Daelynn
Emily Bayliss is a Lubbock, Texas based artist who strives to make 3D works that incorporate mixed-media and found objects. Bayliss finds joy and happiness in the randomized design and technique in her process.
Groundhog Day
Beth Sherman
On Ice Cream for Breakfast Day, your mother dumps Mint Chocolate Chip on her oatmeal. Yesterday was National Flossing Day. Tomorrow, she announces triumphantly, is World Leprosy Day. “How are we going to celebrate?” I ask, stirring Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey into my Bran Flakes. “Not a celebration exactly. Raising awareness.” Her doctor says it’s good for her to take an interest in things. It can be grounding, therapeutic. “What day is today?” she asks uncertainly, looking around the kitchen like it’s a subway stop she doesn’t recognize. “Tuesday.” “The girls are coming over for Mahjong.” She hasn’t played in years. Last week, I found her in the bathroom clutching one of the tiles, sobbing because she couldn’t name the image on it: a red dragon, claws curled, breathing fire. I don’t know whether to humor her or tell her the truth, that her mind is a colander leaking thoughts, memories, what a pencil is for. She’ll search for a word and it flutters out of sight. She traces her hand with her fingers, making sure it’s still there. Always coming back to her body. No longer cherished by my late father, tossed aside like a torn candy wrapper. Or bitten in half, chewed hurriedly. At least that’s what I think she’d say if she could tell me what she’s thinking. Each morning, strapping on body armor, breastplate and helmet, the clink of iron gauntlets. The cavities of her body porous and tart, like bitter melon flung to the curb. It feels like being wrapped in gauze, she said once, and I remember how when I was little, she took me to the Museum of Natural History and we saw ancient kings, their organs preserved, mummified for eternity, dead yet not dead. She claimed they were just resting in their sarcophagi. Happy, peaceful. Later, she wanders through the garden, her feet bare, her bathrobe flapping open. She’s plucked a flower out of the soil, red dye staining her fingers. “Geranium,” I say, trying to be helpful. She sniffs the petals, smiles, and I feel hopeful that this is finally something she recognizes. “Ger-a-ni-um,” she repeats, staring at her hands as though she’s killed someone.