To master HTML and flash before the next semester begins. My last!
And then who the fuck knows.
Check out my site:
click HERE
or type: www.artsierthanyou.com into your browser/search engine
and feel free to leave a message about your visit,
constructive criticism appreciated,
i know i have many technical things to fix in my html/etc
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Judge the book
If u r not mean, u will not attract mean
If u think Zen, u will be Zen
If u waste not, u will have not
If u think not, u will be not
If u r warm, ure being will be as well
If u r free, u r free to be
If cast not u, no dirty look
Then cast not upon me
Judge the book
If u think Zen, u will be Zen
If u waste not, u will have not
If u think not, u will be not
If u r warm, ure being will be as well
If u r free, u r free to be
If cast not u, no dirty look
Then cast not upon me
Judge the book
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The seeds of tomorrow are only as good as yesterdays harvest.
The seeds of tomorrow are only as good as yesterdays harvest.
The farmer tends his assets as greedily as possible, but what life do any of these morsels possess if there not exist a farmers wife?
Life ceases to give without know how and tools, but life cannot spring from that which has no knowledge of life, and the farmers wife could not harvest bread if she first has no grain.
The farmer could not have small hands to help tend his crop if there is no farmers wife to give the gift of life.
But what is the value of life and small hands when machine can equate to a million larger hands?
The machine is based upon the irrefutable doctrine of life without purpose.
But what is a life without purpose?
Are you a machine of small hands?
Or a machine of irrefutable doctrines?
The farmer tends his assets as greedily as possible, but what life do any of these morsels possess if there not exist a farmers wife?
Life ceases to give without know how and tools, but life cannot spring from that which has no knowledge of life, and the farmers wife could not harvest bread if she first has no grain.
The farmer could not have small hands to help tend his crop if there is no farmers wife to give the gift of life.
But what is the value of life and small hands when machine can equate to a million larger hands?
The machine is based upon the irrefutable doctrine of life without purpose.
But what is a life without purpose?
Are you a machine of small hands?
Or a machine of irrefutable doctrines?
Monday, November 29, 2010
Confessions and True Crimes of an Anti-Female
Confessions and True Crimes of an Anti-Female,
an experimental memoir approach,
to get the chick lit out of my veins.
I have no sort of intention of giving in to chick lit, not to any degree possible. Today I browsed the chick lit section of a used bookstore and I couldn't be more dissatisfied. The section lit up with pink and pastel colored bookends, and big curvey, stylized fonts. The random 'femme fatale' sort- of darker hues, or just plain black, lay on the shelves scattered, like a ghost of lost innosence trying to break from its shell.
The overabundance of pinks and blues strangely reminded me of being at a baby shower- where the parents chose not to know the baby's sex until it pops out, surrounded by pink and blue party decorations. Pink and blue- like the colors on a pregnancy test, the color of pills, the colors of love and misery. Add to this- the colors of questionability.
Sharing knowledge and experience. Without knowledge or experience, what would become of the life of the writer? This being their sixth sense as you could imagine, without it- what would consume their lives? I could imagine that before laptops and paper, back in the times of the cave man and woman, the writer today would be a story teller of sorts. These sorts would tell great stories at gatherings, and their cave kids would grow up into cave people and tell *their cave kids- "Your cave grandpa was a real great story teller. Here's a story he told me when I was your age..." And the history of story telling would either perpetuate, or not.
So where, in the history of story telling, does chick lit plant itself on the shelf in bookstores? What female thought "Hey, what an idea- write down the thoughts in my head that annoy my boyfriend!" I can promise you that the root cause of chick lit was probably not even a female. Capitalizing off of this terrible genre seems to me to be a tad bit distasteful, and a whole lot of cliche and passe. But in the interest of me having ovaries, I will share my distasteful bits.
I imagine the female involved with the root cause of chick lit to be from Long Island. Here is my attempt at a genre filled with more void than detail. The anti female abides...
************************************************************************
Let’s start with the one that superbly played me after I let him move in to MY apartment. After 8 months and having contributed to maybe 2 or 3 months rent, he had to go. Let me not forget to mention, also, the lack of financial help I received for any electric bill or cell phone bill in that time period. But how can I complain when obviously NO BUSINESS around my apartment was hiring. I may have seen many dollar bills float to the fire with that disaster of a boy but I must thank him for cementing in me the TRUST NO MALE ideology I harness as just plain common sense now.
It got so dirty towards the end- I walked myself into the police department one night.
“What can we help ya with, miss?” By the looks on their faces, I got the feeling that the officers were expecting me to confess to having been sexually assaulted. Do I live in a time where every girl who shows up to a police station in the middle of the night wearing pink Care Bear pajama pants and fuzzy, black faux slippers carries some kind of stereotype? This story may be how I fell into being taken advantage of, not in any sexual type way, but the anti female abides- I have no pity for girls who make ‘getting-drunk-and-sleeping-with-whoever-and-then-crying-that-he-doesn’t-want-me’ as their manifesto for the weekend.
The officers relaxed to hearing me explain “I need help, I’m trying to kick my ex boyfriend out of my apartment.” But I’m sure all they heard was “phew, we’re not gonna be here all night.”
Through the thick paned window, I showed them a piece of notebook paper with matter-of-fact, perfect handwriting and explained: “I had him sign and date this. It’s a letter saying he will move out by this date, and here are the terms and conditions he agreed to. Look-” I pointed and stressed, “-I even wrote that I would offer MY services to assist him with the move, just to get him out. Look- it’s signed and dated-”
One of the cops stopped me. “Miss, there’s not much we can do with this, it’s not a REAL, notarized, legal document.”
Sly me. “Ok, well, my ex is really stupid, you see. He’s scared- sitting in MY apartment, that I pay for entirely, using MY heat, eating My food, using MY electricity. I am a GOOD person.” Here, I
started to quiver my lips with dramatic detail, paused, and regained my Joan of Arc stance. “I go to school FULL time, I work 60 hours a week at 2 jobs to support myself. I can’t take it anymore. He believes this is a legal document. He’s scared of this date. Can’t you just pretend like it’s real and keep it between us? He’s out on bond. If you show up to my apartment and just scare him a little, that will be just enough. He can’t get in trouble or he’ll go back to jail.”
“Is it leased in your name?”
“Yes, and I’m scared because he has paraphernalia in my apartment- a bong and a bowl, maybe even more, I honestly don’t know. I can’t deal with this anymore!” Upon signing my lease, I promised myself to not have paraphernalia of any kind laying around my apartment, because I didn’t trust my ex. Karma was about to unfold quite nicely this night.
“Do you want us to search the apartment?”
“As long as I don’t get in trouble, I don‘t care what you do.”
I returned to my apartment and sat on the couch patiently, as if scripted. I think my ex sensed something- probably by the weird sense of calm I was exhibiting sitting there, at a time when every other day I was throwing around rude comments and writing “please move out” in bold obnoxious lettering on the white board and bathroom mirror (while it was hot and steamy after a shower, so that by the time he took a shower a couple hours later- it would magically appear on the mirror.)
He arose from his chair in the corner after analyzing the unspoken tension and in a half mocking tone- “Oh what, call the police?” I had been threatening to do so for the last week.
I didn’t know how to answer because I didn’t want to outright say ‘yes,’ and I didn’t want to say ‘no’ and appear as a liar, a face he’d never seen of me. I said nothing. He walked over to the window with a view of the street as two cruisers arrived.
“No shit, you bitch-”
I forgot to inform the police where his alleged paraphernalia was stored. I thought this would be useful information so I ran out on my ex, mid sentence, and scrambled downstairs to tell the officers before they entered the apartment. I returned to my couch, and waited.
My ex sank down against the wall into some kind of puddle upon the officer’s arrival.
“Do you know why we’re here, sir?”
He sat in his puddle, wearing one of those thick, hoodie ponchos that Grateful Dead fans wear, jeans covered with holes (because he couldn’t afford any new clothes), and a winter hat with overgrown, blonde pieces sticking out. The perfect picture of the ideal citizen, right?
My ex gained a certain level of confidence and responded, “Uh, no sir, I don’t. All of a sudden- she just thinks she can kick me out but the law is- if any person lives at an address for more than 60 days- then they are considered a resident of that address and-”
The kid couldn’t afford to pay rent- why did he bother to defend himself? Did he think this would make it to court and he would win? He couldn’t even afford toothpaste, did he seriously think he’d be able to afford a defense?
“Well,” one of them brutally interjected, “this is what we’re gonna tell you. She doesn’t want you here, and we don’t care to make another trip out here to have to tell you again, you get it?”
The other cop brought the dramatization to reality- he began searching around the room with his eyes, scanning, one hand arched up about his cradled gun, smacking gum. He quickly answered something on his walkie talkie and turned down its volume. “We understand you’re out on bond. Mind if we search the apartment?”
Like a child about to get caught out in a lie, my ex responded with a twinkle in his eye and a halo over his head. “Go ahead officers. This isn’t my apartment.”
The officer that assumed the role of searching walked over to a corner of the room. Along one wall was my ex’s stuff- a desk, storage, stuff; and along the other- my desk, my stuff.
“Whose desk is this?”
“Mine, sir,” my ex answered. He even had the gall to raise his dirty, guilty hand.
All the hate I had for this kid came together right there, at that moment. It boiled in me and sweat gathered on my forehead. I imagined it not as sweat though, but as condensation exiting through
my pores like the sweat on a can of soda, on a hot summer day- right before it explodes.
“What’s all this here?” the cop acknowledged a desk drawer that had been entirely pulled out of the desk and flipped over on top of the desk. Its contents scattered in contrast to the almost OCD cleanliness of that area.
I thought I saw a bead of sweat mount on my ex’s forehead, but there was something sinister too. It was like watching a disturbing movie, the scene is a young boy about to get in trouble for ‘touching’ his younger sister, a close up on the eyes- is *this the face of pure evil intent? Still, in that matter-of-fact ‘I did nothing wrong’ tone, “What, sir?”
“What’s all this here on your desk?”
“Oh, I was just cleaning, sir.”
The cop knew something was up. “Cleaning just this one drawer?”
As the officer opened my ex‘s storage unit, I noticed an empty space where the box with his bong once lived. The cop turned around, opened my storage unit‘s doors, reached inside and pulled 2 pieces of paraphernalia.
Like it was some kind of contest or play, my ex was the first to answer, on perfect cue with bad dramatics. With an over exaggerated gasp- “My goodness sir! Look what she’s got here! I’m out on bond and this is what I have to live with!?”
I let silence happen for a second before my award winning rebuttal. With an evil, confident tone, “Oh where did you find them sir? In MY wooden cabinet, like where I told you he would hide them? Right after dumping out that drawer to retrieve his bowl, and removed the box with the bong from that empty space in HIS storage unit and tried to plant it on MY persons, RIGHT exactly where I told you he would try?”
Like watching a hollow, chocolate Easter bunny melt in a microwave, what was left of my ex’s self assured strategy began to slowly dissolve down his face. Although, he seemed to perk back up after the other cop chimed in, “What’s this over here?”
The moments it took for the attention of the room to reassess the new situation gave my ex just enough time to plan his next strategy. The officer grabbed a tiny, zip locked baggie from plane site atop the microwave. It had been opened already- pried open a little. I could tell by the pinched and stretched plastic. I knew it hadn’t been opened by me- I’m the one who placed the baggie there. The cop pinched it open and looked inside, shook the bag around a bit.
“See officers?!” my ex tried again, with his terrible act of over confidence, even using dramatic hand gestures. “Who leaves dime bags laying around?!”
It was now my turn to perform. “Officers, today I bought a cat toy for my kittens. It came with a small sample of catnip. I threw it on my microwave earlier because my kittens are too young to play with catnip.”
The cop squeezed the scent from the bag and closed it. “Yep, this here is catnip.”
“And for the sake of a little laughter,” I chimed in, “it looks like someone has pried it open. And, it looks like some is missing.” I stared right into my ex’s eyes, “I hope you got a headache, you idiot.”
Before they left, the officers stressed the dates on the ‘non legal’, legal document. Surprisingly, none of my stuff went missing in the 30 last days of my ex’s stay. After he was gone, there were still 3 months left to be paid on the lease. The place disgusted me to the point where I didn’t even want to enjoy my last amounts of freedom- I moved back home and the apartment remained empty for 3 months. And no matter what string of profanity he tried to lasso around my neck, I did NOT give in to allowing him to sleep in the empty apartment.
He was sitting outside a bar late one night using their free wi-fi, probably within the first week after I snatched his set of keys. Warm under my blankets back at home, on the internet as well, I received a message:
Him: “You’re a spiteful bitch.”
Me: “How so?”
Him: “It’s November, I’m sitting outside FREEZING, none of my friends have responded to picking me up tonight, it’s almost midnight. Can you please just let me sleep in the shelter of the empty apartment? YOU’RE NOT EVEN THERE!”
Me: “Um, no”
Him “------” (ramble ramble something something)
Me: “You’re dumb, I win”
Him: “So childish ----” (ramble ramble)
Me: “Well, who’s sleeping inside tonight?”
************************************************************************
My problems with boys matured and evolved into problems testing my moral ethics, and that whole ‘we‘re not dating so there‘s no reason to make it official by broadcasting it to everyone who knows me on Facebook’- thing.
I had reached the final straw with this last one. I woke up one morning in his bed, his arm over me, his body spooned up close to mine, and I felt movement behind my ear. A queer sight to see I’m sure- I knew he had no way of seeing the expression on my face, so I laid there, eyes wide open in somewhat of a shock, eyebrows and eyeballs rolling around in awkward confusion as I attempted to analyze the situation. I came to the conclusion that the movement behind my ear was his nose drawing figure 8’s on my flesh.
I wonder if he sensed I was awake. Maybe I squeezed his hand or something small like that, hinting that I was awake, I can’t remember. I let this continue for a little while longer until footsie started to happen. Among all the playful ways to live for the moment, engaging in footsie is not a solitary act. One who initiates footsie, does not continue footsie if the invited party does not wish to partake. At this moment of footsie, I am left to assume that he assumed I was conscious and ready to react. Each second that I let this continue, I felt a certain level of disgust burn deep inside my stomach. If he assumed me to be conscious, actively participating in the moments that lead up to that one moment, then I am left to assume that he himself assumed that I was going to continue to actively participate in whatever comes after footsie. I was not going to go down with the word ‘slut‘ attached to my name.
We had slept together before, but not for a while at that point. This one particular night I had asked to sleep over because he lived a good distance from me and I was helping him out early the next morning. I thought that me sleeping over (as platonic friends) to avoid the morning traffic would be in everyone‘s favor and make life a whole lot easier. Before I even left my house the night before, I asked “Should I bring over my own mattress and sleep away from you?” I thought I was being clear of my no-sex intentions with that question. Unfortunately, he didn’t respond until after I left my house that night. To help drive in my no-sex intentions some more, I decided to fall asleep early. I laid there uninterested and trying to sleep because that‘s exactly how I saw reality at that moment. He was on his laptop and I was not interested in staying awake any longer, it was late, so I made the wise decision to just go to sleep. With the hood of my hoodie drawn up over my head, I bundled up in fetal position as close to my side of the bed as possible, facing the direction away from him.
Before I actually fell asleep, I laid there in silence with my eyes wide open staring off into space. I was concentrating on the situation and analyzing every little piece, making sure I was not involved in any type of body position that said anything besides “Im here, I’m sleeping, that’s it.” As I checked off all the variables, I began to slowly doze off.
Somewhere in between laying there somewhat conscious and giving in to alpha waves, he acknowledged the situation. I felt movement in the mattress- a hand rested itself upon my leg as he asked something like “Do you want me to get off the computer? I’m just catching up with some friends.”
My eyes popped open almost in shock as this OCD- type impulse crept up into my neck. It released itself as I rolled my eyebrows and eyeballs into a questioning-type facial expression. Even though I wanted to sleep, I was in too much shock to hold them closed. “Umm, no it’s alright, live your life, I’m tired so I’m sleeping. Your free time isn’t indebted to me, no worries.”
His hand left my leg and his response sounded like he genuinely understood me. This situation made me chuckle before I feel back asleep. I rolled around and readjusted myself like a cat, to cover any sound, and fell asleep fast.
Waking up the next morning with his arm over me and the whole footsie thing drove me into a state of shock as well. I had conditioned myself to assume that any advance made on behalf of him was to be questionable. No advance was taken with some tiny grain of sand, or hope for that matter- he already made it perfectly clear of his intentions to not be involved in a relationship. And for the record, I will also share with you that he was not ‘looking around’ either, whatever that paradox equates to…
I did not understand the closeness of his body that morning. I distinctively remember waking up in the same fetal position I fell asleep in- aligned as close as possible to my side of the bed. I imagined the journey he must have taken to get over to my side without waking me with mattress movement. I did not understand the movement behind my ear at all. And the whole footsie thing?
I blurted out, “Look, if you’re not going to kiss me everyday upon greeting each other and before leaving each other, I’m not going to fuck you. I can’t live a life like this, I TOLD you.”
One of two things was about to happen: to my benefit and surprise, he would squeeze me tighter and kiss me, absolving himself. Or, the opposite. The gap of time that existed as the last word left my lips until he chose to act wasn’t enough time for me to understand a possible opposite. I honestly didn’t know what to expect and I was unprepared for anything that could possibly happen. I believe that before the last word left my lips, he held his breathe as if to fully concentrate on the situation at hand. All I remember is the silence of that gap and feeling an exhale bounce off the back of my neck as he detached himself from me. He grabbed his head and stared at the ceiling. All he could do was agree with me, because I wasn’t giving in. A sense of relief escaped me. Still staring at the ceiling, he apologized.
I cried a little.
“Why are you upset?”
“Because I feel like a slut.”
Again he apologized, for something. ‘I shouldn‘t feel like a slut‘ he said in some other combination of words. I wonder if he could read between the lines here. WHY did I feel like a slut? Not because I made myself feel like a slut- I didn’t give in, I didn’t do anything that made me feel like a slut. The fact that someone thought I would give in, like a slut, was enough for me to feel like a slut.
************************************************************************
Let tears fall and you end up like Alice in Wonderland, swimming in your own nonsense. What is left for the anti female to do? She abides.
an experimental memoir approach,
to get the chick lit out of my veins.
I have no sort of intention of giving in to chick lit, not to any degree possible. Today I browsed the chick lit section of a used bookstore and I couldn't be more dissatisfied. The section lit up with pink and pastel colored bookends, and big curvey, stylized fonts. The random 'femme fatale' sort- of darker hues, or just plain black, lay on the shelves scattered, like a ghost of lost innosence trying to break from its shell.
The overabundance of pinks and blues strangely reminded me of being at a baby shower- where the parents chose not to know the baby's sex until it pops out, surrounded by pink and blue party decorations. Pink and blue- like the colors on a pregnancy test, the color of pills, the colors of love and misery. Add to this- the colors of questionability.
Sharing knowledge and experience. Without knowledge or experience, what would become of the life of the writer? This being their sixth sense as you could imagine, without it- what would consume their lives? I could imagine that before laptops and paper, back in the times of the cave man and woman, the writer today would be a story teller of sorts. These sorts would tell great stories at gatherings, and their cave kids would grow up into cave people and tell *their cave kids- "Your cave grandpa was a real great story teller. Here's a story he told me when I was your age..." And the history of story telling would either perpetuate, or not.
So where, in the history of story telling, does chick lit plant itself on the shelf in bookstores? What female thought "Hey, what an idea- write down the thoughts in my head that annoy my boyfriend!" I can promise you that the root cause of chick lit was probably not even a female. Capitalizing off of this terrible genre seems to me to be a tad bit distasteful, and a whole lot of cliche and passe. But in the interest of me having ovaries, I will share my distasteful bits.
I imagine the female involved with the root cause of chick lit to be from Long Island. Here is my attempt at a genre filled with more void than detail. The anti female abides...
************************************************************************
Let’s start with the one that superbly played me after I let him move in to MY apartment. After 8 months and having contributed to maybe 2 or 3 months rent, he had to go. Let me not forget to mention, also, the lack of financial help I received for any electric bill or cell phone bill in that time period. But how can I complain when obviously NO BUSINESS around my apartment was hiring. I may have seen many dollar bills float to the fire with that disaster of a boy but I must thank him for cementing in me the TRUST NO MALE ideology I harness as just plain common sense now.
It got so dirty towards the end- I walked myself into the police department one night.
“What can we help ya with, miss?” By the looks on their faces, I got the feeling that the officers were expecting me to confess to having been sexually assaulted. Do I live in a time where every girl who shows up to a police station in the middle of the night wearing pink Care Bear pajama pants and fuzzy, black faux slippers carries some kind of stereotype? This story may be how I fell into being taken advantage of, not in any sexual type way, but the anti female abides- I have no pity for girls who make ‘getting-drunk-and-sleeping-with-whoever-and-then-crying-that-he-doesn’t-want-me’ as their manifesto for the weekend.
The officers relaxed to hearing me explain “I need help, I’m trying to kick my ex boyfriend out of my apartment.” But I’m sure all they heard was “phew, we’re not gonna be here all night.”
Through the thick paned window, I showed them a piece of notebook paper with matter-of-fact, perfect handwriting and explained: “I had him sign and date this. It’s a letter saying he will move out by this date, and here are the terms and conditions he agreed to. Look-” I pointed and stressed, “-I even wrote that I would offer MY services to assist him with the move, just to get him out. Look- it’s signed and dated-”
One of the cops stopped me. “Miss, there’s not much we can do with this, it’s not a REAL, notarized, legal document.”
Sly me. “Ok, well, my ex is really stupid, you see. He’s scared- sitting in MY apartment, that I pay for entirely, using MY heat, eating My food, using MY electricity. I am a GOOD person.” Here, I
started to quiver my lips with dramatic detail, paused, and regained my Joan of Arc stance. “I go to school FULL time, I work 60 hours a week at 2 jobs to support myself. I can’t take it anymore. He believes this is a legal document. He’s scared of this date. Can’t you just pretend like it’s real and keep it between us? He’s out on bond. If you show up to my apartment and just scare him a little, that will be just enough. He can’t get in trouble or he’ll go back to jail.”
“Is it leased in your name?”
“Yes, and I’m scared because he has paraphernalia in my apartment- a bong and a bowl, maybe even more, I honestly don’t know. I can’t deal with this anymore!” Upon signing my lease, I promised myself to not have paraphernalia of any kind laying around my apartment, because I didn’t trust my ex. Karma was about to unfold quite nicely this night.
“Do you want us to search the apartment?”
“As long as I don’t get in trouble, I don‘t care what you do.”
I returned to my apartment and sat on the couch patiently, as if scripted. I think my ex sensed something- probably by the weird sense of calm I was exhibiting sitting there, at a time when every other day I was throwing around rude comments and writing “please move out” in bold obnoxious lettering on the white board and bathroom mirror (while it was hot and steamy after a shower, so that by the time he took a shower a couple hours later- it would magically appear on the mirror.)
He arose from his chair in the corner after analyzing the unspoken tension and in a half mocking tone- “Oh what, call the police?” I had been threatening to do so for the last week.
I didn’t know how to answer because I didn’t want to outright say ‘yes,’ and I didn’t want to say ‘no’ and appear as a liar, a face he’d never seen of me. I said nothing. He walked over to the window with a view of the street as two cruisers arrived.
“No shit, you bitch-”
I forgot to inform the police where his alleged paraphernalia was stored. I thought this would be useful information so I ran out on my ex, mid sentence, and scrambled downstairs to tell the officers before they entered the apartment. I returned to my couch, and waited.
My ex sank down against the wall into some kind of puddle upon the officer’s arrival.
“Do you know why we’re here, sir?”
He sat in his puddle, wearing one of those thick, hoodie ponchos that Grateful Dead fans wear, jeans covered with holes (because he couldn’t afford any new clothes), and a winter hat with overgrown, blonde pieces sticking out. The perfect picture of the ideal citizen, right?
My ex gained a certain level of confidence and responded, “Uh, no sir, I don’t. All of a sudden- she just thinks she can kick me out but the law is- if any person lives at an address for more than 60 days- then they are considered a resident of that address and-”
The kid couldn’t afford to pay rent- why did he bother to defend himself? Did he think this would make it to court and he would win? He couldn’t even afford toothpaste, did he seriously think he’d be able to afford a defense?
“Well,” one of them brutally interjected, “this is what we’re gonna tell you. She doesn’t want you here, and we don’t care to make another trip out here to have to tell you again, you get it?”
The other cop brought the dramatization to reality- he began searching around the room with his eyes, scanning, one hand arched up about his cradled gun, smacking gum. He quickly answered something on his walkie talkie and turned down its volume. “We understand you’re out on bond. Mind if we search the apartment?”
Like a child about to get caught out in a lie, my ex responded with a twinkle in his eye and a halo over his head. “Go ahead officers. This isn’t my apartment.”
The officer that assumed the role of searching walked over to a corner of the room. Along one wall was my ex’s stuff- a desk, storage, stuff; and along the other- my desk, my stuff.
“Whose desk is this?”
“Mine, sir,” my ex answered. He even had the gall to raise his dirty, guilty hand.
All the hate I had for this kid came together right there, at that moment. It boiled in me and sweat gathered on my forehead. I imagined it not as sweat though, but as condensation exiting through
my pores like the sweat on a can of soda, on a hot summer day- right before it explodes.
“What’s all this here?” the cop acknowledged a desk drawer that had been entirely pulled out of the desk and flipped over on top of the desk. Its contents scattered in contrast to the almost OCD cleanliness of that area.
I thought I saw a bead of sweat mount on my ex’s forehead, but there was something sinister too. It was like watching a disturbing movie, the scene is a young boy about to get in trouble for ‘touching’ his younger sister, a close up on the eyes- is *this the face of pure evil intent? Still, in that matter-of-fact ‘I did nothing wrong’ tone, “What, sir?”
“What’s all this here on your desk?”
“Oh, I was just cleaning, sir.”
The cop knew something was up. “Cleaning just this one drawer?”
As the officer opened my ex‘s storage unit, I noticed an empty space where the box with his bong once lived. The cop turned around, opened my storage unit‘s doors, reached inside and pulled 2 pieces of paraphernalia.
Like it was some kind of contest or play, my ex was the first to answer, on perfect cue with bad dramatics. With an over exaggerated gasp- “My goodness sir! Look what she’s got here! I’m out on bond and this is what I have to live with!?”
I let silence happen for a second before my award winning rebuttal. With an evil, confident tone, “Oh where did you find them sir? In MY wooden cabinet, like where I told you he would hide them? Right after dumping out that drawer to retrieve his bowl, and removed the box with the bong from that empty space in HIS storage unit and tried to plant it on MY persons, RIGHT exactly where I told you he would try?”
Like watching a hollow, chocolate Easter bunny melt in a microwave, what was left of my ex’s self assured strategy began to slowly dissolve down his face. Although, he seemed to perk back up after the other cop chimed in, “What’s this over here?”
The moments it took for the attention of the room to reassess the new situation gave my ex just enough time to plan his next strategy. The officer grabbed a tiny, zip locked baggie from plane site atop the microwave. It had been opened already- pried open a little. I could tell by the pinched and stretched plastic. I knew it hadn’t been opened by me- I’m the one who placed the baggie there. The cop pinched it open and looked inside, shook the bag around a bit.
“See officers?!” my ex tried again, with his terrible act of over confidence, even using dramatic hand gestures. “Who leaves dime bags laying around?!”
It was now my turn to perform. “Officers, today I bought a cat toy for my kittens. It came with a small sample of catnip. I threw it on my microwave earlier because my kittens are too young to play with catnip.”
The cop squeezed the scent from the bag and closed it. “Yep, this here is catnip.”
“And for the sake of a little laughter,” I chimed in, “it looks like someone has pried it open. And, it looks like some is missing.” I stared right into my ex’s eyes, “I hope you got a headache, you idiot.”
Before they left, the officers stressed the dates on the ‘non legal’, legal document. Surprisingly, none of my stuff went missing in the 30 last days of my ex’s stay. After he was gone, there were still 3 months left to be paid on the lease. The place disgusted me to the point where I didn’t even want to enjoy my last amounts of freedom- I moved back home and the apartment remained empty for 3 months. And no matter what string of profanity he tried to lasso around my neck, I did NOT give in to allowing him to sleep in the empty apartment.
He was sitting outside a bar late one night using their free wi-fi, probably within the first week after I snatched his set of keys. Warm under my blankets back at home, on the internet as well, I received a message:
Him: “You’re a spiteful bitch.”
Me: “How so?”
Him: “It’s November, I’m sitting outside FREEZING, none of my friends have responded to picking me up tonight, it’s almost midnight. Can you please just let me sleep in the shelter of the empty apartment? YOU’RE NOT EVEN THERE!”
Me: “Um, no”
Him “------” (ramble ramble something something)
Me: “You’re dumb, I win”
Him: “So childish ----” (ramble ramble)
Me: “Well, who’s sleeping inside tonight?”
************************************************************************
My problems with boys matured and evolved into problems testing my moral ethics, and that whole ‘we‘re not dating so there‘s no reason to make it official by broadcasting it to everyone who knows me on Facebook’- thing.
I had reached the final straw with this last one. I woke up one morning in his bed, his arm over me, his body spooned up close to mine, and I felt movement behind my ear. A queer sight to see I’m sure- I knew he had no way of seeing the expression on my face, so I laid there, eyes wide open in somewhat of a shock, eyebrows and eyeballs rolling around in awkward confusion as I attempted to analyze the situation. I came to the conclusion that the movement behind my ear was his nose drawing figure 8’s on my flesh.
I wonder if he sensed I was awake. Maybe I squeezed his hand or something small like that, hinting that I was awake, I can’t remember. I let this continue for a little while longer until footsie started to happen. Among all the playful ways to live for the moment, engaging in footsie is not a solitary act. One who initiates footsie, does not continue footsie if the invited party does not wish to partake. At this moment of footsie, I am left to assume that he assumed I was conscious and ready to react. Each second that I let this continue, I felt a certain level of disgust burn deep inside my stomach. If he assumed me to be conscious, actively participating in the moments that lead up to that one moment, then I am left to assume that he himself assumed that I was going to continue to actively participate in whatever comes after footsie. I was not going to go down with the word ‘slut‘ attached to my name.
We had slept together before, but not for a while at that point. This one particular night I had asked to sleep over because he lived a good distance from me and I was helping him out early the next morning. I thought that me sleeping over (as platonic friends) to avoid the morning traffic would be in everyone‘s favor and make life a whole lot easier. Before I even left my house the night before, I asked “Should I bring over my own mattress and sleep away from you?” I thought I was being clear of my no-sex intentions with that question. Unfortunately, he didn’t respond until after I left my house that night. To help drive in my no-sex intentions some more, I decided to fall asleep early. I laid there uninterested and trying to sleep because that‘s exactly how I saw reality at that moment. He was on his laptop and I was not interested in staying awake any longer, it was late, so I made the wise decision to just go to sleep. With the hood of my hoodie drawn up over my head, I bundled up in fetal position as close to my side of the bed as possible, facing the direction away from him.
Before I actually fell asleep, I laid there in silence with my eyes wide open staring off into space. I was concentrating on the situation and analyzing every little piece, making sure I was not involved in any type of body position that said anything besides “Im here, I’m sleeping, that’s it.” As I checked off all the variables, I began to slowly doze off.
Somewhere in between laying there somewhat conscious and giving in to alpha waves, he acknowledged the situation. I felt movement in the mattress- a hand rested itself upon my leg as he asked something like “Do you want me to get off the computer? I’m just catching up with some friends.”
My eyes popped open almost in shock as this OCD- type impulse crept up into my neck. It released itself as I rolled my eyebrows and eyeballs into a questioning-type facial expression. Even though I wanted to sleep, I was in too much shock to hold them closed. “Umm, no it’s alright, live your life, I’m tired so I’m sleeping. Your free time isn’t indebted to me, no worries.”
His hand left my leg and his response sounded like he genuinely understood me. This situation made me chuckle before I feel back asleep. I rolled around and readjusted myself like a cat, to cover any sound, and fell asleep fast.
Waking up the next morning with his arm over me and the whole footsie thing drove me into a state of shock as well. I had conditioned myself to assume that any advance made on behalf of him was to be questionable. No advance was taken with some tiny grain of sand, or hope for that matter- he already made it perfectly clear of his intentions to not be involved in a relationship. And for the record, I will also share with you that he was not ‘looking around’ either, whatever that paradox equates to…
I did not understand the closeness of his body that morning. I distinctively remember waking up in the same fetal position I fell asleep in- aligned as close as possible to my side of the bed. I imagined the journey he must have taken to get over to my side without waking me with mattress movement. I did not understand the movement behind my ear at all. And the whole footsie thing?
I blurted out, “Look, if you’re not going to kiss me everyday upon greeting each other and before leaving each other, I’m not going to fuck you. I can’t live a life like this, I TOLD you.”
One of two things was about to happen: to my benefit and surprise, he would squeeze me tighter and kiss me, absolving himself. Or, the opposite. The gap of time that existed as the last word left my lips until he chose to act wasn’t enough time for me to understand a possible opposite. I honestly didn’t know what to expect and I was unprepared for anything that could possibly happen. I believe that before the last word left my lips, he held his breathe as if to fully concentrate on the situation at hand. All I remember is the silence of that gap and feeling an exhale bounce off the back of my neck as he detached himself from me. He grabbed his head and stared at the ceiling. All he could do was agree with me, because I wasn’t giving in. A sense of relief escaped me. Still staring at the ceiling, he apologized.
I cried a little.
“Why are you upset?”
“Because I feel like a slut.”
Again he apologized, for something. ‘I shouldn‘t feel like a slut‘ he said in some other combination of words. I wonder if he could read between the lines here. WHY did I feel like a slut? Not because I made myself feel like a slut- I didn’t give in, I didn’t do anything that made me feel like a slut. The fact that someone thought I would give in, like a slut, was enough for me to feel like a slut.
************************************************************************
Let tears fall and you end up like Alice in Wonderland, swimming in your own nonsense. What is left for the anti female to do? She abides.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Of Things Pertaining to Rigidity
I believe that if I were caught taking measurements of my bedroom, I would instantly be committed. It will always add up to the same number, like the numbers ink-jetted onto a Calculus exam. You get one chance to get a decent amount of points, one set of possible answers unchanging and un-negotiable. And still, if you remain dissatisfied with the first attempt, and have good rapport with your psychiatrist- a doctor's note may land you a second chance.
But it's not the measurements of this almost square/slightly rectangular room that confine me and instill fear. It's the beams above my head which lead me to a surrender. The beams or floorboards in between my ceiling and the attic floor- I never noticed their faint outline or shadow until I moved back home at age 23. Perhaps the shadows didn't exist until I moved back home, it's fairly possible considering the age of the house.
I am by no means a tidy person. I sit and stare at a pile of stuff in a box, it could maybe be more organized or even filed away in an art folder somewhere, but does it matter? I'm the only one that has no choice but to endure myself- and every man and woman to themselves as well, just the same in that regard. And yet- understanding of this concept is not a problem for my brain. The concept of accepting other's levels and handicaps is what confines me to my own limitations, and so on and so on.
Acceptance? How differently regarded is tolerance, but how necessary both are to a true, consciously aware self in a fully self aware state. But to fully impregnate the brain with the full bounty of total absoluteness of both tolerance and acceptance? Is it even possible? I remain unchanged until scribbles manifest into miraculous depictions of angels in flight.
The weight of the world balances upon those beams and therefore weighs down upon me- in my cell, casted as I am by the shackles I would miss so much. Or is this a relief that I have not yet lived? And what would physics have to say about my fear of the beams? Perhaps I should learn a new fear, like the potentiality of the floor caving in and initiating a black hole Armageddon? Or perhaps the fear of the walls giving way and leaving me sandwiched in between floor and ceiling?
I'm fairly certain a majority of my peers spend their days fearing fears of no such irrationality, and I could only assume their mental health to be more poignant than my own- because if I ever cared to rid myself of my own insecurities and ache, I wouldn't be here now- living a life in fear of the things I cannot change, but could seek help for. If I sought to cure myself, I could only imagine a more boring, undramatic result with not enough stark contrast. And if it were a cure that I was after, if administered correctly in a text book fashion- I would have to ascribe myself to accepting a new level of guilt- of taking full responsibilities for perpetuating what I’ve spent a great deal of my life protesting.
What about refuge, in place of cure? What would the numbers say? Maybe refuge is where I escape to in my head, allowing me to shake out another day. Where would I be without refuge? Where would anyone be without refuge? Or perhaps Freud would condemn refuge as a passive aggressive, repressed laden, ill will type defense mechanism. In this case, we're all doomed, because we're all human and trying to shake it to the next day.
So underneath my beams, sandwiched in between floor and ceiling, and squeezed into these four walls- my cure is refuge.
I once spent a great deal of time meditating on what the wallpaper in my downstairs bathroom was trying to teach me. A cascading array of repetitive floral designs that ultimately bored me, not to my specific liking in the least. But from a philosophical standpoint, I told myself that there must be something to learn from this horrible atrocity proclaiming itself to be decorative wallpaper.
Fixated with intent, I set my focus on high and let all energy be transported to this one process I committed myself to, besides the involuntary processes of living. The same clusters of flowers were repeated all over the walls- right into the kitchen. How horrendous. At least the walls in the kitchen were split horizontally by a decorative wooden trim.
This was wallpaper you could trust, put faith into, because whenever you expected the pattern to repeat- it would! What a theory. But with each degree of faith entrusted comes natural flaw, flaw by design, flaw by human error, etc. So then, if I chose to not trust this wallpaper, to not believe in it, would it not exist? Or would it just not exist to me? Fearing the unknown is the only flaw by design we can entrust. There will always be fear, and always, an unknown.
Age and commitment to its supporting walls were beginning to show the wallpaper's flaws by human error. The seams created by human were now blatantly the first thing that struck you about these four walls. The age of glues began to show at these seams, not outlasting the appeal of the pattern. The seams, the edges of the paper- began to reject itself from the walls. I wondered how long it would take for the wallpaper to completely fail itself, would time outlast the potential life of this wallpaper? So many thoughts unknown.
Overall though, more than 95% of the time, you could trust that the same emotionless cluster of flowers and patterns would repeat themselves at equidistant points within the confines of the life and vastness of its reaches. My fixation was overall satisfied and pleased, despite the aesthetic appeal. So then, if I trust in this idea of wallpaper, does it exist? Even at the littlest amounts of uncertainty?
Like a raging panic attack, this wallpaper was fierce. If I believe in it enough for it to exist, should I just throw everything in and say "I believe in this wallpaper (because it exists)"... even though my aesthetic eye remained dissatisfied? And by what fault do we blame the wallpaper itself? Blame should be placed on the creator, the buyer, the consumer for giving in to stereotypical buying patterns. The consumer could have chosen to paint the wall instead.
So because I trust the predictability of the wallpaper, I love it. Because if you can trust something enough, love will follow. But should love follow simply because of some trust factor? To love something because you can count on it. To count on something because you love it. Are these factors synonymous in the absoluteness of self, love and trust? Or are they simply players working in tandem to the beholder's wills and follies? Fuck if I know. I've loved my fair share of things I shouldn't love; trusted in too many modes that proved dissatisfying...
A great deal of time was spent fixated to solving the equation of the wallpaper, but like everything else, in the most pessimistic sense- nothing was made to be solved besides mathematical equations involving numbers and abstract codes of letters in some variant of a life of their own.
The migraines I suffer, trying to pull logicalities over my corpus callosum. Was it worth it?
But it's not the measurements of this almost square/slightly rectangular room that confine me and instill fear. It's the beams above my head which lead me to a surrender. The beams or floorboards in between my ceiling and the attic floor- I never noticed their faint outline or shadow until I moved back home at age 23. Perhaps the shadows didn't exist until I moved back home, it's fairly possible considering the age of the house.
I am by no means a tidy person. I sit and stare at a pile of stuff in a box, it could maybe be more organized or even filed away in an art folder somewhere, but does it matter? I'm the only one that has no choice but to endure myself- and every man and woman to themselves as well, just the same in that regard. And yet- understanding of this concept is not a problem for my brain. The concept of accepting other's levels and handicaps is what confines me to my own limitations, and so on and so on.
Acceptance? How differently regarded is tolerance, but how necessary both are to a true, consciously aware self in a fully self aware state. But to fully impregnate the brain with the full bounty of total absoluteness of both tolerance and acceptance? Is it even possible? I remain unchanged until scribbles manifest into miraculous depictions of angels in flight.
The weight of the world balances upon those beams and therefore weighs down upon me- in my cell, casted as I am by the shackles I would miss so much. Or is this a relief that I have not yet lived? And what would physics have to say about my fear of the beams? Perhaps I should learn a new fear, like the potentiality of the floor caving in and initiating a black hole Armageddon? Or perhaps the fear of the walls giving way and leaving me sandwiched in between floor and ceiling?
I'm fairly certain a majority of my peers spend their days fearing fears of no such irrationality, and I could only assume their mental health to be more poignant than my own- because if I ever cared to rid myself of my own insecurities and ache, I wouldn't be here now- living a life in fear of the things I cannot change, but could seek help for. If I sought to cure myself, I could only imagine a more boring, undramatic result with not enough stark contrast. And if it were a cure that I was after, if administered correctly in a text book fashion- I would have to ascribe myself to accepting a new level of guilt- of taking full responsibilities for perpetuating what I’ve spent a great deal of my life protesting.
What about refuge, in place of cure? What would the numbers say? Maybe refuge is where I escape to in my head, allowing me to shake out another day. Where would I be without refuge? Where would anyone be without refuge? Or perhaps Freud would condemn refuge as a passive aggressive, repressed laden, ill will type defense mechanism. In this case, we're all doomed, because we're all human and trying to shake it to the next day.
So underneath my beams, sandwiched in between floor and ceiling, and squeezed into these four walls- my cure is refuge.
I once spent a great deal of time meditating on what the wallpaper in my downstairs bathroom was trying to teach me. A cascading array of repetitive floral designs that ultimately bored me, not to my specific liking in the least. But from a philosophical standpoint, I told myself that there must be something to learn from this horrible atrocity proclaiming itself to be decorative wallpaper.
Fixated with intent, I set my focus on high and let all energy be transported to this one process I committed myself to, besides the involuntary processes of living. The same clusters of flowers were repeated all over the walls- right into the kitchen. How horrendous. At least the walls in the kitchen were split horizontally by a decorative wooden trim.
This was wallpaper you could trust, put faith into, because whenever you expected the pattern to repeat- it would! What a theory. But with each degree of faith entrusted comes natural flaw, flaw by design, flaw by human error, etc. So then, if I chose to not trust this wallpaper, to not believe in it, would it not exist? Or would it just not exist to me? Fearing the unknown is the only flaw by design we can entrust. There will always be fear, and always, an unknown.
Age and commitment to its supporting walls were beginning to show the wallpaper's flaws by human error. The seams created by human were now blatantly the first thing that struck you about these four walls. The age of glues began to show at these seams, not outlasting the appeal of the pattern. The seams, the edges of the paper- began to reject itself from the walls. I wondered how long it would take for the wallpaper to completely fail itself, would time outlast the potential life of this wallpaper? So many thoughts unknown.
Overall though, more than 95% of the time, you could trust that the same emotionless cluster of flowers and patterns would repeat themselves at equidistant points within the confines of the life and vastness of its reaches. My fixation was overall satisfied and pleased, despite the aesthetic appeal. So then, if I trust in this idea of wallpaper, does it exist? Even at the littlest amounts of uncertainty?
Like a raging panic attack, this wallpaper was fierce. If I believe in it enough for it to exist, should I just throw everything in and say "I believe in this wallpaper (because it exists)"... even though my aesthetic eye remained dissatisfied? And by what fault do we blame the wallpaper itself? Blame should be placed on the creator, the buyer, the consumer for giving in to stereotypical buying patterns. The consumer could have chosen to paint the wall instead.
So because I trust the predictability of the wallpaper, I love it. Because if you can trust something enough, love will follow. But should love follow simply because of some trust factor? To love something because you can count on it. To count on something because you love it. Are these factors synonymous in the absoluteness of self, love and trust? Or are they simply players working in tandem to the beholder's wills and follies? Fuck if I know. I've loved my fair share of things I shouldn't love; trusted in too many modes that proved dissatisfying...
A great deal of time was spent fixated to solving the equation of the wallpaper, but like everything else, in the most pessimistic sense- nothing was made to be solved besides mathematical equations involving numbers and abstract codes of letters in some variant of a life of their own.
The migraines I suffer, trying to pull logicalities over my corpus callosum. Was it worth it?
Taking a big break from art...
Basically because my MacBook Pro is being a dick. So until I can afford to fix it, I'm going to focus on reading and writing.
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