September

“We know that in September,
we will wander the warm winds of
summer’s wreckage.
We will welcome summer’s ghost.”

In a beginning, there must be, an end. I have little things like this that run though my head, things that I keep coming back to. Little poe-trees dropping the same leaves on my head over and over again.

When I first wrote that opening line it was about the end of winter and the beginning of growth, spring, and summer. And now that I reiterate the statement it is time to address the end of summer and the beginning of a new season. There are so many little “all done’s” and “start fresh” in a year that I hadn’t noticed until I wrote about them. I also never noticed how much we need them. For example: if we didn’t have the ending and beginnings of weeks I think we would all go crazy not to mention the daily end and new beginning we get. Even if it seems pessimistic sometimes the fact that a day will end is the only thing that will get us through it. So as I start this new season of life, new school year which is an ending in itself (of high school anyway), I will be thankful for endings and for beginnings. Seizing opportunities even as they storm my castle and take down my flags. I’ll breathe, in the air of coming autumn, and spit out summer’s ghost’s but thank them for their memories. It all comes around again, so I won’t mourn losses or mix up “goodbye’s” with “see you later’s”. Our world is just ever-beating, evergreen, effervescent light of change and shifting plates. Brush the silky spider threads of this beginning, and let yourself sweep away the whispers of summer’s “until we meet again…”

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September is breathing

by Glory

My emotions are shot
My head is spinning
I’m not sure when
This became a beginning

Because usually that’s how I
feel at an end
But really there’s something
starting again

It’s closer to autumn
Each day that goes by
And farther from heaven
But touching the sky

My fingers are broken
September’s cold lips
Set slightly open
and catching on tips

Pressed to the door
And commonly frightened
Peace in uncertainty
Our ties
That bind
are tightened

“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
Not as the world gives, give I unto you.
Let not your heart be troubled, do not be afraid.”
John 14:27
Fear is such a prevalent thing and it makes us into people we are not. Fear can make you freeze or it can make you lash out in ways that are not worth their consequences. I’ve heard that courage is not the absence of fear, but rather it is bravery when fear is staring you in the face. This is all coming from a girl who is still afraid of the dark and can’t watch even the previews of a horror movie. Still there are so many scary things happening in the world but the only way to face them is to choose to find courage and love in fear, to find beauty and grace in pain, and to find beginnings in an end. Be a faithful friend, and don’t let fear cripple your kindness. Jesus didn’t come to save the righteous.

“The lines stitched into highways,
the never-ending seams;
on roads that are less traveled,
dividing you and me.

I wish I could unravel
the fabric in-between,
and tear away the distance,
to bring you close to me.”

— 4000 Miles by Lang Leav

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

 

 

 

 

 

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August

“August brings into sharp focus
and to a furious boil, everything I’ve been listening to
in the late spring and summer”

 

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Everything feels like its ending, but also like everything has just begun. Uncharacteristically, I wish summer was three months longer. And yet, here we are. August.
All my flaws and all my happiness seemed to be weaved together. I’ve never been my happiest when I felt perfect. I’ve been my happiest when I felt flawed and loved and true to myself. No, this is not a speech about beauty, or about how everyone is beautiful and everyone is perfect. Frankly, I don’t believe that at all. I believe that beauty and perfection or rather our versions of those things, are much less important than we make them out to be. You see the one thing that we all have in common is not that we are beautiful or even that we are all human, but that we all have emotion. To my little Taurus mind, beauty is something I see everywhere and I see it in pain. I’ve never thought my friends were more beautiful than when they cried on my shoulder. That might sound sadistic but I promise you it’s not. The pain is not what is beautiful but rather the raw emotion that manifests itself in those moments. That paper-thin venire of false face is brushed away and all that’s there is you. simple, sad, Beautiful. So don’t be afraid of it, reality is valuable.


fire, lungs, August

by Glory

August rushes
Hot wind sun
life’s now ending
Just begun

Two visions blurring
into one
yellow summer
coming undone.

We long for water
rain to come
but into focus
there’s only one

Thing that I
can seem to sea,
drowning feels like
fire to me.

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I’ve been carrying around this art journal since January and I finally filled the darn thing up. People change, that’s what they say, but I think id rather say I’m growing than I’m changing. When someone says “you’ve changed…” they don’t usually mean that complimentary. Even if it is true that all people “change” and yes we need to all realize that, I’d still like to being growing instead. (maybe it’s because I’m afraid of change) But what I’ve been told, and like to believe, is that we are all growing. And sometimes when we don’t feel like we are moving forward, we are simply growing roots. So…And Still I Grow.

I question not if thrushes sing,

If roses load the air;

Beyond my heart I need not reach

When all is summer there.

– John Vance Cheney

We don’t have to think about if the sun or moon will rise, but that doesn’t mean we take for granted the beauty of the sky.

 

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a Watercolor Woman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

July

“The summer looks out
from her brazen tower,
Through the flashing bars
of July.”

 

I am forced to focus an eye on pain. A world we call home in turmoil and i, lowercase, sitting in my bed waiting to simply stop thinking… I see so called protectors becoming oppressors. A breathing being can say to another your life air is not as good as mine and therefore hate has slipped on a garment of acceptance. Protruding from that elegant soft smock, he wears proudly the mask behind which no one thinks to look. Confusion strikes the heart to fear, and yet all i understand is this; the antonym to fear is audacity, and that is to take action shamelessly.

let's  look  back  at  love.

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July = Relationship
(as in love/hate)

Summer suffer
heat the rain
The trick of freedom
that brings pain

In July, the wind still whispers
Secrets keeping, hidden, shivers

laced up love
on every ray
warmed by yellow
golden bay

A sea of white, green, and heat
miserable, happiness scorching our feet.


Queen Anne’s lace is growing on the edge of the woods. The sun warms the earth before I step outside. Eyes blink slowly open to that shining planet sending wisps through my window. I’ve never been fond of summer but despite the heat I have come to appreciate it, especially in the morning. Trust me, I have never  been a morning person. And yet sometimes, more often then not these days, I wake up and I see the light though my white window and I’m okay. I’m okay.
Heat is white. hot. Not red. We see fire as heat but fire is death and life. Heat, summer heat, is white, light filled warmth. It warms our skin and scorches our earth. You can’t see it but you can feel it. mmmmmmagnified by reflections and things black. All we can do is feel it. Be undone by it. I’d rather not.

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Still stuck on watercolor women. I don’t mind though, I think I’ve found a good thing. I’m ugly stubborn but I also have a short-ish attention span. The combination of those two things makes me surprised and not surprised at all that I’m sticking with this.

But I paint my emotion in these women, my feelings in their eyes. What’s shown is not what’s given, our brief and total demise.

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Solace

When all I desired
was promised
to me.

And all have conspired
to keep it
from reach.

There is safety in numbness–
there is solace
in sleep

– Lang Leav

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a Watercolor Woman 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June

“At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.”
– Edgar Allen Poe The Sleeper

I quoted more of that poem than I should have and less than I wanted to just because it truly is so beautiful. Honestly I’ve been waiting to write this June blog because I have many things to go with it. Such as this: Middle of June by Noah Gundersen . Listen to it, it is also truly beautiful.
It’s strange how meaningful life can be. Life and love and happiness all intertwined in mind. The past is gone and over and yet our memory machines are there and its hard to stop being the product of the past. My methodical memory comes back to say remember me your sentimental soul can’t shake me. The cat on the windowsill, (literally) jumping through hoops to get where she is, brings me back to present. I am grateful.

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I’ve been in a sort of whimsical mood. I haven’t written any song lately, but since the cessation of my scheduled education, I have been creating something everyday… especially in the realm of watercolor. When I started creating art I mostly just did pencil drawings. Then I moved to acrylic painting and after I discovered watercolor wasn’t just the paint set you get when you’re nine, I’ve delved and dabbled in that as well. The fluency of watercolor came naturally to me and when my short artistic attention span kicks in that seems to be my new go to. It’s a little magical, how the water–a source of life in and of itself–flows on the page though colors to make a visual of life.

DSC_0062 (2).jpgThis painting is something a little different. I visualized it in that place between sleep and consciousness.  My inspiration comes from that spot sometimes. If you can imagine it close your eyes and see the red, dark, twiggy, background. Now this fluctuating, shaky, black string continuously tangles itself up, ever-moving (the first canvas). Then the string pulls itself taught (the second). then finally tying itself in a knot. This is perpetual.
I’m not really sure where this came from or if its supposed to be metaphorical. Maybe I just really like making things that don’t make sense.

A scene, a feeling, a memory

I walked alone in muddy fields
That soaked up earth that the rain yields
In this moment my heart is peeled
cut back by the sword your soul wields

No longer am I afraid of what is to come
I sink down at the setting sun
These days I’m happier doing nothing, but ill run
out of my past, flying, ’till not forgotten but done

June bugs hum and I am still
words painted on my windowsill
My whimsy, watercolor brain at will
Inhale. Exhale. I’ve got my fill

 

 

This might not be all truth
but ill speak it into being, into youth
Words are powerful, yet don’t always give proof
for lying is easy and makes truth aloof

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

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May

“The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.”
–  Sara Teasdale, May

Hello, dear reader. The poem above is not necessarily the premise of my post but I thought it was much too beautiful to pass over. My intellectual stand still which lapsed into a creative low has now seemingly subsided. Unfortunately, this has not come with the time to carry out my inspirations.  And yet I am still in a more creative fluency then I was and things May be looking up (pun intended). So here is my outlet, crafted of words and photographs, not always up to par,  but always me…

My need for beauty is apparent in everything I do.
As I am born in the sign Taurus, to that, I guess, I’m true.
Life and love and happiness,
all intertwined in mind
But most my ideas, failures,
so back to the stone I grind.
And when they are not failures,
then simply un-carried out.
To this I am accustomed
Nothing to cry about.
I am my mothers daughter
My father’s blood in my veins.
My body only mine,
this shell,
My guts
My brains.
How can Death and death coexist?
inconceivable and omnipresent.
Not utterly distasteful
but oppositely unpleasant.
A reverse course of fish in water
with all my skin and bones,
I am my mothers daughter.

-Glory

I wrote this poem on January first but I’ve gone back to it because it reminds me of May. Not simply because it’s about me–a May baby–and mentions Taurus which is partially encased by that month. But it also speaks of a mother–mine–which we celebrate in May. I am much like my Mother, I see my Father in myself everyday. Yet everyday I see myself, different and one soul. Held temporarily in a confusion of muscle and bone. My heart lies in an entanglement of earth and spirit. I love deeply and well, though the world will never tether me. it may weather me. Blood, muscle, skin and bone. Never, forever in body. So freedom for failure is what I’ll grant, because effort is half the battle.

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I carry this little book around with me everywhere. I fill it with my thoughts, surroundings, experiences, ideas and emotions in the form of art. Sometimes words sometimes just visuals but always worth taking a few minutes out of scheduled time and space to create.
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understated
perpetuated
faith in all the things I’ve hated
articulated
contemplated
a complicated
me
– word bank of a brain

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

April

Wax and Wane
(An end within a beginning)
By Glory

The long haul
build up
before an end
all I can say
is you’re
my friend

No shadows
of a
coming wind
But in a
beginning
there must be
an end

Yet business
does not distract
or silence
take me
Made of wax

Melting wane
of candle light
Springtime
April
parasite.



 April showers bring May flowers. But first come the rains. That is the part people like to leave out of their minds. Everyone wants the flowers but not everyone wants to go through the watering, even if it is what could end up giving them life.
Imagine being April; always looked over to May. The month that is the preparation for another. “April is the promise that May is bound to keep.” If your name was only ever whispered as a secret, wouldn’t it be hard to feel needed or wanted? But then I think that maybe April doesn’t feel that way. Maybe April’s quite inconsistency of sunshine and rain is not simply overlooked preparation for May but the tricky unpredictable necessity that knows without herself, May would never bloom.
Imagine yourself as April again. April doesn’t care if we do or don’t like rain. She knows the earth needs it to begin its growth. There are always endings in beginnings.  If that weren’t so, April showers would bring no May flowers.

Every new beginning is some other beginning’s end.

My Creative levels are low. The gas light in my mind has come on. We don’t choose what inspires us. In my handwriting i don’t choose where the capital letters go, but when I type the computer chooses for me. My life is slightly illegible and by that I mean I’m just figuring things out. Who isn’t. Yet this art (bellow), inspired by the words written by myself and given words by the saying (above) written by someone else is just one of those things to keep my mind running on empty. In other words, send juice. (The creative kind)

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The use for this book, which was to be read, came to an end when the art began. The little bee you see came with the Wax and Wane. That process of build up and break down goes on until I get to a point of refinement. But like the rains I shall not look over the endings in the beginnings. I won’t be afraid of my leached creation. Let the parasite move on and start again. Here we are, sunshine and rain. This is growing weather and oh how I love these April showers.

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” I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
Suddenly
This rain.”

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

March

“Springtime is the land awakening. The March winds are the morning yawn.”

Sleepy Winter cast aside. White blankets that padded down our cold nights, now evaporate into fluffy clouds rushing through blue skies like spring break traffic. Deprived of Green and vitamin D, our cravings are now met as immediate gratification in touches and waves of sunshine and breaths of air. Saying “See me. Spring. My sleepy eyes are opening.”
My heart is opening. In uncertain and abnormal hope. I do not claim to know where I am going but I’m willing to work my way forward. I think I’m breathing.

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Wind + Sun

In March my life is just a blur
of all the things that I have heard
The shadow of a dawning spring
The wind casts in lights echoing
For future’s all that I’ve lived for
Threaded hope and doom
gliding.
sliding
evermore
In realization sorrows pass
if only you can get a grasp
This realization comes to be
in March a wind chime symphony
With winter wind and summer sun
Contentment in unknown is won
Yet in this breath we would seem
a pawn in life’s unruly scheme

I wish not to rest in a man made bed, but nature be where I lay my head. When the things man makes like houses or machines get abandoned, run down, or messy, nature takes img_1247them back.
I’m sure you’ve seen an abandoned house or a picture of those old creepy amusement parks where  in human’s absence, over growth has completely taken up residence. It’s even how life works, when our bodies stop pumping and lay in absolute stillness, nature takes us back to the earth. The depiction of a messy bed: it becomes more so until flowers are growing “out of its ears”. I think I wish life were the reality of that. That no matter how messy my life got I knew that just meant little plants would grow in those areas. But really, that is truth and is a metaphor for how life shapes us. if we take the advice of the vines growing on the side of an old house, we will start to grow in places we thought were unrepairable. Life is messy. Through and through. Yet when we let our soul flowers grow on the old messy bricks of change, though they be uncertain, I think that might just be beauty from ashes. Yes, bloom where you are planted, but give yourself permission to bloom where you thought only desolation and abandonment could reside. Let’s all take a tip from nature.

“The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep” – Robert Frost

(Tulip photos by Lily Miller)

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

February

“February brings the rain
Thaws the frozen lake again.”

Cold mind, cold heart, cold bones. Winter has been chilling us for several months. Seeping into our very foundations. The feelings frozen in icy cold thought, now begin their tedious descent into defrost. Though rains fall, and puddles form, it promises icelessness not only in mind, but in reality. The change in weather at first so exciting that November through January brought, February finds slightly hopeless and desolate. Don’t think me not a lover of winter, cold air is where I belong. But even I, like so many, by this time in the year am looking for a single glimmer frozen’s end. February may be just that.

2 and 14

By Glory Miller

February, my life continues
All it’s threads and all its sinews
We brave the storm, the worst of weather
to your heart, my anchor tethered
But in this winter all noises wither
Yet nature and love still call me hither
And with an aching, trembling shiver
I glide ‘cross snow, my mind gone thither
The fourteenth day devoted to thee
Everything is made of “we”
Something warm in the coldest of days
Does help us carry on in our ways…

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What you see is all about your perspective. The things you’ve been through, the way you’re raised, and the simple to complex notions you come up with that to your own mind are seemingly original, all effect your perspective or perception of what is around you. Metaphorically, this painting represents that. Stepping back to see the big picture and to get some effervescent,
ever-needed
                                                                                                              p e r s p e c t i v e.
The woman in this painting has stepped back from her blindingly gold encasement to see the flowers blooming in the barren spaces of her mind and in her life. Although we do not always get to see the big picture in such a way, glimpses of it, when noticed, help us to carry on in our ways…

Wait (Live Acoustic) – Glory

Surprise! Above is a link to a Youtube video of my original song “Wait”. I wrote this song one day in my room while it was raining, just me and my guitar. I think it is one of my most mellow yet not too melancholy songs. “Wait” and other songs will be on my upcoming album “Tempest” (Surprise #2). Stay tuned in, big things are coming February 14…


If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

 Cover photo by Lily Miller

January

“January starts without much sympathy. Just like every dog is let loose right in front of me”

– Howling by Adam Barnes

A beginning. That is what this month is always associated with or seen as. Rightly so for it is the start of every brand new, deep breath, fresh air year. Most everyone has even the smallest bit of hope when January rolls around because it is a chance to put past in the past. Maybe that’s why I chose now to begin…

Life is not always outside pretty, but life has beauty in all things. Even when it seems to manifest itself so strangely, like a little flower wedged catawampus between two gargoyles. To me, art is one of the ways beauty shows up in everyday. I receive joy when my life is filled with art. Not only is art so versatile in its many forms, but in it’s way of letting us so easily express ourselves. Beauty, Life and Art are all at each persons’ fingertips. You just have to know how to use it.

img_0918This painting took me a couple of weeks of on and off work to finally complete because I couldn’t get the reflections quite right, but thanks to Bob Ross, I finally did. As the new years rolls in and the old one fades, reflections are very present. The pause and reflect aspect of January, but also the reflected image of ones self. For that, the reflection, is all of you that your eyes will ever see. Have you ever stood looking into a mirror and thought it was strange that you lived inside that shell that is called a body? In some sense, a refection of you is all anyone will ever know of who you truly are. What would the mirror read if the reflection of you was in other peoples eyes?

“Reflections” by Glory Miller  (Acrylic on black canvas)

January: Begin.

by Glory Miller

January is on its way
Life, a cold, exciting grey
But understand me when I say
That exciting and grey are not everyday

It’s good to know where you stand
And what you want being in your hand
But how could that really be?
When life is just uncertainty

    And what you need you do not know
Your feet buried in falling snow
The world a sketch of white etched tips
Confusion bites your very lips

Your heart shut tight against the whipping winds
Your window closed up against sunshine’s end
Around the bend is spring, a friend
But ice is not always the end

Though January, cold and wet
Brings resolution and a new mindset
So don’t you despair just yet
The new year and you have only just met

If life and art danced together
their silhouette would be the outline of a
Watercolor Woman

(cover photo by Rachel Adams)