Well, best intentions and all that. Many, many burps along the digestive tract of therapy, art, life in general. I did a bunch of these sloppy abstracts. Really, Pollack had nothing on me, stirring the paint around with my trusty putty knives, layer after layer, all wet and messy. It was cathartic, to say the least. And I LIKE them. They are visceral, kinetic, kind of edgy in a way I didn't think I could be. Of course, I am exploring that. My baby therapist said he didn't know many folks of my exalted age, verging on 70, who would do work this wrenching. And I thanked him, as he has taught me to do, and told him "I don't know who I am and I want to find out before I die." Yep, the cowwoman is on a voyage of self-discovery. Considering I fell out of the high chair (twice), out of the buggy, off the bed and off the potty, and a babysitter shot my father's loaded gun through my crib, and I burned my hand on the oven, and the dog bit me, I am lucky to have had any life at all. Seems I was not very important in the grand scheme of Mother's life, being female and all. And I tried to not be very important to my self for a lot of years, throwing myself under a man and adopting his way as mine, looking for love and approval. Now the life is mine, at least. Messy house, messy art, messy little dogs, it's all just fine with me. Yep.
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