Sunday, March 9, 2014

Mailboxes like staircases.

I try to fight it, but I'm simply not strong enough. The sadness seeps in, consuming me in its thick entirety. I am forced to acknowledge that I will never farm coffee in Peru. I'll probably never own a catering company or be a foster mom. I'll definitely never know what it's like to be an astronaut and see home from such a distance. Nor will I travel the globe, gun in my hand, defending my country. I will never fight loneliness for livelihood and I will never be a sculpter and go to sleep with once wet clay, now hardened and dry, caked beneath my fingernails. 

Their bodies, their minds, their actualities, all those people I will never be leave me completely overwhelmed. There is not enough time, I have to settle and trick myself into believing I am satisfied by just knowing them. Our interactions serving as a reminder that although I do not belong among them, they exist, they prosper, they expire. They speak their stories and I listen greedily wanting to fill my head with as much information before my childhood curiosity retreats and replaced with steadfast bitterness. 

I write narratives in my head, allowing my reality to blur together with the lives of others. The edges fade out into each other. I feel what they feel. For a moment, I know them, and I feel them knowing me. Each character builds a nest within my frame, forever sleeping in my spine. I rewrite, remake, and remodel particular characters daily, letting one bleed into another like a domino. My favorites come and go, the disc gets scratched, and the whole thing starts to skip, but in the end the actors did their best, and everything played out perfectly. Taking a bow, they finish their concluding scene unsteadily, and cascade into fragments. The next one stands up, only to remind that our creations can never fully escape us. I find bits and pieces of them recycled with each other. Another beautiful story created.

Perhaps I will become a sculpter after all. Perhaps I already am one. 

No more sleep walking dead.

A pretty frame to fondle and touch or a locked window to force open and enter, I was nothing but a thin crystal glass for you to pour yourself into. You never dust me off, so what could have been a trophy collects dust like a completed novella. In the process of molding and forming me like the wet virgin clay I was, you gave me a set of wings in which to leave you, this place, and this life.

Out from the confusion, a hazy abyss, grows a green spring, both leafless and bare. Do not pluck her, for her roots are too deep for a man of your strength. You’ve lost in admiration, so someone else came along, plucked her up from the ground, and made her a queen.

Saturday, March 1, 2014

Why "Nice" Girls Don't Like Me & Why I Don't Like 'Em Back.

My worldview positions me front and center. Nice girls drift outwards, seeking comfort in the invisibility of such an abyss, their preferred positioning shielding them from getting close enough to conceptualize the peculiarities of life. From this stance, Nice Girls appreciate beauty at its surface level, unable to recognize the camouflaged blemishes (read: mistakes) or acknowledge the drafts (also known as failures) before its debut.

But, failure and me have matching best friend bracelets. Nice Girls put on their track shoes and run from failure. Having rather built a throne atop a ladder they do not honestly value than having to start at the bottom and work up a ladder in which they cherish, Nice Girls confuse patience with waiting, thus failing to realize the depth of such a virtue. Patience is not a glorification of the passivity in waiting, but the ability to maintain a positive attitude while working towards a nearly impossible goal or a project with an extensive timeline.

By aggressively avoiding mistakes, Nice Girls rob themselves of the best way to learn and without this, they never really mentally, emotionally, or psychologically develop into adults. Nice Girls naively accept mistakes as unchangeable failures. In reality, the only travesty in regards to mistakes is failure to learn from them. If one is too afraid of failure they can never do what is required to become successful, thus Nice Girls are left to find artificial success and an elevated sense of importance in their lack of mistakes. This fear of  failure forfeits life's greatest success: happiness. I have failed more times than Nice Girls dare to try. Ultimately, guilty of the worst mistake of them all, Nice Girls allow fear to dictate the courses of their lives. 

The unapologetic life I lead send Nice Girls into a deep shudder. Always the first to apologize, when asked to abandon their submissiveness and stop apologizing for things unworthy of forgiveness, "Sorry" all to often serves as a Nice Girl's sole response.

My sentences begin with a steady stream of fucks and conclude with a anthology that says fuck capitalism, fuck the patriarchy, fuck America for sticking it's dick in everyone else's desert, and fuck you if it is my language, rather than the surrounding system that has left me so angry, that offends you. Reserving particular subjects matters and conversations for defined relationships, planned appointments, and private places, I remember the reddening of various family members and friend’s cheeks upon my rehashing of how so and so's father was finally convicted after years of sexually abusing his children or my frank discussion of the heroin epidemic. “Hush,” they would say, “there’s children over there” or “people are trying to enjoy their meals.” I always thought and will forever continue to think, fuck that, people need to be exposed to reality in order to act upon it. Avoiding the discussion of difficult topics does not make them disappear from our realm. If these issues are not confined to certain people or places, why should our discussion of them be?

That’s where Nice Girls feel the burn and disagree. They possess no desire to discuss the lack of sympathy for reproductive loss after unplanned pregnancies or the cultural appropriation in Iggy Azalea’s new single. Why feel when one can numb themselves with Youtube videos of singing kittens and hangovers (only to judge other’s for swapping Melatonin supplements, yet completely ignoring the health consequences of binge drinking), Nice Girls possess no desire for reality. They want happy endings, brainwashed complacent children, and one of those no nonsense dogs that does not shed.

Which brings me to my next point: Nice Girls exchange productivity for busyness. Work conferences do not provide food for starving displaced families. Yoga lessons do make foreign adaptation more accessible for same-sex couples and spa appointments do not challenge color-blindness. Nice girls hate me for vocalizing such truths. All that busyness, all of that sleep deprivation, with absolutely nothing to show for it besides a yoga mat and manicured nails. Busyness is nothing more than illusionary obligation and thus, does not equate to a purposeful and productive life.

Nice girls define themselves by their plans, what they say they will do, rather than actually going out and doing anything. They remain content in their daydreams and collection of beliefs, without having to be bold, struggle with resistance, and fight. Wasting their college educations, Nice Girls are the prime example of how knowledge is useless without action. I on the other hand, understand that I am what I do, not what I say I’ll do. See, Nice Girls do not start until they feel one hundred percent ready. When nothing is ever begun nothing meaningful can be achieved. Good things do not come to those who wait; they come to those who make things happen for themselves and others by working towards goals. Nice Girls would rather talk about their success, than achieve it, because obtaining success means taking a series of risks. It means taking a leap without seeing where you will land. Me? I make multi-orgasmic love to the dangerous unknown.

The fear of death prevents nice girls from truly living, while my fear of a life I never lived because I was too afraid to take action frees me to act upon my natural curiosity and fervor. I know that the ultimate loss in life is what dies inside oneself while they are still alive, but to nice girls, death is the ultimate tragedy. I refuse to call anything that's a normal and healthy part of the natural life cycle a tragedy. It's like girls who are disgusted by talk of menstruation and childbirth. Ugh, nice girls.

All in all, it's the manner in which my heavily pigmented make-up juxtaposes next to my extensive volunteer experience or how my flirtation with violence has earned me the respect of the same men who once catcalled me, that proves so bothersome to Nice Girls; I leave them confounded. 
How did a recovering heroin addict who once ripped a hoop straight out of a gal’s nose manage to earn a brilliant academic scholarship to her first choice college? How did a girl with a visible controversial tattooed and dip-dyed blue hair snag a job working alongside the Deans? How does a girl prescribed pills to help her brain behave have such stable relationships and the internship of her dreams waiting for her? Because before every success is a tired string of failures. Accepting both her past and death as certainties rather than catastrophes, she is not burdened with an ever present fear of failure. Never equating a constantly buzzing Smartphone with productiveness or a pretty thought with action, she does not wait for things to happen; she makes them happen. 

Nice is an image, never a truth.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Her agency is not synonymous with moral condemnation.

Following Creepshots and/or watching objectifying pornography are quintessential to-be-expected aspects of the male coming-of-age experience. However, when a female celebrity's nudes are leaked and revealed to the public, she is viewed as a victim to the claws of Hollywood and stamped with an unerasable "slut" label. A woman who decides to film herself having sex? Fucking freak. Countless numbers of men perpetuate street harassment, catcall women on the daily, yet when a woman approaches him, she's audacious and arrogant. Hoards of men collectively drool over women out of their league, yet become disgusted when women they deem unattractive voice interest in them.

Why is a woman demonstrating agency over her own body worthy of moral condemnation? Female bodies are treated like public property, thus men feel the right to grow offended when women take ownership of what it rightfully theirs, using their bodies in ways they themselves find pleasurable. This is precisely why a painting depicting an image of a naked woman is beautiful, but when a mirror is placed within the figure's grasp, such beauty becomes understood as vanity.

The female body does not exist for the satisfaction of the male gaze, yet as a physical embodiment of the mind that resides within.

Wednesday, January 1, 2014

Dirty Laundry: Keeping Women within “Good Taste” instead of Fashion-Forward.

Most style rules are simply sets of guidelines addressing the connotations of femaleness. The shorter the hemline, the lower the heel; the bolder the lipstick, the more natural the eyes; the tighter the pants, the baggier the top; the more eccentric the dress, the more conventional the accessories; counter statement necklaces with minimalist earrings; daring nail polishes beg for short nails. All of these “rules “ presented in fashion magazines and style articles without explanation, because womanhood expects you to inherently understand why one should not pair a miniskirt with stilettos or a heavy smoky eye with plum lipstick. A few of these rules make visual sense; a statement necklace and a gorgeous pair of dangling earrings will compete with each for attention. However, other guidelines make visual sense only because our society has adopted a collective understanding that codes particular combinations and rates their level of acceptableness. A woman with wild colored streaks, exposed tattoos, and a tattered leather jacket reads as "troubled." Drop crotch jeans and a baggy hoodie equals "dyke."A micro-mini with five-inch heels synonymous with slut. Regardless of if the wearer’s intention is to lengthen her legs, her best friend who dons an equally short skirt with a pair of ballet flats will not collect a percentage, if any at all, of her pal's sneers. The first woman failed to properly maintain the stigma of womanhood and ignored the ever-present determinant of so-called “good taste”: balance. For of all the stigma attached to womanhood, nothing is so heavily regulated, conflicted, and perpetually on the edge of inequity as female sexuality.

For your enjoyment I've attached this magnificent picture of one of my personal favorite sources of stylistic inspiration. Photograph courtesy of JustJared.

I don't think Taylor Momsen has ever followed a fashion rule in her life. She just rocks the edgy punk sea monster that is herself.

Saturday, December 28, 2013

Humanity's Humility.

The questions in which you do not want the answers you dare not ask, so my past remains a mystery and together we work. How easy to fall back into an old pattern of naively believing your promise of a lifetime free of suffering. Leather harness, your hair blue at the time, for a moment such a tempting source of pleasure leaves me seduced. You're nothing but the pit stop on the road trip of my life, the spot you pull over to piss at. No present real meaning, just something to feel nostalgic about later, just names, just memories, nothing profound. What defined and constituted your life a year ago now means nothing to you. Perhaps my biggest grievance against humanity is it's humility: individual's failure to admit just how interesting they truly are.

Friday, December 27, 2013

Believe in the person you wish to become.

Although capitalism demands people ought to love the holidays, they have a tendency to depress me. The narcissism, another year passing, slowly creeping towards the inevitability of death, consumerism, consumption, greed, debt, facades of happiness.

Perhaps my weariness stems from the way the year's conclusion asks me to take inventory of my life, the way it forces me to ask what I did well, or more haunting, what did I fail to achieve? How effectively did I apply ointment to my internal itch, the one that screams "JUST GO" in the silence that lays between life's songs? And, for failing to listen, am I naive or wise? What is the fault in being in a constant state of transition, always going from one place to another? No matter where you arrive, there you are. Am I running from locations or from the truth that is myself? More importantly, does it even matter?

My 2013 inventory exists as a cocktail of both under and overwhelmingness. New health. Old mistakes. Apologies. Amends. Falling in love. Falling out of love. I broke up with friends and built new ones on more stable foundations. I lost inspiration and found it tucked deep within the corners of locked drawers. Rewind. Repeat. Replay. As if fantastical relationships are excuses to not go out and live the life I dream of, love grew into a crutch. Maybe I should go, would go in a past life, but my happiness here in this moment is too sweet to abandon. I'm so in love, right here, precisely in this instance. Will a time in which I am not ever present itself? How could it, with such a sincere appreciation of the idiosyncrasies of the world? Such peculiarities leave me with a desire to kiss all the worry away, there, in that moment, of whatever it is that exists within my field of vision. Crying. Laughing. You for simply being you. The faults and strengths of each embodiment, every existence worthy of knowing and understanding. My ability to see humanity in such blatant awfulness and terror is what scares me most about myself. My fright is nothing compared to my fascination. I feel too much. I'm concerned and then I am left with a choice: feel nothing, turn numb, apathetic, disenchantment or feel nauseous from all the back-and-forth tugging, all the spinning in circles. So, I sit down on the floor, do nothing, catch my breath, but then, then, I rise. I fight because that is my only response. My sole survival tool.

Will 2014 be yet another year of so much nothing and yet so much everything? Of spinning in circles, overexcitement, a perpetual imbalance of whelm, of catching my breath fearfully, only to respond with an invented humanity, my addiction to change, and an unquenchable thirst for justice. Oh, most certainly. Most certainly.