For Collage Play with Crowabout, Take a Word (Friends) and Collage Obsession (Blues)
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
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For Collage Play with Crowabout, Take a Word (Friends) and Collage Obsession (Blues)
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
I've been sucked into the strange, female world of digital art journaling. It is mostly women who do this, art journaling and scrapbooking. I suspect there are more men doing it than is apparent, but hiding in pseudonyms or not participating in forums.
There is a sort of matter-of-fact sexism in this world, an acceptance, without comment, of the preponderance of women and the absence of men. A casual acceptance that it is (of course?) women who document the lives of their children and grandchildren; women who take the time and energy to explore and express their own internal lives.
I have not counted, this is anecdotal, but most seem to be young mothers or older grandmothers, many with disabled children or who are struggling with some illness of their own. This makes sense, I expect. Both groups are likely to be home, and perhaps somewhat isolated, in need of human contact.
These hobbies provide creative outlets and the opportunity to connect with others who share experiences and interests. Though writing poems is about as personal as anything can be, this is personal, too. It involves more disclosure, in a way. More mutuality.
It's also more friendly. I've seen a few forum threads offering or inviting critiques, and those threads are sparse indeed. Support is what's expected, and provided. Occasionally there are what seem to be "cut & paste" comments that are positive, but reflect no understanding of the post they are responding to. That's as bad as it gets.
Sometimes I miss the more rough-and-tumble of the literary crowd. Quite often, in fact.
But I am having fun.
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
Billy commented on this poem at Oratory, reminding me of one lost in the archives:
When you were parched
with the needs of others
and I washed up thirsting
on your rocky beach, you
let me in. When I raged
against all fathers, all lovers,
all men who cast away their
women, you stayed, still and
deep as a mirror. When
you went down as far as
you could dive, beyond
love, beyond breathing,
submerged in death and bloated
with all the drowning violence
of your own raging father, then
surfaced shouting at my door,
I let you in. When I came
to you weeping, choking on
demands and accusations,
hearing only my own gasping
fear, you let me in. When
you came to me, sodden,
from another bar or another
woman, mouth full of seaweed
and booze, I let you in.
If there are women who
ask how you can hold
to someone so breathless,
so far from shore -- if there
are men who wonder how
I can swim in such cold, deep
water -- well, I say -- let them.
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Art Journal Caravan w/Tangie Baxter: Itinerary #17 {My Inner Compass: Am I treating time as the currency it is?}
Answer: I am not. Unless procrastination counts.
[Click the image to see credits & larger sizes at flickr.]
It's been a very bad few days for Watermark. I see no option other than moderating comments, at least until this eases up.
This spam is disgusting. I can't have it on my blog, even for a minute.
I don't click the links, of course, but just reading to be sure it's spam is enough to turn my stomach.
I hope some law enforcement officers are following the links and putting lots of people in jail. Sexual abuse/assault survivors with PTSD should be able to sue these folks for infliction of emotional distress.
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