Making it My Own

(While the kids were getting ready for bed
I smeared on some gobs of metallic silver shadow
and took this picture of myself with my phone/emailer.
The kids didn’t even notice:)

I am hoping for thunderstorms this afternoon.

The Clouds Appear Curiously Painted
(they really looked like this!)

Again with the shoes. See, yesterday morning, at around 5:30, I got up and checked my phone/emailer for any news regarding a friend. There was nothing. “Hmmm, Who is Larisa?” What is the The Art Company? (The Art Company, curiously is a, um…socially conscious designer of footwear imbued with something called Metropolitan Soul.

I opened the email and it was Cc’d to about a bajillion people all over the world. “Huh?”

There was picture of some cute little el naturalistas for kids and a graphic of a boy flying a sort of menacing looking kite (or a cheerful kite under a menacing sky?) with flight goggles on. A girl runs behind him, holding the string.

My kids would never, ever wear shoes like that. Because I could never, ever afford to pay for them.

(I had the ad up for about six hours)

Usually when I get cryptic and yet legitimate seeming emails from strangers, well – I tend to disregard them.

I am very suspicious.

Very very suspicious.

(not so much really)

Anyway, yesterday was June 8th and it was around this time last year that my young friend who helped me order shoes from Spain on my birthday while we sat at the front desk of the museum.

Other people would wander up and consider the shoes I was considering, bright green, with elvish ankles.

“Mmmmm, I don’t know Faith.
They’re really green…
really really green.”

“I know! Aren’t they great! Look how green they are!”

My friend – quite suddenly had an accident with mortality and was memorialized less than a year later.
I wore my green el naturalista shoes to his funeral.

I had glued the red heart onto the heel seam, because

I am learning to make things my own.

I think about him every time I feel lucky. He was a person who understood me and if you read this record I am keeping, well – you’ll know that what I want most in the world is to be at ease with people while staying true to who I am and what I love.

I, Faith Rhyne, am a vagabond on the internet. Telling my story to whoever will listen. I draw a picture every day. It helps me figure things out. I think that I may be on the edge of a breakthrough or a breakdown. I’m not sure.

If you have any stories that are resonant with the content of this weblog – creativity, independence, truth, and the abstract in the ordinary – please – feel quite free to say hello.

I will say hello back.

Oh! And if I keep the el naturalista ad up – can I please have a pair of mod-elf boots and some shoes for my kids. I will wear the fancy European boots to the Southern States Feed Store and take a picture for you:)

The Golden Quarry w/ Ghost Frame Crane The Close-Up View of A Hospital Perspective

(with empty hands, it’s easy to dig for gold…)

Hahaha…I really would like some boots:)

Mostly though, I just want friends who celebrate possibility as we write our own stories.

Here’s The Plan

Inbox X


show details 11:17 AM (1 hour ago)

Enough about how I FEEL, let’s talk about what I am learning to DO. Ultimately, you are your actions.

My Secret Dream of Becoming a Neurologist/Chemist/Lobbyist Against Pharmaceutical Companies:) Rant

Right now, I am sitting on the front porch and some sort of cicadas are buzzing and well, I’m emailing myself and also making phone calls about insurance benefits. Ew.

The thing is that prescription medication is expensive, moreso than you may think. I found out yesterday that a months worth of venlafaxine costs over 200.00 per month without insurance. Generic, too. It is a psychoactive compound which is administered at low doses for depression and at higher doses for steady exhausting anxiety. I take a 225 mg dose everyday.

The thing is, I started being prescribed psychoactive compounds (antidepressants, mood stabilizers, antianxiety, even the dread risperidone – oh, she of shaky hands, but ‘antipsychotic’) when I was 13.

Late 1980’s

The first wave of the masses of young Americans whose brains have just been irrevocably fucked by psychoactive compounds – manmade chemical structures that alter our brains ability to process hormones or to even detect their presence.

In early adolescence the human brain is undergoing an immense amount of growth and change. The limbic region, in particular, is almost hyperactive. The prefrontal cortex isn’t fully wired, it interprets the signals sent from the limbic center…the pure mammalian impulses then mediated by the civilizing skills of language, socialization, and an understanding of consequences.

(I really don’t know what I’m talking about.)

And so, to treat a child who is experiencing problems by prescribing medication is simply tampering with a balance in progress and, in many cases, irrevocably change the chemical communication systems within that young mind.

For every action their is an equal and opposite reaction and this is especially true in the case of psychoactive compounds.

After being regularly exposed to psychoactive compounds, having the chemicals integrate into the brains signal+receive world…

(“You won’t feel it working for a couple of weeks, but be sure to take this every day, twice a day. Be sure to take it with food. If you stop taking it, well, just be sure to take it every day.”

“It’s so big…” The pill in her hand seemed a small spacecraft.

Ignored. “Now if you start to put on weight, you know: extra – well, you just call the nurse and we’ll get you some information about diet and exercise. It might make you feel a little dizzy at first, maybe a little headache. You can just take you an Advil for that.”



Exemplary Essay of Examples forthcoming

They should all be sued.


Oh yeah – so: what I do. I try to figure out some form of sustainable livelihood. Well, the past few days I’ve been enjoying drawing with a swiss made water soluble graphite pencil and have enjoyed doing a lot of erasing as I figured out what I was trying to say. Funny what a picture of a shoe clad foot can turn into.

Or this, the telephone pole across the street, briefly strewn with human hearts and the Virgin Mary, swiftly turned into The Accordion to god.

I have been using Bombay India Ink for coloration, and – in one case of extreme focus, coffee mixed with chocolate soy –

Lost my tiny hook, and immediately rushed to be ‘finished’ with this little figure. I tied off the ends and liked the way they allow the flexibility in form that encourages a personal interpretation of the form. I am not sure about the pinkish-red inkblot, easy enough to change.
The shadow box – glass is from the Goodwill in Folly Beach, SC – used to have an awful faux flower in it, had to pry that sucker out.

I like the crossed needles, very Napoleonic.

I got some new little hooks, some even tinier thread.
tiny stitches are easier to keep constant

I am working on a single + 1/2 double crochet hat. Purple. Mentioned it before. Something about clouds and hearts.

I am feelin’ pretty good these days. Keeping the porches clean, the kids are getting used to me actually being here, having yarn in my hands, seeming much calmer and optimistic.

Mostly: I like what I am making these days. It’s all been quite satisfying and the reward of forcing myself to draw every day for a year (about six weeks to go!) has been that – not only did I learn how to draw – I learned how to find comfort in a simple line and great joy in a page filled just right.



Inbox X


show details 4:03 PM (4 hours ago)
Ick. Nervous again. I think it has something to do with barometric pressure and afternoon storms…or just a little restless. Wildly procrastinating taking the recyclables into old-work. Totally delusional re: new work. I realize that I am banking on faith to be able to keep this up for longer than the summer. It just seems that…well, if you build it they will come. I don’t submit much of anything. Should probably do that. Spend a bit of time packaging various artifacts. Write a silly What is An Artists Statement 5 Paragraph Essay

If someone is an artist they need to have an explanation of what makes them an artist and why their art is important. Or, if they are a Nihilist Dadaist, totally…I don’t know. What’s a Nihilist Dadaist again? Are they or are they not pointless?
Anyway, this little statement about who the artist is and how long they have been fascinated with form and structure and the irony of human existence as explored with pastels.

This statement is an artist’s Statement to the world about his or her self as an artist and about the work itself. Seems a hard thing to sum up doesn’t it.

Do Outsider Artists who don’t even fit in with Outsider Artists – I am savvy in ways I don’t mean to be — do people like me, who seem to be making a shit ton of product just as a way to keep going and find some small consolation in each day – a line well draw, a chain well-hooked, a house well-swept, a child…well, bathed.

I’m not an artist. I’m a Maker. I have little interest in the culture of art, and I look quite sallow in black lately. I don’t like wine, I can’t stand small talk.

I make a lot of objects that could be sold as art quite legitimately – I am doing things I have never been able to do before! And I am not learning them, I am doing them – but I can’t sell them as such, because – frankly – it just involves too much of the walking and talkingness for me to even consider.

I keep my circle quite small.

I do not work crowds well. Or maybe I do – I can usually pull off most social situations with a modicum of tact – but not all and not for long. It gets tiring – all the laughing and smiling and looking and listening to everyone talking at once…whew!

Too much to be fun for any longer than just a little while.

Man, this sucks. I have GOT to go take that stuff to the museum. What is my deal. I like feel all nutty every time I think about stepping foot downtown. Dude, I’m going. Now.

This has gotten ridiculous.

show details 8:02 PM (45 minutes ago)

Took the dang recyclables. Managed to get in and out of the museum without being seen by a single person. Total bug-out, holdin’ my breath while I waited for the elevator.

It was really quite peculiar, riding the elevator and stepping out into the snack area. It was like –

“Whoa! This is familiar!”

The smell of the place and the hopeful little flower’s in a bowl of water on the reception desk.

I was in and out in a matter of minutes.

Even though I was carrying four huge bags of recyclables, nobody noticed me, coming or going.


I never thought of myself as stealthy before. But, yeah – I might be stealthy.

Is stealthy healthy? Probably not.

Speaking of stealthy, saw an expert performance of Spy Dance by a kindergartener, complete with spy music. Also, one of the finest young hiphop dancers I’ve ever seen AND a blind girl sing, with her friend in a matching dress (did someone describe the pink flowers, and if so – what would the image be. What do the visually impaired imagine?

If somebody out there knows a visually impaired person ( who is not a child ) that might want to answer that question – well, email me. That’d be great.

Is there something wrong with this picture being posted?

They sang Three Little Birds, by Bob Marley, a 2nd grader in a tuxedo shirt sang a Chris Brown song, one girl whistled, one child did mime, another: vocal impersonations (This is Elvis: ten year old girl: “


Applause. A virtuoso 4th grade pianist who and a souful lipsync medley of Eye of The Tiger+We Are Family performed by my son’s class.

Nothing pulls you out of a late afternoon cloudy day funk like an Elementary Talent show. It is a joyous thing.

The VP of Programs, etc. @ the museum was there. His son sang an awesome song about a Lego Clone Warrior That Survived. Nice voice, that kid. His dad is a great singer, too. Deaf in one ear and can harmonize perfectly.

I worked on a single crochet hat and didn’t even really have to pay attention to the stitches.

My hands are smarter than my brain.

I just have to pay attention to them.

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