artycelia.com

This is a painting of, erm, the cancerous tumour that I found in my breast in 2021. It's gone now. I felt much better after the painting was completed, sort of serene. Despite the brutal treatment that is chemotherapy, I have depicted the cancer as drifting away, parts of you do drift away while going through treatment, and some parts return while others do not. That's how I feel anyway. I moved house last year. My rented house was too big with just me in it. It was fine when occupied with my daughters, a grand-daughter, a grand-daughter's dad and my lovely dog, but people grow and need to move on. My dog reached the end of his road. The day I lost him was the saddest day of my life. I know I probably shouldn't say that but he was deep in my heart and I loved him unconditionally. I won't ever get another dog, that 'going to sleep' business is a train wreck, one that you are watching and also feel responsible for, even though you are not. I am now living with

Well, here it is! It's MY STUDIO. It is where I can paint, write, renovate, think, dance, study, work, talk, counsel, and tarot. It has taken a long time to refurbish a grotty double garage into this space, but it's been worth it. I have finally moved out of my old, cold, crumbling rented house and moved in with my old dad, something I never ever thought would happen, but stranger things have happened in my lifetime so I'm not going to dwell. The worst part of the cancer treatment is over, my hair is growing back albeit in a crazy curly wurley frizz ball, but goodness, it's here on my head and it is mine. Onwards and upwards.  

                                                This is a self-portrait that I painted while feeling sorry for myself, I  had had the first four sessions of Chemotherapy (out of sixteen) and I was exhausted and fed-up. I had just come out of hospital where I had spent a week in isolation after picking up a bug. Not a fun time. Anyway, I tried to pick myself up and get on with it as really that's all I could do. I have finished chemotherapy now and radiotherapy. I had surgery last year so apart from having to go back on the endocrine treatment, I'm done. (Well, I hope I am) So, that's the brief history of my cancer story. Everyone who is going through, has gone through or who has a loved one going through a similar experience has my sympathy, I feel for you all. Before this all started, I found the lump in September 2021, I had been studying and writing posts for Modern Hippie Therapy. Although it's not what I intended, I had intended to help other people through Modern

                                                      I've been off the blogging scene for a while as I've been having chemotherapy but that's finished now, thank goodness.    I did not retreat from The Times, Below the Line however, in fact that has been prolific, there seem to be so many things to get annoyed about, I'm talking politics of course and mainly Bloody Brexit.           I have republished some older posts from artycelia.com but left in place all the Brexit (Brexiety) posts. We are nearing the 25th anniversary of The Good Friday Agreement, and I think it's important that we remember our (not mine obviously!) decision to leave the European Union and the precarious position it has left us in. Despite politicians telling us that they 'got Brexit done,' they obviously did not. It seems to me that the politicians, especially Boris Johnson, had no clue what Brexit meant. We find ourselves in an uncomfortable place here in Blighty. We have a severe cos

2021 was an especially shitty year, although it looks like it will be surpassed. In the January, the day Biden was inaugurated, though that has nothing to do with it, I had to say goodbye to my best friend, my buddy, my darling, Billy. Any dog lover will feel my pain, so I won't go on about it, except to say that I am in tears writing this and my heart hurts.  I don't want another dog, I have developed a morbid habit of looking at all dogs and their owners while silently thinking, 'oh no, it's going to happen to you one day. That utter dismantling of your heart and soul. The wretchedness of a lost love, a warm body ripped from your concave tummy where once there was a beating heart.' Miserable, I know, sorry about that. It gets worse though. My daughter, on the day that Billy died, announced that she was pregnant. This was supposed to 'lift the mood.' It did for about thirty seconds, but I was too distraught to really take it in. Her pregnancy wasn't gre