Why I Write

Ever since penmanship stopped being a burden and became something that I could do well (around the age of 12, I was a late penmanship bloomer), I have been an avid writer. It did not come easily, though.

I remember suffering over "Creative Writing" exercises in 4th, 5th, and 6th grades. Being told that I was not writing poetry correctly because my poems had neither rhyme nor meter, being told that my choice of subject matter was uninteresting, being told that my stories lacked (pick something)..

The Hands

Early morning memory...

Prophets, Profits, and Predatory Pyramids

TL;DR: MLMs are a predatory plague that feast on women's insecurities and social lives. Utah is the giant, culty heart of this scam, where missionary tactics are repurposed to sell overpriced essential oils and ugly leggings.

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This is who I am

I’m a proud, raging liberal democrat and a fierce LGBT+ ally who raised three amazing fucking kids while navigating a world that usually needs to get its shit together.

I’m elfi, and along with being a 61-year-old artist with a house full of animals, I’m a proud, raging liberal democrat. I’ve lived through enough history to know that standing up for people matters, so being a dedicated LGBT+ ally isn't a choice; it’s just who I am.

I spend my time designing Zentangle patterns like Infinite Eights and putting together The Eclectic Freak Manifesto because I’m a fucking artist, not some hobbyist.

I’m also the mother of three amazing fucking kids (Lis, Ian, and Ava). They’re the best things I’ve ever done, even if the rest of the world is a goddamn mess. I spent my time moving from Boston to San Francisco to Texas, and honestly, only finishing the 8th grade gave me more common sense than most people with a PhD.

The elfi Essentials:

The Music: I worship at the "Holy Trinity" (James Taylor, Joni Mitchell, and Carole King). But don't get it twisted; I’ve got enough punk in me to run a Ramones fanzine.

The Diet: Get those goddamn fries away from me. I want the burger, an Arby’s gyro, and a white birch beer. That’s it.

The Vibe: I watch Bob Ross to stay "relaxed," which is a miracle considering I’m currently stuck using a laptop while waiting for a friend to send me a new computer.

I’m one step at a time, simple solutions only, and for the love of god, stop assuming you know what I’m thinking. 

Penny for your thoughts

When I was ten, I made my artist grandmother a cross for her wall by cutting a couple of chopsticks into shorter pieces with a steak knife, using a leather bootlace to bind them together, and then I used Elmer's glue to attach pennies up and down the stake and the crosspiece.

I remember having to prop the pennies so they would stay still and let the glue dry properly.

Gramma Mary hung that cross on her wall in Chicago, and then took it to California when she moved there when I was about 20. It was still hanging on her wall when she passed away, about twenty years after I made it for her.

It was kind of gimpy, but she loved it, and loved that I had spent time and effort making it for her.

I miss you, Gramma.

Auntie Elfi's Fables: The Schoolyard Bully

As the days stretched on, the bright colors of the playground seemed to fade under the shadow of the big kids’ rules. They didn’t just play on the slide; they decided how fast you were allowed to go down, and you had to pay them a polished pebble for the privilege. They set up "sandbox shifts," where anyone from the far side of the woods could only dig for a minute at a time. The seesaw was declared "out of order" indefinitely, though everyone saw the big kids using it as a private bench to plot their next move.

Yet, a strange thing happened. The "lousy babies," as the big kids called them, didn't break. In fact, the harder the bullies pushed, the tighter the others held together. They didn't shout back; they fought with a quiet, polite resistance that drove the big kids toward madness.

When they were told they couldn't use the swings, they simply stood in a long, calm line, waiting with patient smiles that suggested they had all the time in the world. When the sandbox whistle blew, they handed over their shovels with a kindness that felt like a challenge. They weren't looking for a fight; they just wanted to be treated decently. That simple, immovable demand made them impossible to defeat. 

Eventually, the big kids began to wear themselves out with their own anger. They gritted their teeth every day, forced to allow those "lousy babies" to move about the playground without fear. It burned them to see the smaller kids sharing the equipment fairly, ignoring the big kids’ self-appointed authority as if it were nothing more than a passing breeze. And fairly meant that they gave the big kids fair turns at games and swings, because the other kids were Decent human beings who did not commit the sin of "Treating people like things."

The bullies watched from the sidelines, fuming because there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. The more they tried to grab the ball and go home, the more they realized the other kids had learned to play their own games without needing that ball at all. The playground didn't belong to the loudest anymore; it belonged to everyone.

Okay, you've read it. Now swap the words Republican and school yard bully/ies. And Other/Little kids and Liberals/Democrats. Now reread it.

Kinda makes ya think, huh?

RFK Jr's "Weird" relatives

 

“I was standing in front of my parked car on I-684 cutting the penis out of a road killed raccoon, thinking about how weird some of my family members have turned out to be.” RFK Jr

Makes you wonder what kind of stuff he considers weird.

I'm thinking it's stuff like: wearing clothes, sleeping in a bed, and eating regular meals, and not cutting cocks off road kill or beheading whales.

My Private Sanctuary of Ink and Paper

When the four walls of my home start to feel less like a shelter and more like a boundary, my creative rituals become my doorway. Being housebound can easily make a person feel adrift, but for me, passing the time isn't about killing hours; it is about reclaiming my soul and keeping my sanity intact.

The Great Migration: A Cycle of Hope, Hardware, and Hoarding

There is no high quite like the "Order Confirmed" screen. In that moment, you aren't just buying a refurbished HP ProDesk with a solid-state heart; you are buying a version of yourself that is organized and efficient. You tell yourself that this machine will be the one. This is the setup where the art flows, the zines practically layout themselves, and the 32GB of RAM acts as a velvet rope to keep the "system lag" riff-raff out of your creative club.

The Legend of Old Yam Tits

 

Old Yam Tits was a man of great greed,
With a pocket for every dishonest deed.
He’d sell you the sun or a bridge in the bay,
Then vanish like smoke at the end of the day.

He wore a bad suit made of cheap woolen thread,
With dreams of a swindle inside of his head.
He’d promise you gold from a mine in the sky,
While looking at you with a plot in his eye.

"Just twenty gold pieces!" he’d bark with a grin,
While hiding a deck with the aces tucked in.
He grifted the baker, he swindled the cook,
He stole every page from the 'Honesty' book.

But Yam was a bumbler, a criminal joke,
His schemes always ended in mirrors and smoke.
He tried to sell water to fish in the sea,
And ended up trapped in his own lunacy.

If you see Yam Tits with his file full of lies,
Just look at the grifter with piggley eyes.
For though he is shifty and looking for loot,
He’s only hot air in a cheap, ugly suit.

And if you see him and are willing and able,

make sure that, toward him, you flip a table,

get grime and dirt on that tacky suit,

and then swing your leg and give him the boot.

(Final stanza by Dan Kupka. Don't forget to tip your waiter.)