Chapter 4: My Troll Doll Can Beat up Your Barbie!

Just before I turned 40, I had changed one of the things about my life that I didn’t like. My car. This seemed like an easy thing to do and fairly trivial. Something that I didn’t have to think much about. Just figure out what you like and go find one you can afford. But that seemingly little change actually lit up a slew of other issues that needed to be dealt with. You see, the elephant that I was ignoring was my “hideously ugly” complex. I’d ignored it for a very long time, and let’s just say, elephants have a way of getting noticed... eventually.

It’s not that I didn’t know I had this issue. It’s that I never treated it as being at all serious or even relevant. At some point in my nature or nurture, I became convinced that I was hideously ugly. That became my fact and no one really disputed it. I’m not sure exactly where or when it happened. It just was. It’s part of the reason I hated mirrors so much and also part of the reason for my panic attack during the first topless Jeep ride.

Let me say this... knowing something isn’t rational and letting go of that belief are two totally different things. But fate has a funny way of slapping you in the face with something just when you’re convinced your denial is impenetrable.

My 40th birthday was just a few days away now and God knows why, but I decided I would take the day off from work to treat myself to a massage and then spend the day with my dog.

I’ve never had an actual massage before, but I decided part of this new life should include at least acting like a was a normal woman and doing "woman" things. One thing that normal women did was to pamper themselves on occasion, right? I had learned this from watching “Dallas” and of course from listening to the women I work with.

Also, a few months before, I had started seeing a brilliant Chiropractor whom I called Dr.
Hannah. I’ve had this theory that I was in constant “fight or flight” mode for quite some time
now, but Dr. Hannah confirmed it. Clench your fists as tightly as you can and hold it. Now
imagine your whole body feeling like that for years. Turns out that this kind of stress can affect
a lot of body systems, including digestion. Wasn’t that interesting? Turns out that digestion is what
computer people would call, a secondary or non- essential system. That means, when you’re in
danger, it gets turned off basically to conserve power. If you’re in constant stress mode, like this
fight or flight thing, well, your digestion is FUBAR!

In the same office as Dr. Hannah, there are massage therapists. I made an appointment with one. I figured my muscles could use the attention and frankly, so could I. I was, however, quite worried about how I could possibly go through with it. I was still around 340 pounds and I would have to be at least partially naked. The mere thought of that sent me into a little state I like to call Catatonia. I purposefully set that thought aside. I could panic later. I was simply making the appointment today. One tiny step at a time.

Massage Day, aka My 40th Birthday: The day started off alright. I was trying hard not to really think about actually going through with it. I turned on my internal auto-pilot and the Jeep and headed to the appointment.

When I arrived, I made my way inside and checked in. There was paperwork. There was
ALWAYS paperwork, wasn’t there? I completed it and handed it over. The only way I was going to get through this was to tune-out, right? "Tuning out" was something I used to do a lot. If I simply turned off my emotions, nothing could hurt me because I was numb. In fact, "tuning out" was so second nature that sometimes I didn't even realize I was doing it.

Sitting in the waiting room, I was scared to death and desperately trying to look normal. But inside, the fear was mounting. What was I thinking? Why did I ever think I wanted to do this? I could picture the massage therapist cringing in horror at the sight of me and running from the room screaming at the top of her lungs. It was inconceivable that anyone would want to touch me even if I was paying them to do it. It's why I hadn't let anyone touch me for nearly 15 years. It would be too humiliating to deal with, of that I was sure.

I honestly don’t know how I made it from the waiting area to the room, let alone disrobing and getting on the table. Inside I felt horrible. I felt ugly. I felt defeated. What a way to
spend your birthday, you idiot. There’s that little voice again.

But then, Dana came into the room and started chattering away. In fact, she talked so much, I didn’t have to. This isn’t normally what you'd want in a spa experience, I’m guessing? But I was grateful. She asked me a couple of questions and I nodded or shook my head depending on what was appropriate. This actually made me laugh a little considering I was face down in the head rest-y donut thing in the massage table.

“Have you had a massage before?” Dana asked. I shook my head. “Well, she said, some people like deep tissue massage, some don’t. If at any time I’m pressing too hard or it’s uncomfortable for you, you just let me know, okay?”

I nodded.

So far, I loved Dana. She was a little chatty Kathy, but thank God for that! She was busy telling me about her job and her recent dates and I thought maybe she’s so occupied with her conversation that she won’t even notice how hideous I am!

Then she put her hands on my shoulders and started working on my back. Oh my God. It was all I could do not to cry. It didn’t hurt. Not physically. I’m not sure how to describe what happened to me in that moment. I wanted to thank her, to hug her, to pay her mortgage. It wasn’t anything sexual, far from it. It was a validation of sorts. It was like in the act of touching me, bare hands to bare skin, she
acknowledged that I existed. It was honestly the first time I hadn't felt completely alone in the world. How could I ever think that wasn’t important? How could I have ever think that I didn’t need it? How had I lived without it for nearly 15 years?

A few tears fell, but I had to stop them or I would be blubbering and snotting into the pretty spa pillow and I couldn’t have that. So, for the rest of the massage, I concentrated only on the sensory experience and when that was too overwhelming, I concentrated on Dana’s chattering, bless her heart.
When it was over, I held it together long enough to drink my obligatory water, pay the bill and get myself to the Jeep. Then, I promptly broke down. Right there in the parking lot, I let myself feel what had just happened. I let myself absorb what it felt like to be touched again by another human being.

Bumble Bee on RedBull

(or www.blaylockpottery.com) <--coming soon

[written saturday morning 6/25] I went to bed a mere three hours ago.  It’s not that I don’t burn the candle at both ends most of the time, but preparing for a show is different. I hold shows at my home one day each summer and fall. The “show” has evolved over the years and now there are several artists who participate with me.

The show prep is exhausting. I am a world-class procrastinator, so I love to put off until next week what I could do tomorrow. It’s just the way I work. But I've decided this may not be the best approach to my “aging gracefully” plan.

Because I’ve put off what I could have been doing a few months ago, the last two weeks have been like the third level of hell. I work full time during the day, then for myself from three to six hours most nights after I get home. This is in addition to the normal stuff like... let’s say... personal hygiene, laundry and sleep. All of these things are important to say the least.

My dog Hairy thinks I’ve completely lost the plot. I mean for a dog, life should be a zen-like experience. Be one with your kibble... not to mention, smelling the air must be like touching god. My life, however, has gotten the farthest from zen as it can possible get. Somewhere between an impulse control challenged tween and a bumble bee hopped up on Red Bull without the actual help of Red Bull because that would probably send me right over the edge of sanity. (Red Bull reference dedicated to James Clark)

I’m not sure how this happened, but honestly, it happens every pre-show. Some ethereal master of sanity kidnaps mine and won’t give me proof of life until I’m on the brink of a coma with over-work.

I used to really enjoy it, but now I’m old... remember I hit 40 this summer. It’s starting to seem a little counter-productive.

So I'm faced with a dilemma. Or at least I think I am... “Can I make this better, or do I have to cut back in order to stay upright?”, "How do I balance a full time job which for now I have to keep, and work toward what I believe to be my ideal life: making art?"

Now normally, my blogs make brilliantly astute observations (that was sarcasm) and sometimes even give sage advice (again with the sarcasm). You become very wise and worth listening to when you turn 40. But in today’s blog, I’m actually asking for comments. How do I transition into full time artist without going insane or bankrupt. Send your ideas to: 100 Desperation Way, Anything-but-Margeritaville, Montana... Turns out Blogs have comment spaces below! Leave your ideas or comments as you please. I would so appreciate the help!

Don’t call me Cybil

My 40th birthday was just a few days ago. Here’s the thing... I don’t feel any different AND I feel totally different. But that’s a lot like me. I usually have completely opposing views of... well, everything really.

For instance, I love a good steak, but I hate the fact that it has to come from a living cow... well living at one point anyway. I love the idea of living as a hermit in the woods... kind of like the uni bomber, without the bombing or the crazy part, but I also love high speed internet.

The fact is, I think I'll love being forty as well, but probably not until the day before I turn 41. I think this dichotomy is about allowing yourself to just be who you are.. You may see yourself one way and then realize that you’re another way as well. That doesn't mean that you're a hypocrite, it usually means you can see both sides of an issue. I don’t totally fit in either the conventional corporate world or the artsy fartsy world, but I’ve lived in both. The proverbial square peg in a round hole dilemma.

This started me thinking about choices I’ve made. I think a lot of my decisions depended on the person I was at the time the decision was made. I’ve spent a lot of my life being carried away by opportunities that were good, but not exactly what I would have chosen had I really thought about what I wanted.

For instance, I have an Art Degree, but my longest career was in tech support and computer installation. Yep, a computer geek. How did that happen? I’m still asking myself that question. It was a good career, it paid well and I enjoyed it. I learned more lessons than I thought I ever could. But they were all good lessons to learn. And I've had some amazing experiences to boot.

So, the quintessential (I had to look up the spelling for this magnificent word) mid-life question is “How did I get here?” Although I think I’ve made good decisions, and they’ve led to good places, I think they were ultimately safe decisions. In other words, I don’t think I’ve been a power player in my own destiny. Did I just say power player? (Blek!) In fact, it’s a little weird to use power player and destiny in the same sentence... but I guess that proves my multiple personality point.

So, most of the time, I’ve gone where the conventional path has taken me. I think this is part of the reason this milestone of a birthday hit me so hard. The conventional path is never the path my heart or soul wanted to take. Nevertheless, here I am. Now, what do I do? If I think too much about what has to change... what I want to change, it completely paralyzes me. But, if I think about the possibilities... it’s so exciting someone might have to peel me off the ceiling. You see this conventional path has taught me things I would’ve never known if I’d jumped feet first into the art world. The computer jobs brought me to building websites and setting up inventory databases. Working retail taught me about pricing, costing... budgets & operating expenses. Working for a realty company helped me buy my house and my house equity paid off my student loans. And so my life went, one foot in front of the other.

Although there are times when I regretted not becoming a full time bonafide starving artist (a term which I wholeheartedly loathe), I am also grateful that I can make the leap as an older and wiser woman. If I would have leaped first, not knowing what I know now, chances are about 50/50 I would have failed... Actually the odds were probably more like 90/10 in favor of failure. And I have to be honest, failing like that, might have discouraged me from ever trying art as a business again. I don’t think I can ever not make art. It’s biological for me. But I do think I would’ve given up the idea of supporting myself with it.

So, all in all, the path I have haphazardly chosen was really a good one. My conventional jobs have paid for my clay habit and other equipment.  All things considered, I would have never been able to afford those things had I not had a good job. And now that I’ve had the time to figure out what I really want, and how to get there, the odds are finally in my favor.

I Sort My Skittles

So, today, I had to call one of my co-workers into my office for a reality check. No, I wasn't giving him a reality check. I needed one of my own. You see, every once in a while I realize I'm doing something very odd and I just feel it's important to acknowledge it and then, of course, move on.

The thing I was doing today? I was sorting Skittles. Yeah, the little fruity candies. You know... "Taste the Rainbow".  No, this isn't an ad for Skittles. I also do it with M&M's. I just consider it one of the many loveable quirks I have. But I do recognize that I probably should keep those quirks in check from time to time. So, I called in my co-worker who is a friend and was about to say something when he noticed that my Skittles were sorted on my desk by color. Not only were they sorted by color, but also by quantity... fewest to most. We both started laughing so hard, I was positive someone would pee their pants. I'm sure it was especially ironic considering the state of my desk. I keep telling people that their going to do a "Hoarders: Office Edition" right here in my office!

He said "Did you actually count them?" To which I replied "Of course not, I eyeball it, counting them would just be anal." Then we laughed again. But now that I look at the picture I took, I see I should've switched the green and the yellow. Clearly there are fewer green than yellow, but again, I'm just eyeballing.

Quite seriously, I think it's me just lending a hand to the Skittles quality control people. I love finding out if the colors are equally distributed in the bag. This almost never happens. It doesn't happen with M&M's either (of the peanut or plain varieties). Huh? I also like to find out if the colors from least to greatest actually make the rainbow that Skittles uses in their advertising. It's fascinating. Most of the time, this doesn't happen either, but when it does, I feel like a real leprechaun just left me a sugar and corn syrup pot of gold! Also, yellow seems to be the color that comes up the least and this is also true for M&Ms. Weird huh? In Skittles, the color you see the most of is purple, while in M&Ms, it's brown. I would guess that there's a corporate report somewhere that says Yellow #5 is much more expensive than say Red Lake #40 + Blue Lake #2  (the colors required to make purple). And brown... well, that's gotta be cheaper than all of the other colors, right?  

Skittles are healthy as well. It says on the bag, "EXCELLENT SOURCE OF VITAMIN C". It's in all caps like that so it must be important.

I don't know where this compulsion to sort Skittles came from, but I do sometimes wonder if I have a minor case of Asberger's syndrome which is in turn a mild form of Autism. Just so you know, my spell check thinks Asberger's should be spelled astrologer's or beefburgers. I'm not joking about this at all. I really wonder that. Statistically it's entirely possible, and I don't have impeccable social skills to boot. But what I lack in manners, I make up for in empathy, so according to WebMD, I'm probably just "quirky". I like that word better than "mental".

Judging by how I keep my desk, it could be my way of controlling something... anything in a complete state of chaos... NAW, that can't be it.

It might be that I just like colors. Most artists do have some bit of quirkiness. I mean Van Gogh actually cut off his ear for love... okay maybe that was on the "mental" side of the spectrum. But you have to admit that great artists generally have some "thing" about them that is different. I even had a college art professor tell me that I could be "normal" or I could do "great art" but that I couldn't have both. I'd choose to do great art.  It's up to other people to critique it. It might also mean I have to develop other quirks if I feel myself falling into a rut of normality. I just can't let that happen. Normality is a bit soul-sucking in my opinion. So for now, I'll stick with sorting my Skittles.

Mud Slinging Pyromania and Other Creative Endeavors

So, some of you may be wondering where the name of this blog comes from... I'm surprised myself I haven't written about it yet. Among other creative endeavors, I throw pots. I have to say that traditional drawing and pottery are really my first loves. I've tried to give up one and then the other to "get more focused" but I can't really live without either.

I'm sure I have some kind of disorder this way.... a pathological need to make stuff. I can't help it. And when I'm not able to do so, I honestly go a little crazy. I'm not kidding about the crazy, here.  I feel heavy and depressed, slightly useless and very emotional. I can relieve this by the simple act of doodling which I tend to do at inappropriate times. I'm not sure it's a good idea to draw a "love sucks" tattoo in the middle of a business meeting, but I honestly can't help it. It's biological for me. But it's better if I can spend some real time creating. And that's what you need to make pots, time...

Throwing pots, or "mud-slinging" is a very visceral art form. That makes it very therapeutic as well. In my book, it should count as exercise. There is a LOT of lifting and pushing and shoving and basically muscling the clay around until it forms something recognizable. My boxes of clay run 50 pounds each and I haul them around the studio, most of the time with ease. I'm proud of that because I'm freakishly strong after all. Maybe that's why I want a Viking to call my own... I don't want to feel like I might break my partner.

In college, I had a clay class with a woman named Edith Freeman. She is a well-known artist in this region and her primary medium was woodcut printing. Beautiful, intricate work. She was in her 80's when I knew her and has since passed away. She was truly wonderful. I do miss her. I remember one day, she brought in homemade brownies and she offered me one. I said I really shouldn't because I was on another terminal diet (that's another blog topic), but she put her arm around me and said... "Honey, you'll be so glad you were sturdy when you get older, you don't want to be a frail little thing who can't work." Of course at the time, I didn't fully appreciate being called "sturdy", but now, like she said, I'm very grateful for it.

Well, let's get back on topic... There are a lot of things that happen between carrying the clay and firing, but I will save those for later posts... Firing is really where the "pyromaniac" part of the BLOG comes in. There are a lot of ways to fire pots, but the most interactive is really Raku. If you're not familiar with Raku, it's an amazing process and as a potter, you have to be prepared to lose some work in the firing. It's like natural selection for clay. Raku is very hard on a pot. Basically after firing the pot in the bisque stage (the first firing, which is not a full firing), you glaze and then fire the pot again. This is true for most firing techniques, but in Raku, there is a critical difference.

Basically, you second fire the pot to somewhere around 2200 degrees Fahrenheit (okay, that was hard to spell!). Then you fling open the door of the kiln and while the pot is red hot AND taking care not to light yourself on fire in the process, you grab the pot with special and very nifty tongs and basically throw it in some combustible material like straw or sawdust. Upon doing this, said combustible material, immediately COMBUSTS, hence the name combustible... I actually just like saying combustible. It sounds kind of scientific and smart. I use a steel garbage can with a lid to hold the straw or sawdust and said pot. The garbage can doesn't melt and straw or sawdust burn nicely and they're cheap and easy to find.

Once again, you must avoid lighting yourself on fire at this point... It's very exciting isn't it? Instead, you throw more combustible items into the garbage can, over the pot, then quickly put the lid on and let the the whole thing 'reduce'. I'll explain reduce at some point too, but I don't want this post to be too technical. Suffice it to say, it's a bit like 'simmering' in cooking terms. When you feel as if the combustible material has burned down enough, this is mostly by instinct, you then remove it from the container. The straw or sawdust should, at this point, be mostly ash. While the pot is still relatively hot, you plunge it into a bucket of water. This sets the reduction (don't worry about understanding what that means) and is called quenching. What's really important is that if the pot hasn't broken yet, it probably will when you quench it. But if it survives, the results are usually very dramatic, like the process itself.

Typically, Raku glazes are metallic or oil-slicked in nature and feel very ancient and mystical to me... like something you'd find in ta wizard's chamber or Atlantis. I don't have a good example to show you yet, but I plan on trying to light myself and a few friends on fire at some point this summer. I'll post pics when we get around to it. You cannot Raku fire by yourself. It's just not smart. Although, I have to say I've been tempted... see the definition of the term "pyromaniac". I actually have so much fun firing that I experiment with it all the time. It really is surprising that I haven't, at the very least, burned off my eyebrows yet. But knock on wood, they're still intact.

Now, I have to admit that trying to light myself on fire by doing Raku, may be a subconscious attempt to get rescued by a beefy fireman. In fact, where is a big fireman when you need one? Well, there you go. That's why the blog is called "Mud-Slinging Pyromaniac" and yep, that's me. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go sling some mud. Lighting myself on fire... well, that'll wait a day or two.

 (shameless plug coming at ya: http://www.cafepress.com/naughtyviking.423246866)

The Unicorn in the Room

So, I've recently had to come to terms with the fact that I don't 'fit in'.  Although it's something I've dealt with all my life, my mid-life crisis is changing my attitude about it... and in a good way! No longer am I trying to fit in, but instead I am embracing who I am. It really hit me the other day during a business meeting. As I was sitting with people who were talking about driving to kid's baseball games, watching sports and sending kids to college, I realized that I was the odd man, I mean woman, out. I do my best to understand their perspective and share conversation, but for the most part, my life & my attitudes are very very different from theirs.

For instance, I believe in unicorns... and fairies and angels. Basically I believe in almost anything that sounds absolutely impossible. This sounds a little bit like my 'second childhood' has pushed me over the edge of sanity, right? But I'm as sane as the next person. I just choose to believe that magic is real. Why? Because it's a beautiful idea, isn't it? It's beautiful to think that something miraculous exists beyond us. It's also a great source of inspiration.

Let me tell you how I got here. As an artist, I've always been blessed with a wild imagination. I was an only child and from the time I was a little girl I daydreamed about fantastical characters and alternate universes. I particularly believed in wizards and unicorns, gnomes & fairies, elves & dragons. Sounds like the makings for the ultimate fantasy geek, right? Well, I don't actually attend Comicon, but I do think it would be fun.

Here's the thing. I didn't live in a house where my parents read me bedtime stories. In fact, it was just my mom & I unless I was staying with my grandparents, and none of them read to me. In fact, I can't remember one instance of anyone reading to me. I didn't have any early reader books. The first memory I have of someone reading to me was my second grade teacher, and he was really good at it. It's probably the reason why I love listening to audiobooks now. It's my indulgence. Some women like pedicures... I like a great audiobook read by someone who is really good at it.

So, I have to wonder where these imagined characters came from. If I didn't have any knowledge of fairy tales, how could I just know about fairies? I don't know the answer to that. But I do vividly remember moments where I knew it was true. For instance, I used to play at my grandparent's hobby farm. There was a shallow ditch running across the pasture and I loved to sit in the ditch and watch what passed by. There were dragonflies, snails & earthworms, crickets and birds, a plethora of tiny creatures that most people didn't notice at all. I would build boats for the snails out of milk weed pods complete with leafy sails and set them on their course. Looking back, I sure hope they made it safely to wherever I sent them. But I had a clear picture in my head of all of them communicating with each other, assisted by tiny fairies when they got in trouble and off to lands where they could see dragons and ride unicorns.

That imagination is alive and well today. Thank goodness. It's always been there, but it sort of woke back up when I started reading the Harry Potter stories a few years ago. What a magical and wondrous book! A friend recently said that J.K. Rowling was divinely inspired. She suggested that there was real magic happening in the writing of that story. She's a friend who believes as well, thank goodness for her. And I agree.

Artists and Art Historians have talked for centuries about divine inspiration. People accept the term without really thinking about it. But I'm here to tell you, it's absolutely true. I've felt it. There are moments in my studio, whether I am drawing or throwing pots, that I forget myself... even forget what I am doing and just work. It's not like I'm possessed or anything dark like that. It's a sort of stepping outside of myself. It's like I can understand the clay, or the pencil. Like the medium just works itself. I can tell when it's not happening and during those times it almost always pays to get out of the studio. In the inspired moments, the magical moments, the ideas create themselves. The forms create themselves. I am just tool in this. But I am always fascinated by it. And I always thank the fairies when the project is complete, because I truly believe they were in the room.

So there you go. I believe in fairies & other crazy things. So be it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to replace my DVD player so I can watch Lord of the Rings tonight. ;)
L

Finding Creative Energy

So, here's the deal. I have to make somewhere between 200-300 pots between now and June 10th. I currently have 21. I'm a little stuck in the mud... and not in a good way. Lately, I've found myself whiling away the hours in front of my computer designing t-shirts, writing blogs (the one you are reading right now) and wasting away in front of Netflix. In fact, I think I may have a bit of a Netflix problem.

It's not that I don't have ideas or clay, or the equipment to work on, I am just having a bit of trouble getting started. Any ideas on how I can break this non-productive spell? If so, please send comments. Practical solutions with real action plans would be greatly appreciated--I've already tried yelling "get off your ass". I'm afraid it didn't work.

Always Yours,
Befuddled in Billings ;)