What if women invented religion?
Would menstruation still be a source of shame
Or of pride?
Would it still signify the loss of an unconceived child,
A vile symptom of uncleanliness,
A sin…?
Or would it be seen as holy:
A sign of a woman’s power over death
To bear life…?
Would women still be shunned from the temple,
Forbidden to touch or interact with others
And taught to be ashamed?
Or would we be revered,
Seen as closer to the Goddess,
Celebrated & sought out?
Let’s reinvent religion,
Knowing now why our bodies do what they do,
So that none will be shunned for their natural functions.
Daily Dose of Craziness
One-a-day selected alternative projects, mail art, performance scores, subverted street art and more by multi-disciplinary mixed media conceptual artist Jennifer Weigel. Check back every day for a new work from a totally random, open-theme.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Why There Are No Birds in Winter
I know
why there are no birds
in the winter.
They migrate
just because they hate
the snow
and ice
and cold
and slush
and wind
and rain
and ice
and mush
and leafless trees
and winter clothes
and frozen ears
and runny nose
and long, long nights
and short days
and cloudy skies
and foggy haze
and itchy sweaters
and sliding on the sidewalk
and shoveling the driveway
and snowballs dripping down your neck
and you know something?
I don’t blame them,
I’d leave too.
Except I’d miss
the cocoa
and carolers
and sitting by the fire
and snow forts
and school vacation
and sledding
and snow angels
and ice skating
and snowmen
and Daddy kicking the front tire
because the car won’t start
and hopping around on one foot.
why there are no birds
in the winter.
They migrate
just because they hate
the snow
and ice
and cold
and slush
and wind
and rain
and ice
and mush
and leafless trees
and winter clothes
and frozen ears
and runny nose
and long, long nights
and short days
and cloudy skies
and foggy haze
and itchy sweaters
and sliding on the sidewalk
and shoveling the driveway
and snowballs dripping down your neck
and you know something?
I don’t blame them,
I’d leave too.
Except I’d miss
the cocoa
and carolers
and sitting by the fire
and snow forts
and school vacation
and sledding
and snow angels
and ice skating
and snowmen
and Daddy kicking the front tire
because the car won’t start
and hopping around on one foot.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Friday, September 26, 2014
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Pieces of Jennifer Weigel
Pieces of Jennifer Weigel
Toenail clippings (of myself) with certificates of authenticity, as included in FluxJob
Toenail clippings (of myself) with certificates of authenticity, as included in FluxJob
Monday, September 22, 2014
Sunday, September 21, 2014
The Katydids Play Hopscotch
The busybuzzing bumblebees
circle silver dandelion clouds.
The millipedes shuffle their feet
to the tune of the Jitterbug.
The ladybugs wear polka dots
the gentlemen wear ties and hats.
The crickets form a string quartet
and give concerts in the summer.
The grasshoppers jump rope and sing
and the katydids play hopscotch.
circle silver dandelion clouds.
The millipedes shuffle their feet
to the tune of the Jitterbug.
The ladybugs wear polka dots
the gentlemen wear ties and hats.
The crickets form a string quartet
and give concerts in the summer.
The grasshoppers jump rope and sing
and the katydids play hopscotch.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Friday, September 19, 2014
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Please Recycle
Please Recycle
Digital photograph displayed in plastic bottles found on a 2-mile walk from the house
Digital photograph displayed in plastic bottles found on a 2-mile walk from the house
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Surprise
Surprise! For Cranky Yellow
Post It Notes left in CDs at music resale stores all over St. Louis before a one-night event inspired by a Craig's list post about a Post It Note found in a Death Cab for Cutie CD
Post It Notes left in CDs at music resale stores all over St. Louis before a one-night event inspired by a Craig's list post about a Post It Note found in a Death Cab for Cutie CD
Monday, September 15, 2014
Tunnel Vision
Tunnel Vision (Keeping Dry on the Katy Trail While Plein Air Painting)
Acrylic on canvas board, displayed with statement & painting palette
Acrylic on canvas board, displayed with statement & painting palette
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Saturday, September 13, 2014
Girlhood Friends
Girlhood Friends
Acrylic & oil paint pen on canvas board, displayed with doll subjects from my childhood
Acrylic & oil paint pen on canvas board, displayed with doll subjects from my childhood
Friday, September 12, 2014
Fire Sitting
I like sitting by the fire in the winter
and drinking cocoa
while my mother reads the paper
and my daddy watches football on TV,
as long as his team’s winning.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Contemplation
I was caught in contemplation,
the kind of thought you can only do
when you’re riding someplace, a passenger,
passing nondescript scenery as the corn fields sweep by
in their mid-July rifts of green and beige.
First, I would close my left eye,
and then would reopen it and close my right,
searching for a sign of my perception of color
in the painterly gestures of the cornfields alongside the highway
as they cascaded through my vision.
It seemed that my right eye saw more vivid colors:
olives, taupes, brightly decadent trumpet vine oranges.
An enormous array of colors glistened before me.
And my left eye seemed to seek out details,
for it knew a far wider range of clarity,
transforming almost everything
into dull, muted earth tones and shades of gray.
It was my left eye that noticed, for instance,
a monarch with wings outstretched,
sunning on the Queen Anne’s Lace that adorned the highway.
It was in this contemplation that I lost my sense of time and place.
the kind of thought you can only do
when you’re riding someplace, a passenger,
passing nondescript scenery as the corn fields sweep by
in their mid-July rifts of green and beige.
First, I would close my left eye,
and then would reopen it and close my right,
searching for a sign of my perception of color
in the painterly gestures of the cornfields alongside the highway
as they cascaded through my vision.
It seemed that my right eye saw more vivid colors:
olives, taupes, brightly decadent trumpet vine oranges.
An enormous array of colors glistened before me.
And my left eye seemed to seek out details,
for it knew a far wider range of clarity,
transforming almost everything
into dull, muted earth tones and shades of gray.
It was my left eye that noticed, for instance,
a monarch with wings outstretched,
sunning on the Queen Anne’s Lace that adorned the highway.
It was in this contemplation that I lost my sense of time and place.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Tuesday, September 9, 2014
Monday, September 8, 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Saturday, September 6, 2014
Friday, September 5, 2014
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Monday, September 1, 2014
I've never been much of a poet
My tongue trips over words
with an awkward uncertainty
and my deciphering of context
is more than a shade awry.
Yet the ebb and flow of my life’s own observations
boil and roil and toil within me, yearning to be known;
like a rush hour traffic jam on a Monday morning,
my thoughts often race to a halt before speeding on.
Words that best express me
wax and wane and stop and go;
lost to the traffic of my mind,
my musings become congested.
In this strange habit I have of thinking silently aloud,
I seem to have rambled my thoughts into a corner
and, having tripped over an awkward pause in conversation,
I ponder navigating a new course of words through the jam.
But the words that I search for
are always miles ahead or behind
and I come to realize once again -
I’ve never been much of a poet.
with an awkward uncertainty
and my deciphering of context
is more than a shade awry.
Yet the ebb and flow of my life’s own observations
boil and roil and toil within me, yearning to be known;
like a rush hour traffic jam on a Monday morning,
my thoughts often race to a halt before speeding on.
Words that best express me
wax and wane and stop and go;
lost to the traffic of my mind,
my musings become congested.
In this strange habit I have of thinking silently aloud,
I seem to have rambled my thoughts into a corner
and, having tripped over an awkward pause in conversation,
I ponder navigating a new course of words through the jam.
But the words that I search for
are always miles ahead or behind
and I come to realize once again -
I’ve never been much of a poet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)