Saturday, April 29, 2006

La vie Boheme

Recently I've been mulling over the idea of why the "Underworld" is so tantalizing, so facinating. As a christian, you aren't allowed to have sex before marriage, don't swear, don't do this, don't do that, obey the 10 commandments.
It is all about what you put into your mind. When I put, oh I dunno, Avril Lavigne in your head all the time I end up feeling twice as sad and depressed as when I pressed the play button. However, when I put christian music, or music with hope in it's message, I feel uplifted and less depressed. Often I am tempted to get my ear cartilidge pierced, get a tattoo, live like a demi-bohemian. Make out, say what I want, etc. etc. etc.
The point is this; living like a bohemian is to celebrate chaos. It is to ignore the small voice of the Holy Spirit, which, I believe lives in everybody. The bohemians just don't listen to it. That's why they celebrate chaos, rather than cosmos. They stand "naked" to the world, perhaps wearing a chulla, screaming the worst kinds of profanity which aren't even eloquent. They are the bohemians. I have dipped my fingers into that world, tasted it's bitter-sweet flavor. Like chocolate and tobacco. Red wine. Old red wine. And yet, it leaves me wanting, lacking, empty and alone. With little or nothing but the next good time to celebrate rather than perservere through the bad times with the hope of tomorrow. Tomorrow is ALWAYS better. Always. Being bohemian doesn't fufill who I am and what I want to say.
I want to speak with intellect, with people who think. I want my art to reflect what I see in the world, what I think of the world, and who I am. Or who I quest to be.
I want to be a woman of confidence, of intelligence in a world of chaos. I want to be cosmos. I am an artist, I can't deny that. I believe in being just a little crazy, rather eccentric, because it lends variety to life. It makes each day interesting.
You don't have to know what you're making, just as long as it turns out. You don't have to know, just be willing to quest, and change.
Confidence is a must, though not arrogance.
Self-respect is a must, though not piety.
Tolerance is a must, though not to the point of allowing the world to trample you.
Questioning and listening to your mentors are musts as well.
Being true to you is vital, although weigh well what the heart says with what the head says.

Tuesday, April 4, 2006

Boy at the Bus Stop

The sweet faced boy's hands are strong
sharply filed nails claw the ends of fingers
which, move surprisingly gently
Eyes limned thickly with black
a vertical spike rifts the left one.

Like painted tears on a carnival clown
Why is he so sad?
A black handcuff encircles his left wrist
while a cross graces
the right-hand toe of his Converse All-Stars
That is the one visible thing we have in common,
except his are high-tops and
mine are not.

Monday, April 3, 2006

3. 8.06

The world this morning was like a Myiazaki film.
Fog blanketed the horizion, muffling most sounds. Subduing people.
Some piece of machinery beat a couplet tattoo. Sounding like a wooden mallet on a slab of steel. It remined me of Iron Town, guards hearalding the arrival of Lady Eboshi and her convoy. Whereas that felt warm, welcoming, bustling; to day felt like it was disjointed, aloof.

Cher Coeur

Listen to the rain
feathers falling
peace descending

Listen to the rain
Quietly blanketing
the world in tones of grey

Listen to the rain
we walked, under my umbrella
I listened to the rain

You walked away
under my umbrella
I listened to the rain

You went somewhere
I cannot let myself go
I listened to my rain

Listen to the rain, healing, soothing.
Listen to the tears I cried, healing, moving
without you.

You've found me naked Dearheart. You've done things; I let you do them. Now I sit, ensconsed in my place of solitude, in a pool of tears, reflecting on what I have done and what I will do.
My soul is as sad as my hair is blue. Water is the best place for thinking. For reflecting on the past and scrying the future. My mind is as rippled as my reflection. Please forgive me.
Please set me free.
Please love me.
Please don't ever leave me.
S'il vous-plait?

Four pictures.

I am dark and terrible. Consumed by visions of ghosts, tormented by the night. By people. By Men. The one over my left shoulder looks like Dearheart. I hide my eyes, trying not to see the deamon, but crying all the same. See the blood-spatter tears on my throat?
I wear black lace, raven feathers, silent silk.
My eyes are ugly, my hands are hideous. I am cursed with womanhood and beauty.
Run away you men. Here stands nothing but pain and trouble. A festering woman who is tortured by ghosts of her past.


People are NEVER whom they, at first, seem to be.
-A. Curtiss


The true test of any college student, to prove if you have properly assimilated into life on campus is if you can navigate the endless throng of humanity with a plate of food or a cup of hot beverage.

Journal Page

Stagnation is death

My heart bleeds thorns, razor blades of pain.

Je suis le cadeau que ne personne merite.

Mission Statement

The more I quest and question life, the more I discover how little I actually know. College is supposed to be an amazing time of discovery of you as a person, and I would submit that you may discover things ABOUT yourself, but you choose things, paths, directions in college that ultimately shape you. You create your self. Who you are. You must have a set of vices though. A "mission statement" if you will, that will be edited and revised over time but what you based it on will remain.

1st Peter 3:15

If you are truly and deeply a Christian, when you write, or make any sort of art for that matter, it will come from your world view, regardless of the number of times you mention God or his name.

What is in your deepest psyche will come out in your art.

Personal experiences are held within a person,
as you go through life, memories surface
Secrets lurk behind your soul's windows
How can you hold such dark spirits within?
Soul Searching
finger tendrils
running over old scars
opening unhealed wounds

Purging Thorns
Removing festering thorns
spikes, knives, spears
cleansing dirty blood

Salt sweet tears
chasing away fever
unwilling duty

Pruned branches shiver
in the cool breeze of spring
loss leaves room for new growth


Spilling confessions
in the black-blood-ink tattoo
on the pale white skin of the page
crossed with,
little blue veins
carrying the life-blood words