Topiaries?

It's the most random thing in the world, but I've gotten into designing this topiary. Well, I shouldn't say it's random. I'm obsessed with two things in my art: plants and people. So I'm making a living, technically breathing (in reverse) human being her arms up in exuberant ecstasy. It's made from chicken wire, sphagnum moss, ficus repens (creeping fig), a 14" garden bowl, and some other stuff. I need to get a steel rod and some cheese cloth before I can go any further than where I am.

I've molded the head, shoulders, torso (I'm placing a plant in her chest so the ficus can branch out from there, so it's open for now), and molded and stuffed the lower half of the torso and both legs. It looks really cool, I'm very excited for it, but I need to balance it carefully and find a good practical way to keep it supported. Maybe drill into the terra cotta pot (I just wrote terra cotta potta..) and secure it with bolts, but that runs a big risk of breaking the pot, especially if it tips over or there's pressure put on the sculpture. It's a dilemma.

I think I just need to balance it especially well with the arms reaching back more than I intended so it has a well-centered center of gravity. I'd like it off center but unless I... oh, I could use concrete. That's an idea. A very, very heavy one though. Not ideal. I need to bring this back with me to MA and use the sculpture studio / metal working tools at UMass to do what I want, I think. I'll see what I can improvise here, in any case.

This is very stream of consciousness, but sometimes it's nice to write, it helps me think things through and if anyone is curious about how my brain works when I'm making art this is a good example.

Counterweights! I could use a counterweight if I want it off center. But a well centered gravity might look good now that I've settled in to the idea. I like off-center because it gives it direction and motion, but if it's centered maybe the motion will be more upward, straight up. I just want it exploding up, vibrant, like a shining beacon, like an emmy statue or something. Except not holding anything, and no wings, and no awful gold. Living plants, it needs to be alive.

I need to sleep, I took my sleeping meds half an hour ago and they're doing their thing. Hope this post wasn't too scattered.

AT and OT

I've done a bunch of writing exercises for art therapy and occupational therapy while here, where we have half an hour to come up with a response to a prompt or are given a sheet to work with. Here's an example.

"My personal mission statement"
To find happiness, fulfillment, and value in living I, Lily, will:

Lead a life centered around the principles of Growth, Empowerment, Honesty and Fairness.

Remember what is important in life is Learning, Sincerity, Friendship, Relationships and Happiness.

Revere admirable characteristics in others, such as Passion, Commitment, Courage, Enthusiasm, Faith, and Patience, and attempt to implement similar characteristics in my own life.

Humble myself by acknowledging that I can be Impulsive, Reactive, Excessive, Insecure and Tedious and by constantly striving to transform my weaknesses into strengths.

Recognize my strengths and develop talents as a person who is Adaptable, Imaginative, Open-Minded, Sincere, Visionary and Insightful.

The words in bold are my words, and came from five pages of exercises to choose them. That one is structured. Here are my less structured ones.

little drummer girl
bata tum tum tum
march, little drummer girl,
enlisted in the draft.

my arms are tired,
my feet are sore,
my mind is in the past.

bata tum tum tum
little drummer girl,
marching day by day.

i could have jumped,
i could have flown,
but I have dues to pay.

march, march, march
little drummer girl,
the haze it drizzles on.

my glasses fog,
my vision's gone,
my feet ..start to slog.

march! keep marching,
you're a drummer girl;
you cannot think to stop.

i'll take a breath,
my glasses clean, and keep
marching step by step.

I'm so frustrated with being here. When I wrote this I was just counting the seconds before I could get out, back when the plan was to leave last friday. I made a series of sculptures to express my painful, bored exasperation with being trapped in here, which I'll share when I have access to a camera.

Here's one where the prompt was to come up with six animals I feel a kinship with and write a poem or short story including them all.

Creatures I admire
The spider weaves an intricate web,
delicate patterns to ensnare its prey.
A sting like a scorpion, quick to attack
whatever challenge might come its way.

The unicorn stands on its own, alone,
a whimsical freak for the mind.
The one footed crane stands alone in a pond,
its reflection rippling time to time.

A fox with its cunning, wit and charm,
strides through the forest with curious eyes.
It burrows a den, wraps itself then
transforms in a chrysalis. The butterfox flies.

I like the idea of a butterfox. I drew one when I was sixteen. It's a fun hybrid. Some of the stuff I'm sharing is a little embarrassing, to be honest, but that's okay. Yesterday I shared that chapter from a possible story about my time here, and before that I wrote an as-it-happens type of purge of what was going on, which was freaking me out. Anyway, this one I just wrote today. The prompt was to write a short story or poem about my superpower of choice.

"Something new about myself"
I'm sitting in my room begging to escape, watching swallows dip and glide. Suddenly there I am, feathers and beak, but the window is bolted shut. Then I'm a fly. I crawl through a tiny crack in the frame and zip outside, become a bird again and dip and soar with the swallows.

I land on the ground and I'm a snake, weaving through the grass and stones. I see a mouse and sneak up on it, ready to strike. It sees me and darts away.

Now I'm a leopard, silky sleek and teeth to kill. I slink into a group of trees and climb one. I clean my paws and watch the world go by, feeling comfortable and calm.

I see a man who used to taunt me walking alone and pounce on him with my claws out, calmly gnaw off his face and then step off him, letting him live. I transform into him, with his face, and say, "You sick freak. Get used to hearing that." Then I'm a bird again, exalting the rush of retribution. But slowly I feel worse and worse about my action.

I feel so guilty. I land and become an aloe plant, but it's a useless tack. I rise into a tree and reflect on my awful mistake as I soak myself with the sun's pure light. I grow.

I'm back in my room now. Outside isn't ready for me yet, and I need some way to keep myself from veering back to repeat my mistake. Those sorts of things take time, so I'll wait, for everyone's sake.

I want to get out of here, but I understand the need to wait. You should see what I made in OT today. It's a card, with the inside being my feelings and the outside being how I think I'm presenting myself to the people around me.

On the inside it said, in clipped magazine letters, "Fuck everything while I sleep. I want to leave!" But, I'm feeling alright now. Still frustrated but not so angsty.

Chapter One

Apologies are only hollow when followed by a 'but...'


     I write that on a sheet of hospital paper, emphasizing words for typography. Exhale. I stick it on the wall.


     My arms drop down by my sides as I lean back in my chair, gazing at my new sign. God, I would kill for a cigarette.


     Two weeks ago I settled on a beautiful, foolproof plan to fall off a building and my therapist ruined it for me with the phrase, "We're going to the hospital." One dazed stumble later and I'm in an ER waiting for a bed in a psychiatric ward.


     What am I doing here? I just did some cost-benefit analysis on my life and came up short.


     "Attention, attention. Lunch is here, lunch is here."


     Begrudgingly, I push back my chair and force myself to stand. On my way to the day room I pass by Martin and try to make eye contact. He's shuffling along, staring a mile beneath the floor. Glad I'm not schizophrenic. We call it, 'the schiz'.


     As I queue up for my tray I stare at the bland watercolor to my left.


     "Ms. Starks"


     They're so respectful here. I take my tray and enter the day room. The old men are at my usual spot by the window, so I sit next to Nancy and Hanna with raised eyebrows and pursed lips, an expression reading, 'Hello, people I barely know but have seen cry. I'm going to eat my boring hospital-rationed lunch with you.'


     A loud little bell rings behind me and I flinch.


     "Nurse!"


     Damn that old man. Can't even open his pudding by himself. Deaf as a doorknob and loud as a fire truck. I hope I have the good sense to off myself before I can get like that. Hannah catches me making a face and clucks disapprovingly. Judgmental bitch.


     I have no drink. I glance at Hannah's tray and see she has three tubs of grape juice.


     "Could I have–"


     "Sure."


     She hands it over, looking me in the eye to find some sense of appreciation for her charity.


     "Thank you. I like your necklace." It's okay.


     "Oh this? It's not so great."


     I love this place. Everyone has issues and keeps them in a glass display case, like an art gallery of depressed, legally insane people.

---

David opens his passenger door for me.

"Let's go."

My heart flutters.

---

My tray hits the floor with a loud crash, peas and grape juice everywhere. I wince, blushing and squeezing my eyes shut, and embarrassedly peek with one eye. Yep, they're all staring at me. I stand up and make for the door, where a nurse intercepts me asking what happened and I shake my head as though that answers the question, avoiding eye contact. I glance up for his reaction.


     "An aide will clean that up. Let's go to your room and talk."


     I share a room with a girl around my age. She's unconscious, her face buried in a pillow.


     "Elena can you give us the room?"


     She grunts, not knowing which direction is up.


     "Sandra and I need to talk."


     I smile weakly at her. I just got her in trouble, we're not supposed to sleep during the day. She rubs the back of her head.


     "Right. Yeah."


     With a sudden life to her she marches out. Eric, the nurse, closes the door.

Folsom Prison Blues

Today, my roommate had a complete mental breakdown. The breakfast cart left early and she missed it, and couldn't stand her life anymore.

I can hear her screaming from the quiet room.

When we people lose sight of all hope we lose our words. There's no room for vocabulary with that much hurt, just sobbing and noise which releases just a bit of that pain.

She's still screaming, but she's more aware now. The doctors are probably giving her meds and strapping her to the bed. Let go, she's wailing. It's eerie, how her voice echoes down the halls.

Every time I've asked her how she's doing, she answers, "It's torture."

Hearing pain is like hearing a yawn. Contagious.

The halls are off limits to us.

I can't wait to get out of here.

Finally, I can go get my computer. I was writing this on paper because I had to get some distance from it, it was too much for reality and writing about it makes it somehow easier to accept.

When I was out there a few of the nurses and doctors were smiling awkwardly at each other. I understand, but it still felt so wrong. My poor roommate has been dealing with this torture for seven years. One day things just changed in her brain for her. She says she was washing the dishes and then all at once, this fog overcame her that made everything unreal, everything just shapes and colors with no form and no significance. She's gotten more able to deal with things, but no treatment in seven years has really helped. It might be some severe form of derealization disorder but no doctor knows. They all have their ideas. Stroke, childhood trauma, severe atypical major depressive disorder, schizophrenia, a brain injury. EEGs disprove a few, she doesn't hallucinate, she doesn't have the usual PTSD or CPTSD symptoms. She's far too consistent for münchausen syndrome. It's hard to say what it is.

She can't be alone. I just hope she finds a treatment that works.

Still Alive

Hello.

The last time we spoke, I was going to kill myself.

My browser tabs were laid out like a story, it's interesting to look at which sites I had up there. Poetry, art, Samaritans, How to Quit Smoking, etc.

My room was messy because of my lazy effort to collect my stuff when my therapist said, "We're going to the hospital," for the second time.

I'll be bringing my computer back to the hospital with me. Only half of the screen works. When I left only a quarter worked. Funny how time fixes little things.

Hopefully, I'll get out of the hospital in a few days.

Over the next few weeks I'll share with you the past few weeks, in a series of posts I've tentatively titled "Life and Death in the Psyche Ward."

The past few weeks have been full of incredible events and life changing art and poetry. I want to share them with you, whoever you are, for posterity's sake if nothing else.

No, I'm not going to kill myself. That's shifted to plan B. Plan A is to try this recovery thing once more, and see if it works out. Maybe in another six months I'll hit the hospital again. Last time was April 7, this time was October 6. Maybe it'll be April 5 next year. I hope not, but who knows. Recovery is exhausting. I've made a lot of progress but my endurance only lasts so long. I'm trying to set up a better support system which, astoundingly, includes my family. We'll see how far it goes.

Anyway, just wanted to leave a brief message. I'm not sure when my next one will be. I plan to program an interactive Flash rotation of my many sculptures. To give an idea, I have a seven part sculptural series called Emotion Sign Language, I have four masks, several clay roses and at least one abstract, and that's just the sculptures.

I'll leave it there. Thanks for reading. I have 648 emails from the last four weeks to catch up on.

--Lily

Christmas

My mom just sent an email asking me and my sisters if we minded eating with the church this year for christmas, as opposed to our usual christmas dinner at home. It made me feel very sad, overwhelmingly so, for just an instant, and then the feeling was gone. It might be because I spent a good portion of my afternoon attempting to strangle myself. Clearly you can't do it with your own hands because you pass out and lose your grip, but that knowledge didn't stop me from trying. Electrical tape is too stretchy, but Duct tape does it. I got a length of it about two feet long, folded it in thirds lengthwise so it wasn't sticky, and wrapped it around my neck so it crossed around the back. I pulled on it until my eyes went dark and when I released the grip my head felt like it was swollen and I could hear my pulse bouncing off my ears. I trembled dizzily for half a minute before returning to normal. And I wasn't sad then, I was completely detached, almost curious. Yet when my mom sent that email, sadness.

Go figure.

Because I don't want to hurt anyone, least of all my family, I'm not going to kill myself. I still very, very badly want to, that hasn't changed in the slightest. But my empathy and guilt are pretty strong, and I generally am too depressed to go through with it. My depression isn't a sobbing agony, it's a slow freezing apathy with a dull hopeless sadness. I still feel like hospitalization might keep me from dying. On a whim I might walk in front of a bus.

I really don't want to go, but it's the safe call.. I'm unstable. If I do, my next post will be in a while, maybe a few weeks. I won't bring my computer, only a quarter of the screen works and it's not worth the frustration, and I can't bring a monitor because they don't allow any sort of cord.

I guess I should start thinking about what I want to bring.

Maybe I won't go.

I'm leaving that decision up to my therapist.. I don't want to make the call myself.

Nighthawks

I got back from the diner a few minutes ago. There is little that is more calming than a cup of tea and some comfort food in a nearly empty diner on nearly empty streets. It's rare that New York City can be described as peaceful, but that's how it feels at 4am. There's a sense of intimacy between all who are awake, as though in some sense we're all different from the rest and we wonder what the other's story might be. I'm the sad, lonely woman sipping her tea and gazing at memories.

The idea of ending my life is so comforting, like a warm blanket. It means no more anxiety, fear, trembling eyes and limbs, broken trust, dishevelled hopes without expectation of fulfillment, loneliness.

There's a sign on the front door of this building. It politely asks that you use the door to the left. I don't know why it's there, maybe the door to the right gets flung open and hits the column and damages both. Usually I, like everyone else, ignore the sign. But when I'm feeling like this I don't. I follow simple directions, and if someone asks me for something I give it to them, if I can. I'm entirely passive.

Everything is exhausting. I'm going to try for sleep again, but last time I slept only a few hours before waking up and writing my previous entry, detailing my desire to jump out a window. Defenestrate myself. I've always liked that word, I learned it in sixth grade. Funny.

It's always clear to me when I'm being especially pensive. I stop wanting to use simple words, because they just don't say what I want them to. It makes the tone of my writing a lot different. I'm too insecure to try to be sophisticated with my wording, my grammar doesn't support it well and I end up sounding like a woebegone highschooler feigning misery.

I'm so young sometimes.