All posts by madgemidgely

Mandie Shattuck is a modern day Renaissance woman. She is self taught painter, writer and performer currently living in Cheyenne, Wy. Her art is a response to our shifting consciousness in our ever evolving world. Her topics revolve around self awareness and empowerment.

More from the Old Broken books

Unfolding, and I spend far too many hours wishing for sleep in a comfortable bed and almost any bed is comforting when I do not own one of my own.

I am avoiding the inevitable… the trip home bound  calls and I have been too irresponsible for my own good.

The wind is screaming things today and I am still wanting sleep and to allow my dreams to weave magic with this howling outside my window.

I’ve been told I will thrive at anything I stick my mind to.   And for now my thoughts stick to the wind.  As soon as they are there; they are gone.



Sometimes I find it hard to put my finger on what I REALLY want.

Afraid of serving a cause of a ego maniacal need.

To get what I want, would pertain to success I’ve not been ready for; yet.

But today is a new day, a new reality.




living, doing being

eating, drinking, entertainment

taking every opportunity


finding love


making things happen

going with the flow

having faith

being aimless

responsibly reckless

reflection while moving forward

accepting of blessings

unconditionally giving

moments found breathless

letting go

accepting of change

feeding the mind, body, and soul

diving deep

enjoying moments of rest

accepting restlessness






Goal-less and soulful

sad stories

i’ve  got an earful

some with a humorist twist

my whole world is shifting

conventionality slips from my greasy finger tips


i grow in talent, but i want to cash in these chips

i’m just sick of barely surviving


i’m lying to myself



no one can help the helpless


i’ve just been stressed out at the proposition of asking

there are creative tasks that need blasting

and i am the task master for the job

i have a repertoire of craft

make  you think

make you laugh

but despite the fact I find lacking


this hermit has been in hiding


God damn the man in this reoccuring dream

Not sure why he feels the need to still bleed into my dream space

Haven’t seen his face reflected in reality in years

In these dreams I am needing him with intensity, wondering why he left me

Wondering why he returns, only to burn me again

He gets me in that soft space, that naked place where our skin is the sin we slip into

I fall harder in the dream, because it seems to me that I have control

I can have you now, forever

Then the weather and climate change in this ethereal brain

And you pull me close only to push me away


Repetition, again and again, searching in the safe space for you

Unsure what it’s showing me, as this part grows in me a seed of confusion

The illusion is purely in my mind this time

I try to deconstruct this reoccurring mind fuck

it’s been six years, I’ve shed enough tears,

I have shared you enough in these dreams

Now I want to go back to me

It isn’t serving me well to see you this way

after all of this time has past

I think we are beyond the rehash

Not sure anymore what I hold you accountable for

as our relationship has changed

from once in reality to now, all in my brain

….”she said it’s all in my head, he said so’s everything, but he didn’t get it…..”


My life like a glass pipe, blown into perfection at one time.
Detailed color runs through clean glass, a delicate solid; hoping to pass the test of time.
With time comes wear and tear. Exterior beat with heat and elements from the Earth, acting as a hearth for herbs and smoke.
Define my life by a pipe; I just might. A smooth design under swirling pigment as individual as me, yet created by someone I have never seen.
Seems a metaphor for existence.
Tough but fragile. For it while it functions near perfection.
Chips and nicks may break me, but I still function.
Sharp edged cut you, if you do like you want to.
Listen to me, grab carefully or I will cut you.
My pipe and I survive until the time of her life has passed us by.
And now, I find myself with a pile of shattered glass.
Glass coated in resin stinking of time invested into a pipe.
How raw material made what once was intact, ready to act upon request.
But like the best, we all eventually die. Pieces of us live on in sections of glass pipes and bongs.
Like personal kisses, I remember every pair of lips that kissed my pipe.
At night, in dark allies through more than one state of mind.
Passed into hand after hand.
My pride and joy from the Haight.
Couldn’t wait to use her, take her home and admire her.
Watch as I light fire to her.
She glows. She knows my smoke of choice.
Sweet and green. She gleams in the light of a match.
Alive and kicking for only two years.
The tears fell that day when she hit the tile.
All the while, preparing to take me to a higher place.
I knocked the glass to the floor, in one instant, she was no more.
In awe I scooped her up and slid her to a plastic grave.
I save her body on my shelf.
My first one, the best.
Pieces of glass to show homage to the past.
Sections of me built delicately into a new piece of art.
Broken and reborn.
Images torn by time.
Something mine, all the while changing form to fit a new phase.
The rays of hope shine into tomorrow.
No sorrow for broken glass or shattered pasts.
Smile at the chance to begin again.