Compost StudiosTM

Reducing, reusing, and recycling experience through essays, art journals, photos, and poetry.

Studio Favorites
  • Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage
    Committed: A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage
    by Elizabeth Gilbert
  • Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know
    Inside of a Dog: What Dogs See, Smell, and Know
    by Alexandra Horowitz
  • Step Inside This House
    Step Inside This House
    by Lyle Lovett
  • The Time Traveler's Wife
    The Time Traveler's Wife
    by Audrey Niffenegger
  • Court Yard Hounds: Deluxe Edition with DVD & 2 Bonus Tracks
    Court Yard Hounds: Deluxe Edition with DVD & 2 Bonus Tracks
    by Court Yard Hounds
  • Collage Journeys: A Practical Guide to Creating Personal Artwork
    Collage Journeys: A Practical Guide to Creating Personal Artwork
    by Jane Davies
  • Giving it All Away: The Doris Buffett Story
    Giving it All Away: The Doris Buffett Story
    by Michael Zitz
  • The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir
    The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir
    by Elna Baker
  • One Hundred Demons
    One Hundred Demons
    by Lynda Barry
Backdoor
The Producers
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Copyright 2005-2010
Veronica McCabe Deschambault, V-Grrrl, Compost Studios. All rights reserved. Content may not be posted or broadcast online or in other media without written permission.
 

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Monday
Aug302010

What's next?

September always energizes me, encourages me to take stock of where I am and look ahead and set goals.

Professionally, I'll be working with a marketing group to build and manage an online community for a client and hopefully breaking new ground on some other projects. Personally, I'm searching for an organization to volunteer with. Right now I'm thinking about working with groups promoting literacy. Artistically, I'll be submitting work for an exhibit in October and, if time and finances allow, seeing if I can take private lessons from an established artist who works in mixed media. At home, I will be doing what I always do--keeping the household running smoothly and being present for the people I love most in the world.

One area that I'm uncertain about is Compost Studios. What is its future?

I began this blog five years ago, when blogging itself was just beginning to catch on. I was living as an expat in Europe and couldn't get a work permit. I saw blogging as a way to continue writing during my hiatus from professional work. It challenged me creatively, kept my writing skills sharp, and provided a way to share my experiences as I navigated different cultures and countries. It gave friends and family at home a simple way to check in on my life, and it introduced me to a wide range of people that I would never have encountered otherwise, some who have become my very closest friends. I loved writing and reading blogs and interacting with commenters. It opened up a whole new world to me.

In the beginning, my blog was personal, often funny, sometimes emotionally raw. It had an ongoing story line and a strong following. Sadly, after three years, I began to regret telling my story. There were a few personal attacks, public and private, and I began to feel overexposed and uncomfortable with my blog format. My expat years were drawing to a close and I decided it was time for a change.

As I headed back to America, I renamed the site and took the blog in a whole new direction. I buried my archives and began posting about my newly discovered passion for art journaling. I posted poetry (both mine and others'), dabbled in fiction from time to time, shared photos, and only occasionally wrote about my family or my day-to-day life. The blog became a series of snapshots capturing moments and thoughts.  The story was gone, the narrative moved behind the scenes, but the truth of my life was present.

The new format gave me a way to communicate ideas in art that I hadn't been able to write about, but it also changed my online voice and presence. Compost Studios was more serious than its predecessor, seldom wry or funny. It simultaneously became more personal and less personal as I experimented with different forms of expression.

Two years later, I feel I'm at a turning point again. Facebook and Twitter have siphoned attention and social interaction away from personal blogs. Both bloggers and readers are pulled in a lot of directions on the Web, and I think personal blogs have far less impact now than they once did. The social media market is saturated, and at this point it seems everyone has staked their claim, told their stories, made their confessions, defined their lives.

I have written thousands of posts over five years. These days I delete more than I share. There are topics I feel are off-limits for a lot of reasons, and other subject that I feel I've covered ad nauseum. I bore myself and worry that I'm boring you all too. There are things I've considered writing about, but this isn't the forum.

In the last few months, I've been pondering what to do. Shut Compst Studios down or reinvent it?

Sometimes I think about starting over anonymously somewhere else and giving voice to all the things I can't say as V-Grrrl.

Sometimes I think about jumping into fiction and creating a blog that is nothing but character stories and small vignettes.

Sometimes I think about making it all art.

Or in true compost style, just letting things sit for a while and wait and see what regenerates.

What do you think? Is personal blogging relevant anymore? What makes a personal blog interesting and engaging?

Monday
Aug232010

Fill me up

I avoid the mall, and when circumstances force me to go, I return home deflated--as if all the life has been sucked out of me. This feeling persists whether I have had a "successful" shopping trip or not.

I know women who love to shop at the mall, who get giddy at the thought of it, who become energized and excited as they move from store to store. Not me. Trips to the mall are like trips to the dentist or the gynecologist, a necessity, not a pleasure.

Why is that?

When I go to the mall, I feel like a woman being offered empty words by a charming lover. Every display promises to make me happy, beautiful, fashionable, new and improved.  Oh, I want to believe clothes, shoes, cosmetics, and accessories can do that, but in my heart I know better. I have been jilted so many times.

Like a child who has discovered there is no Santa Claus, I have found that there is no magic cure for being overweight and middle aged.  Fabulous fashons will not make me look fabulous or feel fabulous. There is no brand or quantity of face cream or body lotion that will transform me at this stage. If anything, they make me feel worse, acutely aware of all the years have stripped away and all I never had in the first place. The mall reminds of my limits, of all that I can't change.

But art stores and galleries have the opposite effect. I stroll through them and see potential. They are pregnant with possibility and make me focus on Becoming. They remind me of the value of unique perspectives, of sharing a visual experience, of attempting to express the unexpressed, of capturing something elusive. They convey the joy of process and product, of journey and destination, of something given and something received.

I leave them feeling happy, hopeful, inspired and appreciative of the creative impulse that pushes us to take our hidden passions, emotions, and visions and channel them outward. They remind me that in every age and stage of life, we all have something to offer the world.

Sunday
Aug222010

Art Journal

   I Copyright 2010 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.

Heart Topography 

A variation on a piece I created shortly before my surgery in April. Husband and daughter pronounced it "creepy." 

Thursday
Aug192010

Art Journal

Copyright 2010 Veronca McCabe Deschambault. Do not copy, cut, or paste

No words. Just the useless flutter of my heart and a longing to rise above this, to be free. 

Friday
Aug132010

Friday the 13th

Wednesday morning a nurse hooked me up to a portable heart monitor, covering my chest and stomach with transmitters and leads, handing me a clunky recording device to hang over my shoulder, my constant companion for the next 48 hours.

"Remember, you can't shower with this."

Great.

It's close to 100 degrees in Virginia with off-the-charts humidity. I'll be needing a shower before I even get to my car in the hospital parking lot. Can hardly wait to experience the combination of heat, sweat, adhesives, and wires.

While the black box records my heart activity, I am supposed to record my symptoms in a paper diary.

"Take it with you everywhere. Even to the bathroom."

Ewww.

I dutifully describe every skipped heartbeat, every flutter, every gurgle and percolation, every episode of atrial fibrillation.  It is only the first day, and I've filled the whole diary. During the second day, I'm less diligent.

I'm increasingly irritable and out of sorts. Every time I have to stop what I'm doing and write down what my heart's doing, I'm reminded that my heart is still broken. It is not functioning properly. The surgery I had changed my heart rhythm but didn't fix it.

The patient diary full of entries has me wondering how long it will be before I hit the skids again and can't breathe, can't climb stairs, can't walk the dog.

I was so tired yesterday that I went to bed at 9 p.m. and then I slept until 9 a.m., only getting up then because I had a 10 a.m. doctor's appointment.

I should not have been that tired, unless, of course, my heart isn't moving enough blood. Sigh.

The night was full of dreams. I was on a college campus, having to take an exam in economics. I was with friends who aren't my friends anymore. We were going to go somewhere together. I set out across campus, only to realize a short while later that they weren't with me. They'd gone a different way and not noticed I was missing. I was on my own. Confused.

Later I had another dream, set in a house that both was and was not my house. It was also a college dream, a collage of fractured moments and meanings.

I woke this morning knowing exactly why I was dreaming of being unsettled, unprepared, left behind.

I get dressed. The mirror shows a bright red electrode attached just below the hollow of my throat, a black wire trailing down between my breasts. My computer displays the date: August 13th.

The room is dark. It's raining hard. I don't bother turning on the lights.

It's Friday the 13th, after all. The day and my mood were made for the gloom.

And for chai latte.

After the doctors appointments, after the wires come off and I'm left with donut-shaped welts all over my chest, I'll hit Starbucks and restart the day.

And I'll write about it. Yeah, this time I'm going to write about it.