It’s hard not to look at her. She has a habit of catching your gaze and holding onto it for dear life.
I catch myself staring at her all the time.
There is an intensity and a mystery that draws me in. She has an inner strength that refuses to be dimmed.
It’s pieces like this that really urge me to keep painting. I want to create that emotional connection again and again.
I wish I could get a better picture of her. This one makes her look slightly washed out. She looks much better in real life.
She is painted on a 16×20 canvas board. No framing.
Tarnished, bruised and mislabeled.
She fought on.
Hidden behind shallow mirrors.
She is bruised, crying, disheveled and worn down.
But there is still a brightness in her eyes, something that calls out, and begs you to look at her. To really see her. This is not the perfect beauty we are used to seeing. This is not the twisted womanhood that women are supposed to strive for.
She has slipped her mask. This is the state of womanhood.
Sure, it’s been that way for a long time, but I think we are being shown deeper facets of it and asked to look in ways and places we hadn’t before.
At the same time, this isn’t the face of a woman beaten and broken down. Aphrodite isn’t really one to sit back and take whatever shit is being handed to her. She always finds away to make sure her needs are met.
What are you willing to do to get what you want? Are you willing to be seen as you are?
Deep rooted Priestess, connected to the core.
Immersed, Wanton, Magick.
Black feathered, sharp toothed, and feral.
Creature of hidden treasures.
There is a trend with ‘Gurus’ of various industries that love to tell us to go big or go home, to do epic shit, to make 6-7 figures from anywhere and a bunch of other bullshit.
There is no place for deep rooted living, time that moves at a more sensual pace or creating a life that really is about you and what you want instead of what some wanker trying to sell you something says you want.
Oh and if you really want something different, well you clearly don’t know what the fuck you want. Fuck that shit.
I recently had someone tell me I didn’t know what I wanted from life because I wasn’t conforming to his life. Please know that when someone tells you this, it isn’t true. You always know what is best for you (even if you don’t always believe you do). People who say these things are trying to get something from you, not help you. Even if they believe they are being helpful.
I want to be able to sleep in with my husband every fucking day.
That might seem like a bullshit goal to some, but it’s important to me. Reaching that goal means I earn enough money that my husband doesn’t have to go to a crap job anymore. Which means I’ll have to earn quite a bit, but the emotion behind that goal will make so much easier to reach.
I could say I want to earn 6 figures. But without the emotional connection, a deep reason, it is a meaningless goal. Meaningless goals are usually never achieved & if you do happen to get there it’s only to find out it sucks and not at all what you wanted.
I want to help women create the lives they want, ones with deep meaning, even if it doesn’t fit into the little boxes that society wants us to fit in. Those little boxes are so lame.
How would your life look if you were The Priestess of your life? How would it feel?
Our feet stomp to the beating of her wild heart.
Dancing the moonlight. Dancing the stars.
Spinning. Whirling. Feral.
Spring Fever is burning through my veins like the heat of summer sun on my skin. I want to fling open the all the windows and doors. I want to wander the woods and breathe in the fresh air. Of course, everything here is still walking the thin line between snow, ice and mud. And it will be for awhile.
But this feeling is more than being stir crazy from winter. It runs strongly toward being stir crazy with life. I’ve been living in winter for years.
Lost lines of shadows fall across the gleaming night, burning back the last whispers of light.
We wait in the darkness, bleeding hearts in hand, moon blinked & wild.
My new Moleskine arrived. I stared into its blankness and worried about ruining it. Worrying about not being able to fill it with the magick I wanted to. Worried that I can’t use it as a regular journal.
I let that worry go and let the words flow. This journal is more for words than art.
The special words that need a special place to be saved and remembered.
This isn’t a journal for tracking the mundane passing of days.
It freaks me a little, peeling back my flesh and sharing what lies beneath. But it also feels important and sacred.
Ever since the energy working I had, things have been spinning wildly around me and not moving at all. It is a strange space to be in, hurdling toward some unknown future while seemingly standing still.
There’s some shifts and changes. I have no idea what they are. I don’t know where I’ll be or what things will look like when it is all done.
I’ve been told it is for the best and it will be all good. I think that is true. I certainly don’t feel like everything is going to shit. But I’m almost holding my breath waiting for it.
So things might get a little quiet here, they might get a little weird or I might tear down this whole site and start again. Even though I’ve just done that and the thought of doing it again scares me. I don’t know what I would replace it with. More art? Morbid scraps of poem-ish writings? Random brain matter? Ghost Stories?
I have no fucking idea.
All things point toward an all-consuming fire burning me up. I have no clue what will crawl up from the ashes.