Little Weeknight Spasm... Sleep Deprivation

September 3rd, 2009

Someone:
I am sitting in a pale little kitchen, figures flickering on my attention span like a slide projector:
$20
+$5
+$15
-$40
-$13
-gas money
= $-13-gas money a week

How is South America going to happen again? This cold, flat realization cripples me upon impact. I watch all the visions of life and death and happiness like stone melt into a massive puddle at my feet. I contemplate how to reshape this puddle but no tactic comes to mind. Instead, I opt for the least effective method, lying down in it and trying to soak it back into my skin before it leaves me permanently. I lie there in absolute stillness for several minutes with my lungs swelled, my teeth clenched, and my fingers trying to rupture my temples. Nothing miraculous happens to my puddle.
At last the panic recedes and I sit up, look around, and draw a simple conclusion:
It's time to grow up and get a job.

I Never Thought These Would Hit So Close to Home

she's looking in the mirror
she's fixing her hair
and i touch my head to feel
what isn't there
she's humming a melody
we learned in grade school
she's so happy
and i think
this is not cool
'cause i know the guy
she's been talking about
i have met him before
and i think
what is this beautiful beautiful woman
settling for?

she bends her breath
when she talks to him
i can see her features begin to blur
as she pours herself
into the mold he made for her
and for everything he does
she has a way to rationalize
she says he don't mean what he do
she tells me he called
to apologize

he says he loves her
he says he's changing
and he can keep her warm
and so she sits there like america
suffering through slow reform
but she'll never get back the time
and the years sneak by
one by one
she is still playing the martyr
i am still praying for revolution

and she still doesn't have what she deserves
but she wakes up smiling every day
she never really expected more
that's just not the way we are raised
and i say to her,
you know,
there's plenty of really great men out there
but she doesn't hear me
she's looking in the mirror
she's fixing her hair

July 14th (I think), 2009

Someone:

I have for you good news, a self-evaluation to balance it, and demanded changes to make me more healthy.
The news: I got my scores back from AP today and it turns out that I got a 5 of my 3D portfolio. I am beyond thrilled, considering I was biting my lip for months in hopes of a 4. As with my acceptance to Quartz Mountain, however, I felt an immediate instinct to curb an inflated ego with some rational thought. For one thing, once I heard, I returned to the idea of myself as an imposter(sp?). I am not living FOR art, I do not even create every day. How am I defined by the word "artist" if I am not defined by the word "art"? It is a huge part of my life, but I have reached and passed the point where it should BE my life.
It concerns me to realize, as I have this summer, that I have some major self-control issues. The summer has gone swooping by in a stream of miraculous colors and possibilities. It is almost as though I am sitting here, dormant in front of a screen, watching it go by, just watching with a dull laziness, never bothering to make it reality.
My parents are having hardwood floors installed in the back rooms of their house, so I spent the day going through all of my JUNK. Watching the Himalaya-sized heaps of all my worthless crap pile up, it is bitterly humorous to think that I consider myself an aspiring minimalist. I had forgotten WHY. I had forgotten the vast impression that silence and space makes on the mind. The objective of minimalism is to grant easier access to our soul. Elise: rid yourself of distractions and dependencies, such as mirrors, hairpieces, decorations, etc. The best way to glimpse yourself is to cut through the crap, strip off all the material junk.
Since all my stuff is already displaced, I have no excuse to waste this opportunity. I will revive my minimalist approach: no rugs, tapestries, fancifuls, general BS that smothers the floor, etc. The room should be a blank canvas so that my thoughts may dance in, surrounding me and guiding me as I pull them into the physical world (I refuse to use the word "realm").
Now that all the seriousness clogging my brain up has been pitched in your direction, I am in a gibberishly gleeful mood. I bid you farewell and may you take on my abysmal attitude with great courage and iron optimism.
Love Elise

I want my hair back

The long-avoided panic attack about Quartz Mountain (I am feeling better now...):

June 10th, 2009

Someone:
I feel like a phony, like an artistic impostor. I am packing for Quartz Mountain, unwrapping all my new supplies, many of which I have not used in years or never at all. I can easily envision arriving to my first class, brand new, embarrassingly unused supplies in tote and surrounded by brilliantly creative people that have devoted every fibre of their being and every spare moment of their time to art and creative growth. The will be wielding gunked-up, much loved supplies that have been hardened by the sweat of their tireless devotion. I have only just realized, Someone, that I will be the amateur. It is obvious that I got in via fluke and now I have wasted a month of potential preparation time doing NOTHING to become a better artist.
A label myself an artist with my "studio" and closet and haircut, but has it ever occurred to you that I rarely produce? I spend my evenings before a television, a fucking TELEVISION! I am thus an impostor because I paint myself an artist then follow up with no art.
And if I am not an artist, then what am I? I have never considered myself anything else.
So my point is this, Someone:
If I do not get my petty little life together and begin doing art at all times, I will continue to be a fraud and become a hollow, useless person. My precious time to live will slide into a void, wasted with meandering bullshit because, when I am not creating or thinking about creating, I am wasting time.

"There's not one day that you are living that has been promised to you."
~Ben Harper

Now that I've vented I can seek eternal contentment again... wow
Elise (My brow is seriously furrowed)

I have not posted anything in an unusually long time, although I have been thinking many a new thing and growing up. I don't expect you to actually read all of this because it is incredibly redundant, but it is proof of my growth. I think I may be getting over myself. After all, self-awareness is the first step to ironing the kinks out of our approach to living. We'll see. Take note of the dates on which these excerpts were written. Enjoy...?

March 26, 2009
Someone:
. . . Either way, I have a new thought process that has joined my daily routine. As I fall asleep each night, I pray to a god (just in case) to keep the world safe. I promise myself that, if I am fortunate enough to wake the next morning, I will be grateful to live another day and I will be casual, assertive, painfully aware of the world, and HAPPY. The most challenging element of this scheme is its execution, obviously. . .

April 7, 2009
Someone:
. . . More essential an issue to speak of, however, are my newly defined purposes. I have been examining my composition and ambition for quite a while now and I have finally reached semi-steady ground. I believe this guilt I feel is entirely voluntary. It is a conscious decision to be tormented (at least in my case) and it is for this reason: I FEEL guilty in order to BE less guilty. Try to make sense of that. I am undeservingly fortunate, but I would theoretically be a worse human being if I did not A) recognize this and B) at least seek salvation from my ignorance. So you see, beloved Someone, the guilt I feel has actually the opposite purpose of true guilt– to salve my ignorance.
This "guilt" I feel is the force that drives my craving of the impoverished world. I intend to "earn" the fortune I was born into, to give my existence substance, righteousness, and, above all else, deservedness. It will also be my way of coping with the daunting impressions of mankind. Although it is pointless and wrong, I tend to want greatness in comparison with the entire human race. Instead of finding my peace as no one, I wage fierce competition on the artists and spiritually grounded people, which causes an unavoidable sense of defeat. Regardless, I recognize the redundant babble that appears in letter after letter after letter to you, Someone. . .

April 12, 2009
Someone:
HAPPY EASTER, beloved friend! I am not a religious person and yet Easter treats me to the same divinity as those who are devoted with every fiber of their being. There is a certain sense of life in the air. It is not Jesus Christ's risen soul, but rather a festival welcoming the new spring– rebirth. Those evangelicals are not so funny and odd as I traditionally regard them. Today it doesn't matter if the man was or was not divine because the sensation of rebirth is irrefutable in all manners. All day there has been a gentle rain, salving the rampant wildfires that have devouring Oklahoma and intensifying all the colors, saturating the grass and trees and flowers until they are almost unnaturally bright.
I have been experiencing my own little personal "rebirth" as well. Creativity has been rushing into me all day and I have finally crawled out of my inspirational ditch. . .
Pardon my scribbles, dear friend. I love you unconditionally and faithfully,
Elise

Updates

To record my progress. I have felt much better since they put me on painkillers for the tissue damage in my neck. : ) It is depressing to think about my new levels of hypocrisy in accepting unnecessary medications. The coloring of my eye brings back very distinct memories of Toby's make-up in 8th grade as "Lola."

Not My Most Beautiful Moment...

I am indulging in a small pity party at the moment, so bear with me.

Today I was in a wreck on my bike. I was speeding down the bridge over the highway on Grand Blvd. (without a helmet) and I believe I hit a trash can, but I am not entirely sure. The only things I remember are: having about 5 concerned strangers towering over me while I struggle to remain conscious. They kept asking me if I could move, and, for a few minutes, my arms would not budge. I remember piling into a stranger's car (an example of my impaired judgement), but getting ahold of my mother in time to prevent this. I remember feeling the back of my head and thinking there was a dent in it. And this is the extent of my memory concerning the next hour.

I could not move my arms for a couple minutes because my body was in shock and the "dent" in the back of my head was, in fact, the decline of my head's surface away from a bloody knot the size of a baseball. I have a severe concussion and I may have internal bleeding in my skull. Both of my collarbones and my jaw feel broken, but they are apparently just traumatized from the "jolt." I also have whiplash.

This is really just my way of notifying my friends of what happened, since I will out of touch for the rest of the break. You guys are the only ones who read my blog, anyways.

Defining this Phase

This is an exercise in self-confidence.

It is about carrying myself better
ridding myself of vanity
and becoming strong.

This is not about you.
This is not about women.
This is not about masculinity.

This is about self-confidence.

This is a hasty evening rant that I don't have time to revise, so enjoy....?

I begin my day in the usual fashion, an undignified process of meandering into consciousness through first hour. While trudging to my locker, I study the plastic floor tiles and the yellow florescent lights reflecting off of them. I look up to see Nathan surprisingly near. The sight of him kicks me fully into reality. His hair is unkempt and stringing across his face. His left eye is swollen and sickly blue-grey, dwarfing his narrow face. There is a fat, dark hole beneath his lip with hasty black stitches pulling it together.
I do not know how to respond to him, so I stand idly before him, shock bearing sturdily down on my ribcage. His expression is physically painful to behold, his eyes, which used to be excitingly bright blue, are layered thick with stoic defeat. "What happened to you?" I finally whispered. "Oh, uhhh.. w'll I passed out at the top of a staircase... they told me my blood sugar was too low... uhh..."
I used to really like him. He used to be creative and bright and clever and fun. He used to be surprisingly strong and good-natured. He used to be beautiful and his interest in "pot" colored it with that strange coolness that reeled me in. Now he is wasted and I ache for him so, so much. He is ruined and lifeless. He has been beaten.
I keep hoping they will send him to military school. I am hopeful that, once there, they would confiscate his precious weed and beat the shit out of him. They would turn him into the person he wanted to be. In a way, they would set him free. This is my hope because, without the prospect of military school, I honestly cannot see a way out for him. He is being drowned and I am watching it happen.

Beginning and Ending with a Quote

"(Youths) are quite aware of what they're going through."
~ David Bowie

I know that I am just another one.
One more screen with letters and words and manufactured ideas.
One more boiling defense and desperate excuse.
One more reason to be blind.

One more attempt at digging through the heap of discarded souls to retrieve my own. But there you are again, before I grasp it firmly. Congratulations. You found me. You tethered me back up. You pried my lips apart. You shoved the parasite back down my throat.
So I feel fine again.

"They hate you if you're clever and they despise a fool. 'Till you're so fucking crazy you follow their rules."
~ John Lennon

One more iconic quote

This Entry Makes me Sound at Least 50

For a reason not yet evident to me, I have been thinking of you lately. Just memories, I assume. You said it doesn't feel like two years, and this is true. I still remember Mr. Swank as though he were leaning over my shoulder yesterday, telling me how to move the brush. I still remember the bond between Claire and I, one with the strength of a triple-ionic bond. I still remember Mr. Austin lurking just beside my conscious thoughts, tinting them with his wisdom and wondrous, exotic tales. I still remember Toby and her obesity and the way my feet would blacken on the dirty floors. I still remember the chaotic, selfish hustle we had, teetering confidently about with stuffed shirts and immortality.
But mostly I remember you, or who you used to be. I realize now how lucky we were. We used to be kindred spirits, off-beat and artistic, both ridiculously moody and tipping over with the weight of our outrageously exaggerated sense of love. I remember the wracking despair in my little hormonal body when I knew you liked her more. It is all laughable now, but it "destroyed my reason for existence" at the time. I was a little girl.
Perhaps all of this is presenting itself to me because, today in history class, alone and maintaining a half-awake conversation with my professor while awaiting the first bell of the day, she told me she had never seen me so talkative. I was barely speaking with her, mind you. I could scarcely fathom the concept of myself as a quiet, reclusive person with long, self-conscious curtains over my face and clad in grey. I felt like a paradox.

Random Entries to Covey

February 7th, 2009

Someone:
Yesterday I had a procession of thoughts worth recording:
Disney brings out a very obnoxious part of me- the super feminine. I melt at the sight of Disney princesses and coo at dolls with eyelashes to their brows and polyester pink dresses. I want to make porcelain dolls in corsets with Renaissance-style faces and long, flowing locks. I have tried to stamp out the pathetic femininity in me and I have, for the most part, been successful, but it is difficult here.
Most awful of my changes in character is my new found tendency to complain. Oh, my feet, oh my back, oh my I am so cold, oh my lips are dry, oh my chin is dimpled, etc. How dare I complain. How dare I. When the Earth trembles with fear and malnourishment and I skip about the Magic Kingdom, I somehow find the insolence to complain. As if my undeserved indulgences were not undignified enough. I must be mad.
I don't think there are any people here who are not white or chinese.
Keep your head in the right direction, remember why you want to live minimally, the strength and self-awareness achieved in minimalism, the need to do great things. Love your body, take care of your body, know the selfishness in drugs and appreciate your natural state of consciousness, not the sensations of various poisons.

Abstain and grow in your love.
Elise




February 19th, 2009
Someone:
I am despicably and obnoxiously "good" these days. The sparkle in my parents' eye, the role model without friends, the boring, cubicle-creature-to-be who is academically successful only because they have nothing better to do because they have no original thought. Bred to obey, they are the ultimate citizen.
Being "good" is much more difficult that I anticipated. It is not about the poison anymore, it is the sheer lack of imagination I have to think of no righteous rebellion. The best I can think of (besides a snotty drug addicted party animal) is critical, but who am I to be critical? If the hungry world were given opportunities like mine, it would be minimalistic, immeasurably grateful, and happy. I cannot afford to lay this wisdom aside and be unhappy.

Live minimally and virtuously. Give everything spare to the oppressed. Be grateful and, most of all, be happy.
Enough of me and my petty little life. What about you?
Elise

I Will Get Better

Last night I had a dream that I was watching a girl eat and eat and eat- gorge herself until her body could not hold her and her heart was crushed by the weight of her own flesh. I woke from it at 6:00 A.M. at Madeline Bentley's house on her floor with the taste of cigarettes and pot in my mouth. It was almost an epiphany I had- that the only reasonable way to live is in protection of your own body. Without it, you do not live and, with one that is abused and mutilated, your mind will follow suit.

"I was moved by women in Africa who lived close the earth and didn't understand what it meant to not love their body."
~ Eve Ensler

I have reached a shuttering and frightening conclusion- I must change dramatically. I must give up cigarettes and pot and alcohol, which will mean giving up Madeline, Laura, Katie, Megan, ect. and any social life they would entail. Most painfully, I must give up my rebellion, become someone my parents approve of, become someone honest and deeply "uncool." I must give up that social life and do art.
Today my mother said to me that she didn't think I was spending enough time on my art. To hear this broke me. I never though I could be that person. I never though I would hear that.
I have been crying today and I know I have become selfish and despicable. To cry is to express my own weakness. I do not deserve to cry, not when so many people have it harder and keep their heads held straight. Who am I, a useless, carbon-copy, American teenage girl, to sneer in the face of real sorrow and mock righteous despair. And yet I sit here, in plain selfishness, crying.
I am going to move on and it will be agonizing to make my parents proud. It will hurt to stop lying. But it will happen because I am not happy anymore and I am not Elise. Instead of wallowing in despair, I will change.

I WILL CHANGE
Elise

According to the quiz off of Austin's latest entry, I am only 27% pro-Obama. There must be something wrong with that quiz...

The ceiling tiles are being taken down because they don't match her "atmosphere."

Speculations

You know exactly what you are doing. Maybe you share my fear of becoming ordinary and weak. Maybe you also feel the need to beat yourself down, scrape off all the teenage superficiality so that all you are left looking at is yourself- pure and simple. Maybe that is what you are doing now- falling, falling, falling (and making it obvious) so that you will be put in military school, where they will beat it out of you and you will have to endure, have to be strong. Maybe this is all part of your plan or maybe I am alone in these ideals, imagining you feel the same way because I am afraid for you. Either way, I have a hard time believing that you are merely misguided and disturbed. You used to tell me that you wanted to do immeasurable good for people, to pull a man off the streets and give him a new life. You used to tell me how strong and noble were the men that died for their country. I think you are still Nathan, still passionate and selfless. I think you are trying to fool us all and yourself. I think this is all part of your plan because, if I had the courage, I would be doing the same thing.

Brandon and Swank

I made it out! I finally managed to free myself from that mucky state of mind. For several months now, I haven't been keeping my mind wrapped properly around my art and translating my emotions into colors and paints and textiles. I lost the largest part of me- the artist. It disappeared into some elusive cavern of my mind, but now I've won this game of hide and seek, dragged the artist back into daylight, and gotten a paintbrush into my hand.