Wish I could pull this off.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
85 average.
Mom: Now you're upset. Don't think I'm disappointed.
Me: But you are disappointed.
Mom: Well.. yes.
Mom: You're just not giving your full potential.
Mom: These aren't bad marks, honey. Are you happy with them?
Me: I'm fine.
Mom: These aren't bad marks.
Me: You think they are.
Mom: They're not as high as you've been getting for the last ten years. These grades count. They count. Keep your doors open.
Mom: I don't want you to give up on yourself.
She doesn't want me to be average, but I'm slipping through mediocrity.
Me: But you are disappointed.
Mom: Well.. yes.
Mom: You're just not giving your full potential.
Mom: These aren't bad marks, honey. Are you happy with them?
Me: I'm fine.
Mom: These aren't bad marks.
Me: You think they are.
Mom: They're not as high as you've been getting for the last ten years. These grades count. They count. Keep your doors open.
Mom: I don't want you to give up on yourself.
She doesn't want me to be average, but I'm slipping through mediocrity.
Headachey.
I feel like my brain juice is leaking out my forehead and the back of my neck is being smushed inwards. Super uncomfortable. Advil, Advil, Advil, work your magic.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Time is just
fluttering away.
I've lost track and it's taken advantage of that, speeding up and dragging behind.
Where does it go?
Paradoxical.
I've lost track and it's taken advantage of that, speeding up and dragging behind.
Where does it go?
Paradoxical.
Monday, April 19, 2010
a smattering of his work
I could go on and on with more and more of his paintings. I really cannot get over Ben Tour. He is absolutely phenomenal. His paintings stir some forgotten emotion within me, make me feel gritty and street and gravelly.
Earthquake
Just a descriptive essay from English class. I finished it at three in the morning and didn't really edit the second half, so ignore the deterioration in quality.
Eyes bleary, brain fogged with drowsiness, I awake to the shrill shriek of my alarm clock and stumble downstairs. The ancient wooden slats creak, and the banister is cool under my hesitant fingertips. It’s chilly in the house. The air feels wrong to me, slippery and alien, and I pause in my descent, senses straining to catch any abnormality. I’m uneasy for some reason, although everything seems normal as I reach the kitchen: the countertops are pristinely white, the walls still in their in-between state of renovation, painter’s tape curled around the edges. My dad is gulping down his coffee – black, always – as he rifles through the newspaper, and his familiar, solid presence calms me. It has always been just the two of us; he`s the rock that has kept me sane and saved me from all of life`s traumas. I wonder for a moment what it would be like if it was ever me that had to do the saving. Could I ever be as strong as he is?
Dad looks up at me, his eyes crinkling in his slow smile as he says good morning. The newspaper screams up at me. The headlines are jarring, the terrible news contrasting with the dusty black on grey monochrome. It rustles as he folds over another page.
He offers to make me breakfast. Somehow I am not hungry, so I decline and sit with my tea, fingers wrapped around the mug, smoothing the curve of its handle over and over again. The repetition is comforting, and our amiable silence almost soothes my uncharacteristic paranoia. Something is wrong, though. I can feel it. My sense of dread increases exponentially.
And suddenly my fears are justified. A wave screams through my head and my brain crumples underneath its force. A rumble cracks through the house. I can feel the ground shuddering, growing more violent as the seconds race by. Earthquake!
The sound of breaking glass reaches me as the nearby window shatters under the pressure. Shards embed themselves in my arm. Blood mixes with fragments of crystal. I’m whipping my head around frantically, my mind disjointed, thought processes scattered by shock. “Dad! Dad!” My voice breaks in terror and I can hear the wheeze of the roof as it bends, feel it shiver through me. Thank God we only have one storey. My vision is blurry: jagged edges and crease lines hinder my search for my father. I realise I’m crying.
Another wave. My arm is sticky and throbbing, our house a mess of bricks and timber, and I’m thrust onto my stomach as the shock hits. I barely have time to take a breath before the walls tumble inwards towards me. I draw my legs in, clutching my hands over my head in an effort to save myself, and then I’m buried and my fingers are scrabbling for a crack with which to push my way out. I find nothing.
Trapped, one leg bent underneath me at an unnatural angle, fear swamps me. I take gasping breaths. My vision is still blurry, and it’s dark here, crowded, everything pressing in around me. The air, thick with debris, burns my lungs. How long do I sit here, glassy with shock and pain, shaking, unable to move from this position? I do not know. I only know that, while the vibrations and tremors have ceased, this ordeal is far from over.
Something shifts, and I can see again, albeit imperfectly. The kitchen table is pinning down my leg. Our chandelier lies a few feet away, diamond pendulums scattered like so many refracted marbles. I shake my head a few times experimentally, aware of a strange ringing reverberating in my ears. It chimes unceasingly, filling my head with a razor sharp ache. I have to get out of here. Where is my father?
Extricating myself from the rubble takes some time, as whenever I attempt to move any part of my body, my trapped leg shrieks with pain. I’m shifting myself around hesitantly, still dizzy with panic, when I hear a low groan. It’s my dad, I`m certain of it. That rough timbre is unmistakeable. Inflated with determination, I tear myself away from everything that pins me down, feeling adrenaline burn away any remaining shock or pain. I stand up too quickly and woozy black dots threaten to pull me back down, but I close my eyes and focus myself. My father needs me.
The world feels jumbled. Paintings and school pictures lie haphazardly on the floor, frames shattered. The refrigerator has come away from its wires. Several walls have bits missing, bricks and wooden framing torn away from the overall structure by the incessant vibrations of the earthquake. Cracks run through the dust of the debris. They stretch their spindly fingers across the floor and up the walls, much like the coffee stains climbing the legs of the kitchen table. The ubiquitous destruction makes me feel damaged, broken in some irreconcilable way. I feel unsafe. This world is too surreal.
With a compromised leg and a bleeding arm, moving at all is painfully difficult. Picking my way through the obstacle course of upturned furniture, glass, and sharp edges, I fervently hope that a neighbour has called emergency services.
My father groans again. I can see his hand, weathered and callused, twitching from beneath a beam. I reach for it and clutch his fingers in mine, holding onto all that is real to me. ``Dad! I`m here, I`m here, hold on,`` I beg, tears forging tracks down my face and puddling underneath my chin. His body is beaten and bruised from the earthquake, his fingers shaking in mine. I can`t rouse a response. His eyes are closed and his heavy brow is lined with pain. I can feel an answering pain within me and feel dizzy again. He looks broken and frail, his body crumpled, a sharp dichotomy with his usual rugged steadfastness. What would I do without him? The thought tears jagged crevices in my heart and I tighten my grip on his hand. His fingers are weak. He can`t save me anymore. It`s up to me now, but what do I do? How can I help him?
Panic streams through me, blowing through barricades in my mind. I manage to lift the remnants of furniture under which he is trapped and sit there with him until the most welcome sound I have ever heard rips through the air: chopper blades. They whip through the stillness. I am grateful; the steady hum gives me something to latch onto, and the knowledge that we will finally be rescued fills me with relief. Grateful, I succumb to the temptation of unconsciousness, the pain and fear drowning in the blackness. I sink down and wait. As my eyes dim, I see spidery figures racing towards us with unerring agility; hear shouts and instructions and unfolding stretchers. Saved.
Closing my eyes, I feel warm arms lift me up as unconsciousness envelops me. ``Save my dad,`` I instruct the unknown angel who folds me in his arms. My mind crumbles inside the roaring of my ears, but the man who cradles me worms his last words through the sinkholes.
``He`s already saved, kid. You did it. He would have died if you hadn`t gotten him out from underneath all of that debris. You`re a hero, but you`ve done your bit. We`ll take it from here.``
His words stay with me as I lose all knowledge of reality. I had the strength to save my father after all.
Eyes bleary, brain fogged with drowsiness, I awake to the shrill shriek of my alarm clock and stumble downstairs. The ancient wooden slats creak, and the banister is cool under my hesitant fingertips. It’s chilly in the house. The air feels wrong to me, slippery and alien, and I pause in my descent, senses straining to catch any abnormality. I’m uneasy for some reason, although everything seems normal as I reach the kitchen: the countertops are pristinely white, the walls still in their in-between state of renovation, painter’s tape curled around the edges. My dad is gulping down his coffee – black, always – as he rifles through the newspaper, and his familiar, solid presence calms me. It has always been just the two of us; he`s the rock that has kept me sane and saved me from all of life`s traumas. I wonder for a moment what it would be like if it was ever me that had to do the saving. Could I ever be as strong as he is?
Dad looks up at me, his eyes crinkling in his slow smile as he says good morning. The newspaper screams up at me. The headlines are jarring, the terrible news contrasting with the dusty black on grey monochrome. It rustles as he folds over another page.
He offers to make me breakfast. Somehow I am not hungry, so I decline and sit with my tea, fingers wrapped around the mug, smoothing the curve of its handle over and over again. The repetition is comforting, and our amiable silence almost soothes my uncharacteristic paranoia. Something is wrong, though. I can feel it. My sense of dread increases exponentially.
And suddenly my fears are justified. A wave screams through my head and my brain crumples underneath its force. A rumble cracks through the house. I can feel the ground shuddering, growing more violent as the seconds race by. Earthquake!
The sound of breaking glass reaches me as the nearby window shatters under the pressure. Shards embed themselves in my arm. Blood mixes with fragments of crystal. I’m whipping my head around frantically, my mind disjointed, thought processes scattered by shock. “Dad! Dad!” My voice breaks in terror and I can hear the wheeze of the roof as it bends, feel it shiver through me. Thank God we only have one storey. My vision is blurry: jagged edges and crease lines hinder my search for my father. I realise I’m crying.
Another wave. My arm is sticky and throbbing, our house a mess of bricks and timber, and I’m thrust onto my stomach as the shock hits. I barely have time to take a breath before the walls tumble inwards towards me. I draw my legs in, clutching my hands over my head in an effort to save myself, and then I’m buried and my fingers are scrabbling for a crack with which to push my way out. I find nothing.
Trapped, one leg bent underneath me at an unnatural angle, fear swamps me. I take gasping breaths. My vision is still blurry, and it’s dark here, crowded, everything pressing in around me. The air, thick with debris, burns my lungs. How long do I sit here, glassy with shock and pain, shaking, unable to move from this position? I do not know. I only know that, while the vibrations and tremors have ceased, this ordeal is far from over.
Something shifts, and I can see again, albeit imperfectly. The kitchen table is pinning down my leg. Our chandelier lies a few feet away, diamond pendulums scattered like so many refracted marbles. I shake my head a few times experimentally, aware of a strange ringing reverberating in my ears. It chimes unceasingly, filling my head with a razor sharp ache. I have to get out of here. Where is my father?
Extricating myself from the rubble takes some time, as whenever I attempt to move any part of my body, my trapped leg shrieks with pain. I’m shifting myself around hesitantly, still dizzy with panic, when I hear a low groan. It’s my dad, I`m certain of it. That rough timbre is unmistakeable. Inflated with determination, I tear myself away from everything that pins me down, feeling adrenaline burn away any remaining shock or pain. I stand up too quickly and woozy black dots threaten to pull me back down, but I close my eyes and focus myself. My father needs me.
The world feels jumbled. Paintings and school pictures lie haphazardly on the floor, frames shattered. The refrigerator has come away from its wires. Several walls have bits missing, bricks and wooden framing torn away from the overall structure by the incessant vibrations of the earthquake. Cracks run through the dust of the debris. They stretch their spindly fingers across the floor and up the walls, much like the coffee stains climbing the legs of the kitchen table. The ubiquitous destruction makes me feel damaged, broken in some irreconcilable way. I feel unsafe. This world is too surreal.
With a compromised leg and a bleeding arm, moving at all is painfully difficult. Picking my way through the obstacle course of upturned furniture, glass, and sharp edges, I fervently hope that a neighbour has called emergency services.
My father groans again. I can see his hand, weathered and callused, twitching from beneath a beam. I reach for it and clutch his fingers in mine, holding onto all that is real to me. ``Dad! I`m here, I`m here, hold on,`` I beg, tears forging tracks down my face and puddling underneath my chin. His body is beaten and bruised from the earthquake, his fingers shaking in mine. I can`t rouse a response. His eyes are closed and his heavy brow is lined with pain. I can feel an answering pain within me and feel dizzy again. He looks broken and frail, his body crumpled, a sharp dichotomy with his usual rugged steadfastness. What would I do without him? The thought tears jagged crevices in my heart and I tighten my grip on his hand. His fingers are weak. He can`t save me anymore. It`s up to me now, but what do I do? How can I help him?
Panic streams through me, blowing through barricades in my mind. I manage to lift the remnants of furniture under which he is trapped and sit there with him until the most welcome sound I have ever heard rips through the air: chopper blades. They whip through the stillness. I am grateful; the steady hum gives me something to latch onto, and the knowledge that we will finally be rescued fills me with relief. Grateful, I succumb to the temptation of unconsciousness, the pain and fear drowning in the blackness. I sink down and wait. As my eyes dim, I see spidery figures racing towards us with unerring agility; hear shouts and instructions and unfolding stretchers. Saved.
Closing my eyes, I feel warm arms lift me up as unconsciousness envelops me. ``Save my dad,`` I instruct the unknown angel who folds me in his arms. My mind crumbles inside the roaring of my ears, but the man who cradles me worms his last words through the sinkholes.
``He`s already saved, kid. You did it. He would have died if you hadn`t gotten him out from underneath all of that debris. You`re a hero, but you`ve done your bit. We`ll take it from here.``
His words stay with me as I lose all knowledge of reality. I had the strength to save my father after all.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
glorious
What a word. Just hearing it makes you joyous.
I'm going to find these simple beauties again.
tingle tangle telephone
I wish I understood how things worked. Technology, I mean. Things like telephones, computers, cameras. I cannnot comprehend how little switches, ticky-tacky up-down gears, buttons, create such advancements. It's fucking magic to me.
Like the rest of the universe.
Thanks for the photos, JVL
We were.
Cover your eyes, the devil's inside.
Jared Leto says it best.
I've turned lazy-eyed, bovine. Brain turned to splinters inside my skull. Sinking friendships, nothing in common, we don't want you. You know nothing, nothing of our kind. Crazy panic fury scream scream cry can't do this.
Either way, I lose someone. But I don't think I can go back to who I was. Who was I? They're right, of course, I was like them once. I would have given up on current-me too. I understand. I comprehend entirely. It hurts, though. Sticksharp. Drip, drip, little poison blood. Why do we replace one pain with another?
I don't want to lose my (almost best) friends. I am happy when I'm around them. I can imagine success. I already miss them. I've already almost lost them.
I don't want to lose my (boyfriend?). I don't know if I can turn my back on this dangerously addicting lifestyle. I miss him when he's not around.
Everything's so fragile, crack-crack broken glass. Spindly canyons reaching spiderwebs patterns through the ice of our friendships. Sinking friendships. We drown them all.
Jared Leto says it best.
I've turned lazy-eyed, bovine. Brain turned to splinters inside my skull. Sinking friendships, nothing in common, we don't want you. You know nothing, nothing of our kind. Crazy panic fury scream scream cry can't do this.
Either way, I lose someone. But I don't think I can go back to who I was. Who was I? They're right, of course, I was like them once. I would have given up on current-me too. I understand. I comprehend entirely. It hurts, though. Sticksharp. Drip, drip, little poison blood. Why do we replace one pain with another?
I don't want to lose my (almost best) friends. I am happy when I'm around them. I can imagine success. I already miss them. I've already almost lost them.
I don't want to lose my (boyfriend?). I don't know if I can turn my back on this dangerously addicting lifestyle. I miss him when he's not around.
Everything's so fragile, crack-crack broken glass. Spindly canyons reaching spiderwebs patterns through the ice of our friendships. Sinking friendships. We drown them all.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
stick shift
I'm jealous of your composure
your happiness
but I'm stuck in sad. Reverse, reverse.
Why do I enjoy it here?
your happiness
but I'm stuck in sad. Reverse, reverse.
Why do I enjoy it here?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Kid Stuff?
I hate this feeling of limbo. Everyone assumes we're dating, but uncertainty is in the air. We have a thing. So unclear; murky water, mud ghosting through swamps. What are we? Yes, we've gone on a date or three. Gotten high together. Kissed a few times. Slept in the same bed. He's saved me at three in the morning when I had no where to go. We sit together, talk together, smoke together. But are we together?
It's safe, though. This way I don't have to worry about my fickleness, my inability to stay with a guy for more than a month or two without getting bored. I get distracted easily, and I know he's not good for me. So I'm tempted to let it slide, just go with it, keep us in this uncertain state.
On another note, I had my first cigarette in two days today. It fucked me up. Light headed rush, woozy on my feet. But it passed quickly. I know I can go without smokes for days, weeks, even, if I wanted to. I weathered these nights without one, hardly bothered. But I miss their comfort. I apologize if I seem obsessed with this issue, but it is pressing. I don't think I even want to quit.
Not to mention that it helps me assume one of my personalities. I fit in with one of my groups better when I smoke. It makes me feel safe.
I cut myself the other day, and made myself throw up this afternoon. I'm slipping backwards, down the glass mirror that whispers all of my imperfections. I made myself stop, though, halfway through both incidents.
I've missed opening up my skin, though. Guess I'm just a psychopath. A monster.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Reinvention.
I just began a figure drawing - just a quick sketch, and it's embarrassingly out of proportion - but it's a start. I didn't realise how much better I would feel once I started it. It feels like home, the brush of conté on paper, the shading of shadows. The familiar love for the white stick of chalk.
I missed it, but I was afraid to try again. Now I know that I haven't lost everything, after all.
I missed it, but I was afraid to try again. Now I know that I haven't lost everything, after all.
L'Afrique
I'm in such a state of limbo right now. Grounded, misplaced trust, loss of liberty. My parents say that they can't trust me to do anything right now, that they feel as if they have to watch me all of the time. Ghana is an uncertainty.
But I hope, oh, I hope it happens. I've applied, and will (hopefully!) be accepted soon. I need this. I need to get out. I'm suffocating here, trapped within old expectations. This city is stifling. I think going to Africa, helping people, doing something really worthwhile - I think it will give me a much-needed new perspective. I think it will lift me up out of my life and give me something new to work for. Some motivation to pick it up and stop being a drifter, to stop lazing through the days. I can't ever get these years back.
I cannot, cannot wait.
Friday, April 2, 2010
glam
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IsPFDzAGb4A
Love this man. That eyebrow lift and smouldering gaze ... mmhm.
Love this man. That eyebrow lift and smouldering gaze ... mmhm.
My problem is that I've become the girl I used to hate.
Total 180.
I feel like nothing is real anymore. I've lost all of my passion, my drive. Lost my artistic talent. I'm never inspired anymore. I'm scared to start anything, scared that I won't care enough about something that used to define me.
I drift through life, uncaring, indifferent, not doing anything real. What mark have I left?
I'm going to regret wasting these years.
I feel like nothing is real anymore. I've lost all of my passion, my drive. Lost my artistic talent. I'm never inspired anymore. I'm scared to start anything, scared that I won't care enough about something that used to define me.
I drift through life, uncaring, indifferent, not doing anything real. What mark have I left?
I'm going to regret wasting these years.
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