So....I wrote this in May of 2009 and I completely forgot about it. And it cracks me up. I can't believe some of the things I write. It's so weird reading your own writing. It's like dreaming.
"Good ness. Could I feel any less artistic. I look at the goodness and greatness and beauty and VOICE of all these people, all these people I know who have talent dripping out of their fingers and flowing from their toes and pouring off of their tongues and leaking out of their ears. I wish I could rub them on a canvas or use their bones as ceramics tools and their hair for paintbrushes. Relics of art! I would be their worst nightmare. A serial killer who preys on the artistic, who jealously guards their every move and waits for the perfect time to strike and then use their abilities as my own. I’m not jealous so much as I would like to know who I am, what’s the damn reason I have all these strange feelings and visions for. Why do those blank walls stare at me like antagonists, reading my thoughts and mocking me. Wishing for frames and black sulpur pots wrapped in linen to disgrace their mothers. And whatever happened to the lady wolf who suckled her young and then thought of books and how she’d very much like to read someday. Just like a 18th century woman, all wrapped up in furs and minstrels and rabbits. And when I live I can’t help but think that I’ve been wasting my time doing nothing productive or useful or least of all what I want to do. Why do we have talent Jesus? Tell me why because I don’t understand why my hats never satisfy and why I justify art and creativity as if they were bad things.
Because they can make a mint. What good is it to gain the whole world and forfeit your soul? What good is it to gain the whole world and forfeit your imagination? Forfeit your artistry? Forfeit your dreams? Forfeit your life? The whole world is only broken and bruised and filled with lava the color chocolate and the smell of shit. And I wrap my hair around a pencil and my heart fills with strange desires because I am idealistic and young and riding the crest of the religious right wave of culture and fantasticality!
The more I think about it, the more I know that this book report isn’t going to get done. :P
Suck on that bear mountain clay."
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Monday, January 11, 2010
50 Posts! Slow down, you're a blogging maniac!
I am smartest at night.
It’s not like I’ve always wanted it to be that way, it just happened to be that way.
I have no recollection of when I was a child under the age of four, but my parents tell me that at night I would often refuse to go to bed. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same as I think right now and it’s either one of two things:
1) If I go to sleep now I’ll miss all the excitement that is bound to happen.
2) There are too many things to look at/think about/read/talk about/learn/understand right now that didn’t seem quite as relevant during the day. I must look into these things or the thoughts will fade away from my brain like a shooting star when the sun comes up.
This might not make sense to any of you “early birds” out there in the world. But let me make one thing clear: My night owl-ry doesn’t mean that I can’t be a morning person. I find it much too simple for a person to either be a night owl or an early bird. Why the duality? Does it need to be this way? Can’t a person be both? Don’t we all know that it’s really the afternoon that can’t be trusted?
All joking aside, I can understand where our need for alertness duality comes from. The fact is, many people can function in the morning, but it doesn’t mean they are doing so happily. Others can function happily in the morning but not consistently. Monday might be a good morning; Tuesday might not. Others, such as my parents, wake up in the morning and brim with excitement and energy and jokes (which I never find acceptable until after 10 AM or otherwise under extremely special circumstances). I have been known to do this when I’ve gotten very little sleep the previous night. But most of the time, I simply don’t want anyone to talk to me for an hour or two while I take the time to decide whether this day is worth waking up for.
The afternoon isn’t much better. After 10 AM I start to wake up enough to make lunch and read the paper. But after eating, and especially after 1 PM, I’m just as tired as when I woke up that morning and a nap is in order. 15-30 minutes is a good pick-me-up nap that won’t necessarily keep you up late that night. Anything over that and you can rest assured that you will be full of enough energy to power your city the entire night long. Forget about sleeping, you’ve just turned into an insomniac (congratulations).
But the night, ah, well, there’s a time to be alive! The darker it gets the more my brain turns on. When I confront myself with literary theory I don’t turn into a shapeless pile of pudding; No! I can understand and comment on many subjects. I can prove just how smart I am. I can make connections and complete goals. I can be the best I can be.
The problem with all of this—and some might call it a benefit—is that no one is around to witness it. No one except your other night owl friends (and let’s face it, no one takes them seriously either).
It’s not like I’ve always wanted it to be that way, it just happened to be that way.
I have no recollection of when I was a child under the age of four, but my parents tell me that at night I would often refuse to go to bed. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same as I think right now and it’s either one of two things:
1) If I go to sleep now I’ll miss all the excitement that is bound to happen.
2) There are too many things to look at/think about/read/talk about/learn/understand right now that didn’t seem quite as relevant during the day. I must look into these things or the thoughts will fade away from my brain like a shooting star when the sun comes up.
This might not make sense to any of you “early birds” out there in the world. But let me make one thing clear: My night owl-ry doesn’t mean that I can’t be a morning person. I find it much too simple for a person to either be a night owl or an early bird. Why the duality? Does it need to be this way? Can’t a person be both? Don’t we all know that it’s really the afternoon that can’t be trusted?
All joking aside, I can understand where our need for alertness duality comes from. The fact is, many people can function in the morning, but it doesn’t mean they are doing so happily. Others can function happily in the morning but not consistently. Monday might be a good morning; Tuesday might not. Others, such as my parents, wake up in the morning and brim with excitement and energy and jokes (which I never find acceptable until after 10 AM or otherwise under extremely special circumstances). I have been known to do this when I’ve gotten very little sleep the previous night. But most of the time, I simply don’t want anyone to talk to me for an hour or two while I take the time to decide whether this day is worth waking up for.
The afternoon isn’t much better. After 10 AM I start to wake up enough to make lunch and read the paper. But after eating, and especially after 1 PM, I’m just as tired as when I woke up that morning and a nap is in order. 15-30 minutes is a good pick-me-up nap that won’t necessarily keep you up late that night. Anything over that and you can rest assured that you will be full of enough energy to power your city the entire night long. Forget about sleeping, you’ve just turned into an insomniac (congratulations).
But the night, ah, well, there’s a time to be alive! The darker it gets the more my brain turns on. When I confront myself with literary theory I don’t turn into a shapeless pile of pudding; No! I can understand and comment on many subjects. I can prove just how smart I am. I can make connections and complete goals. I can be the best I can be.
The problem with all of this—and some might call it a benefit—is that no one is around to witness it. No one except your other night owl friends (and let’s face it, no one takes them seriously either).
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Inspired by Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson.
Not trapped,
But a secluded singing bird
Who sticks to the neighborhood.
Copies of copies travel the world.
Xeroxes roam the billion corners;
Taking their inspiration with them.
Copies had to start somewhere.
Their masters stay at home,
For the pot cannot simmer
Unless it’s left alone.
Not trapped,
But a secluded singing bird
Who sticks to the neighborhood.
Copies of copies travel the world.
Xeroxes roam the billion corners;
Taking their inspiration with them.
Copies had to start somewhere.
Their masters stay at home,
For the pot cannot simmer
Unless it’s left alone.
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