April was very hard this year and I spent an awful lot of time being very, very sad. Next April I am not going to make any plans or commit myself to any exhibitions or anything. I am just going to eat cake and be kind to myself for the whole month.

I often wonder what impression of myself I give to people who read this blog.

The ceramics that fulfill me are made using pieces of plastic that have been inside dead birds. This plastic came out of the stomachs of only three Flesh Footed Shearwaters on Lord Howe Island.

And so using this plastic I made this work.

These cigarette lighters came out of the stomachs of Laysan Albatrosses on the Kure Atoll in Hawaii in 2009.

Using these lighters to make marks in the clay, I made these porcelain touchstones.

I take photographs of roadkill and I cry for my mother a lot .

The ceramic cooperative that I am a part of, has a shop in the Salamanca Arts Centre in Hobart. On my days in the shop, some time is always spent chatting to the other shop owners and members of similar cooperatives. One of these people is Viv, a lovely bubbly woman,with busy hands, always pricking a piece of felt or sewing bits of something together as we chat away each week. Viv was quite shocked by my ceramic touchstones and dead bird bowls. “But you are the most irrepressibly cheerful person I know,” exclaimed Viv in horror when I told her what I used to make the marks in the touchstones.

Viv’s bafflement has stayed with me in the back of my mind and I bring the thoughts out every so often and examine them.

I am also the most irrepressibly cheerful person I know as well and even though I make such sad, sad work, the work makes me happy.

I think this next photo is the woman that Viv sees. I didn’t have my teeth in when David took this photo and I am far far too vain to be photographed sans teeth. So that is why parts of my cat hat is artfully draped across my face. *grins*

So I really hope that I don’t give the impression that I am eternally gloomy, because honestly, inside my head it is a never ending Monty Python skit.

Beware of Rabbits.

But it is my refrain.

I want my Mother, my Mother is Dead.

Months ago I was listening to Pamela Stephenson in conversation with Richard Fidler, or someone similar. Stephenson was talking about her latest book Sex Life: How Our Sexual Experiences Define Who We Are  By asking the audience how many times a day they thought about sex, and confiding that she thought about sex at least ten times before she even got out of bed, Stephenson encouraged her audience to really concentrate of those fleeting sexual thoughts and to be honest with their response to her question. Not surprisingly we think about sex an awful lot through out the course of the day.

Of course by then, I was thinking about sex as well, as that was where the conversation had led me. As I was trying to work out just how many times a day I thought about throwing “The Spouse” to the ground and having my evil way with him, my internal dialogue drifted down a different path and I started to think about how many times a day I thought about my Mother.

Thoughts of my mother and the constant ache that is her loss, play in the back of my psyche like a quiet soundtrack of grief, with occasional loud cymbal clashes of hurt,  punctuating the song with sharp flashes of pain.

I want my Mother, my Mother is Dead.

My daughter rang me last night to talk about Amy. Veronica told me that she had written a post sharing her frustrations at just how difficult Amy is to parent at the moment. Mum is the person Veronica needs to talk to about Amy, not me. Veronica needs the practical advice that only her grandmother can give her, as Mum successfully parented a stubbornly defiant, girl child of her own.

This excerpt from Veronica’s latest blog post describes the challenges she is facing now with her wonderfully feisty daughter.

TIME OUT is my other weapon in my ever decreasing arsenal, as she shouts at me that she WILL NOT GO and YOU CAN’T MAKE ME and YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME.

It’s frustrating and admirable how defiant she is in the face of two parents staring her down. Even as I march her to time out, with, if I’m being honest, the help of her ear because there was no other option short of bodily lifting her, I am proud of her spirit and of her anger, and her ability to decide what she wants and aim for it no matter what.

I can not give my daughter what she needs. I am next to useless to her in situations like these because all I can do is glory in the fact that my grand daughter so like me. As I make sympathetic sounds and offer useless advice, inside I am secretly thrilled to bits with this evidence of my grand daughters spirit. Veronica knows this and it breaks my heart a little bit more.

I want my Mother, my Mother is Dead.

We are not allowed to grieve in Australia. We are certainly not allowed to grieve for the inappropriately long time that I have been grieving for my mother. It is coming up to three years, surely you must be over it by now, this grief of yours Kim is a tired refrain.

It might well be a tired refrain, but it is my refrain.

I want my Mother, my Mother is Dead.

The writing of this post was triggered by reading  this article, The Love of my Life by Cheryl Strayed

I am okay at the same time as I am not okay. I am supported by my close friends, as well as good online friends, but that support doesn’t stop me from wanting my Mother and being broken by the fact that my Mother is dead. Again and again and again.

I want my Mother, my Mother is Dead.

If ever I was going to write a book, “The Cobweb Collector” would be the title, as my house is full of cobwebs and I guard them fiercely.

An orb spider spun a beautiful web from one side of the verandah to the other and so naturally everyone was banned from using the verandah for over a week, simply because I didn’t want to see the spiders hard work destroyed before she had at least eaten a fly or two. A combination of being in the silvereye’s flight path and high winds shredded the web anyway but I was pleased I had at least given her a chance.

If a spider builds an elaborate web and it is destroyed, I wonder if they have the energy reserves to build another?

My head feels cloudy and full of cobwebs, I spent most of Easter Saturday crying for my Mother and crying for myself. I have recently lost a friend as well and some of the tears were for her as well. I burst into rooms and wave my arms around and speak loudly and honestly. People don’t like honesty and noise and I can never be bothered trying to explain.

I read through the posts I had written last April and my feelings of loss are still as raw as they were then. Three years, it has nearly been three years and still all I want is to be able to crawl into my Mothers lap and have her stroke my forehead and tell me that everything will be okay.

Life is messy and chaotic and I still feel mired and uninspired.

But I will work through this.

That is how I feel. I feel like I am stuck and unable to gain any momentum.

I haven’t made any new work in over two weeks.

There is an exhibition coming up that I am quite looking forward to but as for making the work for it, I have been reading instead.

I haven’t made any bread and butter stuff for the Off Centre either and the studio is just too far away. My book is closer.

The industrial strength laxative I took last week as preparation for the colonoscopy made me ill for days. Great waves of nausea that saw me take a bucket to bed, also gave me a small insight into how my daughter feels on a daily basis. I take a small measure of comfort from the fact that my GP told me that if it was cancer I would surely be dead by now.

So there is that at least.

The blogosphere is giving me the shits, with a cowardly anonymous commenter on my daughters blog turning out to be someone we know. A sycophant of the first order, too weak to own her own words. An asshat who thinks that whispers are the way and taints her friends so that I cant be bothered with any of them, or their high school antics.

I am mired and I am also angry.

It wasn’t until I started to cry in a meeting yesterday, that I realised what was wrong with me.

It is grief.

Grief.

That raging weight of missing, of a hole that is too huge to be filled, the pain of the overwhelming emptiness and the endless if onlys.

I am trying to board up my grief with planks of anger and as the fury rises the creativity recedes.

And I am left with nothing but ashes.

My mothers ashes in a box on my shelf.

I take them down occasionally and shake them and whisper hello.

April was Mum’s month.

Easter and her birthday on the 11th all tied up with Mum’s zest for life, with her love of food and family.

April just exposes the giant hole in our lives where mum used to be and the anger bubbles away quietly under the surface.

April is coming and I am trying not to cry.

But sometimes internet, life is hard.

It is really really hard.

I am far from okay but there isn’t a whole lot than anyone can do to make me better.

I also don’t see that anyone other than my very closest friend, asking me if I am okay are going to get a straight answer.

I will just lie and grin and say of course I am okay and then change the subject.

I am a brilliant actress.

RUOK is a wonderful concept but today it is giving me the shits.

Now before you start to get all upset with me and decide to lecture me about the ideas behing RUOK  and all that jazz.

This post is about me. Not about you.

If you are going to get upset with me, just piss off quickly and don’t give me the shits ok.

I am stabby enough as it is.

I am not okay today.

Tomorow I will be better, maybe.

The day my mother told me she had a black spot in her lung was one of those defining points in my life.

Everything now is measured in befores and afters.

The day my daughter was diagnosed with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome was another defining point

As was the diagnosis of her two chilfdren with EDS and their subsequent diagnosis of Aspergers and Autism.

My husband has Ehlers Danlos Syndrome.

My son has Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and suffers from anxiety.

These things are not okay.

These diagnosis dont bring sunshine and fucking roses into my life.

They bring despair.

Great fucking bucket loads of despair.

I am grieving.

I am grieving hard.

Lung cancer shouldnt have killed my Mother she was a non fucking smoker for fucksakes

My daughter shouldn’t have to struggle to brush her own hair.

She is 22 years old and can barely walk from one room to another.

Simply taking her children to the park exhausts her.

This sucks.

My son is 17 and is proving he is  grown up by rebelling against everthing we have taught him.

He has moved out of home.

He has dropped out of year eleven.

He was stabbed behind the ear in a brawl. The wound was superficial. My fear manifested as anger.

And I gave my son another reason to push me away.

He has unfriended me on facebook because I pulled him up privately on a thuggish racist status update.

I am desperately afraid that his anxiety will get the better of him.

I watched a police car driving up my quiet country road the other day and I was convinced it was coming here to deliver me bad news.

I started to cry with relief when it drove on by.

I know that this stage will pass but it doesnt make it any easier.

I share snippets of my life here on this blog.

Tiny slices.

I was told that I should have a professional ceramics blog and leave all the personal rubbish out of it if I wanted to be taken seriously as an artist.

But I cant be bothered starting a new blog  full of art wank and words and ideas that belong in a dusty book somewhere.

I use this blog to think out loud, to order my thoughts, my ceramics and my life are intertwined, as is the blog.

They all are a part of who I am.

Maybe RUOK has worked anyway

As I have cried and written my way through the shit that is in my head.

I am not okay today.

But I am feeling a tiny bit better, thank you for listening to me internet.

I will be okay tomorrow.

Because really what else is there to do but

Just keep swimming.

It is winter and my hands are cold.

I am sad and tired.

I miss my Mother more than I could ever have imagined and I am fighting off a bout of self pity.

I don’t ask the question

Who is going to comfort me

Because I know the answer.

I am tired

Tired of the cold.

Tired of never being asked how I am

Tired of people.

Tired of shallowness.

I am tired of being nice and tired of being polite

I think I should just go out and get smashed and run amok

And I would,

Except I don’t want the hangover and the sore head and the blackness of spirit that comes from all that negative energy.

But

At the end of the day I am truly an optimist,

And even in my bleakest moments I can go outside and see something that lifts my spirit.

A tiny abandoned nest in the raspberry canes made me smile.

The thought that small birds had been nesting so close to the house makes me inordinately happy.

Some days it is the smallest things that keep me going.

Your friends either suggest lithium or nod their heads and smile.

This is The Mountain that is the backdrop to the city of Hobart. I grew up under the shadow of The Mountain and one of the hardest things about moving inland was not being able to see the changing moods of The Mountain every day.  

I haven’t been up the mountain by myself for a long time. As a young teenager I used to ride my horse all over the mountain, from Lenah Valley to Fern tree and back again. As an older teenager we used to drive up the mountain and light cooking fires with the wood provided in the huts. We would drink cheap wine and try to count the lights of the city below, before turning our attentions to more serious teenage concerns.

I have been feeling restless lately with a wistful yearning in my soul for something. The practical side of my nature ignores the fanciful and mockingly whispers that a midlife crisis isn’t a good look. Whilst a small part of me feels like crying out, “Can you see me? Can you tell me that I am not invisible?” I push the thought of any sort of crisis away and ponder instead what it means to be 45 and overweight in a society that worships at the altar of anorexic youth.

I am teetering here on the precipice of my next great adventure and as I spread my wings ready to leap, I am filled with an unbearable sadness that my mother isn’t here to help me on my way.

Mum would tell me that it is normal to feel like this at 45. That it is normal to have quiet moments where you feel old and ugly, withered and useless. That the drumming I hear in my ears is my biological clock banging away erratically and that I need to get my shit together and just ride it out and to remember that I am only invisible if I choose to be.

My grief has settled into a cycle, in tune with my own lunar cycle. The grumpy irritability of PMS has been mostly replaced by a week of tears and longing and introspection,which is annoying as I would much rather slam a door in anger and be done with the shitty mood, than reach for a box of tissues and cry like a child for my mother.

On a whim I drove up the mountain and had a good talk with the stones. I let their ancient energy wash over me and I opened my mind to who I am and what I do.

The stones told me that it is okay to feel old as long as I don’t act old. To remember who I am and where I come from and to not lose sight of where I am going. To remember the ley lines and to feel the power of the earth through my bare toes. I think that is half the problem, I have been wearing shoes for too much of this year and I am losing touch with that energy that only comes from walking barefoot in the garden.

I bought a small stone down from the mountain with me and I think it will make nice marks in the clay. I met a twitter friend the other day who gave me some bones to use as tools, in return I am going to make her a ceramic altar to hold her offerings from the sea.

This feels good.

When I just do what I am supposed to do without thinking too deeply, when I let the clay guide me and I rest in that sweet spot, that silent intuitive space, the work just flows and I feel complete.

As a visual artist I do my thinking in public. I am comfortable with that. A nest of ceramic eggs in a public space is the realisation of a series of thoughts as well as an invitation to you the public to join in the discourse, to participate in the public thought processes with me.

This blog is where I start the public thinking process.

A conversation that starts here on the blog as nothing more than a wisp of an idea often coalesces into something much more tangible than an abstract concept.

The simple processes of examination of my ideas and feedback from you is an invaluable tool.

I use this blog to de-clutter my mind, I take ideas out and examine them publicly and see what happens.

I also use this blog to poke at old wounds and see if they still hurt.

My father does not hurt me anymore.

The spiritual wounds received through the loss of my mother though are still incredibly painful and raw and will be for a long time.

In my life there is no one to comfort me in the same way that I was comforted by my mother. I feel as vulnerable and as lost as a child and by writing out these words on the blog I am seeking comfort.

I am also writing the words to lessen their hurt.

To publicly examine that loss and to acknowledge to myself that I am not alone.

I think I need to make something large, something to help me  work through these feelings of loss and loneliness.

I think I need to make an angel.

This week has been hard, with the lead up to my Mum’s birthday and Isaac’s diagnosis of autism combining to make me maudlin and teary.

My research project for my drawing class is causing me some angst as well. Not much. But enough to contribute to this weeks tears.

I am researching myself. As a visual artist ultimately all my work comes from within myself. I chose myself as my subject because I wanted to examine why I do the things that I do. Why I am drawn to certain things and most importantly why I am happy to just skim over the surface and not really delve too deeply into anything that might require a bit of emotional effort.

Part of the research project is to collect historical data on the subject. Some of my historical data is in a suitcase that I can not bring myself to open.

During the lead up to my mothers funeral, my brother had all our child hood photos in his possession. They were in a blue suitcase that mum had kept in her wardrobe. After the funeral my brother returned the suitcase to mum’s house. I did not see or speak to my brother. All the photos of my father were gone,all the decent photos were missing, there were pages ripped out of albums, and the remaining jumble was  just thrown back into the case. It was heart breaking.

I have been staring at this case for a fortnight now trying to bring myself to open it again but I don’t think I can.

I have been skimming over the surface of who I am, and what influences contributed to make me the person I am today. I examined my relationship with the nuns and my early childhood memories of going to church and being thwacked with a cane every time I fainted and I have discarded those influences as not that important.

I have been trying to pry apart my own mythology and to see where the lines of myth and truth blur and every single thing leads me back to my father.

My father was an alcoholic who passed his love of a drink on to me. I do not drink. I have finished drinking.

My father liked to promise us the world and then on the day of the promise we would sit for hours in the car outside the pub.

My father lit his cigarettes with a match and would ask me if I had ever seen a match burn twice and put the still hot match onto the soft flesh of my arm.

My father tried to teach me to swim by carrying me, screaming in terror, out into the waves and throwing me into the water.

All the kids in the neighbourhood were frightened of my father as he liked to dispense summary justice with his boots and his fists and all the local hoons drove quietly past our house.

My father was killed in a car accident when I was fourteen and I battled with his ghost for a very long time.

When his ghost is strong, I still think that I am stupid and useless and really what is the point of anything anyway?

But my spirit is stronger. My spirit was always stronger. My father couldn’t break me.

I would not give in. I refused to let him win.

As a grown woman, I will not be told what to do. I will ask no mans permission to do anything or be anyone I damn well like.

Maybe pressing publish here will be the first step in really picking some emotional scabs and going down some paths I don’t want to travel.

Either that, or I will just take photographs of churches and pretend it was the nun’s fault.

Now onto the feedback.

I would like to thank my daughter Veronica from SleeplessNights who re did my blog for me. I am pleased with how the blog looks. The reason Veronica had to do a whole new blog design was because I wanted to be able to reply to people directly in the comments section and with my previous template that just wasn’t possible.

Previously I had been replying by email, though not to every comment every time, and I was starting to feel a bit guilty if I didn’t reply personally.

I am after some feedback, how do you think the new comment system is working?

Do you actually get the email notification when I reply to your comment?

Do you like it this way or would you prefer a private reply via email?

Or do you simply not care?

Some days I miss my mother so much that even writing down the words make my eyes prickle and fill with tears.

There is a heap of stuff I am trying to deal with. On their own, these things don’t have much weight but tie them all together and it feels like I am swimming through mud.

My grand son was officially diagnosed with Autism yesterday. Systems will be put into place for Isaac, autistic specific playgroups will be found and the experts will step in and try to help as best they can.

This is good. This also breaks my heart.

I am trying to write an email to a physiotherapist to tell him that “The Spouse doesn’t want to continue with his appointment because it is obvious the Physio knows nothing about Ehlers Danlos Syndrome and in The Spouse’s words is “completely fucking useless”  How do I say that? How do I say “Listen son, you need to bloody well do a bit of research on EDS before we go any further”.

I worry that he will break my husband or my daughter with inappropriate exercises designed for non-bendy people and I also wonder if I can be bothered dealing with his air of professional superiority because he is a trained medical professional you know. ( insert sarcasm font)

I worry that my grand daughter who has an unofficial diagnosis of Aspergers as well as EDS will fall through the cracks. I worry that the paediatrician in charge of her care is another one who knows absolutely nothing about EDS and is more than happy to think about his golf handicap instead of my grand daughters care.

My son is living in town with his friend and I worry that he will decide to sleep all day, rather than go to his classes. My mantra when the children were growing up was, “your choices, your consequences”.

It is hard not to want to live their lives for them.

I want to shake my son and say look, look at all the mistakes I made, don’t do it, don’t make my mistakes. All I can do now is watch and hope and wish that mum was here to gently laugh at me.

I am watching a very clever liar, weave a complicated web of deceit and I am in two minds whether to call them out and wear the fall out or just wait and see what happens.

I went to Mona yesterday and once again I was drawn to this fabulous sculpture PXIII by Belgian artist Berlinde de Bruyckere

This sculpture makes my soul sing. The artist says this work is about loneliness and I can relate to that.

I think that I am becoming invisible, the older that I get.

I interacted with Australian artist Greg Taylor’s art work titled  My Beautiful Chair, featuring a couch, a lamp, a rug and Philip Nitschke’s suicide machine. As I watched the prompts on the computer I thought about my Mum and how peaceful her death was. I remembered what it felt like to stroke my mother’s dead hands and the beautiful ivory colour of her skin.

It was a very introspective three minutes.