jen padron 1

1, 2, 3, 4 Clearing out the old for the New.

Clearing out the old for what.

Noche no te vayas.

It is what it is.

landscape sepia

 

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White Privilege Systemic Eradication of the Other

clouds overhead in atlanta sept 1 - Copy

I missed my trauma therapy appointment for the 3rd week in a row today and it’s showing through the cracks of my face, my hands, my mouth, my eyes, my voice… is cracking.

My primary diagnosis nowadays is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and so I wondered that my experienced childhood trauma has been exceeded by the adult trauma experienced living in the US as an out Gender Queer, polarized and profiled resistant, non risk averse woman of color raised on Queer Nation, ACT UP and fuck you bitch, stand beside me or step the fuck aside in yo face since my 20s.

Systemic White Privileged oppression, abuses, discrimination and hatefulness toward eradicating otherness based on race, culture, gender identity and/or presentation, color of skin and reversed discrimination of fair skinned people in a predominantly Black region (Atlanta, Georgia) pisses me off. It pisses me the fuck off, actually.

I often tell people that No, I do not believe in the premise and inherently false US Community Public Mental Health System, nor will I admit Mental Illness exists. The disease versus pussy recovery oriented system of care is the very basis of my work around behavioral health integration, mental diversity, substance use, isolationist first responder mobile crisis intervention (MH/SA) and finally, how I categorically espouse for  US Peer Workforce.

The hate I feel towards me when I walk into a predominantly white or BLACK environment in Atlanta is so thick, I can cut it with a brand new X-Acto Blade and leave marks, cuts of blood so deep it won’t bleed.

I listen to “Penthouse Floor” a lot and will rebel yell Resist, Fight, Fuck You in your face with my co-horts but to be reversed discriminated against because of my Queerness and because I’m not Black puts me into a position of being hated, feared, dismissed. My education, class, verbal upper class White Yankee, nay, Surfer Dude confuses, I admit.

We either work together against the real scourge of hate in 2017 or we don’t.

You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, either.

I dare you to walk your talk. Be transparent. Authentic. Speak your truth.

It’s now or never.

Step up or step aside.

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And if I should say I loved you

and if i should paint a picture too

that showed the loveliness and the brilliance of you

that art would be my heart

lighting up

did you

know

one lifetime could be

just one heavenly day

allegria

or if i should find one twinkling star

one near as wondrous as you are

that star would be

my heart and me

that expression

that lovely open mouthed howl

let’s catch the evening again, can we please

on naked skin

as if it were very early and dark and wet out

look, the night’s pretending

with holiday tables under the trees

they’re evening melodies

they understand the night when you flash

silver dreaminess – those eyes

you’re flirting with twilight

like when the noise of day dies away

like when the night stays and stays

like how you make quiet love over and above the railing

when it gives it’s light

and makes a queen of Night of you

then i would write a remembrance of your

eyes and if you promised not to tell

i’d whisper the song in the night like i was your lover

like night and in the blue like light

could we be like them

hold on

one another

then we’ll fly off and kiss again

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color

The issue of color is an interesting thing to think of.

I experiment a lot with painting and while it seems as though I criss-cross with texture, oiling it up, glossily, sloppily, with slippery new paint colors, look at the above painting Triptych 1 acrylic on canvas 18 x 36″ (c) 2017 that I painted last night.

 

My early morning dialogue with Dr. Dan Fisher ended up with “dialogue” 12 x 12″ (left above) and another 3 cocks on a beach digital redux (Barnabe & Padron, (c) 2017) (right above) is filmic work.

3 on a beach CU gray

Close Up of 3 cocks in gray on a beach shows reds, golds, whites, yellows Barnabe & Padron (c) 2017 digital work.

My first acrylic on wood “bug” (c) 2014 confirmed my like and predilection for working with wood because the surface is like hot molten volcanic lava that turns the paint into clay.

bug

i like the color blue. it reminds me of nothing but her saying her favorite color is arctic blue like “blue triptych” acrylic on canvas 18 x 36″ Barnabe & Padron (c) 2017 digital work:

blue triptych

and of this same Triptych 1, is Yellow Tower (c) 2017

yellow tower

architecture rings true, too with more blues, greens, aquas, white and greys in “buckhead skyline and flag” photo original (c) 2016

cropped-atlanta-building-jen-padron-photo.jpg

and this dreamy atlanta skyline original photo (c) 2016

atlanta-september-sunday

3 in red triptych (c) 2017 Triptych 1, acrylic with reds, blacks, purples, blues, yellow, green

red 2 triptych 4 cocks on a canvas

on my Top 3 list is this study of yellows and golds and blacks and reds (c) 2015

cropped-abstract-mistake.jpg

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jen kitchen

Shadow Dance | The Internet
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
Let’s try something different, brand new
Oh that, right there, don’t move
I wish I could tip you for all of your time
Yeah, yeah
Girl when you
Teasing me, pleasing me, guaranteed
You know that I love it when you (I love the way)
Dance for me, flashing me, all for free
That’s the way I like it baby
It’s what you do
Me and you should rendezvous
Somewhere we can meet in private
Your debut, time to shoot
Now’s your cue, so
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
(For me)
If I could freeze the hands of time
I would stay right here with you
Right by my side, that’d be nice
The night is young, your taste is sweet
Lay with me until we find
Just what we need, what we need
Tell me that you love me, babe
Tell me that you love me, girl
Tell me if you love me, baby
Do you really love me, baby?
Do you really love it, girl?
Songwriters: Alia Rose Brockert / Christopher Allan Smith / Matthew Martin / Patrick Paige / Sydney Bennett / Tay Walker
Shadow Dance lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

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Today, this morning actually (Sunday) was 2 weeks since I happened upon what was later called a fatality and total loss.

I remember and I think about the young man in the car and wish and hope his loved ones were gently given privy to his loss that terrible rainy day on a 4 lane highway with no divider.

It bothers me. His dying that way bothers me. I know it isn’t up to me how anyone dies. We walk our own journeys and it is our own. Mine is mine. Yours is yours. His was his. Still, that death holds no glory and I wonder if all deaths, or only a few, should be glorious and brilliant.

I was waved down by a lone man standing stopping cars from passing because a car accident was ahead >500 meters down the 4 lane highway. I pulled over. I got out. I double timed it when seeing only individuals running to the black sports car, down, not on fire. An RN got to the driver first. Army Convoy trucks were stopping. 2 Army Medics sprinted to the down driver and car.

The driver was pinned inside the car and when a MD ran to the scene, several of us left the man.

He was cared for. He was loved.

I got into my car and tenuously drove away. Down the hill some 15:00 later ambulance and Volunteer Fire Department trucks made their way up around the curves, in the pouring rain, in the cold, in the flooding highways both directions.

I drove on to Peerpocalypse ’18 and later heard the accident was a fatality. I stopped and grabbed myself and sat down when I was told.

The thought of his death colored my lonelier moments at night knowing full force that life is fleeting and we must love and work as if on fire because this all ends quickly and not without a single notice.

Peace.

I’m painting a 4 x 8′ commissioned acrylic on wood for an East Point business owner of the hottest new salon and spa this side of the West Side Green Belt. I’m not satisfied with it. In fact, I’m not sure if I even like the current large work. Here’s (2 panels beneath the “Northampton Barn” (2015) and “Bug” (2013):

 

 

 

barnabe 4 (2)

 

 

All original art work (c) Jen Padron (2018); All Rights Reserved Jen Padron.

calm down

When my mother was dying from cancer in 2008, my dad told me that there were 22 others living on Trailwood Avenue who were positive for some type of cancer concurrently. “There’s a lawsuit,” I told my dad. We were driving and it was warm outside and the air smells like Central California does in the Fall. Fog, basically.  There is no mystery that most probably embedded land subdivisions were watered by wells driven by the local growers and irrigation seepage will occur. Their water is screwed, no less. Now more than ever with the heat that will not stop and wells are drying. People are stealing their neighbor’s water in California.

My mother died in ’08 and my only sibling died from cancer at 53 years old in ’12 (also in November).

And so at my age, I have superseded the mortality for both, my biofamily and that of the <25 year early morbidity for people living with an SPMI who have received continuous US Community Public Mental Health services for at least 25 -30 years.

Which is worse? Cancer or the US Public Community Mental Health System? I’m laughing because I’m really not joking.

This writing’s intent is to at least touch upon the notion of how disease, chronic illnesses and malhealth – when not self-managed or self-cared for – will manifest physically and you will die sooner than later, probably.

Things to practice then:

  • Mindfulness.
  • Intentionality.
  • Carefully discerning that which takes your concern(s).
  • Be Kind to yourself and to others.
  • Love.
  • Be loved.
  • Adore.
  • Be adored.
  • Get that energy of others that is hurtful away from you.
  • Work your body out.
  • Practice Releasing.
  • Live gentler.
  • Walk with all of your senses as often as you can.
  • Get REM Sleep.
  • It’s okay to let yourself dream.
  • Walk in water.
  • Talk with your best friend.
  • Live.
  • Breathe.
  • Learn.
  • Teach.
  • The day is short. The night is shorter. Mind your time.
  • Harm no others.
  • Protect yourself and what’s yours.
  • Run. Run. Run.
  • Strength.
  • Power.
  • Know that you are immortal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

long, slow deep kissing

There always has been a strange cultural divide with certain kind of women my entire life. There was the case of Kelly, a tall-leggy just flat out hot blonde whose goal was to make $26,000 a year and she figured she had it all planned. That may have been 1985, as far as I can recall.

la-dolce-vita-still-1

And artists. Artists are wild. They are individualistic typically. Highly intelligent. Very introverted usually. Autonomous. Not great communicators. Theirs and their alone “family” networks of others like themselves borders on the hip, chic, exclusive and well, not very open to the rest of us. Women artists I have known were largely bisexual and fucked up about it. We were young.

The woman I know now, is acclaimed and well known, on exhibit throughout the Southern US region and doubly famous, respected for her work. She’s a tough cookie and hard to follow with any other woman and I regret at the soul level having run out of her already, or maybe it was the other way around. I adore her loveliness and her body makes me dream of the forevers I was told were there and had never before ever laid palms and hands and fingers and mouth on.

The one who got away is embedded in my memory and painful to allow out and to float down the river and into white water, famously wild and divergent maybe of all intention, all wants, all needs, any expectation, any Love that there may have been.

Long, langorous hot Atlanta Fall nights (Indian Summer and Yellow Moons) met for long, deep slow kissing during any film festival spent in her bed forgetting time and all memories other than this one now. She was lovely and my lousy picker picked her winding legs, small ass, long lean muscled arms and with all tangly limbs in the night, mouths and throats howling, howling.

As impossible as it may seem, to move forward and mindful prayer and loving intentions may help the blessed alone. Bless me, bless me. God bless this bruised heart.

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