My bus was forty minutes late this morning...
I just applied for an uber-exclusive, six month creative program. Ack, I hope I get in. Here's my entry... though I digress, it's not exactly my best writing... ^ ^;;
I SPEAK MY OWN LANGUAGE…
… not in words or voice, or even ‘hmms’ and ‘hahs’. Not in laughter or silence or rage. I speak in the way I smile- in the way I slowly drag out my long hair in an elongated parody of a flip. The way I wave my hands; skip my skirts and clutch my pencil like a paintbrush, not a grammatical tool. I speak a language in writing- no, not words. Words are an art, a way of life. My language dances between the jagged peaks of my ‘m’s and floats within the bubbles of my ‘g’s loops. In the way my ‘a’s look like ‘s’s and how it never strays into that mysterious realm of cursive, where ever curve, lean and swoop can give something deep, dark and secret away.
NO, NO I CAN’T TELL YOU EVERYTHING…
… that would take forever! The real question here is: would you really want to no everything? What would you do with the knowledge? The history? Joys and pains that are not yours. Besides, you are assuming that I know everything as well, and as flattering as that assumption may be, it is ridiculous since I am pretty sure that the human brain has certain capacities. Though those capacities may become fustrating at moments, please consider the repercussions of knowledge. Then grin, nod your head and pretend you understand.
WHEN I AM ALONE IN MY ROOM…
… I fill my brain with noise, because as long as the static fills the void, you aren’t really alone. Not with the memories that may or may not be yours, cobwebbed somewhere in the musty eaves of childhood. Not with your own procastination- thoughts that only reverberate stronger with every effort to force them out of sight and out of mind. When the radio sings; when the TB blares; when the keyboard taps and when Victor Hugo paints for you a picture of Paris, you fade and, for once, the loudness of your thoughts slowly peel away. For among the noise, you find your only silence.
IN THE CHAOS OF MY MIND I BUILD…
… layers, for I was rather shocked to find none existed. I pushed past the curtains that were not there, knocked down walls that didn’t exist and decided that the effort was in vain. I am not an enigma. I am what you see when you see it, but something in the cold machine of society assumes that straightforward people have no place in the world of art. So I weave complications and masks and complexities like I would the mannerisms of a fictional character. But it doesn’t make me feel like anything different…
LEAVING HOME: RUNNING FROM THE PAST… STEPPING INTO THE FUTURE…
… I picture a young girl running from things that she will miss. I see her running in slow motion black and white, cica 1932. And she stops, turns and looks back, blinking wide with innocence. I see my mother as that wide eyed child. Child of God who sees the good in the world without seeing past the evil. Evil does not exist for her- it is invisible and inconsequential. But I do not pity her, nor would I ever envy her. Instead I wonder how she has raised such a wise, cynical daughter.
SUDDENLY, I REALIZE…
… that second person present tense is safe and comfortable like an old sweater for all seasons. Such personal passion delivered with such dispassionate distance.
SUDDENLY, I REALIZE…
… that this has not so much been an artistic venture, but rather a rant of me. For a few minutes, I have treated your brain to a taste of me. But remember, no matter how the author weaves the tale. No matter how much you loose yourself in the text, I am me and you are you and it’s better that way.
;finis
Random List of Cool People
* Albert Einstein
* Mercedes Lackey
* Victor Hugo
* Blaise Pascal
* J.R.R Tolkien
* Martin Luther
* Alexander the Great
(writers, scientists, religious leaders and a conqurer. -.-;;)
I just can't get enough of the Parano avatar. ^ ^
Note to Self: Find Lici a Ryuuguu quote for her "Project: Ryuuguu" shirt...
I SPEAK MY OWN LANGUAGE…
… not in words or voice, or even ‘hmms’ and ‘hahs’. Not in laughter or silence or rage. I speak in the way I smile- in the way I slowly drag out my long hair in an elongated parody of a flip. The way I wave my hands; skip my skirts and clutch my pencil like a paintbrush, not a grammatical tool. I speak a language in writing- no, not words. Words are an art, a way of life. My language dances between the jagged peaks of my ‘m’s and floats within the bubbles of my ‘g’s loops. In the way my ‘a’s look like ‘s’s and how it never strays into that mysterious realm of cursive, where ever curve, lean and swoop can give something deep, dark and secret away.
NO, NO I CAN’T TELL YOU EVERYTHING…
… that would take forever! The real question here is: would you really want to no everything? What would you do with the knowledge? The history? Joys and pains that are not yours. Besides, you are assuming that I know everything as well, and as flattering as that assumption may be, it is ridiculous since I am pretty sure that the human brain has certain capacities. Though those capacities may become fustrating at moments, please consider the repercussions of knowledge. Then grin, nod your head and pretend you understand.
WHEN I AM ALONE IN MY ROOM…
… I fill my brain with noise, because as long as the static fills the void, you aren’t really alone. Not with the memories that may or may not be yours, cobwebbed somewhere in the musty eaves of childhood. Not with your own procastination- thoughts that only reverberate stronger with every effort to force them out of sight and out of mind. When the radio sings; when the TB blares; when the keyboard taps and when Victor Hugo paints for you a picture of Paris, you fade and, for once, the loudness of your thoughts slowly peel away. For among the noise, you find your only silence.
IN THE CHAOS OF MY MIND I BUILD…
… layers, for I was rather shocked to find none existed. I pushed past the curtains that were not there, knocked down walls that didn’t exist and decided that the effort was in vain. I am not an enigma. I am what you see when you see it, but something in the cold machine of society assumes that straightforward people have no place in the world of art. So I weave complications and masks and complexities like I would the mannerisms of a fictional character. But it doesn’t make me feel like anything different…
LEAVING HOME: RUNNING FROM THE PAST… STEPPING INTO THE FUTURE…
… I picture a young girl running from things that she will miss. I see her running in slow motion black and white, cica 1932. And she stops, turns and looks back, blinking wide with innocence. I see my mother as that wide eyed child. Child of God who sees the good in the world without seeing past the evil. Evil does not exist for her- it is invisible and inconsequential. But I do not pity her, nor would I ever envy her. Instead I wonder how she has raised such a wise, cynical daughter.
SUDDENLY, I REALIZE…
… that second person present tense is safe and comfortable like an old sweater for all seasons. Such personal passion delivered with such dispassionate distance.
SUDDENLY, I REALIZE…
… that this has not so much been an artistic venture, but rather a rant of me. For a few minutes, I have treated your brain to a taste of me. But remember, no matter how the author weaves the tale. No matter how much you loose yourself in the text, I am me and you are you and it’s better that way.
;finis
Random List of Cool People
* Albert Einstein
* Mercedes Lackey
* Victor Hugo
* Blaise Pascal
* J.R.R Tolkien
* Martin Luther
* Alexander the Great
(writers, scientists, religious leaders and a conqurer. -.-;;)
I just can't get enough of the Parano avatar. ^ ^
Note to Self: Find Lici a Ryuuguu quote for her "Project: Ryuuguu" shirt...