glitter spud
noun
The physical manifestation—aka “product”—of your creative expression
e.g. painting, essay, novel, choreography, poem, song, lyric, dance, photograph, garment, sketch, design, film (you get the picture)
A person’s heart shared outside of the body for exhibition purposes (metaphorical)
The root1 notes of your life chords
It won’t kill you. Being brave enough to share your glitter spud with the world will never end your life.
But. *holds index finger up*
It might make you feel like your skin is being flayed by blowtorch if the response to your glitter spud is less than positive. As your confidence melts beneath the surface into tallow to make a soap you did not order for an ego cleansing you do not need, it’s possible you will feel as skinless and naked as a peeled russet. But it’s not life-threatening. Someone not liking your potato won’t lead to the coroner popping by.
Now, slamming your vehicle into a brick wall at 100 mph while not wearing a seat belt just because you were “only nipping down to the shops.” That can kill you.
You won’t die from glitter spud fallout either. It might feel like death but you will be just as alive after its unveiling as you were before. Exposing the soft and delicate chest of your glitter spud to potential harsh barbs shot from strange bows will never invite the onset of necrosis. And while some Deadeye Dan from the ClickBait & Troll Archery Academy may hit the bullseye, know this: their arrows leave only scars, not death strikes. Wounds with benefits, if you like. Chant that as you stagger around the battlefield with a barb in your bulb:
“Wounds with benefits!” *arggh* *ooof!* “Wounds with benefits!” *oooww eff me!*
It’s fine. There will be blood, but you will be left very much alive.
Jumping from an aeroplane while wearing a parachute that suddenly decides it doesn’t feel like opening that day, even after you’ve received a total of two hours of training, signed a release, and watched Point Break fifty-jillion times. Now that—that can leave you very much dead.
You will not cease to exist if your glitter spud becomes known, and through its knowing a little bit of you is revealed. A type of rigor may set in upon hearing the bummer news that you and your spud are not appreciated nor understood, which may also leave you feeling a tiny bit dead inside. But trust me—you won’t be dialing 1800-SHUFFLE-A-COIL because of it.
Surfing seal-like and innocent in an ocean infested with Great Whites while wearing a chum sweater? Hate to tell you this but, even without the chum sweater, Death may be gearing up to string out a puka necklace of your bones if you’re doing that with any regularity.
Anguish. Anguish is a combination of anger and the squish sound the hopes and dreams of your glitter spud make as it’s stuffed into a mason jar that also just happens to be filled with murder bees. Your heart may be riddled with anguish as you hold out your lil’ sparkly spud to strangers, but feeling that won’t lead to a death certificate. The experience will sting—STING LIKE THE DICKENS!—but you will not die.
Continuing to ride a motorcycle with a tire so bald that wire is sticking out of it can leave you very much dead if you don’t do something about it.2
Why is it that the risk of showing someone who you are or how you think by sharing your latest glitter spud seems so dangerous?
Taking risks with your physical body can have consequences that can be fatal to your life. Risking your ego—for the most part3—does not. And yet we do risky things with our bodies daily without giving them a second thought. Crossing the street. Eating fatty foods. Forgetting to apply sunscreen. Why not risk our spirits? Why not bare our souls or our sensitive shadows? The results can be brutal and even fatal to your career or dreams or hopes of a life of making art, sure. But sharing your glitter spuds will not literally kill you.
Do it. Kick that spud out the door and get back to the garden to plant more. You may smell the odor of the cruel brand of dislike being applied to your crackling, vulnerable hide after that glitter spud is out there, but scars are cool, right?4 Live to die and die to live.
You must hurl your glitter spud from the tallest of buildings and turn away from the edge. You must allow the vehicle of your work to crash into walls or launch into quarries with your glitter spud at the wheel. Side of your eye, side of your eye. And when the countdown starts and the door slides open, salute as you watch your brave little glitter spud leap from the lip of a perfectly good aircraft.
Your glitter spud is not you, it just came from your soil. It stands alone, released and free, and folks are either gonna eat it up or poke out its eyes. And ahoy-hoy—even if it lands with a resounding splat because its chute didn’t fully open, that’s alright, too.
Because who doesn’t love a good mash?!
Yours in tiny thought,
Janeen
This week’s amends…
"Don't stumble over something behind you."
- Seneca
On Rotation: “Paprika Pony” by Kim Gordon from her first solo album, No Home Record, which you can buy here.
I posted about it over on my Insta, but this is one of those records where you hear a song from it and think ‘Shit, I gotta buy that record!’ Then you forget. Then two or three years later, out of the blue, you’re reminded you were gonna buy the record and finally do.
In 2020, I watched Kim Gordon perform the song “Hungry Baby” on a youtube broadcast of Echoes with Jehnny Beth. Watching that was my ‘oh shit, I gotta get’ moment. Then I forgot. Spotify recently served up Kim’s single “Grass Jeans” as part of my algorithmic breakfast, which in turn reminded me of that performance. I googled “Kim Gordon Jehnny Beth” and found the video (below), and then I ordered the record as a birthday present for myself. It is RELENTLESS and I love it. Sometimes you gotta dig!
Via Messy Nessy
Goldfish, caught in a lake in France.
“The gigantic fish, aptly nicknamed The Carrot, weighed a whopping 67lbs 4ozs.”
Via Boing Boing
Ha! See what I did there? You probably have to have knowledge of tubers to get that. (Hey Siri, play a tuba version of womp-womp-womp-woooooomp sad trombone.)
This happened to me last week. The wire part. Not the dead part. But if I hadn’t parked in just the right way for me to notice my shamefully bald tire it could have left me very much dead or injured on my ride back to Santa Cruz from Morro Bay. The experience inspired this week’s post, not that you asked. Silver lining? I’m too embarrassed to share a photo of the bald tire, but the new one is sexy af.
I’ve written before about how to process criticism. Twice actually, but from different angles.
I say this as a person with too many scars from many dumb adventures. Friends may remember well that time I spent two hours unconscious in a ditch before anyone found me. I don’t…