4:34pm what I saw can't really be described any other way. Jalaine and Sean welcomed their baby boy, Grady Brendan Colgan into the world yesterday and it was absolutely the most incredible thing I have ever witnessed in my entire life. I feel so happy that she allowed me to be such an intimate part of this special moment in their lives.


Obviously, I totally get how babies are born and how all of that stuff works but nothing really clicked until the moment I saw an actual life coming into this world. It was insane! Beauty and pain wrapped up so closely inside each other it was difficult to distinguish the two. I remember telling Jalaine that this would be the hardest and the best thing she ever did (I can only assume) and I really believe that. I had a new sense of awe for every mother I know, for mine and Jeff's and the two (make that three!) mothers' in Jalaine's delivery room. I felt an overwhelming feeling of love and admiration for women in general and this stunning thing we can achieve with our bodies. I also felt that admiration for the men that love these women...Sean was so sweet and wonderful to Jalaine. I already knew he was a good husband to her and it was so touching to see him on their journey together, celebrating the birth of their son.


I am exhausted so I can only imagine how Jalaine feels. I meant to spend my weekend painting, catching up on all the paint-less days I have missed these past few months. Grady came early so I didn't get the chance to paint but it doesn't matter because there is no way I could have captured with paint the true miracle of a new life. Love you Colgans!

phases and changes part three: freedom of expression

I did learn pretty quickly what freedom in terms of creation means to me. It means...no brushes unless I feel like it. It means weird sizes that maybe don't always fit the standard frame sizes. (still loving those long human figure like sizes) Sometimes it means no frames and raw canvas. It means spray bottles and squeeze bottles and paper with paint or paint on paper. It means stepping into the box of what is supposed to be "professional" art and stepping right back out again because who wants those rules? I thought art didn't have any rules?


Oh, I have learned a lot. I learned a lot when I was in school studying fine art. I learned from private art lessons and I learned from other artists and I even learned quite a bit working in an art store. I learned from snotty self righteous critiques from self proclaimed "real" artists and I learned from honest helpful and humbling commentary too. I learned when during a senior painting class I randomly painted a bunch of snorkeling and playing in the ocean scenes from my honeymoon and later wondered why on earth did I paint those?! Well, I'm pretty sure I chose that subject because I was remembering a beautiful time and that was okay for that moment in my life.

I am still learning and reaching out to more artists, friends, colleagues and the wonderful world of books and the internet to continuously learn.


I know you shouldn't put glass over canvas and you should use archival mat boards, artist tape, acid free papers and other materials to protect your art. I know about different mediums you can use with paint and what types of brushes give a certain effect. I know certain acrylic paints are a more professional grade and do work better. I know how to clean my brushes and prime my canvas and what is acceptable for framing and hanging work. I know that Yupo paper is amazing.


You know what else I know? I know that sometimes it's okay to buy cheaper paint because that's all I can afford. Guess what, I'm still an artist. I also know that I can add water (free) to virtually all of my paints (even the softer bodies with more flow already) and really extend them to create the effect I want. I have done that with virtually all of my paintings and I find water works better than most of the mediums and extenders sold for that purpose. I'm not knocking all the cool stuff. I love Golden products. However, if I can only put money into my art if I sell art (that's the new reasoning)...for now it's got to be more on the "free" side!


I know I want to sell art but I don't really want to pay for a wall to display it although I am starting to think I might have to. I know my framing skills aren't the best but I can do enough to get by without going the pro route. 


I also know that all those home makeover shows are very fun to watch but they REALLY piss me off when they hand someone a canvas and some wall paint and tell them to make "art". Cool, if you want to try your hand at painting I am all for it. But when you slap some paint that matches your room decor on a board in thirty minutes and call it abstract it makes me want to scream at you to support the local artists in your area. Hey, you might even find someone to donate something if it means showing your work on a popular tv show. You have my number if you want a donation. Oh, and it also really pisses me off when this supposed art actually looks good, just sayin.


I know I love art...I love painting and I still want to crawl into some place warm and dark when I think about showing in galleries or restaurants or anywhere else. Obviously I want to and I am proud to show my work but I'm still always afraid. I'm afraid of the judgement and the explanation and the proof that what I'm doing really is pretty damn good. Did I check all the right boxes? Did I do what I was supposed to do? Does someone think I am also just slapping paint on a board?


Jenn sent me a nice comment about my previous blog on abstract and non-objective art. She enjoyed how I explained the process and I think that's something really important to note when you hear me trashing those decorating shows and their version of creating art work.


Expression comes in so many different ways. I hope you can see it in every line and swirl in my work, whether it is something non-objective or something you can recognize. Thanks for listening to me today. I appreciate everything you have to teach me.

happy things part two

random paintings stacked up waiting to be finished

scrap mat board used as a palette

details

using a frame in a different way

fun drawings from college drawing workshop

perry the penguin - a gift from Jeff on our six month dating anniversary

stuff I just need to hold onto

pictures and words I have to frame

my thermos found at a garage sale...have you seen The Jerk? You really should.

passion for life...

Thank you Jenn for sending me this lovely quote.

If you are passionate about something, inspiration is all around you. It shows up on any given day and in every possible way. When your passion fades, inspiration stops revealing itself."   - Kyle Bunting

words make life bearable (thank you)

definitely in a slump...luckily I have my headphones with me and Suzanne Vega is whispering sweet somethings in my ear.

The other day I declared I am lyrically in love with Suzanne Vega.

she is such great painting music for me;  I think I hear something new every time I listen to her words. I have to give a big shout out to Bradley Campbell my uniquely great high school English teacher. I am pretty sure he played the first strains of Suzanne Vega  that I ever heard and yes, they seemed weird at the time.

Mr. Campbell was such an awesome teacher. He had a ton of cheesy jokes and particularly liked puns. get the drift even though it's not snowing? (somewhere if jalaine reads this she is laughing and shaking her head) He brought a lot of pop culture into our English classes, music and movies and different video clips. He was great at showing us poetry outside of the book pages. While all the other classes were embarrassing themselves and putting on ridiculously bad versions of Shakespearean tragedies we were studying grammar. Maybe that sounds boring but I learned more in those lessons than I ever would have wasting time making a fool of myself in front of the entire school. Maybe that is uncool of me but hey, I wasn't cool in high school and I'm definitely not cool now. I do however, know how to use a semi-colon.

Anyway...Mr. Campbell was one of the several English teachers that really helped me understand what I love.
I loved being read to and reading when I was a child (thank you mom)
I started to love amazing, beautiful, incredible, adjectives in elementary school (thank you Ms Neilson)
I especially embraced creative writing in junior high (thank you Mr. Romine)
I became a better writer and learned how to spell the word separately in high school (thank you again Mr. Campbell)
I learned how to read literature and analyze poetry (thank you Mrs. Lair)
I matured with both reading and writing (thank you professors...you all helped in specific ways)

And to you Suzanne Vega...you are sublime and your words make my dreams feel like they could burst out of my head at any moment and dance across my eyelids.

Thank you. It means the world to me.

...i bet you think this song is about you

I think this better than ezra song is about me, hey it even has my name! (minus the E and the car accident/dying part  - yikes) I know the initial premise is a little morbid but hey, it's what I would want should my time come and there are some key things in there that are totally me...
if you know me well enough think you can pick them out? :-)

Allie woke up 8AM

Graduation day.
Got into a car,
And crashed along the way.


When we arrived late to the wake,
Stole the urn while they
Looked away,
And drove to the beach


'Cause I knew you'd want it
That way.
And you were standing
On the hood of the car


Singing out loud
When the sun came up.


And I know I wasn't right,
But it felt so good.
And your mother didn't mind,
Like I thought she would.


And that REM song was playing
In my mind.
And three and a half minutes
Felt like a lifetime


It felt like a lifetime

And you move like water
I could drown in you.
And I fell so deep once,


Till you pulled me through


You would tell me
"No one is allowed to be so proud
They never reach out
When they're giving up."


Are you sitting in the lights?
Or combing your hair again,
And talking in rhymes?
Are you sitting in the lights?


When I got home, heard the phone,
Your parents had arrived.
And your dad set his jaw
Your mom just smiled and sighed.
But they left soon
And I went to my room.
Played that disc that you'd given me,
And I shut my eyes
Swear I could hear the sea...

love this...always have.

Clenched Soul


We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.

I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.

Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.

I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.

Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?

The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.

Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.


-Pablo Neruda






And now...for mine:




Wall Flower


We danced in solemn grace
Far apart as good boys and girls are
Nothing touching
Everything wanting to
A piece of you was stuck in my coat
A stray hair, an eyelash.


You pulled me out of shadows
With a nod and brush of fingertips we became 
a tidy space, comfort for a moment.


After a light sweep of my neck you lingered on my shoulder
I watched pools of lights from the car receding
Dazed behind my locked front door.


I slept softly
Thoughts of warms hands on hip and back
Kept me awake at first
Biting at my sheet to keep from smiling loudly, wildly in the dark.


-Allison Day

changes

I cut almost four inches of my hair off last Wednesday. Well, a professional did anyway, which is a good thing. It's something I typically do when I feel like I need to shake something off. I'll get some beautiful haircut or color, panic when I pay the bill, schedule an appointment to "touch up" and then inevitably cancel it, let my hair grow into this disgusting mess and then in a moment of depression and frustration run off to the first place that will take me without an appointment and cut it off/color it/make it pretty.

You know how some places are all lit up, white and blinding to showcase the beautiful people cutting hair? This place was like that and all it did was showcase my face, peering back at me unbelievably from the mirror. I literally had to look away I was so horrified.

I've been tired, run-down, circles under the eyes, can't sleep at night, sore, tired can't get anything done, drive myself crazy stressed...and I don't even have children! I don't know how you mom's out there do it...I can barely take care of myself. Anyway, I looked into the mirror while I was getting my hair cut and I couldn't believe the bloated, pasty, skin not so great, bloodshot eyed person staring back at me. I really wanted to cry. The pretty haircut looked out of place stuck on my head.

I'm turning almost 30 soon. Not 29, almost 30. I swear I actually thought I was already 29 for the last eight months. I even told people I was 29. One day I asked Jeff how old I was because I was so confused and he's like, um...you're 28. 28 going on 30 apparently.

Jenn likened my personality to a flower, something her husband has said about her... I'll just quote what she said:

"your favorite flower is the tulip and it SHOWS.  Jacob makes fun of me all the time for being like a tulip.  When things are good, I'm great.  Tall and pretty and happy.  But as soon as things get a little rough or I need a little water I flop down to the ground.  Another good example is the Gerbera Daisy.  They are so cute and pretty.  They face the sun and stand up tall, but don't forget to water them or they close up and wilt over and pout like crazy.  The funny thing is, all they need is a little attention and they pop right back up.  You, my dear, are a flower." 

During this time of stress and anxiety Jenn also sent me the perfect thing:

Thank you...I so needed that.

happy valentines day

I Remember You As You Were 


by: Pablo Neruda


I remember you as you were in the last autumn. 
You were the grey beret and the still heart.
In your eyes the flames of the twilight fought on.
And the leaves fell in the water of your soul.

Clasping my arms like a climbing plant
the leaves garnered your voice, that was slow and at peace.
Bonfire of awe in which my thirst was burning.
Sweet blue hyacinth twisted over my soul.

I feel your eyes traveling, and the autumn is far off:
Grey beret, voice of a bird, heart like a house
Towards which my deep longings migrated
And my kisses fell, happy as embers.

Sky from a ship. Field from the hills:
Your memory is made of light, of smoke, of a still pond!
Beyond your eyes, farther on, the evenings were blazing.
Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

we make shit out of art

Jenn took this picture of me in our second college apartment. We decided to convert the dining room area into an art space. Who needs a table anyway?

I was working on one of the seemingly millions of self portraits my evil figure painting professor demanded. She was a brilliant artist but not so nice. She would grab the paint brush out of your hand and paint on your painting to emphasize her point. She made multiple students cry (I never teared up in front of her but let it go outside of class for sure) The worst thing she did was lock her two toy poodles inside her office and then leave for random periods of time. They  barked. A lot. 

Anyway...guess what the best part of this picture is? Hint: it's on the fridge.

I am hoping for a snow day so I can finish up some almost done art projects and start some new ones that are leaping around inside of my head...

winter, discontent, feeling restless today

some mistake tragedy for tragic and pain for place of self
most neglect to understand the pen not in the face of soul
but as TELLER of soul


it is broken shard of mind that caresses the paper and extracts specks of...pain?
all an artist knows is what spills aimless
drifting pieces of color, letters form thoughts, form words, sentences
hope, deny and create self.


artists do not speak 
they scream with each pin point of searing (pain?) and rest at peace


please


don't understand my mind and tell me, wonder, tell me, smile
when you haven't listened for my heart beat in sleep 
at least a thousand times.


No art for me today, it is such a day of rest that both Jeff and I totally need. But like the song says: "you were always on my mind"