Advisory I Swear a lot

Advisory. 

I Swear, A Lot

By Bonnie Dixson  

Advisory.

I do swear, a lot. 

Apologies.

If you don’t like it, I may not be the artist for you.

Thank you. Next.

Quote by the lovely Alana.

…

Bonnie Dixson as you could probably guess, is not my real name. I’m actually not going to tell you my real one, it conflicts with my day job… snooze. 

The name Bonnie Dixson has a long arse story attached, which I explain in depth, in my article, ‘Hello Sailor’…coming soon.

I’d love to tell you that I’m sat at home because I work full time, as a fantastically talented artist, that gets paid a fortune, and that I’m famous, but that would be utter bullshit. 

I’m actually sat at home with a brew on the sick from my day job, due to a mental breakdow... I think. 

Listen, before you get all teary eyed, believe me, I needed it. 

I realised I have this incredible ability to get my life going smoothly, and then I will subconsciously fuck it all up, and start all over again… seriously. I can think back over the years, and yes it is a pattern.  

Well my fuck up this time, was a year long process of hard work, consistent fuckery on my part, and a few others, but we’re not here to name names, a run of bad luck, and my inability to acknowledge any of it until it was all to big, and I drowned.

…

Once Upon a time a (I was going to say a girl, but that would be a lie as-well, lets create a honest space) woman woke up. 

She felt like shit, her mouth tasted like shit, and the alcohol she consumed last night was still swirling away in her belly. 

Walking to the bathroom she caught sight of her reflection. “What the actual fuck” she said out loud, as she picked up a bobble of the side to tie her hair up. Mascara was washed down her cheeks as she had cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were puffy and red where she had rubbed them raw trying to stop the flow. 

You see she was a hard woman, seen to much, heard to much and lived to much. 

She didn’t cry… or would never let anyone see her do it anyway. 

Like I said she was hard. 

Well not really, because you see the woman was a collector of shit. 

She had a talent for taking all the shit that happens throughout the day, and tucking it in the deal with it later box, in her mind. When her mind box got full, it would fucking explode, there would be tears, the big baby lip, and running away, or loosing her shit fully. 

Not a pretty sight. 

Hence the streaky reflection in the mirror. 

Splashing cold water on her face, she muttered, “You need to get a fucking grip woman.”

Downstairs she sees the half a joint Barry (more about this bellend in a future issue) had left the night before, she lit it and took a few drags. 

The relief was an almost instant a wave of warmth, the fuck it feeling, with a sprinkle of I love everything in the world on top. 

Two drags was all it took, she put the rest in the ashtray for later. 

Right, she thought rubbing her hands together… how the fuck was she going to dig herself out of her shit hole. 

She got a note book and a pen and sat in the kitchen.

What did she love?

Her daughter, her family, friends pets etc. 

Parts of her job were good, and painting. 

She loved to paint, although she haven’t picked up a paintbrush in a year. 

Why? You may ask. 

Well lets face it if you have read any of the latter you will know that she was on a downward spiral to her shit hole, think Alice falling down the rabbit hole, except she had no white rabbit to show her the way out.

She listed her problems.

It was a fucking long list of three main areas. All linking onto each other creating a gigantic wheel of torment that kept rolling over her everyday, when she woke up, be sure the wheel would be back to flatten her again. 

She knew then that she had to break the wheel, take something out of the equation, stop the motion. 

Work had to go. 

She had to fix the other parts of her life, along with her ragged self.

So, the self therapy began. 

She analysed herself, her life, her trauma. 

Broke herself apart and put her self back together. 

What did she have? 

What was she grateful for? 

How did she want to live her life? 

How was she going to find the elusive happiness that she would never allow herself to feel.

She was overthinking it, her head was getting fuzzy. 

Without thinking she got her paints out and began to create.

The note book stayed open with the pen on top. 

Her OCD saw that the pen was not laid neat enough on the pad, out of the corner of her eye. 

It needed to be lined up just like so…

… Now the pen was straight, she could paint. 

As she began to paint, her mind would just gradually start sifting through the endless files of shit. It was a big job and she was grateful for the distraction of her artwork. 

When she had a fantastic idea she began to write it down in the pad, lest she forget it. 

Slowly she realised that over a few days she had begun to become more organised and had some mint ideas. 

Idea’s that would have otherwise snapped away, like a plastic bag on a windy day. 

Gone. 

Never to be remembered ever again. 

Oh by the way, there is a very strong possibility that I have ADHD. 

I have the attention span off a gnat and the memory of an old age pensioner. 

When she looked at the notebook, there were art ideas, business ideas, song lyrics, that had obviously related to her in a moment.  

It started to become a journal, not a neat one mind. 

She needed money. 

She already had the business layout, the direction, the creativity, she just needed to paint. She needed a good body off consistent work, before she could release it into the market. 

She knew her audience. 

Women, men, and every other human on the planet, who could relate. 

Real people, who live in the real world, not the fake social media bubble, with their fake performances.

She wondered if she could make each piece of her work a therapy session, a story, a piece of her, a trauma, a memory, a wish. 

Think an artist version of Sex and the City’s, Carrie Bradshaw or Bridget Jones’s Diary. 

Sex, drugs, rock and roll. 

Women, emotion, relationships, family and pets. 

The real shit though, I never was one to want to paint unicorns, tacky as fuck. Sorry to those who paint them. I’ve had my time doing shit like that too, usually with a commission. 

I didn’t mention, did I? An art business is not my first rodeo. I have had my own before, and of course fucked it up. 

Well not fucked it up, per say, just not been active on my site for the last year, too busy digging my shit hole remember. 

New Year, defiantly a new me, so of course a new business, and new artwork… with a great big dose of fuck it!

Bonnie x  

…To be continued in the next issue… ‘More Issues Than Vogue’