Oh October, you wilesome one. I love you. I love the smell of you. I love being next to you and holding your hand. You love me, as I love you. We are dying, aren't we? The leaves are swirling around me in waves. You hold me in your arms and kiss me. You are all warm colors and cold air blasting, all rage and glorious sunsets. I throw out my arms in the night to hold you close. I would touch your stars, if I could only reach. My arms are not long enough. Your twisted empty trees and olive branches burning all call to me softly, whispering sweet everythings into my ear.
The year is so old. It was forever ago when the year was brand new and we were singing and laughing as champagne bottles burst and we lit sparklers. Now it's too late in the year and everyone else decries the end of summer or looks vainly for winter. Cry on, you fools. Enjoy the fruit of the harvest. The fields are ripe and bursting. The mist and the wind all comes together. The first rain comes and goes, filling the streets with shimmering gold lamplight. Summer keeps holding on to the vines, although October is far too strong. October comes and bites at the tips of the leaves. Reds bleed into the summer green, and orange and yellow explode into trees.
Cheese, wine and fresh bread are just as sweet as summer fruits. The apples on the trees sway and break, falling into grass. Persimmons cluster in dusty orange all over the trees, weighing down the branches almost to the ground. I drink them in, juice running down my arms. Walnuts are all almost gone forever, but the all the spiny chestnut pods have burst open over the ground, covering it in deep brown.
My boots clip the pavement sharply. I don't want to stay outside too long in you, October. You, my dear boy, are too cruel for my tastes. You tease me. You promise warmth with your sunlight and blue sky with clouds, but I know that my nose will be cold and that my hands will shove themselves into my pockets and still not find warmth.
I burrow under my covers in your morning light. I want to spend five more minutes just next to you, holding onto my pillow. But you tell me to get up and come to you, the day awaits and you have no time to wait for me. You will be gone before too long, on your journey, and I will have to wait for you to return from your business elsewhere. I will wait. I would write you letters, if only you would receive them.
Don't leave me as you have left me before, don't leave without saying good-bye. I know you've tried as best you can, every year the same with ghosts and candy, but this year, my dear boy, leave differently. Say good-bye slowly and gently, wish me well and promise to return.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Bystanders
Again... another unfinished poem...
The Bystanders
We are all bystanders
watching one beautiful twisted wreck
after another, all in close sequence
like fireworks.
We stare, open-mouthed at
the initial contact,
when the front left headlight collides
with the other.
Violently, they kiss each other, like lovers
in that one moment until
the hood is shoved into the engine.
Oil and smoke become one
bloody orgasmic mess, all soaking into
the bed of pavement.
We are all brought close in this
tender moment of terror,
our chests heaving in post-coital bliss.
Complete strangers become closer
than a mother and a newborn child.
We go our separate ways
until it is our turn to dive through
shattering glass into
someone else's life.
The Bystanders
We are all bystanders
watching one beautiful twisted wreck
after another, all in close sequence
like fireworks.
We stare, open-mouthed at
the initial contact,
when the front left headlight collides
with the other.
Violently, they kiss each other, like lovers
in that one moment until
the hood is shoved into the engine.
Oil and smoke become one
bloody orgasmic mess, all soaking into
the bed of pavement.
We are all brought close in this
tender moment of terror,
our chests heaving in post-coital bliss.
Complete strangers become closer
than a mother and a newborn child.
We go our separate ways
until it is our turn to dive through
shattering glass into
someone else's life.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Annoyances.
Alright, so I don't think it's common courtesy to blog twice in one day on the same blog... so I waited until after midnight, my time (in Italy.)
I am absolutely surrounded by art here, and I love it, but there's just something about the art world. Everyone just HAS to make a point about something. It's ok, but it just gets really annoying sometimes.
I've been reading this art website. It doesn't always have interesting things on it, so I don't always read it, but one article about a nude getting arrested caught my attention. I read the article, but was more interested in what people had to say about the article than the actual article itself. This is always a bad idea. I am almost one hundred percent positive that a great majority of people are either genuinely stupid or simply do not think about what they are writing the second they get onto the internet. The previous sentence is evidence of this. Don't call people stupid on the internet. Don't accuse certain types of people of being a certain way. Everyone has different opinions and it is insulting to assume that another party is less intelligent simply because they have a different belief system. When they use poor grammar and spelling, perhaps, (and I am only saying perhaps, since I know many an extremely intelligent soul (including myself at times (note all the ellipses and parenthesis))who, bless their hearts, have very poor spelling and grammar... especially on the internet) there may be some reason to be slightly more inclined to question the intellect of the writer.
What has me riled is this one gentleman who seems very upset that the nude in art is not taken as a sexual object. In his opinion, nude modeling is, for the most part, nothing but sexuality. This gentleman wrote an entire blog about this. Not an entry in a blog, an entire blog. He wrote, in my opinion, very outlandish, and seemingly not very well thought out blunt statements and then would spend the next blog either qualifying or refining his previous blog to make it sound like his points were justified while making even more outlandish statements.
Pardon me. I had not assumed that people didn't realize this. Naturally, there is always some sexuality involved in the rendering of a nude model, which is why, naturally, there is a lot of controversy surrounding it. There is certainly a certain stigma which goes with nude modeling which borders on the line of a double standard. It is definitely an interesting question for the Christian community. At my college, though we are by no uncertain terms a Christian college, we are, as art majors, required to take a figure drawing class in which there will be nude models. What do we do with this? I am perfectly fine drawing a nude figure. I haven't had to do so yet, but I am quite sure it won't be an issue. I look at nudity all the time, rendered in various ways at art museums and in films.
I have been naked before many people before. Granted, never before strangers and, to my knowledge as an adult, never before a male who was not in the medical profession. I have no problem sitting around in the buff. I consider it rather pleasant at times. I cover up when with a group of people usually, because there seems to be a lot of tension when there's a naked person in the room. I think I could tolerate my birthday suit in front of a group of art students, after all, there would be no one judging me, since drawing naked people is kind of a requirement in a figure drawing class. However, would I be comfortable, not as a person, but as a Christian doing nude modeling myself? This is really something to think about.
One of the professors on my program is doing an art project on the Saints. He is requesting nude models. I am, and it even sounds odd writing it here in a blog where I know at least a few people I am in acquaintance or am actually good friends with will be reading it, at this point half-heartedly considering doing it. I have seen some of the photographs he took of previous models in the program and they are rendered as least erotically as they can for being nude models. The book will only be done (since it will be handmade) in thirty copies for mostly private collections. This is still a little unnerving for the Christian mind, even one so questioning as myself.
Saints... nude? Yes. Well, it makes sense in the context he renders them in... but still... would I, as a Christian, be perfectly comfortable doing it? It isn't for pornographic purposes, and the human body, regardless of what the annoying blogger said, is made in God's image and was created beautiful. However, as I previously stated, nude modeling always includes a sexual nature to it, especially when the face will be easily recognizable. It will be an interesting question to ponder as I take figure drawing this semester. Probably more on this topic in the future.
I am absolutely surrounded by art here, and I love it, but there's just something about the art world. Everyone just HAS to make a point about something. It's ok, but it just gets really annoying sometimes.
I've been reading this art website. It doesn't always have interesting things on it, so I don't always read it, but one article about a nude getting arrested caught my attention. I read the article, but was more interested in what people had to say about the article than the actual article itself. This is always a bad idea. I am almost one hundred percent positive that a great majority of people are either genuinely stupid or simply do not think about what they are writing the second they get onto the internet. The previous sentence is evidence of this. Don't call people stupid on the internet. Don't accuse certain types of people of being a certain way. Everyone has different opinions and it is insulting to assume that another party is less intelligent simply because they have a different belief system. When they use poor grammar and spelling, perhaps, (and I am only saying perhaps, since I know many an extremely intelligent soul (including myself at times (note all the ellipses and parenthesis))who, bless their hearts, have very poor spelling and grammar... especially on the internet) there may be some reason to be slightly more inclined to question the intellect of the writer.
What has me riled is this one gentleman who seems very upset that the nude in art is not taken as a sexual object. In his opinion, nude modeling is, for the most part, nothing but sexuality. This gentleman wrote an entire blog about this. Not an entry in a blog, an entire blog. He wrote, in my opinion, very outlandish, and seemingly not very well thought out blunt statements and then would spend the next blog either qualifying or refining his previous blog to make it sound like his points were justified while making even more outlandish statements.
Pardon me. I had not assumed that people didn't realize this. Naturally, there is always some sexuality involved in the rendering of a nude model, which is why, naturally, there is a lot of controversy surrounding it. There is certainly a certain stigma which goes with nude modeling which borders on the line of a double standard. It is definitely an interesting question for the Christian community. At my college, though we are by no uncertain terms a Christian college, we are, as art majors, required to take a figure drawing class in which there will be nude models. What do we do with this? I am perfectly fine drawing a nude figure. I haven't had to do so yet, but I am quite sure it won't be an issue. I look at nudity all the time, rendered in various ways at art museums and in films.
I have been naked before many people before. Granted, never before strangers and, to my knowledge as an adult, never before a male who was not in the medical profession. I have no problem sitting around in the buff. I consider it rather pleasant at times. I cover up when with a group of people usually, because there seems to be a lot of tension when there's a naked person in the room. I think I could tolerate my birthday suit in front of a group of art students, after all, there would be no one judging me, since drawing naked people is kind of a requirement in a figure drawing class. However, would I be comfortable, not as a person, but as a Christian doing nude modeling myself? This is really something to think about.
One of the professors on my program is doing an art project on the Saints. He is requesting nude models. I am, and it even sounds odd writing it here in a blog where I know at least a few people I am in acquaintance or am actually good friends with will be reading it, at this point half-heartedly considering doing it. I have seen some of the photographs he took of previous models in the program and they are rendered as least erotically as they can for being nude models. The book will only be done (since it will be handmade) in thirty copies for mostly private collections. This is still a little unnerving for the Christian mind, even one so questioning as myself.
Saints... nude? Yes. Well, it makes sense in the context he renders them in... but still... would I, as a Christian, be perfectly comfortable doing it? It isn't for pornographic purposes, and the human body, regardless of what the annoying blogger said, is made in God's image and was created beautiful. However, as I previously stated, nude modeling always includes a sexual nature to it, especially when the face will be easily recognizable. It will be an interesting question to ponder as I take figure drawing this semester. Probably more on this topic in the future.
A Poem in the Works
Ok, if you've ever written a poem, you will know that it works a lot like a sculpture. You start with a concept, an idea, form it and then slowly chip away at the excess or add onto it, making it into a masterpiece. I've had this concept for a very, very long time. I finally, today, was able to locate the right words to go with my concept. It isn't a finished poem. Perhaps someday, this concept will blossom further. Right now, you get a wonderful rough draft. Maybe someday, you, YOU my friend, will witness the finished masterpiece.
I found it.
The impossible moment between Two AM
and Three AM, where nothing is the same
as it once was, because no one is the same
person they were in daylight. Their minds
are bare and whatever thoughts that dared
not make their presence known during
the day are rushing through their sleeping
minds.
Here it is. Here in the twilight, with the
ringing bells and the yolk of melting sun
and the fall wind and switching strands of
hair. Here with the guitar and the dying
day. We are reborn in our torn togetherness.
We can die to ourselves. We can forget
tomorrow for tomorrow doesn't even exist.
Because we know that it wasn't meant to last.
I found it.
The impossible moment between Two AM
and Three AM, where nothing is the same
as it once was, because no one is the same
person they were in daylight. Their minds
are bare and whatever thoughts that dared
not make their presence known during
the day are rushing through their sleeping
minds.
Here it is. Here in the twilight, with the
ringing bells and the yolk of melting sun
and the fall wind and switching strands of
hair. Here with the guitar and the dying
day. We are reborn in our torn togetherness.
We can die to ourselves. We can forget
tomorrow for tomorrow doesn't even exist.
Because we know that it wasn't meant to last.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Something that came from my facebook
I am re-posting this here, because I want to. This is directly (one particular metaphor, nestled in the middle there) and indirectly related to current events in my life. No one has recently down-played my art majorness, simply because I am currently on an art program. However, coming from a school with lots of non-art majors, this is how I felt at the time. Just a disclaimer.
Ponderings of Averageness: The Art Major Speaks
I AM SMART.
(watch as this is riddled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes)
I am not a science major. I am not majoring in political-science. I will not major in history. I do not have the passion nor the patience to major in English. I am not majoring in psychology. I have not the skill for communications. My brains were not made to enjoy mathematics. In theory, I could have majored in anyone of these for they are all fabulous majors and they are all offered at my college.
I am majoring in art. Why am I majoring in art at a liberal arts college when it would probably be better to major in something else because the art department here is not so to speak "up to par" with art schools around the nation? First, because I have sufficient skill. That is not to say I am the best artist in existence or even at this school. It is merely to say that I have enough skill in order not to fail dismally in my art classes. Second, I enjoy it, which is a lot more than most people can say about their majors. True. I am not majoring in something 'difficult' but that doesn't mean people have the right to demean me by assuming I have a lower intelligence level than they do. I am opinionated. I can be hard-headed. I can be blunt. I can be stupid. But damn it, so can everyone else.
Never become self-righteous in your major. Not everyone may have the interest in your major and so much the better. If the entire world was interested in your major it would be a boring world. Never assume that someone in another major is less intelligent than you. Never assume that those in another major have less work or that their work isn't just as stressful or difficult for it is difficult in its own right.
Yes, we all have our days. Sometimes our workload is more than others. We feel justified in complaining about how hard our workload is for usually, we are indeed stressed out of our minds, but be careful, because before you know it, your identity might be defined by your workload.
"Oh... yes. I can't really talk to that person, they're probably studying for whatever..."
And suddenly, this person becomes a pile of homework and studying. 'But I'm in COLLEGE! We're SUPPOSED to be studying,' you exclaim, justifying your lack of attentiveness in the pain and struggles of others.
How often I've found myself pre-occupied by whatever the hell I'm supposed to be doing or whatever is on my mind and I pay no attention to the wounds of my peers. They bleed for attention. They bleed for love. They bleed for loss. They bleed alone. They bleed, lost in crowds. After a while, the only thing left is the bloodstains. And we wonder, where did all this blood come from? Did we notice the blood? It's on our shirts. We were standing that close. We were eating with them. We even talked to them. They've limped away to lick their wounds. You might have cared, but not enough to bandage them.
But I'm off topic. The point is, I AM SMART and I don't like being talked to as if I was stupid. I COULD have majored in whatever you are majoring in and don't think for one second I couldn't. I'm not trying to be conceited and I'm sorry if it sounds that way, but it is true. I got into the same college as you and could have applied for the same classes. I like YOU doing your major because it was what YOU were made to do. I CANNOT work the same way you do. I DON'T work the same way you do. I REFUSE to work the same way you do because I am just as much an individual as you are.
Ponderings of Averageness: The Art Major Speaks
I AM SMART.
(watch as this is riddled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes)
I am not a science major. I am not majoring in political-science. I will not major in history. I do not have the passion nor the patience to major in English. I am not majoring in psychology. I have not the skill for communications. My brains were not made to enjoy mathematics. In theory, I could have majored in anyone of these for they are all fabulous majors and they are all offered at my college.
I am majoring in art. Why am I majoring in art at a liberal arts college when it would probably be better to major in something else because the art department here is not so to speak "up to par" with art schools around the nation? First, because I have sufficient skill. That is not to say I am the best artist in existence or even at this school. It is merely to say that I have enough skill in order not to fail dismally in my art classes. Second, I enjoy it, which is a lot more than most people can say about their majors. True. I am not majoring in something 'difficult' but that doesn't mean people have the right to demean me by assuming I have a lower intelligence level than they do. I am opinionated. I can be hard-headed. I can be blunt. I can be stupid. But damn it, so can everyone else.
Never become self-righteous in your major. Not everyone may have the interest in your major and so much the better. If the entire world was interested in your major it would be a boring world. Never assume that someone in another major is less intelligent than you. Never assume that those in another major have less work or that their work isn't just as stressful or difficult for it is difficult in its own right.
Yes, we all have our days. Sometimes our workload is more than others. We feel justified in complaining about how hard our workload is for usually, we are indeed stressed out of our minds, but be careful, because before you know it, your identity might be defined by your workload.
"Oh... yes. I can't really talk to that person, they're probably studying for whatever..."
And suddenly, this person becomes a pile of homework and studying. 'But I'm in COLLEGE! We're SUPPOSED to be studying,' you exclaim, justifying your lack of attentiveness in the pain and struggles of others.
How often I've found myself pre-occupied by whatever the hell I'm supposed to be doing or whatever is on my mind and I pay no attention to the wounds of my peers. They bleed for attention. They bleed for love. They bleed for loss. They bleed alone. They bleed, lost in crowds. After a while, the only thing left is the bloodstains. And we wonder, where did all this blood come from? Did we notice the blood? It's on our shirts. We were standing that close. We were eating with them. We even talked to them. They've limped away to lick their wounds. You might have cared, but not enough to bandage them.
But I'm off topic. The point is, I AM SMART and I don't like being talked to as if I was stupid. I COULD have majored in whatever you are majoring in and don't think for one second I couldn't. I'm not trying to be conceited and I'm sorry if it sounds that way, but it is true. I got into the same college as you and could have applied for the same classes. I like YOU doing your major because it was what YOU were made to do. I CANNOT work the same way you do. I DON'T work the same way you do. I REFUSE to work the same way you do because I am just as much an individual as you are.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Bowling for Coffee
I went to the Hollywood Bowl tonight. I cannot imagine anything quite as magnificent as Mozart at the Hollywood Bowl. I cannot imagine being so lucky as being able to go to the Hollywood Bowl hear probably the most beautiful music ever penned and munch on Milano cookies and drink hot coffee during intermission.
Music leaves you with so much time to think. Adorno said that we have become too simple listeners of music. Pop music is something to be scorned and too simple classical music is abhorred. We just listen to it because some capitalist pig told us to. I am sure he would have disagreed with Mozart's music (since the music Adorno liked sounds like the entire orchestra decided to take a full hour to tune all of their instruments). I disagree with Adorno.
No, Mozart could never be considered simple in any sense of the word. The man wrote his 40th symphony, one of his more famous, and arguably his best symphony (according to the program) in two weeks. I cannot even finish a painting in two weeks. It is also said that he wrote at an outrageous speed and that each piece he wrote was usually his first and final draft. It's a pity he didn't even make it to the ripe old age of 35. What the man could have done!
His music is amazing and complex. There are so many layers you get lost in between the french horns and violins, to be fished out by the oboes and then led astray yet again by the flutes. I think I agree with Adorno in at least one way. I think I am too much softened by the simplicities of Pop. Perhaps I'm too soft even for the complexities of Mozart. I always get lost. Always. Then I start thinking about other stuff.
I thought about Los Angeles, our clean new town. We haven't really had enough time to get the old money look of the other big cities. We want to look new and fresh. I don't like it. We should try looking more old moneyesque, like Chicago.
I was thinking about Redeeming Love, yes the novel by Francine Rivers. And then as that soloist's fingers were racing up and down the piano faster than anyone should ever be able to play, I was thinking about Ruth. What a slut. Not really. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. She uncovered Boaz's feet so he would wake up. How mean. I never thought about waking up someone that way. Just sort of... make 'em cold and then they'll eventually wake up. I hate waking up to cold feet, especially when I'm too tired to do anything about it, and my feel feel around for the rest of the blankets. Ruth probably would have gotten a kick in the face if I were in his place.
But that thought came out of thoughts of Julia/Julie. I was going to blog about that the other day. I find that it makes my life somehow more meaningful if I think about how it will sound in a blog. It's like provinding commentary on your own life. My aunt said I ate my Milanos too slow. I asked her if she were a voracious cookie eater, to which she replied that she is "just a voracious eater."She practically quoted Julia's "I think about eating all day" line. She's pretty thin. I always wonder how she does that.
Julia Child was a virgin until she married her husband. She was older than Mozart was when he died when she got married. I identify with her. God give me patience. I sometimes think that I am going to die alone.
Usually, October is my "contemplate life and death and be glad you're alive and not dead" month. (Since it is the month where we remember mortality and make a joke of the macabre.) I love October because of it. I think I'm going to have to reschedule it this month to August. It is the month of death for my family. My grandfather, grandmother, great aunt and as of this morning, first cousin once removed's deaths all occurred in the month of August. I wasn't that close to her, but my mother isn't taking it well. Also my brother was having heart troubles last night. Also one of our family friends' brand new baby daughter is having seizures. When it rains, it pours.
I was so glad, just to be sitting there in the strangely fall-like air, very happy to be breathing it. I am alive. I am well. I am not having seizures. I am not dying of cancer. I probably won't die of a heart attack. I am listening to the music of the greatest musical mind in history. I listened to Mozart's brain today, and hoped that angels play the violin.
My brother drove at 80 all the way home.
Music leaves you with so much time to think. Adorno said that we have become too simple listeners of music. Pop music is something to be scorned and too simple classical music is abhorred. We just listen to it because some capitalist pig told us to. I am sure he would have disagreed with Mozart's music (since the music Adorno liked sounds like the entire orchestra decided to take a full hour to tune all of their instruments). I disagree with Adorno.
No, Mozart could never be considered simple in any sense of the word. The man wrote his 40th symphony, one of his more famous, and arguably his best symphony (according to the program) in two weeks. I cannot even finish a painting in two weeks. It is also said that he wrote at an outrageous speed and that each piece he wrote was usually his first and final draft. It's a pity he didn't even make it to the ripe old age of 35. What the man could have done!
His music is amazing and complex. There are so many layers you get lost in between the french horns and violins, to be fished out by the oboes and then led astray yet again by the flutes. I think I agree with Adorno in at least one way. I think I am too much softened by the simplicities of Pop. Perhaps I'm too soft even for the complexities of Mozart. I always get lost. Always. Then I start thinking about other stuff.
I thought about Los Angeles, our clean new town. We haven't really had enough time to get the old money look of the other big cities. We want to look new and fresh. I don't like it. We should try looking more old moneyesque, like Chicago.
I was thinking about Redeeming Love, yes the novel by Francine Rivers. And then as that soloist's fingers were racing up and down the piano faster than anyone should ever be able to play, I was thinking about Ruth. What a slut. Not really. She knew what she wanted and she knew how to get it. She uncovered Boaz's feet so he would wake up. How mean. I never thought about waking up someone that way. Just sort of... make 'em cold and then they'll eventually wake up. I hate waking up to cold feet, especially when I'm too tired to do anything about it, and my feel feel around for the rest of the blankets. Ruth probably would have gotten a kick in the face if I were in his place.
But that thought came out of thoughts of Julia/Julie. I was going to blog about that the other day. I find that it makes my life somehow more meaningful if I think about how it will sound in a blog. It's like provinding commentary on your own life. My aunt said I ate my Milanos too slow. I asked her if she were a voracious cookie eater, to which she replied that she is "just a voracious eater."She practically quoted Julia's "I think about eating all day" line. She's pretty thin. I always wonder how she does that.
Julia Child was a virgin until she married her husband. She was older than Mozart was when he died when she got married. I identify with her. God give me patience. I sometimes think that I am going to die alone.
Usually, October is my "contemplate life and death and be glad you're alive and not dead" month. (Since it is the month where we remember mortality and make a joke of the macabre.) I love October because of it. I think I'm going to have to reschedule it this month to August. It is the month of death for my family. My grandfather, grandmother, great aunt and as of this morning, first cousin once removed's deaths all occurred in the month of August. I wasn't that close to her, but my mother isn't taking it well. Also my brother was having heart troubles last night. Also one of our family friends' brand new baby daughter is having seizures. When it rains, it pours.
I was so glad, just to be sitting there in the strangely fall-like air, very happy to be breathing it. I am alive. I am well. I am not having seizures. I am not dying of cancer. I probably won't die of a heart attack. I am listening to the music of the greatest musical mind in history. I listened to Mozart's brain today, and hoped that angels play the violin.
My brother drove at 80 all the way home.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Emotional Mess
I am currently an emotional mess. And it isn't how it sounds. I'm not having an emotional breakdown. It is just that my heart is so full of emotion I hardly know what to do with it. I suppose I am feeling pain for others. Ever do that? Where you feel like your heart was just ripped out and stomped on because someone else' heart was stuck in a blender and turned to pulp and you were helpless as you watched the switch pulled?
I just read about someone who went to my school. He graduated just a few years ago. He died swimming at a camp he was directing for high schoolers. I don't know this fellow, but he sounded like an amazing guy. I am not surprised when I see the posts on his Facebook wall all of them saying "well done, good and faithful servant" or "you will be missed. We will keep on the work of the Father." He did not know the day before he left for this camp he was going to die. He asks for prayer the day he left, and as far as I can discern by being a stalker on Facebook, the day he died.
I was watching one of these series my parents bought. My parents are really into these British series that take Victorian Era books and make them into movies. The series that we watched tonight were the "Cranford" Series from Elizabeth Glaskell books. (Imagine Jane Austen, but with much more depth.) There was change, life, death and marriages. I cannot tell you all the how that series spoke to me. It was heavy for such entertainment. I found myself crying more than once. Mostly, I think what I realized was that life is far too short for petty things.
I was walking outside today and had a practically near death experience. Actually, it wasn't near death at all. But it could have been (in my head it was.) I was going outside to find my cat. I couldn't find her, which is not unusual, my cat is a queer sort of soul who alternates between affection and aversion. I love her because she's an old grouch. I imagine myself as an old grouch sometimes. That has nothing to do with my story. I'll probably talk about my grouchy cat some other time. She's interesting enough.
Anyway, as I was outside I noticed that I had left the grill open and all the metal shish-kebab skewers outside along with the bowl and pyrex I used for carrying the meat outside. I picked them up and balanced the skewers on the pyrex to carry them in. One of the skewers slipped a little and I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be horrible if it slipped or I dropped the pyrex and all of the skewers fell and I fell on top of them and one of them stabbed me and then no one came out and I died?" These scenarios go through my head sometimes. It was just a thought. It theoretically should not be possible. The skewers, while sharp, pointy and metal probably could kill someone with a direct hit to the chest, if I fell on top of them, while I probably would get cut by the glass from the pyrex, it is highly unlikely that I would fall on a skewer at the right angle in which to kill me.
It was a morbid, but sobering thought. There it was, the end of my life looming before me. I could have died by way of shish-kebab skewer. I am glad my last meal would have been a very delicious one if I do say so myself. I haven't accomplished nearly enough to have God say, "Well done, kiddo."
Here comes the part where I want to tear my heart out. I seem to attract depressed and suicidal people. Not to say that all of my friends are depressed and suicidal, just a number that I would say is abnormally high. This could be because I am prone to depression and thus am A. more likely to notice it in others, B. people seem to think I'm trustworthy enough that confide in me about said depression and C. have been in their shoes and walked a hundred or so miles in them so know where they have been and what they are feeling. I am sad to say I spent the better part of three years wishing I wasn't alive, but not dumb or smart enough to do anything about it.
Last night I had a conversation with someone who wanted, and I could even say wants, I don't know I haven't talked to her today, to end her life because of a relationship that feels pointless and is making her feel pointless. The thing about it is, she isn't pointless, but she is so caught up in the same feelings of depression and anxiety that she sees it as pointless. It was like looking in a mirror, talking to her. I just wanted to hug her and cling to her and tell her that she is important. She is miles away and the only thing I could do is cry with her and tell her that she is loved.
Depression, my friends, is a terrible thing. It captures you in its hold and wrings the life out of you. Anything you once found hope in is crushed. I laid on the floor of my dorm room for hours at night, not wanting to sleep because I knew if I fell asleep I'd eventually have to wake up and didn't want to wake up. All that time I was asking God "Why?"
Why am I not good enough? Why am I not loved? Why were You, YOU God, You Oh-so-almighty creator who is SUPPOSED to love me putting me through this? Don't you love your child? Why can't you show it?
And no one understood me. The friends I had, have, with depression were so swimming in their own terror, they could not see the way out. It was blind leading the blind. Those without depression cannot possibly begin to see how much of a trap it is. "You'll get over it." or "Let it go. Why can't you let it go?" were the most common answers to my questions. I CAN'T let it go. You don't understand how it feeds on me.
Now I do understand. Mind you, depression still affects me from time to time, but it isn't how it once was. I don't wake up every day wishing that the sun wasn't shining so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about hating perfectly beautiful days. You don't just get over it. It's a slow, painful process of ripping your heart out heart string at a time and replacing it with a new heart. It may be someday that my old heart will nest again back in its old position, but I'm going to try my darnedest to make that old nest as inhospitable as possible.
Who knows? Maybe I was made for times such as these? Maybe I was made to suffer so others wouldn't have to suffer alone?
I just read about someone who went to my school. He graduated just a few years ago. He died swimming at a camp he was directing for high schoolers. I don't know this fellow, but he sounded like an amazing guy. I am not surprised when I see the posts on his Facebook wall all of them saying "well done, good and faithful servant" or "you will be missed. We will keep on the work of the Father." He did not know the day before he left for this camp he was going to die. He asks for prayer the day he left, and as far as I can discern by being a stalker on Facebook, the day he died.
I was watching one of these series my parents bought. My parents are really into these British series that take Victorian Era books and make them into movies. The series that we watched tonight were the "Cranford" Series from Elizabeth Glaskell books. (Imagine Jane Austen, but with much more depth.) There was change, life, death and marriages. I cannot tell you all the how that series spoke to me. It was heavy for such entertainment. I found myself crying more than once. Mostly, I think what I realized was that life is far too short for petty things.
I was walking outside today and had a practically near death experience. Actually, it wasn't near death at all. But it could have been (in my head it was.) I was going outside to find my cat. I couldn't find her, which is not unusual, my cat is a queer sort of soul who alternates between affection and aversion. I love her because she's an old grouch. I imagine myself as an old grouch sometimes. That has nothing to do with my story. I'll probably talk about my grouchy cat some other time. She's interesting enough.
Anyway, as I was outside I noticed that I had left the grill open and all the metal shish-kebab skewers outside along with the bowl and pyrex I used for carrying the meat outside. I picked them up and balanced the skewers on the pyrex to carry them in. One of the skewers slipped a little and I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be horrible if it slipped or I dropped the pyrex and all of the skewers fell and I fell on top of them and one of them stabbed me and then no one came out and I died?" These scenarios go through my head sometimes. It was just a thought. It theoretically should not be possible. The skewers, while sharp, pointy and metal probably could kill someone with a direct hit to the chest, if I fell on top of them, while I probably would get cut by the glass from the pyrex, it is highly unlikely that I would fall on a skewer at the right angle in which to kill me.
It was a morbid, but sobering thought. There it was, the end of my life looming before me. I could have died by way of shish-kebab skewer. I am glad my last meal would have been a very delicious one if I do say so myself. I haven't accomplished nearly enough to have God say, "Well done, kiddo."
Here comes the part where I want to tear my heart out. I seem to attract depressed and suicidal people. Not to say that all of my friends are depressed and suicidal, just a number that I would say is abnormally high. This could be because I am prone to depression and thus am A. more likely to notice it in others, B. people seem to think I'm trustworthy enough that confide in me about said depression and C. have been in their shoes and walked a hundred or so miles in them so know where they have been and what they are feeling. I am sad to say I spent the better part of three years wishing I wasn't alive, but not dumb or smart enough to do anything about it.
Last night I had a conversation with someone who wanted, and I could even say wants, I don't know I haven't talked to her today, to end her life because of a relationship that feels pointless and is making her feel pointless. The thing about it is, she isn't pointless, but she is so caught up in the same feelings of depression and anxiety that she sees it as pointless. It was like looking in a mirror, talking to her. I just wanted to hug her and cling to her and tell her that she is important. She is miles away and the only thing I could do is cry with her and tell her that she is loved.
Depression, my friends, is a terrible thing. It captures you in its hold and wrings the life out of you. Anything you once found hope in is crushed. I laid on the floor of my dorm room for hours at night, not wanting to sleep because I knew if I fell asleep I'd eventually have to wake up and didn't want to wake up. All that time I was asking God "Why?"
Why am I not good enough? Why am I not loved? Why were You, YOU God, You Oh-so-almighty creator who is SUPPOSED to love me putting me through this? Don't you love your child? Why can't you show it?
And no one understood me. The friends I had, have, with depression were so swimming in their own terror, they could not see the way out. It was blind leading the blind. Those without depression cannot possibly begin to see how much of a trap it is. "You'll get over it." or "Let it go. Why can't you let it go?" were the most common answers to my questions. I CAN'T let it go. You don't understand how it feeds on me.
Now I do understand. Mind you, depression still affects me from time to time, but it isn't how it once was. I don't wake up every day wishing that the sun wasn't shining so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about hating perfectly beautiful days. You don't just get over it. It's a slow, painful process of ripping your heart out heart string at a time and replacing it with a new heart. It may be someday that my old heart will nest again back in its old position, but I'm going to try my darnedest to make that old nest as inhospitable as possible.
Who knows? Maybe I was made for times such as these? Maybe I was made to suffer so others wouldn't have to suffer alone?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
What shall we talk about then?
My friend asked me this today. I could only think, what is there not to talk about? I started rambling about the painting I am currently in the process of creating. It's the most fantastic and most mundane thing I can think of.
I spend a great deal of time in the shower. It is where I think. Water and walls drown out all sound, so it's just me and my thoughts. One would think that this would get boring, considering all the showers I spend time in have white tiled walls. There are no interesting prints on the tiles or anything like that. On sunny days, the sun comes through the window as a creamy white, or on cloudy days, as a pale gray, so the tiles are either creamy white or pale gray. But there is one thing that always catches my attention.
This I will say, thank God for Herbal Essences. I absolutely love that brand. They make excellent shampoo and package it in the most magnificent way. I have a whole collection of Herbal Essences bottles up on the shelf in front of the window. I have one for straight hair. I have one for luscious curls. I have one for when I had very long hair. My personal favorite is the green one, the one I have that is just for daily cleansing. I don't use conditioner, just shampoo. Each of the bottles is transparent and a different color. Right up there next to the window, the sun shines through them. It's almost like an ever changing stained glass window. When a new body wash comes in, that goes up there too.
I have built my own personal sanctuary out of body wash and shampoo bottles. I'd light candles, but the water would probably put them out.
Anyway, this is what I am painting. I am painting my sanctuary. When I told my friend I was painting the bathroom, she asked if I was painting a mural. Now there's a thought. It's like Michelangelo, except instead of painting the sanctuary to make it prettier, I am painting the beauty that is my sanctuary. I could keep it to myself, but I don't think that they are meant to stay that way. If only I could explain the emotion that rises up in me when I get an idea or I see something beautiful. It eats at me.
I saw a picture in a magazine last year of a woman draped with a red satin cloth. I said to myself, that woman must be painted. She must be painted blue. She needs paint. That is all I could think of for the next two weeks. There was just that driving voice saying, she needs paint. She needs blue paint. I couldn't even take the time to draw her onto a canvas or illustration board. I painted right on the picture in the magazine. I cut her out and pasted her onto an old sheet of music. She was beautiful. A girl at school got very attached to her. I let her have it. I loved her, but she loved her better.
That's how I felt about my bottles. They were eating at me. They had to be exposed. I was jealous though. I didn't want to share my bottles, but in the end, I knew and know that I have to. I'm only worried now that no one will feel the same way about my bottles. But I must expose them. I'll expose them to the eye of the critic and viewer alike. They'll be forced to share in my little sanctuary whether they realize what they are experiencing or not. I have to let it go.
I suppose it's part of healing. Part of my effort to change and to clear out the unnecessary junk in my life. There can be nothing unclean about shampoo bottles, their existence is to make people clean externally anyway. I wish it were the same for the insides. I suppose that is why I spend so much time in my sanctuary. I am trying, albeit somewhat pointlessly, to clean myself inside and out. Where can I go that He will not find me? I am disgusting, full of impurities and deep faults and bleeding wounds. I'm a bit like a sick animal at the Vet. He could heal them, if I let Him, but instead I sulk and lick my wounds, making them worse. I must believe that He knows what He is doing.
So what shall we talk about?
I spend a great deal of time in the shower. It is where I think. Water and walls drown out all sound, so it's just me and my thoughts. One would think that this would get boring, considering all the showers I spend time in have white tiled walls. There are no interesting prints on the tiles or anything like that. On sunny days, the sun comes through the window as a creamy white, or on cloudy days, as a pale gray, so the tiles are either creamy white or pale gray. But there is one thing that always catches my attention.
This I will say, thank God for Herbal Essences. I absolutely love that brand. They make excellent shampoo and package it in the most magnificent way. I have a whole collection of Herbal Essences bottles up on the shelf in front of the window. I have one for straight hair. I have one for luscious curls. I have one for when I had very long hair. My personal favorite is the green one, the one I have that is just for daily cleansing. I don't use conditioner, just shampoo. Each of the bottles is transparent and a different color. Right up there next to the window, the sun shines through them. It's almost like an ever changing stained glass window. When a new body wash comes in, that goes up there too.
I have built my own personal sanctuary out of body wash and shampoo bottles. I'd light candles, but the water would probably put them out.
Anyway, this is what I am painting. I am painting my sanctuary. When I told my friend I was painting the bathroom, she asked if I was painting a mural. Now there's a thought. It's like Michelangelo, except instead of painting the sanctuary to make it prettier, I am painting the beauty that is my sanctuary. I could keep it to myself, but I don't think that they are meant to stay that way. If only I could explain the emotion that rises up in me when I get an idea or I see something beautiful. It eats at me.
I saw a picture in a magazine last year of a woman draped with a red satin cloth. I said to myself, that woman must be painted. She must be painted blue. She needs paint. That is all I could think of for the next two weeks. There was just that driving voice saying, she needs paint. She needs blue paint. I couldn't even take the time to draw her onto a canvas or illustration board. I painted right on the picture in the magazine. I cut her out and pasted her onto an old sheet of music. She was beautiful. A girl at school got very attached to her. I let her have it. I loved her, but she loved her better.
That's how I felt about my bottles. They were eating at me. They had to be exposed. I was jealous though. I didn't want to share my bottles, but in the end, I knew and know that I have to. I'm only worried now that no one will feel the same way about my bottles. But I must expose them. I'll expose them to the eye of the critic and viewer alike. They'll be forced to share in my little sanctuary whether they realize what they are experiencing or not. I have to let it go.
I suppose it's part of healing. Part of my effort to change and to clear out the unnecessary junk in my life. There can be nothing unclean about shampoo bottles, their existence is to make people clean externally anyway. I wish it were the same for the insides. I suppose that is why I spend so much time in my sanctuary. I am trying, albeit somewhat pointlessly, to clean myself inside and out. Where can I go that He will not find me? I am disgusting, full of impurities and deep faults and bleeding wounds. I'm a bit like a sick animal at the Vet. He could heal them, if I let Him, but instead I sulk and lick my wounds, making them worse. I must believe that He knows what He is doing.
So what shall we talk about?
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