Out of the Gutter Art

Outrageous Bipolar Expressions

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I am an Artist, Poet and Author. I am so much more than this: I feel like a tiny seed that sprouted in a desert, and now has grown into a Passion Vine. My Art is my Voice, Screaming, Crying, Praying, Loving, Laughing, Healing- all in Riotous Color…
  • It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    It’s Cold, I’m Hungry

    42 Degrees in Fort Deposit, Alabama…

    Going through withdrawals on this night, in the woods alongside Interstate 8; I was a whining, bleary-eyed mess. My boyfriend and fellow addict, Danny, had just stolen 2 cans of tuna from an old country store across the four-lane highway. Night was setting in as he stabbed the cans with his buck knife, spilling tuna juice on the upturned, anxious face of our boxer dog, Spice. She was as hungry as I was, as the kitten, Binky-Boots was. And as surely hungry as Danny was too at that moment.

    We took turns, taking bites from the tuna can with our fingers; we each got two, the animals one apiece. Danny insisted we save the other can till morning, which seemed a freezing eternity away. Whether the longing to get high, the tightness in my stomach, or my freezing feet bothered me more I can’t recall. What I do remember is that dull ache in my feet soon became the most miserable as the temperature continued to drop.

    The rash decision to leave southeast Florida had been made only 18 hours before. We had loaded my 1970 Mach One in a frenzy, stuffing duffle bags, dog and cat into the back seat, and placing electronics he had stolen gently into the trunk. I had given Danny an ultimatum, make up his mind whether to leave for the West Coast with me that very night, or never see me again.

    I knew in my heart: if I didn’t leave Palm City that day, I wouldn’t live another. I had been an addict over a decade, only turning 23 a month before this crisis. In this span of time I my habit (and as of yet undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder) had resulted in a thirty day stint in a locked psych ward, a detox, a month in a Florida rehab and a year in the Martin County jail for Grand Theft. (The conviction stemmed from robbing the clothing store I managed in the Martin Square Mall. But I digress.)

    Getting back to our present dilemma roadside, an Alabama State Trooper has unkindly relieved me of my beloved Mustang when it had died along the Interstate. Danny and I hadn’t been there more than two hours, hood up, debating our next move. We decided we would take the “kids” and hitch a ride to a phone booth. There I would plead with my Mom to Western Union me enough money to fix the car and rent a room till the car was fixed. I would never get that chance because the aforementioned State Trooper rolled up while we were unloading the dog.

    “Looks like an abandoned vehicle to me” he stated, putting on his hat and rising to an impressive height. He continued, “Let me see some ID, the tow truck’s on it’s way.”

    I started to give some lame explanation of my plan, but realized he meant business. In just a few more words he let us know that non-compliance would not only include my car being impounded, but also our arrest for vagrancy and seizing of Spice and Binky. I think he saw visions of himself cruising the town in his hopped-up Mach One with the Boss 302 engine under it’s hood.

    Sigh…

    There was nothing to do but let him tow the car, and within the hour it was hitched up. The driver was “kind” enough to give all four of us a lift to the impound yard where we now unloaded all we could carry under the hostile glare of four or five “good ole boys” sitting on a porch. My shorts felt very short under their gaze, and we shouldered our bags and walked haltingly down the shoulder of the road. I looked back a couple times, longingly, at my prized muscle car behind the 12 foot fence. It probably belongs to Mr. Trooper’s grandson now…

    to be continued…

  • I Refuse to Give Up!

       Down, but not out. I am digging deep, putting more effort each day into getting well. Physically, pushing my body, my muscles to heal. The hip surgery set me back, I’m older and the fight to get back to my old energy level is very hard.

      But I’m not going to take this aging thing lying down! Which is, literally, what my mind is telling me to do. There is a heaviness to my limbs…the word for how I feel is CUMBERSOME.

       I joined a Weight loss app for a 3 week trial. I am fighting the negative voices from my childhood about my weight. NO! I refuse to go back to being slovenly, to not caring, to eating entire bags of cookies in half an hour, then wallowing in guilt and self-loathing for weeks. NO!!

       I CAN get well, I AM fine now. My energy is returning, I am improving, exercising, tracking my food, my mood, my steps. Being accountable feels good. So, now I rest. A good day, doing good things.

       I am GRATEFUL today. Thank you , my God. For your Son, Jesus. For forgiving me…for loving me. I CAN do this. I AM doing this!!

  • Gone. Baby Gone.

    Gone. Baby Gone.

    The Weight is mine, mine alone. I tried to offer some lame kind of comfort, but I could feel the other pet parents staring right through me...

    .

    A sad situation…

      Pippy herself did not show anger, or hatred; I wish she had. Her gentle, knowing glance as the vets assistant lugged her away unceremoniously drove a spike through my heart.

    “Please take care, ” I whispered, so obviously a vile animal destroyer to the ten plus persons waiting for their babies.

      “WHAT,” the huge matron stopped in her tracks and did a slow spin, somehow holding onto dear queasy Pips in the jostling cage.

      All attention swung in slow motion, onto my horrified visage, the paint splattered clothes just screaming “loser”, “sinner” and “jail her”.

      Now struck dumb in my dismay, I gathered the last tiny drop of spittle I could muster, and in a voice only heard by Pippy and God, I said loud and clearly,

    ” I love you Pippy, and I’m sorry..”

      She heard, she knows and I will carry her in my heart always..

    How fo I say Goodbye?

    CHAPTER 5

       You see, Pippy had some terrible kind of mental breakdown that coincided with the introduction of my neighbor’s cat, Lilly, being brought into the home.

       Almost instantly Lilly pounced on and actively hunted Pippy, terrorizing her. The change in Pippy was swift. No longer social, friendly and well adjusted; Pippy became nervous and unsettled. Hiding, flinching and neglecting to groom. Or, the flip side: overgrooming. To an unbelievable degree.

      Now Pippy would spend hours, every waking moment, actively pulling out her fur. Rapidly, her underbelly was devoid of fur except for a few lonely tufts clinging onto her for dear life.

       Then, when I thought this was the extent of her problems: a disturbing new issue. Out of the blue, on a given Saturday, Pippy had some sort of twitching fit that escalated to her biting at herself and racing full tilt around the trailer. I was also beside myself, deeply regretting my lack of funds to take her to a vet. I called the SPCA to see if they would treat her free, they said, “No, there is no program.” I was at, what I thought at the time, feeling ultimately that I had caused her distress. I alone bore the guilt.

    Pippy knows: it’s me who betrayed her…

      In the aftermath of this episode, Pippy began hiding in the top.of my closet, in my studio. This posed no issue- I was glad she found a cubby hole. Until she refused to come out at all. Not to eat, not to be petted and, most devastating, not using her litterbox.

            To be continued…

    Poor Dear Pippy-puppet…

        I am so guilty…

  • REALIZATIONS dawn…

    The Cold Weight of Guilt

       CHAPTER 5, ORANGE BABY…

       My little “farm” now included 3 indoor kitties in 2022: Zignatious the Fluffball, Zagnut the Torti-Tabby Tom, and my nameless rescue kitten, “Orange Baby”.

        Her beautiful sister had been adopted by my Aunt, her name was Peach; she was as healthy and robust as a young cat could be…unfortunately, Orange Baby didn’t get the same bill of health. She had the gingivitis and malnutrition from their time “on the street” as orphans. She had all the hallmarks of being the runt of the litter. My heart swelled with love for the odd little tyke. It seemed like all would be well, watching all three interact, tumbling and tussling all day.

       So began a time of quiet family life…

    Zignatious Horatio Needlefingers
    AKA The Golden Fluffball

    Orange Baby after smacking Kleo the Shih Tzu in the left eye, resulting in near total blindness and a $500 vet bill…
    Frenchy, the Nature Guide
    Orange Baby in Cuteness Overload Mode
    Orange Baby in Shades of Grey Kitten

    The Pandemic Ends, New Tenant Arrives

          My isolation, and the entire populations’ came to an end, finally. Life was still tumultuous and uncertain in so many ways. Over the years I had developed a good relationship with my next door neighbors, a gruff New Yorker and her wife and daughter. Because we live in tiny mobile homes at about an arms length apart, being kind makes life more pleasant here.

      There was major familial friction in their home, however. It centered around the wife’s blood sister who had recently  become homeless, in the process  of moving in with them to sleep on their couch . This was a new wrinkle…

      

  • Orange Baby

    Orange Baby

    CHAPTER 4

    THE SAGA CONTINUES

    Morning Mindmeld c.SUSANTMARTIN2022 (sold)

         I got off track in the last chapter…  

       Too many offshoots and alleyways. Let’s move along a few years to 2020…Pandemic lock down, I’m working on Zoom with some friends. Suddenly, Donna breaks in with a plea,

    ” Would anyone like a Maine Coon kitten?”

    All the girls pipe up with ooohs! and aaahs! The idea of a warm, fuzzy kitten is SO appealing, so comforting in this lonely isolation. I was down to just one outside cat, Frenchy. She was pushing 16, Fogerty and Ollie had died the year before. In the interim, I had also lost 2 of my beloved dogs to cancer and old age. My remaining little Shih Tzu, Kleo, had become much less active as she aged. Perhaps a kitten would be a nice addition to my little homestead.

       My little “not a Maine Coon” kitten as delivered within 3 days. Super fuzzy, a golden cloud, he is a special boy. I name him Zignatious Horatio Needlefingers, and I fall in love. The new routine wasn’t too bad. One catbox, one kitten, one dog to feed and vet seemed manageable.

       Things rapidly changed. My kind heart was about to be sorely tested. Approximately one month later, I rescued a half-grown boy cat who I found crying his little heart out in my neighbors front hedges. It was after a “fireworks” holiday; he had obviously run away in the horrible onslaught of noise. My biker neighbor had been feeding him lunch meat, but he needed proper care. I bundled him into the house and he quickly became the Zag to my Zig. They were now happy playmates. But the vet bills and catboxes had now doubled.

       WHY DID I ALWAYS HAVE TO BE THE SAVIOR? WHAT CHARACTER DEFECT MADE ME A SUCKER FOR LOST ANIMALS?

      

       Looking back now, I understand the pattern. I had been a mother to my alcoholic, abusive husband. The caregiver for my beloved Mom during her illness- even before. She was so needy all my life, telling me she “lived through me”. Finally, being mother/ caregiver to my dear Dad. Caring for his every need as his madness progressed into a second childhood and excruciatingd death. All those years of caregiving through all those events made me feel needed, wanted, and useful. Loved.

       The convoluted and traumatic relationships and disfunction had left me with a void, a pit inside me. And I was filling it with warm, furry little bodies. Ever the caregiver, ever the mother. My self-worth depended on having people and/or pets to care for. 

       It would get worse.

  • ORANGE Baby

    ORANGE Baby

    AKA The Crazy Cat

    Chapter 3

       I didn’t want to become the “Cat Lady” of my new neighborhood. I had gotten off on the wrong foot, on day one, with an off-balance dope fiend who lived directly across the street from me. While attempting to acclimate my kitties to their new home, they had escaped the trailer, bounding joyfully through the neighborhood at 100 miles an hour.

      Oliver was a long and lanky boy of dubious Russian Blue heritage. Beautifully Grey and a little odd, he would saunter up to just about anyone. Frenchy was a lovely Calico of the clouded kind, petite, demure and a veritable hellcat when she was cornered. And then there was Fogerty…

       Fogerty deserves his own paragraph. He was a descendent of the Banyan Drive rescue crew, one of the kittens my Mom had meticulously documented in her “Book of Cats on Banyan Drive”. He was born in 1997 , brother to Munson , son of Teddy. He was very old when we arrived in Tampa. But very spry. To the point that the local Vet argued that there was no possible way he was 20 years old, even if I did have documentation.  I gave up trying to persuade him.

       So these were my three cats at my new home. Mine, in the sense that I inherited them. I promised Mom on her deathbed that I would care for her cats after she died. And I was keeping my promise. I was not capable of loving them properly at that time. My heart was too fragile to let any love in. So I fed them, watered them, and talked to them. I watched them settle in, watched them play. Even let one sit on me, now and then.

       But they weren’t allowed in my bedroom, no, that was sacred Shih Tzu territory:

        My pets, my dogs, my loves.

  • Orange Baby

    AKA: The Crazy Cat

    Chapter 2

        Relocating to Tampa after my Dad had died was a horrible experience. I had run from the house I inherited when my Dad died. I had been primary caregiver for both of my parents; their deaths six years apart left me traumatized. Aching for maternal love, Tampa seemed the right choice. Two elderly aunts, (Mom’s older sisters) lived there, as well as my cousin Sadie. I desperately wanted them to want me.

      It warrants a whole other book to describe the dystopian and farsical experience of selling that house. Suffice to say that I had made a rushed, pressured and very poorly thought out decision to sell when I did. I had 2 weeks from the day of sale on April 30th to move out, with no new home to move into. It all became an endless, exhausting exercise in anguish and compounded grief as all my family’s most treasured possessions (which were all I owned of monetary value) had to be carted off to the auction house. A treasured mantel clock made in 1798 was sold for ten bucks, as I watched in horror. The rest of the sale was equally tragic.

       On May 15th I moved myself, my three Shih-tzus, and the last three of Mom’s surviving cats into our tiny new home. A dilapidated 1970 single-wide mobile home situated on a tiny parcel of dirt which I now owned, lock, stock and barrel. In the middle of the most notorious druggie  neighborhood for 30 miles.

    This was ok, I told myself as I helped unload the tiny moving truck and uncrated the animals. At the end of the day we were all inside our hot and humid home, with windows that didn’t open and an air conditioner that sounded like a helicopter firing up. It would be ok, I whispered to the frightened cats and dogs, desperately trying to convince myself also.

       Mother had become a cat rescuer after we moved to Florida in the early 80’s. I was so busy doing cocaine and going to jail that I somehow missed the beginning of this trend. She and I had a very unhealthy codependent relationship going on: I was a ruthless addict using her up emotionally and financially, all while my Dad still lived in Pittsburgh. So it was amazing to me to find out she had 11 cats, 9 of them living in the house while the most feral lived outside. Their numbers fluctuated as she rescued, spayed, neutered and vaccinated the new ones she tamed and caught. This was before the days of any rescue organizations, the  financial burden was entirely her own.

       Many recoil at the thought of “catladies” and hoarder situations; I wasn’t keen on the quantity at first either. But they were all so loved, so well cared for. Clean boxes, carpeted cat trees everywhere. No smell, no fleas, no problem. She was entirely dedicated- they filled the void my addiction had left in her life.

       Over the years I was there , then gone again. I tried AA, NA, geographical cures. On and on to eventual marriage and living a few states away. After more trauma and abuse I was allowed to move back into their home at age 35 after my husband was sentenced to 15 to life. Again, I had no problem with the cats, in fact I helped card for them. I even added to their numbers, since I brought 2 of my own when I came home from SC. Kitties everywhere, different ages , all colors, all beautiful! I got clean on September 19, 1999. Life was good, we were learning new ways to get along and heal. The future was bright indeed!

       One day I used the bathroom right after Mom, I freaked out when I saw the bowl filled with blood. Unmistakable and there was lots of it. Lots.

       ” Mom! What happened?!  Are you hurt? ” I grasped her hand, saw her fright when she realized she hadn’t flushed.

      She was hesitant and tried to dismiss it. I was adamant that she told me where it had come from. She finally confided in me that it had been going on for a long, long time. I was horrified.

       ” You have to go to the doctor. Mom, you HAVE TO.”

       She balked, crying , ” Bonnie had a colonoscopy. She told me how painful it was. I’m afraid!”

       Taking her soft hands in mine, we sat close on the edge of her bed, her beloved Munson cat purring next to her.

        “I will go with you. I will be there every step of the way.”

     

  • Orange Baby

    AKA The Crazy Cat

        It was a rainy February night, cold for Tampa Bay, when I found the kittens. There were 2, frightened and crying. One came to me readily, I thought it was alone until I heard another faint “mew” from the bushes that lined my front porch. Peering into the darkness, I could see the pitiful thing, muddy and shivering.

      “Okay, then…you’re ok…” I muttered, fumbling back into my trailer with the soggy babies. Flipping the kitchen light on, I set them unceremoniously on the counter to see them better.

        The larger of the two was beautifully marked. Swooping swirls of dark orange and white in a tortoiseshell pattern, with a bold white blaze between expressive gold eyes. Four little white boots and an extra long tail with a funny little bend at tip, like a question mark.

        ” The question is, where have you come from?” I asked.

        She peered quizically over her sister’s back at the kitchen appliances. Her little sister was not as fortunate in the “looks” department.

       “Oh my, you’re a little sad sack, aren’t you?” I picked up the tiny muddy kitten and my heart melted. She was as plain an orange tabby as ever there was. No white on her, not anywhere. Just a dingy yellow-orange coat, and tufty at that…