I am a squeal
Excitement so condensed
That I cannot form words
Only a short bright noise
A strong burst of colorful verbs
A shout of rainbow screams
Saturating the blank air
The music is your pronunciation, sometimes you don’t even have to sing to sound like a dream.
The way you simply say the words can have an effect on my feelings, even when your choice of words are nothing out of the ordinary. It is just a sentence, but you make it sound so different with your inflection.
A distinctively musical voice can have such an a diverse effect on me, the song in a simple non-sentimental sentence can flash my heart Valentine with pink and red string lights, or my flesh sizzles like a bacon in its own grease. It can cold my toes like waiting for the forever bus in a Chicago blizzard, it can pinch my skin like my over zealous grandma on Sunday afternoon.
Are you as excited as I am to see the portraits from this guys eye? Are you excited to see the pictures he captures with his sleek shutterbugs style? My new guy is modern, he is certified to communicate with the oracle. I am very thrilled with my new aperture to the world, a new mirror to reflect my reality, a fresh focus on my daily routine.
Stayed tuned for the name, Marigold is sure to have a full christening explanation.
What do my drawings say about me? They are all symmetry obsessed and almost the entire collection to date is unfinished. I start, get distracted, move on, content with the beginning, with the promise of a pretty product. Really I am afraid to continue because I do not want to fuck it up. I have to be in the mood for perfection, and the mood doesn’t strike all that often. If its not going to be flawless then mind as well leave it, its good enough. Does any of this make sense? Its a bit laziness, a dusty muse, the fear of failure, the strive for self praise.
Why I am obsessed with a delicate balance of thin black lines dancing on an off-white sheet? Why do I find their movements so mesmerizing? I find a strange serenity in their beautiful agreement, in their simplicity in the need not to argue or demand space. The dance starts simple as a drum beat, the arrangement soothing.
Do they have to be so balanced because I am so crooked? Am I overcompensating? And is that a bad thing? It usually is. Overcompensating. Making up for something lacked in an area in which you seemingly have no control. It’s my souls plea to have a better house, one that does lean quite so much. I try to console her, saying that it makes the building unique, noticeable, and memorable. A discontent soul, that one. A prince could build her a palace and she would say too big, a waste of space, not enough pools. An artist could build her a bungalow, and she would say too quaint, too excluded from society, bad acoustics. She should be happy with the nest in the crooked tree. If that was the case, I would be a better painter.
Sometimes I get so distracted and excited and sidetracked that I get overwhelmed and confused and forget who I am. Those little details the describe oneself, that you take for granted if you don’t work at keeping them trim and proper. When you work too much it’s easy to forget what types of things you like to do in your spare time, what are the songs that consistently make you dance, that favorite scented shampoo, how and why to paint your toenails, how to find enjoyment in whatever it is you choose to do. When you spend too much of your spare time chasing beer or boys, the battery in your camera dies, all your good drawing pens get lost, you don’t have a good book to read, and you have no idea what is going on in politics.
I joined a dating website and you have to sell yourself to strangers, make yourself seem cool, intelligent, good looking but not fucking hot, charming, nonchalant. It’s about nit picking trivial details to try and describe the entirely of your strange and stretching personality in a few words to an invisible room full mostly of ugly men. But hell, there might be a cute one out there looking for a weird, but kinda cute, extremely witty, sorta young lady.
Its making me feel introspective that I cannot round out in a few sentences what I am about. I am not sure myself. I mean I sorta forgot. With chasing a career goal and filling in the free time with matters of the physical and the heart, I squeezed out that slice of pie that is devoted to self-experimentation. When I hustle and bustle too much, the adornments are kept very simple; I travel light. Anything can get reacquired, remembered, reconceived, but sometimes I forget where I left the notes.
Struggling with self-doubt and simultaneously anger at not trusting my abilities. You have to remain humble, but why am I so god damn scared? Confidence is the key, hesitation under bakes the cake. I used to trust myself, but keep disappointing myself because I set my standards to the moon high. Where did that trust go? Its should be around here somewhere.
I am working on becoming my self again. Doing the things that I feel like doing, not letting the outside world sway me quite so much. I am constantly inspired, but I need to remember to stay focused on matters that directly relate to the health and welfare of the personal empire.
You cut yourself short. All the time. Snip snip. Doubtful. So full of everything negative. Why lady do you give up so easily? Why do you assume that you are wrong, and where do you put all the anger? How do you place passion in space when the method is so unforgiving? The ideas are like sparks and they come and they go, come and go with me. I want to remember everything but in turn that makes me forget so much. If I think too much about the details it makes me mess up and go slower. But if I just keep dancing I might just keep up. Giddy up everyone. Its a fucking rodeo.