Holy Mole-y!

This quarantine has brought about an era of depression and isolation for many, my self included. Conversely, it has also brought about a period of self reflection leading to (hopefully) a little self care.

None of us like to be alone with ourselves for too long, lest we begin to despise and scrutinize the company. This can lead to destructive thoughts and behavior but sometimes, if we are able to be honest with ourselves, we can see a part of us that needs to change... and use this unprecedented time to do just that.

This is the tale of my journey.

When I was younger, I did some modeling.  I was considered "very photogenic" and appropriately underweight.  I had great cheekbones (I still do, btw) and a few distinguishing beauty marks that were popular to have at the time.  I have one on my right cheek very similar to the one that Natalie Portman sports on her opposing cheek. I also have one on my chin. The one on my cheek was often darkened for shoots. These were my identifying marks.

As I got older, I drifted away from modeling because I found it too ridiculous to be serious during most shoots.  I couldn't keep from laughing - if you know me I'm sure you understand this 100%. 
I always wanted to go for the gag but it was neither the time nor place for such shenanigans.
I know that short period in my life definitely made me a better photographer and absolutely more comfortable when I have to be on film/video.  For that I am thankful.

All of these thoughts and memories came to me one morning while contemplating my face in the solitude of my bathroom and a post shower foggy mirror. As I wiped away the soft filter of condensation, I was horrified at what stared back at me from the other side:

A WITCH!
A WITCH!
BURN HER!
BUUUUUURN HEEERRRRR!

~~~(Self Reflection Portion of my Story)~~~
I'm not sure if you, dear reader, are aware that as we age we lose melanin. 
This causes us to gain the wisdom that accompanies grey hair.
This also (according to my dermatologist) causes our moles and beauty marks to lose color.
I was also informed the wondrous process that is aging, also causes the moles to change shape and much like any corporate video production, grow larger in scope and size.
"Don't be alarmed.  It's not cancerous. It's normal." I was told.
Up until this pandemic situation arose, I never gave much thought to them after that reassuring visit.

When one has all this time on their hands to do nothing but stare intently at the person who is occupying so much of your life now, you become alarmed by many things.
How you react is whether or not growth and self-acceptance with occur.

"Why is that mole on my chin so BIG?"
"How did I never notice this before?"
"Where did the color go?"
"I can't cover that with makeup!!"
"It looks like a giant wart!"

It was in that moment that I realized "This is how witches are born!"
All I needed now was for a damn wiry hair to sprout forth and frighten the neighborhood children and dogs!
...and local religious leaders, according to what I've learned from history and cartoons.

~~~(Self Care Portion of my Story)~~~
Armed with the goal of eradicating the beast (and hiding my identity as a witch from the community) I did what everyone has been doing more than a healthy amount right now -
I went to the interwebs.
Google: How to remove a large mole at home in your spare time

Surprisingly, there was a lot of information on this process; complete with photos and videos for those daring enough to view such insanity.
I am not a pimple popper or surgery video viewer - not because I'm squeamish but because I really don't care how gross you're trying to be in your video.
For this process and for me to truly grow as a person, I chose to look at the photos someone had posted of their process.
It basically involved taping tiny balls of cotton soaked in apple cider vinegar on the mole overnight.
This seemed simple enough.
My mole was not near as bad as the one the woman was removing - hers was large and still had color - like a tick had latched onto her chin. 
I have one of THOSE moles on my upper arm.
It grosses out my nieces. hahaha. good.
I am indifferent about it.

Anyway - I thought to myself as I read through the process and looked at the pictures; "I can do this. I have all that stuff. My mole isn't even dark anymore. This should be easy enough."
This was the perfect time to do it because... who the fuck is gonna see me?
(sorry, Chris if you're reading this)
I began the treatment.
- I used the cotton from the end of a cotton swab
- Dipped it in the organic raw unfiltered unpasteurized non-GMO gluten free now with more fiber mother included tear inducing Sprouts brand apple cider vinegar
- I clipped off a piece of the soaked cotton and rolled it into a ball
(this is where the trouble began and my patience was tested)

The mole protruded so much that it was hard to balance the stinky ball on top of it long enough to place a small round bandage over it.
Gravity kept interfering and pissing me right the hell off - especially since it was right before bed, the smell was making my eyes tear up and I'd had a few beers, what's it to ya?
After much time, many tiny round band aids and even more cussing, I was able to get the damn thing to stay put!
Let's do this!
I smelled that damn vinegar ALL NIGHT LONG but...
as the internet and the pictures promised, when I removed the bandaid in the morning - my skin was bright red, painful and very angry with me.
This continued over several more days and beers.
Some days it bled.
Some days it was so angry it was yelling about people not wearing masks and why were we out of whiskey?
Then one day I was picking at it (as is the custom of my people) and
 - bloop -
It just fell off.

My process took about a week.
The girl on the internet needed several weeks.
The mole is still there but barely visible and still kinda red.
Putting neosporin on it daily seems to be reducing the irritation.
I can live with it.

My facebook profile picture was taken during this process.
I know it looks as though I am being coy or mischievous
- but thats just a trick I learned during my brief modeling career.

So that's it.
Is there a moral to this story?
Probably not.

Mummy Dearest

This is funny.
I read it, and in spite of everything happening in the world right now, it made me giggle.
My friend also thought it was funny but then stated that she didn't think it was right to be digging up people. And I thought about this for a minute...

Who decides when it's okay to start exhuming bodies from the ground in the name of... whatever?
(science, history etc)
Like, I know if I grab a shovel and head over to Oakland cemetery, there's gonna be trouble.
There will be trouble even if I explain that I'd like to know what jewelry such and such was buried with and what they were wearing and if they were 'somebody important' - yet we seem to think these are good reasons to dig up ancient folks.
And exactly where is the cutoff line in chronological history for:
OKAY TO DIG UP / NOT OKAY TO DIG UP?

Is there a world exhumation committee and if so, who are they and what sort of moral compass or other criteria are they using to decide such things? And why aren't they seriously considering the consequences of curses and that sort of deal?
No one has opened those Egyptian coffins YET - but has anyone given consideration to the fact that maybe JUST DIGGING THEM UP caused the current pandemic?
Seriously.

Is it okay to dig people up if their burial place is hidden?
That currently seems to be the only requirement.
"Oh, hey, I was digging around this empty lot and WHOA! there's a coffin here! Ima open it"
What's the point of burying anyone if someone, somewhere, sometime is just gonna come along and pop ya open?

I'd like some answers!

Träumen

I have this dream.
I am in a foreign city.
Not overseas, but foreign to me.
I am part of a family.
It is not my family.
I have never seen these people before coming to this city, yet I find myself waking up next to a man.
- in his bed
- in his home
It is not my home.
This man is not my husband.
I am not sure why I am here.

There is a child.
It is not my child.
The child treats me as though I am a mother.
I am not a mother.
I play along.
For some reason I don't want them to find out that I am not who they think I am.
I am very confused.
I have my clothes and my sundries here.
I have food that I like here.
There is beer that I enjoy drinking here.
I don't belong here though.
I can feel it.
I am not sure why I am here.

I work at my job from this home.
The man also works from home.
We are together 98 percent of the time, yet we barely speak.
We cook and eat meals together.
We watch TV together - sometimes for hours.
We have sex sometimes - only in the bedroom.
But this man is not my husband.
I do not feel close to him.
I am not sure why I am here.

Nothing extraordinary happens.
We go for bike rides as a family on occasion.
We take out the garbage and do laundry.
All the mundane tasks of marriage.
I am not married.
I feel very lonely most of the time even though I am usually with the man.
This man is not my husband.
I am not sure why I am here.

I am told it is for my safety.
For everyone's safety.
I am not sure this is the case.
I think I was safe at my home
- when I was not sleeping
- when I was not dreaming
- when I was alone
This dream seems rather long yet I continue to dream.
Perhaps tomorrow I will wake up in my own home.
By myself
- but maybe not sure why I am there either.

The Corona Muse

When all this bizarre COVID-19 shit began, I was staying in Alabama.
Being exposed to so few people in Alabama, I didn't feel too worried about contracting anything.
I only returned to Atlanta to go to work because I still had to go into the office in those early days. 
As the situation became more dire and I was able to finally work remotely, I decided to return to Alabama in order to be in isolation with people rather than alone in my place in Atlanta.
I told myself that Atlanta is more densely populated therefore the risk of contracting the virus seemed greater than in a small town in Alabama. 
I felt like human contact would be my saving grace during an unknown situation.
For the most part I still believe this to be the case.
Today, however, I find myself in a weird predicament.
I have a lot of creative energy that I need to express and because I am not at my home, I have no way to get all that energy out.
It is making me anxious and distracted and nervous.
I feel like a caged animal.
Pacing back and forth.
Back and forth in a small box.
A box that I cannot escape.
So I pace some more.
In my mind.
I have absolutely zero supplies with me so there is not really anything I can do about it.
I have come to realize that I traded my art for human company and i feel I have made the wrong choice.
My art is always there for me.
I can express my joy, my sorrow, my confusion, my sadness, my longing through my art.
I can share all that is running through my mind at a million miles an hour.
My thoughts and ideas can run free and come to life in any number of ways when I am surrounded by my tools of creation.
I cannot say the same for being in the company of humans.
My ability to express who I am and what I am feeling is stifled.
It is also too complex for words.
I need to create and I am just simply unable to in this moment when I so desperately need to.
I need to make something with my hands and my heart but I can't.
And I am sad.