Doorknob

i feel tired sometimes in a way that exhausts me

that the hold it all together somehow

gumption

has fallen flat,

that an all consuming tired has taken over.

in pandemic times i took on DO.

do things to keep me busy

do things to challenge me

do

things.

the energy to do is just not on target always.

some days are not as

listless

mondays however are seriously

too much tired.

i’ve got some health stuff.

i am sure that adds to the tired.

and some drama.

i heard that my father died.

the family didn’t tell me until 6 weeks after the fact.

the hurt and anger i feel that they did not tell me comes and goes

waves.

not a sense of loss

a huge pissed off feeling instead.

i masturbated the other day and injured my parts.

like a wound.

who does that?

there were two photos from the set below

one is full length

the full length one bothered me because my ankles are covered in scars

from my cat.

not sharing that one.

i am fat, bearded, scarred and pissed.

lovely!

the image i decided to share today

shows how long my hair has gotten

but check out that doorknob.

that’s the real picture right there

A Tone Of Sorts

gee, 5 years already.

today marks an anniversary

i got dumped on this day.

such a mix of i really knew better and this isn’t working reality

but shit, i so didn’t have a plan.

just weeks prior

these images were taken.

i don’t know how these happened

actually.

he was not easy to work with in this way.

participating within my creative ideas and all.

these are a vibrant set of images

that i really love.

perhaps he was enjoying himself too?

the tone of them is immediate.

as circumstances go it was a long weekend

my standing in the doorway shirtless would otherwise have not have been a thing to do.

today.

for fun, or to honor said five years – i removed him, leaving just his hand.

a ceremony of sorts.

creative ceremony

with a bit of fuck you on the side.

felt demonstrative to do that.

i like them even more.

in things pandemic

these images sure resonate with the word TOUCH

or 

the lack of.

or in my case, the lack of.

since leaving him. 

forever ago.

i feel like screaming TOUCH ME from the roof tops.

an ache that is rattling inside me.

i know you feel that too.

i sometimes feel the weight of all of us missing normalcy.

as days go today

i am in a mood of sorts

distracted to derailed

to

i can’t remember the third “d” word.

angry. annoyed.

the top image with the doorknob is my very favorite.

 

 

 

 

Goddess

I’ve been wondering about GODDESS.

not woo woo goddess

not mystical goddess

or religious goddess.

at least literally.

i mean figuratively.

i mean the adored goddess

the old, fat, wise one.

and HER shape.

bear with me. pondering post ahead.

A goddess is a female deity. Goddesses have been linked with virtues such as beauty, love, sexuality, motherhood and fertility. They have also been associated with ideas such as war, creation, and death. In some faiths, a sacred female figure holds a central place in religious prayer and worship. ( wikipedia )

when you and i met

12 years ago.

TWELVE YEARS AGO!

i had just lost a bit of weight.

i can’t remember if i ever divulged how much weight i lost

when i began photographing  myself here at anonymously nude

i had just lost 100 pounds.

yay me!!

i irst posted to show courage, and to understand what another sees.

the camera and my minds eye told two different stories

i found self love before self love was a hashtag

i LIKED what i was then.

in 2015, eight years later, a surge of unexplained weight gain occurred.

enough gain to scare me.

35 lbs in 30 days.

i blew up.

it felt like i blew up

the gain was like get to the dr scare me.

“you must be menopausal ” the endocrinologist said.

SIGH

fast forward to now. 2020

all that weight. all those ONE HUNDRED POUNDS

is back.

UGH. it didn’t happen over night, the 2015 surge started it all …

recent dr work confirms – I don’t have cancer, or a brain tumor

YAY.

but two years into figuring IT out

i can’t lose weight.

i’ve lost my knees, and my feet hurt

and my thighs are thick.

and my self love is

HARD.

really hard to find the love

reasons why, like health reasons are still being explored.

BACK to goddess.

I began wondering about community

because to have that level of adoration one has to earn it.

bear with me.

i was back in town – the town i grew up in

on a break from school,

this guy from my grade school life

pumped my gas.

we talked for a really really long time

and he was a such delight.

like a guy i just wanted to hug.

and seeing him again and the feeling of our great conversation lingered

my growing up was detached from the community i lived in

he alone in those moments,  made me feel like i belonged somehow.

and then he died. death by choking on his vomit death.

horrified. mortified. not even equipped to …

i didn’t have the f-ing guts to attend the funeral.

because if i did that would have meant that i was part of the community somehow.

i’ve never spoken about this.

i have been thinking about how i was raised.

my one sibling and i agree

we were not parented.

we made it up as we went along.

literally.

who influenced me???

definitely the mothers of my friends, the librarians – is that weird? i loved those ladies. I felt so welcome and loved at the library, the nuns? uh no? ( actually … i’d have to think hard about that one. what characters those nuns were. perhaps there is more influence than i give credit . different conversation) 

MY POINT is in order to establish SELF AS GODDESS

one has to have a community who adores THEE.

perhaps that’s why i am here on the interweb.

is this why i’ve kept myself here?

This gets me to the history of where you didn’t belong

the million moves

the hyper focus of survival

the mortification of things failed

the make it up as you go along.

the WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU in the matter of.

ALL of this wondering was spired by a recent set of photos that

i see goddess in

SOMEHOW.

SHE is in there.

Finally,

why does said goddess have to be manifested in a physical form.

could my art, my thoughts and actions, could my knowledge be enough value?

somehow NOT rising to said goddess status feels way more authentic.

way more me.

way more earthly.

i mean, really who do i think i am anyway??

perhaps somewhere in the history of this blog there was that level of goddess adoration.

so much so, i felt assured and confident in that attention and in that following.

things change.

its so quiet here.

I drafted this post in early july.

one might think it’s yesterdays news but it is not

the goddess theme is finding me

in odd, mysterious and wonderful ways.

so far,  it has nothing to do with a nude alter ego

imagine that.

below, and behold

fat and wise

me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And You Thought You Had A Plan

if only i had a plan.

perhaps at some point in time i had one.

today.

no plan.

a part of me

is rather ok with that.

i know a lot of people.

i don’t say that to be boasty.

or to even begin to think that i am popular.

i am not.

i say that because i began collecting and observing others very young

over time, i saw things, observed things, noticed ….things.

lots of folks think they have it all planned out

straight path

straight arrow

point a to point b

linear

do this and this will follow.

my gal friend just paid off her burial spot.

if you knew her, you would feel as endeared by that as I

another couple i know were very prepared for retirement

actually they are probably the only couple I know

who got it right.

created and implemented THE plan for and lived a cushy no worry retirement.

this my dear she said is what you work for.

but for most that i know. truthfully

it doesn’t look like that at all.

and for some on the other side of all that planned living?

like elder/retirement years?

it’s not what they thought it would be.

even if they did all the right things.

they are miserable

and that just makes me sad.

perhaps traditional planning is a croc of shit.

i mean this year?  who could have ever planned for a year like 2020?

are you a news addict?

are you a junkie for being in the know?

sometimes i wonder if one took the time one wasted watching, reading and listening to the news — how much time that would actually be?

news is a drama filled spoon of bullshit fed to the masses

it’s calculated bullshit

folks eat it up.

and what do you really know ?

the truth?

that your weather man wears a tutu?

that the anchor woman got a new push up bra?

when news is real, and needs to be shared.

does telling the same thing. rinse and repeat

move the reality of that news story forward?

for air time?

for likes,

and readership?

why i am lumping a plan and the news into the same pondering is beyond me.

in current times

pandemic

upheaval

hatred

and voices vying to be heard.

the NOISE

of it

has me on edge.

it has me question everything

i even feel defensive.

IF i don’t rally with pink ribbons, rainbow socks, and fists of black and white

does that make me any less of a person?

if the judgement day finds me

and says I am less.

who do they – those who judge, who the f do they think that they are?

is that bullying?

I am left with such a sorting.

WHO am I in the matter

and why?

I think the idea of a having plan is what sparked this thought process.

History didn’t have a plan. 

as you and i spend time together.

we too are making history.

even if we have NO idea what we are doing.

AND I AM NUDE.

what’s that about?

 

 

 

 

Father

it’s fair to say i have baggage when it comes to my relationship with my father

this is a tough forced march of a holiday. sometimes i can roll with it. other times i just cant

i am sure over time i’ve pondered father before

its fair to say at 23, that perhaps a father/daughter relationship had found it’s way.

in truth. that was not so

“i never should have had you kids” ( just one of his many you are not my responsibility father quotes )

the man was 50, 37 years ago when over the phone he said. “i want nothing to do with you”

over the fucking phone. 

what a coward.

and

what an asshole.

2 weeks prior he hosted a lavish birthday party for me.

i had just turned 23.

who are you as a person by the time you become 50?

should you have some layer of strength of character??

who are you as a person when you become 23?

perhaps you are naive about life things still?

he was a newly divorced single father of 4 who was clearly in a middle age crisis.

i was about to marry.

i was a waitress/artist wanna be

expectations or not.

he didn’t believe in the institution of marriage. uh, duh

nor did he believe in a college education

he did not example “provider”

and most of who i experienced of him growing up

was a very selfish, very self centered man.

i walked myself down the aisle

i gave him two grandchildren

whom he never met.

i had a life without him.

12 years ago I came to terms with things father.

i came to terms in that

i became ok with loving him. because i did.

i found the memories that i could celebrate.

those are memories i will always have.

i was able to cull the characteristics of him that made him good.

when i sourced his phone # after 24 years. i called him to share that i had found the love  and goodness in him. that’s all i wanted to say.

it wasn’t easy finding his number. i searched for the sake of summing up the courage to do so, and i called to settle the emotional unrest in my heart.

my younger sibling found out that i had the number. she warned him, “she is going to try and reach you”

wow.

when i called, and heard his voice. i cried. and had to hang up.

when i called again.  he pulled his phone out of the wall. truth.

he pulled the phone out of the wall.

Forgive??

I am not sure I fully forgave

the forgive idea is a nice one

the reality?

not so much.

“i want nothing to do with you”

is still pretty much a stinger.

today i am left with a deep wondering

who was this man who fathered me

and how is it he became so fucked up?

I have no idea who he was. or who he is now.

i am left with the stories.

stories that i get to tell

that noone else can tell.

because who would ever believe me.

In recent weeks/months our society is crumbing around us.

i found these words

“we’ve got your back” 

I have been thinking hard about

where each of us comes from

and how we become compassionate humans.

some of us were raised in selfishness.

the narrow field of vision

blinds us.

some of us, had to self preserve and survive

solo.

or on our own.

in that space, some may not have the personal knowing of

“we’ve got your back”

I don’t have the answers that puts all of this into perspective.

i just know that when i needed parents, or family, or love.

it was not there.

i have witnessed father in it’s glory, with full heart, and grace. i know father can exist.

today, the humans around me are less, and often not tangible.

what others see in me.

is sometimes not what i see of myself.

self love is really hard.

i selected this image because i was researching an image for another gallery group show and this was taken in that same time frame. this living space was a f-ing twilight zone.

metaphorically i love the big bag of “get rid of”  and the every day ness of those sandals. i was hanging on here emotionally. like holding my breath. 

i also realized that the last several posts have been in black and white. 

 

 

 

 

 

Extra

wasn’t ready to publish.

hit the publish button by mistake

whatever

these uploaded wrong

not sure of this title either

my day is so wrung out

i woke up late wishing i could take a nap

i went to visit things from a year ago

not much has changed.

over the weekend i tackled a few tasks on my

please don’t make me list.

meaning what i procrastinate

on. with. don’t want to do but need to

for what its worth – i feel glad that i did that.

if i don’t find a sense of usefulness

i might start banging my head on the wall

i am in here.

i really am

she paws my right forearm, the second time she paws, a bit of claw is pressed into the flesh, the third time, the claw is pushing in. I WANT THIS CHAIR.

the volume of images taken of her in 2020 have likely doubled

 

Tippee Toes

I met him when i was 17. he and i were not dating then, but by the time we married and had our first child we had been together/known each other for 9 years. the years before children he still liked me. for some reason today i was thinking about how much that meant to me, that he was into me. our apartment was a 5th floor walk up. i would hear the car door slam, i’d hear him climbing each flight of stairs, i’d unlock and open the door and I would wait for him. he would cross the threshold into my arms. and he’d kiss me, breathless from the stair climbing he’d still kiss me. i’d stand on my tippie toes, my arms around his neck and kiss him back. He’d push me into the hallway wall. He would pause from the kissing and say “Hi” I’d say “Hi” in return. We’d kiss some more. It was this very sweet moment that happened each night during the work week and i treasured it. I remember telling him. I love that you come home to me. I love that are happy to see me. That you kiss me and let me kiss you in return. I love that. He told me he got a kick out of how breathless i became, and that my standing on my tippee toes was endearing. He said he loved the smell of my hair.

but then a baby was born. he came home to the child, and he came home to the expectation of dinner on the table waiting for him. vs how we use to make dinner together. to this day i don’t get why that changed. or how. it was unspoken. serve me dinner. seriously? i wanted to be a good wife and a good new mom and honor the affection he had for his child but the shift of losing all of his affection left me with such a feeling of emptiness. we didn’t kiss anymore.

the relationship devolved. he’d say things like. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody he said. one time when he lost a job, he said he wanted to go home. he wanted to go home to his mom and dad. the home we had built wasn’t enough. he said i wasn’t enough. i could author a book about how sexless the marriage became.

Years after it was over.  I asked him what he thought of me. I took in his words of praise silently. He was very generous with what he said. I thought to myself. I NEVER knew in all those years that he thought those things about me. I never knew. He never really treated me in praise and adoration. Why? His response made me feel awful, even though what he said was amazing. I felt like a fool. How did I miss this?

One time I gained a lot of weight. I remember feeling ugly. Self loathing actually. My gain was parallel to pain that had become chronic. There were days I was fetal I hurt so much.  My lover at the time paid the same attention to me heavier or not or so i thought – he’d get me to a place of arousal and I didn’t care that I had a belly or thicker thighs. He made love to me and that was all that mattered. That meant something to me. The acceptance.  Years later, he said. I was not attracted to you. I just faked it and went through the motions. Hurtful. so so hurtful. When that relationship began to fall apart I could tell he wasn’t into me. Automatic sex. Later i found out there was other women so of course he was distracted, and into to the chase of all of that. In hind sight. I wish he just stopped going through the motions. It would have been more honest and made more sense.

The last sex I had was sympathy sex. he too had issues with what was at that time a very strange and rapid weight gain, and while he never mentioned this in the beginning he could not stand the hair on my legs or under my arms. I found out during the summer when i was going to wear a dress and he said do you have any pants you could wear instead? I embarrassed him. this horrified me. why was i even here?

If any of these men had stuck with me. what would they think of me now? A menopausal freak of a human. All three of these men were impossible to have emotional conversations with. 31 years. If we add the silent treatment from my upbringing. perhaps the cards are stacked against me. that’s like 48 years.

once i asked someone to be extra patient and nice to me during times of PMS. It took me a while but i figured out the pattern. my symptoms for 5 days were raging. we didn’t have the internet back then, so i felt rather proud of myself.When I made this request I got looked at like i had two heads, and he felt insulted thinking i felt he was never nice to me. that was not what i said. he offered no inquiry, no compassion or empathy. no behavior shift. he didn’t care how i was feeling, and said so.

along the way fans tell me their stories. boy, the things i could share. the things they have said to me. and being the sortof person i am. curious, inquisitive, wondering and such, i’d ask questions. so, they would tell me more. i know stuff. so much stuff.

the reciprocity however was not always there. the inquiry about me, or the curiousness of my story and such. not so much. perhaps because i tell so many stories there is a feeling somehow if knowing.

the thing is ….i don’t get to be a part of that.

it’s remarkable to be asked.

what a fan reads, decides and or includes themselves in.

it’s all between them and their mind.

i – the person. am not part of the equation.

recent years of combined trauma, and now social isolation

has exaggerated my alone-ness.

the truth is, and i have said this before

i am good at this.

i am asking myself the why the questions differently

like where did these ideas i have about people come from.

the stories i tell myself about men, friends, love, community.

they aren’t very positive.

i keep telling myself it’s them

it’s not me.

because in the space of a circumstance, or another or another

it is them.

they left.

i did not.

i believed and trusted.

not sure what they thought

they left.

poof.

this is a pattern.

my wanting, wishing, dreaming, wondering, fantasizing about it …IT. ever being different is almost a waste of emotional energy.

unless you are a person of hope.

which i am.

i believe in the good of another.

to a fault. i believe.

sucker.

How can i take on being responsible about what isn’t working??

or to create something that works.

do i …

date?

communicate?

masturbate?

the other day i was reading about the body shifts of menopausal women. this gal/author is beautiful. she spoke to the huge fear of becoming one of those/them.

she called menopausal breasts. sand bags. YUP

i thought. what a grand description.

wanna know what it’s like to be me???

just slap two of those babies around YOUR neck

see what it’s like to lug those around.

pointing south me here.

it’s not pretty when the nipple is nowhere to be found

it’s not pretty when all sense of breast form is gone

it’s not pretty when flesh to flesh sweats

it’s not pretty when you can fold the thing in half.

it’s not the same and never will be.

 

 

 

 

 

Part Lines

i will sometimes part my hair for pig tails when it’s been 6 days. i wash my hair on the 7th day. its a bit like pony tail hair only different. i love the crispness of the back part, and i love that at the base of my neck there is still a semblance of my real hair color. the before i silvered color. i love the varied colors all plaited into braids. so many different shades of … i once had the most delicious dark dark almost black brown hair with streaks of auburn. i love my hair long now and wish that i had let it grow long sooner. i have a collection of the worst hair styles on the planet. one in particular left me feeling embarrassed, like what was i thinking?? even still, for all the positives. i feel like a dork in pig tail/braids.

the part line also represents boundary lines to me.

emotional boundaries.

made a list yesterday of anonymously nude fans crossing the line during this last year.

it’s already been a strange year.

i wanted to be clear in my mind why they got blocked or why the line was made, or why things fall apart/fleet or disappear as they almost always do.

i also made a list of those who have been fans for a long while.

that list was much longer. and that list warmed my heart.

i am glad the lines get more and more defined for me.

i am glad for no.

or for delete.

or for the block feature.

those ends need a good healthy trim.

SIGH.


 

As Usual

the highlight of my things pandemic long holiday weekend include:

very little blog traffic, or internet presence which is as usual on any weekend.

more so though on a holiday one.

a complete loss of time. which i happen to love.

a frozen macaroni and cheese. kid you not, the best.

and a lot of art making. which i am not sure many of you really give a shit about. which i get. you are not here for collages. perhaps my timing was bad when i chose to post/share them.

there was some not so nice behavior from a fan. kindly note i will block those who continue bad behavior. i offer a layer of opportunity for redemption but not much.

this post “don’t be an asshole” applies.

there was also some very wonderful sweetness and communications from some of you.

thank you. thank you very much.

for this alone gal

your reaching out to me means a lot.

warms my heart

and reminds me that i am of value

human

and not alone.

Mixed Media by K Smith

this collage mixed media method is something i’ve been perfecting for over a year now.

it’s quilt work. with paper.

the crazy quilting style has a specific format. a focus point is 5 sided and the rest is built around it.

to finish a square, it is bound.

or framed. with paper.

the making of these is meditative. i really enjoy making them.

i’ve wanted to implement my photography into my collage work for some time.

I nailed this mixed media process with non-nude work pre-pandemic for a summer solo show i was preparing for. yup, an artist talk and a solo photography exhibit

that is now, very unfortunately, not happening.

the nude photographs that these are made with have been in my drawer for a long while. like years.

you know me best. there are stories within these photographs

just like the stitching is another form of narrative.

This nude piece was the first i made, in relationship to a full moon.

it reveals the reality of alone. separate corners/ spaces

and it reveals the desire, the deep desire for cherish.

this piece is different because it came from a prompt.

that prompt is where the narrative was found.

8.5×11

make sense??

I made these 4×6 collages next.

gotta love what the  back side looks like ( uh, the rainbow, not me.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

as my pattern seems to be.

i sometimes find i want to work larger.

i love the man and deer in this one. ( 8.5×11)

yes, the nude is upside down

these are the other 8.5 x 11’s, the last being the piece that is going to be in the virtual group show in Chicago opening june 5th

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

only one collate. this one, a nipple in a black square is not a crazy quilt style like the others. it’s an 8×8

 

all are for sale of course!