A few years ago, I did something that would seem very odd to most people, but completely normal to me. I started a secret blog where I posted my love woes where only I could see, and instead of making it the quirky, colorful, overly-analyzing me, I made a persona that was kind of, well, emo. She was a girl who was a few years younger than me, named Roxxanna, but she had a link to me, and she kept "stealing" my bad poetry and posting it, and giving me "credit". I'm pretty sure it was my inner teenager trying to make peace with herself. When I was really a teenager, back in the late 90's, I didn't have access to internet at home. I had a journal and a set of pretty pens and heart stickers and I would cry and cry into pages of bad poetry about how boys didn't look at me because I wasn't pretty, I wasn't outgoing, and I didn't dress like a whore (you think I'm kidding, I burned those pages of poetry a couple of years ago out of shame). But now, I'm pretty sure I have a handle on things. So, I say goodbye to the old blog, and remember fondly the way it used to be...

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About Me

Thursday, July 27, 2006

I made this site to get some perspectives on love. If you would, please comment or sign my guestbook with your own thoughts. In return, I will post pictures, poems, and stories centering around that elusive thing called romance. Thank you all!

Monday, July 31, 2006

You are chopped liver... *Fine, I got caught indirectly plagarising. This monologue was written by Rachel McKay. Her site is right here. I didn't steal this, really, just put it up without her name. She's one of my "older sisters" and realyy cool.   "So, for the longest time I've been that girl, you know, the girl that sits behind you in class that you never notice until she says something brilliant and then you know she's uber-cool and you start to become friends. Friends. You have no idea what that word does to her. I mean me. I mean... What you fail to realize about this brilliant, uber-cool girl who sits behind you in class is that for the past six months she's been too shy to talk to you so she's been waiting for this moment to say something brilliant so you'll notice her. And, well, you noticed her. But what you don't notice is behind closed doors she writes angry love poetry until 2am and tries to keep herself from writing your name over and over in her notebook even though she knows and you know that she's far too sophisticated for this. Or is she? You notice her because she's something special, but because you are like the other fifteen thousand guys who've noticed her for who she is but refuses to see anything beyond the brilliant, uber cool human being she is you have just proven that you are not special. You, my darling object of affection, are chopped liver. But I, I mean she, does not see this yet. For the next two days she will ride high on the smile you gave her in the hall, for the next three and a half weeks she will tell her best friend every detail of your life until this aforesaid friend gives up and tells me, I mean her, to just ask you out. It will take another month and a major social event to do so. At which time a sexy, albeit never sophisticated or brilliant or uber-cool, girl will take interest in you. Whether you realize it or not, this shy, sophisticated, brilliant, uber-cool girl will understand that she is threatened by the wiles of this sexy girl. And because she is shy, sophisticated, brilliant, and uber cool, and because she does not realize yet that you are chopped liver, she will wait in the wings for you to play prince charming and break the spell of the witch. Because you are chopped liver you do not do this. So she waits, days weeks, major social events pass and she realizes that you are not prince charming. She approaches you. You say, oh, I just thought we were good friends. The word 'friends' cuts deep into the heart of this shy, sophisticated, brilliant, uber-cool girl. For six and a half days she will cry in her room and refuse to even look at you. She will fade into obscurity and/or focus on a new target until years later when she's in her early twenties and in the arms of another man and understands finally that she is sophisticated, brilliant, and uber-cool. And you are chopped liver."

Sunday, August 06, 2006

Here is another monologue by Rachel, called "Saturday, February 11, 2006": "I'm sure it will precipitate on Tuesday. It always does. Water will wash the stains of this dreary holiday. I'm also sure couples will fight and lonely people will weep in their frappaccinos. It's still three days and red hearts already clutter my existence. I push the thoughts away yet I can feel cupids, arrows drawn, dance around me. I am a tease, a false seductress. Yet there is a glint of something more. I fall too easy. My heart shatters and revives and I love it all the way. I open drawers in my chamber to find volumes of poetry swimming in red and... hearts. I never know why. I just smell cologne and cheap hair gel and I am intoxicated. I live for the fall, the sentiment. I am forever fourteen writing my latest fling's name in the notebook paper of my mind. And when it's over... nothing. Am I normal? Twenty-one and the ability to promise forever seems so far out of my grasp. But come Tuesday I probably won't be alone, and it will be pouring rain outside. Fate hasn't let me down yet."

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

*This is me. The me no one sees. The girl who can't get a date to her own party.* Sometimes I would like to believe that I would make an ok lover. But for me even being a lover is like the impossible dream. I can't even get the attention of the guy in my ceramics class. I'm shy but I'm a hopeless romantic. Does this make me a setup for disaster? Does this mean I will be writing romance novels in my small apartment with my cats and never getting out until I die alone? I hate this. Everything else is going great. I am a photographer. I have great friends. I have finally made peace with my parents. I am making good grades in college. But it still feels like there is something missing and that something missing is a pair of arms to hold me. And why can't this brown-haired girl with soulful eyes get someone, anyone to hold her? because she chokes. She chokes hardcore. I am at parties, classes, cruising downtown and it never fails that everytime a guy even looks my way I look in the other direction. All these emotions are so strong in me that I guess I'm afraid that if I let them out the world will spin out of orbit. Or at least mine will. I can't make the first move. I can't make any moves. I'm stuck in neutral. And believe me it's not a matter of confidence.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

I have been obsessed with photographing roses lately. All kinds. And for some reason I like dead ones the best. I will keep you posted.

Friday, March 02, 2007

I want you, but I can't have you... why?

Wednesday, March 21, 2007

This has no title, but I completely agree with it.... Rachel, my sister, showed me another poem she was working on that I should put up on my site. Actually, she nonchalantly tackled me to the ground and screamed "Read this! NOW!". So I did. She's frustrated in romance just like I am, but because she's older and wiser she actually goes out and chases after love. Why can't I be like this? Okay, enough rambling. Here's the poem Renaissance Feminist? Brainy lady lurking libraries? Sexless form of intelligence and skill? This isn't me, damn it! Dark jeans, glasses, paint spatters RaeRae the efficient Speaks in Vulcan Plays loudly with power tools Would never think to touch you In that way that curls tendons. I say again, that isn't me Push me closer to hardwood stages Surround me in my elements: Leather-bound spines and hot espresso I am a vamp, an insatiable poetess Knee-length black lace sex dress Two bongos and a microphone And suddenly I steal your forethoughts In every slow syncopation Of my breathy recital voice RaeRae the efficient Sheds denim feminism on tile floors And plays swift rhythms to your fantasies.

Saturday, March 31, 2007

I'm ranting. I'm pissed off and drunk and ranting and it's all your fault. Yes you. You'll never fuking see this but I don't care. Do you rememnber three hours ago when you made that obscure joke and everyone else looked at you like you were a lunatic but I laughed? Yeah. I saved your ass. And then for the next twenty glorious mihnutes we talked and connected and you couldn't see it, but I was about to ask for your nujmber. Well, forget that, butdddy. You looked at me a grand total of twice after that and I gave you my best shy-girl smile and then you proceeded to make out with the sluttiest girl in the room. Now you can blame it on the booze, but I trieed to get some liquid courage of my own, and yoiu know what happened? I ended up sneaking back into my apartment at 1245 in the morning and writing this pissed off note becuse I don't want to fucking care but I do. I do anyway and I fucking hate it. And right now I kind of hate you. You'll never make that mistake of looking at me again, now will you?

So, I've been absent. I find this very odd, as I was a good blooger (Blooger? Yes, I said it.) for a long time. And I don't plan on really going away. But I read some of my old posts, and I figured out wherein my problem lies. I kind of feel as though there are only so many times that I can tell my story. And living alone with my boyfriend, all of my observations and crazy thoughts are aired audibly to a listening party. But it almost doesn't feel as though it's enough. I need space inside my own brain. Of course, I finally hashed out some of the problems I have speaking, but writing from a personal perspective is still something that is close to the vest. So, the moment you all, or at least I, have been waiting for: I AM BACK!

The gas station near my apartment is a very odd place. I don't know why, maybe it's the fact that the day attendant there is new and kind of looks naive, but it's been getting a rash of people trying to scam the place out of money. Or just being generally bitchy and demanding. Maybe it's spring, or maybe it's just the attendant himself getting into his new job and noticing these things. Or maybe my boyfriend and I have the bad luck of showing up just as someone is trying to get free money, and the attendant tells us about all the shit that happened, and we are under the impression that it's much worse than it actually is. As we entered today for sodas and cigs, like the typical Friday tradition, there was a douchebag storming out because he was trying to pay with a big bill when the sign specifically says "we can't take anything bigger than a $20". Earlier today, we were told, some guy came in and started taking money out of a charity jar at the front counter for a fucking baseball team. A baseball team, dammit! Then one other time in the past couple of weeks, I think it was last Sunday, we came in just as some dude was claiming that he paid 100$ in gas and "forgot" to fill up. Bitches. And these are things that happen, I'm sure, it's odd to me that it happens so often. I've never heard of this behavior in that particular store until recently, and it kind of pisses me off, just because the attendant is alone in the store and only has the options of either kicking ass or calling the police (which, by the way, the station is just across the street so I have to wonder why so many people take the gamble to be so blatantly shady). Or maybe this is just a side of humanity that I didn't want to think about. Scamming is seemingly more justifiable than outright stealing, and is harder to prove. I remember once going to a gas station in another state, and the man who runs the place was so paranoid that he had his counter glassed in, you could only pay by throwing your money into an opening like a chute, and all the shelves were turned diagonally so he could see everything that every customer does. My first impression was that he had either had his life threatened, or he just understood that by doing this that it was damn hard for him to get scammed. "I have a glass in front of me,fucker, just try to tell me the chips aren't the right price. You can't. And I won't hear your angry screams when the cops cart you off to jail, you festering sore piece of shit."

This, I have decided, is the one adjective people secretly want connected to their being. If an abstract concept such as an adjective is something that can be applied with the right amount of adhesive, that is. The understanding that you are wanted, and not just wanted, but wanted and different and not easily reconstituted into something else. It's what keeps us alive, I believe. It, after all is said and done, is the driving force behind most of humanity's actions. It's why doctors say that getting a dog will help a person live longer. We want to be connected to something that wants to be connected to us.
I, personally, feel like I struggle in this life, because quite often, for all of my talents and abilities and peculiarities, I often feel that I am not real, and am often either taken for granted or taken as a complete forgery, or simply not seen at all. How do I get past this? I'm not sure. I keep building up the mural that is my personality, I keep adding color and complexity. I am trying to start a legacy through my art. The thing I feel that I am most afraid of in this life is being forgotten. But, I understand now, that everyone else is too.

Stop killing the sheep? They don't want your damn encyclopedias!

So, my genius boyfriend shaves off his beard the day before a winter storm. This morning he was complaining a bit about how how much it sucks that his face will be hairless for, like the next twenty-four hours until his beard re-spawns spontaneously. I suggested a scarf. Micah, being the super-studly tough guy that he is, vetoed that idea with not a moment's hesitation. In fact it was so fast that I didn't even have to say the words, "How about a scarf" he just psychically knew and pounded his fist into the wall, causing the floor to buckle a bit. Then I got an idea. See, winter wear is very limited, in that it can only look a certain way before it becomes ineffective, inconvenient, or just makes the wearer look homeless. In this case, there are two, maybe three (only if I count knitting him a new beard out of yarn made from bear-fur, but that's possibly illegal and time-consuming for someone who's only going to need it for a day, tops) ways to properly cover the face of a man: a scarf, or a ski-mask. Ski-mask is out, since my lover could get shot by a well-meaning gas-station clerk who believes himself to be in mortal danger just doling out cigarettes. The only solution is a scarf. But there is no real scarf for men. There's something like this....

But that's for men who shop in boutiques for shoes and talk about their feelings. No real man should ever endure this. My thoughts: there needs to be a real man's scarf. Made from farm-grade heavy duty burlap. Sewn with the entire circulatory system of a fallen moose. Two-inch metal spikes protruding from the material that says "stay the fuck away from me, I'm cold". That would be something men could wear with pride.

My new collection of oddness: Cheap used vintage science fiction novels. Like, the dimestore paperbacks from the 50's and 60's that screamed of experiments gone horribly wrong and aliens abducting people en masse. If I told the people I knew in real life about this, though, it wouldn't be surprising. This speaks volumes more about me than meets the eye. First, I just have a love for the odd. There is no doubt about this. The obscure, offbeat, crazy, just plain fascinates me. Then there's the geek cred thing that I am seriously lacking in, being surrounded by 4channers and gamers galore. I've never felt so behind on things in my life. Dammit, I only have a basic knowledge of comic books, and I'm lucky that I've heard of a few of the universes and superheroes/villains they speak of. Then there's the feminist thing I've been having problems with for a while. Women of my mother's generation were into Harlequin Romance novels. I must admit, I've read a few, and they're not bad. If I could read them without the emotional and uber-helpless feminine thing, they would be great travelogues of the UK. But, alas, they're not. In fact, most of women's literature deals with the emotions and character building than the intellectual aspect of a novel. This pisses me off. If I wanted to deal with my emotions, I wouldn't read a book, I'd just sit and think or write something myself. So collecting science fiction novels seems to me to be the farthest thing from the Harlequins while still being under the formulated paperback cheesy concept.
Compromise: write a crazy Harlequin Romance set in the rolling hills of Scotland, where a Russian Spy is en route to London from a failed nuclear test site and strikes a deal with a lonely painter and college professor's daughter, who is headstrong, but secretly shy and has never known the touch of a man. He will give the painter one million dollars if he can take the daughter away to a facility to draw her blood, as her records indicate from some big-worded test that she is immune to all radiation, and it could save his life. In reality the Russian is not really poisoned with radiation, just creepy and watched her swimming and fell in love with her. He wants her to marry him and come live in his big mansion in East Germany. Then all the sheep in Scotland suddenly collapse with a mysterious disease and the spy has to defeat the aliens and finally get the painter's daughter to see the beauty of his soul and make her promise to marry him. She does as they leave Scotland in a huge helicopter headed for Stalingrad.

I've said before that no new art is being made, and that's not entirely true. It's just that for now art above ground is the same post-modernist steel poles in a field of red that is selling to people to put over their couches. Real art is still being made underground, but it's kind of more art with a point, or taking art into its most basic elements and trying to chase something unattainable. I find it very exciting. Here are some examples:

 - Energy Art movement: http://www.energyartmovement.org/ tries to boil the energy that comes off of a good painting into it's purest form. Think of it as crack to old art's cocaine. They call it "visual dynamism".

 - Antagonist Movement: Just basically a swift kick to the ass of the art community. http://antagovision.com/manifesto/

 - Thinkism Art Movement: Oracalic, lots of symbolism, seems like the kind of art I do. http://www.thinkism.org/asp/founding.asp

 - Stuckism: A more crude version of Thinkism. http://www.stuckism.com/PaintingsList.html#Painting

 - Conscious Art: http://consciousart.org/Manifesto.html kind of sounds like the stuff my professor Kate was teaching us in Intro to Theatrical Design class. Art for the purposes of knowing that what you're doing is indeed art.

Wow, so what I guess I'm trying to say is that underground art has become pretentious and stuffy again, but only from a socio-political-conscious point of view.

Candy Canes are tasty. Closing a fast food joint isn't.

The rest of this post will be manifested using the bulletin/class note system, beginning with the phrase "In the past year I..."
 - Had more sexual experience than in the previous combined years of my entire life.
 - Watched maybe a combined total of ten hours of TV.
 - Watched maybe a combined total of six hundred hours of movies (some of which I slept through).
 - Started an amazing relationship, a job in fast food hell, several friendships, and a webshow.
 - Broadened my musical horizons, and got a sequined corset thrown at my face during a concert.
 - Learned how to alter clothes and not give a fuck what other people think.
 - Made two directors cry, one in the happy way, one in the scared, confused, super-sad dramatic way.
 - Healed several scars on my soul and strengthened my body in many ways.
 - Became a much better cook.
 - Read an ass-ton of books and made lots of art.
 - Drank beer and smoked cigars.
 - Became a fully-functioning, responsible adult with bill-paying and everything, without having to become a boring grown-up.
 - Watched way too many women around me become pregnant.
 - Figured out the lessons my sleep meanderings (word I use to describe dreams without having to lump them in the same category as lifetime aspirations) were trying to teach me.
 - Became much more in tune with my body and my spirit.
 - Finally came out as a heterosexual to everyone who thought I was probably at least bisexual.
 - Learned how to properly fight social and political crusades.
 - Was able to say far too many times "behold, the power of advertising".
 - Learned how to read people and manipulate them without succumbing to the dark side.
 - Let my cynical streak out to play and came back with more theories on the selfishness of humanity.
 - Grew in leaps and bounds, became that much more into my personhood.
 - Was actually called a bitch for once, and the person meant it.
 - Became kind of a bitch. But an endearing one, I hope.