Pen and Paper

walking off a cliff

I have been writing. But I can’t seem to hit publish on any of it. I have been debating the differences between vulnerable writing and being too honest.

Too honest… is that an oxymoron?

I have hidden as much as I can. All that seems to be left is the too honest words.
I feel like I am walking off a cliff.

I used to draw and paint. And for a long time no one was allowed to see that work either. It also felt too vulnerable. I do think a lot of that hiding was from my lack of technical skill. I just sat down with a pen and paper and no training. Much like how my writing has started. For some reason it seems easier to share those works now. Maybe I will get to the point where sending out my words is easier too.

But instead of my words, today I send you pictures.

A last attempt at refuge before I wander over the land’s edge.

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A lyric from a Ben Folds Five song, Evaporated. It is still true. I pour my heart out and it evaporates. Note the backwards hands, it was to show how incapable I felt to do anything right.

There was ripping heart out period. Like a blue period or landscapes but instead it was me trying to get rid of this beating thing. I was sick of being beat by it.

I even worked the theme with needle and thread. Now I work it with a laptop. Little has changed.

Trying to channel a calm defense. This might be when ladders also emerged as an escape route. The home is on my back, the thing I carry everywhere.

Note the chopped hand. I had been drawing them backwards but this shows I had started separating them from the body. It was to express a sense of helplessness. I don’t know if you can tell, but my family is coming out of me. This was one of the last paintings I did. I never finished it but I think I like it this way now.

Reaching for help the wrong way.

A falling bride. I think this came from a story, but I really cannot recall.

Feeling forty.

wishing I was a bird

still wishing I was a bird… an alien bird

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I still wish I was a bird…

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Little Bird by the Weepies, 2008

Sometimes it’s hard to say
Even one thing true
When all eyes have turned aside
They used to talk to you
And people on the streets seem to disapprove
So, you keep moving away
And forget what you wanted to say

Little bird
Little bird
Brush your grey wings on my head
Say what you said
Say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me
I’m golden
Sometimes it’s hard to tell the truth from the lies
Nobody knows what’s in the hold of your minds
We are all building and people inside
Never know who walks through the door
Is it someone that you’ve met before

Little bird
Little bird
Brush your grey wings on my head
Say what you said
Say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me
I’m golden
Little bird

I know what I know
A wind in the trees and a road
That goes winding ‘onder
From here, I see rain, I hear thunder
Somewhere, there’s sun
And you don’t need a reason

Sometimes it’s hard to find a way to keep on
Quiet weekends, holidays
You come undone
Open your window and look upon
All the kinds of alive you can be
Be still, be light, believe me

Little bird
Little bird
Brush your grey wings on my head
Say what you said
Say it again
They tell me I’m crazy
But you told me
I’m golden
I’m golden

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I want to thank you— the people who read my work, those of you who always show up in the app and to those that open my emails. A special thank you to those have renewed their paid subscriptions. A year ago last winter was the biggest influx of readers I ever received and many of you became paid subscribers. To see you renew, to see you stay, to see you continue reading is big deal to me. Your support becomes a replenishment of the ink in my bones. You keep me writing. You keep me showing up.

Thank you, thank you,
A.

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Andrea Thomas is a late blooming American writer. Her speculative nonfiction examines the cultures of trauma, societal expectations, and her insistence of self-discovery. These central themes from her life are the scaffolds of her writing. As her memoir work continues you can read her essays at Bird on a Mast on Substack, and check for proof of life on Instagram.