2:56am 8/23

I am water

I wash away the edges

Wrapping, smoothing

It took time for you to figure out

I was there

I sprouted a stream

Laid my roots

And never left
It only took time for you to see

And yes, it does taste sweeter

Because my doubts don’t exist
I had no idea you’d been warming me up from the inside

I can bathe in it freely

And soon, without fear

I wish I was wrong

I met a man a few months ago I was willing to give up my life for and some part of me today, still wants to even though I know it’s wrong. He’s everything I’m not and this may sound like some sappy story but to me, it’s stupid tragic and I’m not even sure why I give a shit. I knew him in a previous lifetime and supposedly, in this one, we would destroy each other. It all sounds absolutely INSANE I know but some part of me truly believes it. I was warned about the pain I would bring to my family and the pain I would bring to him and it’s taking every ounce of self control to not reach out to him right now. 

A month ago, I almost bought a plane ticket to go see him. I already believed I would be with him. I would marry him, have his children. I knew we would fight but I didn’t care. I’m open to some change. I loved that he was willing to try anything, do anything. And he wanted to do all those things with me. I can’t explain the feeling. It’s like when people ask how do you know you’re in love and they respond with “when you know, you just know”. I don’t even know what this feeling is but I can say my body physically hurts when I don’t talk to him and everywhere I look, I see him.

And the other day I told him goodbye because I can’t live with the thought of destroying his life (or my own) and everyday I pray for a lifetime where we don’t hate each other and I can be with him and I’m crying as I write this because my heart and head keep fighting with each other and I should be fine because we’ve never actually met in real life besides the few minutes he was in the backseat of my car and I just can’t figure out why we had to meet. But I’m also so glad that we did because for a brief period of time I imagined my life with him and that felt so nice. And I hope and pray my psychic is wrong but she’s never really been wrong and I just can’t imagine what would happen if I didn’t listen to her.

But I know that if I met him, I wouldn’t be able to stay away. Ever. And I know like magnets, we’d have to be forcefully removed.

I can’t explain this to anyone because it’s all so convoluted but if you’re reading this, please know it’s torture and I wish it wasn’t true.

There are some changes on the horizon

It’s been a while. Then again, that cycle of summer processing seems to be upon me. In my defense, I’ve also been trying to put off processing through a few recent developments. Prop 57 has impacted my mother’s sentence, as well as a few programs she’s involved herself in over the last decade. It looks like she’s out on early release. Nine months from now actually, give or take. I thought we had another couple years.

I don’t really know how to feel about it yet. I’m not as freaked out as I thought I would be but that’s also because it feels like I’m sitting in the road watching a truck come straight for me. Obviously, that’s mildly dramatic. That truck could be a figment of my imagination.

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I think the most profound aspect of this news that has me boggled is how this will affect my art. For most of my life, my writing, art, and other coping mechanisms were populated with prison themes: time, loss, abandonment. I never had to dip my pen in different ink.

I’ll be honest, I’m pretty sick of dealing with prison themes. I never wanted to let her life choices define my own but I also couldn’t deny myself the experience of them. What a weird, tangled web I found myself in.

The good news is she’s more freaked out than I am. I’m trying my best not to have sympathy for her but I can’t help it. It’s going to be really weird for her. When she went in, dial-up was common place and people still used AOL.

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The transition process is going to be shocking to her system. She claims to be all hardened and whatnot (and I’m sure she is), but I know there are going to be a LOT of midnight phone calls where she’s crying and frustrated because something in her house keeps making a noise or she can’t figure out how to listen to a voicemail or something. I expect this.

I will also not be her metaphorical crying shoulder. I will be a helpful daughter on my own terms, with lots and lots of boundaries. I might finally be able to start throwing away some of her mail.

My sister just told me she’s been throwing her letters away. I’ve kept every single one, including envelopes, for this whole damned sentence. I sort of just want to burn them but I feel like there’s a really good art project in store for them. Hopefully with a different theme.

Does this mean that I can give myself permission to stop fixing all the broken pieces? I’ve long known I’m awesome and been grateful for the challenges she’s thrown my way but I’m still a product of my circumstances. I’m actually sort of concerned for my own children. They won’t have nearly the amount of depth I do, which both worries and delights me.

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She’s going to make it to my college graduation.

It’ll be the first graduation she’s ever made it to (besides elementary school which doesn’t really count). I’m actually really happy about it.

God, I hate writing about this stuff. It’s all so damned heavy and while necessary, I can feel myself sounding like a broken record. I’m just ready for it to be over. Maybe I’ll actually go back into my darkroom again. Maybe I’ll shoot some film again.

I swear, if she tries to bake me cookies and do my fucking laundry though I’m going to lose it.

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How did I miss this?!

I’ve just come out of my religious studies class with a weird epiphany about my life and artistic process. My brain has been sort of hinting at the absence of my academic classes and the sense of satisfaction I get when I write essays that prove arguments or explore grand concepts. I love conceptual thinking that’s built up with evidence. I even like conceptual thinking that’s based in supernatural evidence, what some scholars term “sketchy”. Ultimately, the overlap is there within the foundation.

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My favorite element across all artistic mediums is contrast. I love contrast. Maybe that establishes itself in the physical contrast of the work, or maybe the way the light hits a sculpture at a specific time of day or maybe there’s something else there in terms of color and that just hits me because that sensational pop against my mind makes me feel something deep. I’m not sure yet.

What I’m realizing is that i need to be in a field of work that allows me to explore conceptual contrasts and reaffirm different ideas through writing and research. I crave research like water. The problem solving I experience through writing and essays is akin to the feeling of figuring out which color to use within a painting or ceramic glaze. It’s equally as satisfying. Psychologists refer to this feeling as “flow”. My flow lives in conceptual problem solving.

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I loved writing my essay on Cindy Sherman and I’m so stoked to write my fifteen page research paper contrasting buddhist ideals. I’m sort of dying to figure out the rest of my painting. I have no idea how I’m going to do on my history midterm Tuesday but the immense satisfaction that just began flowing through me has put me over the moon. This is the first time since my disengagement with photography that I’ve felt similarly stimulated and profoundly grateful. This feeling. This feeling right now is what I live for.

2:28am

Obligations
Affiliations
Incarceration
Connotation
Bureaucracy and blurred red lines
Sharpness of indecency
I hate this need to fight authority
My stupid desire to break the rules
Has more power over me than I do
This strange contradiction
Fuels my conviction
And I’m faced over and over
The whisper of memories fade
Replaced by rage
I’m not angry

My neck keeps shaking
My Russian teachers always made me cry

I hated bending and twirling
As long as they were there
I knew only good and bad
No compromise

I’m so very clearly there
Pick and choose the parts that make sense
My family says it’s easier to digest
I’m not craving
The Buddha says
But his golden body glows
I’ll swipe green across canvas
And spend hours on circles and spirals and waves
Tiny little pencil marks
One thing out of place
Daylight balance, warm tone, cool
Wipe clean the rules

In a field where the human condition
Is the one and only true theme,
Why did I stick myself in a place
Where identity is destroyed
And smiles quickly employed
And evil ovals stare at me
Across the plastic tables
“Not excused, sorry but that doesn’t count, you’ll still have to pay”
Okay.

2:17am

As I struggle with my own identity over the last few months, I realize that I was so frustrated by being marginalized with my community. People kept seeing me as a person I didn’t associate with directly. I thought sure, maybe there is some overlap but that’s not representative of me completely; there’s more than meets the eye. I realize now that being marginalized is actually way better because it allows me to remain somewhat out of reach. I can pick and choose which part of my community I associate with and which part I don’t. It’s nice because it’s safer there. I have more freedom to flow freely between circles. There is no group with one claim on me. That’s a double edged sword sometimes because it means I hear about things late sometimes but I make an in impression on people so there’s always someone who remembers. In many ways, it’s that same alienation that allows me to stand out. I think it’s silly that this all occurs to me as I’m browsing on amazon for a laptop cover. As a student, it’s those choices that will define how my friends and peers see me. Do I choose to blend in, or stand out? Or is it more so a question of accepting who I’m already perceived to be?

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9/19/15 (#2)

I write this as I sit in the parking lot waiting to walk inside to quit my job. I want to remember the disdain my subconscious has for this place. It has become my personal prison; ironically, the very subject of most of my own work.

This place drains me of the creative freedom I once experienced on a daily basis. Instead of finding the daily projects and questions an escape from my own worldly issues, I’ve found it drives me further away from the place I need to be.

I need to be focusing and creating and experimenting and instead all I’ve been doing is routine and it drives me fucking crazy. The thoughts I’ve had over the last week shock me.

I have thought of more ways to insert Popsicle sticks into people’s bodies than I ever thought possible. What type of stretcher bars would be most appropriate to bludgeon someone with, the kinds of brushes that would do the most harm if I stabbed someone in the eyes. I’ve thought of throwing turpentine on people and whacking them repeatedly with oil pastels and paint tubes. And then comes the creative ways I’ve thought I could have myself fired.

I’ve dreamt of streaking mid shift down the middle of the aisles as if nothing was wrong, I could pee In front of a customer, I could take the money out of the registers and throw it in the air yelling “free money free paint!” I could just knock everything off the shelves or intricately carve out “fuck you” with the pieces of balsa wood we have for sale. The xacto aisle is dangerous, there are so many little triangles and blades. I’ve thought of just flooding the backroom or even setting people’s hair on fire.

I am so angry that I have to spend my days inside, aching now that I have RA. I spend more money on food than I ever have in my life because I can’t eat anything close by and whole foods is expensive and yet my only option. I’m rushing around on others people’s time schedules and hating myself.

I can’t tell anyone I love my boyfriend because he’s my manager and also the most wonderful human being. It would be my luck that I go and meet the dream guy but have to lie about it for months.

I am psychologically and physically drained and I hate myself and everyone around me and it needs to stop. So I’m going in to give my two weeks and that’ll be the end of that blip in the road. Like sand slipping through my fingers, I watch as one door closes and another opens; aka my freedom.

9/19/15

I struggle assimilating into female culture. I struggle assimilating with people my age. So far there’s a lot of struggle with friends. I do have friends, don’t be confused but I’m not sure how to make new ones without a common interest.

There are girls who have no trouble

As soon as I find someone on the same maturity level, I find out they’re w

I really miss this feeling

The times I feel most at peace is when I am creating art. I communicate with my art and people see that sometimes and sometimes they don’t. Tears come to my eyes when I expose my prints. When I feel my spirit lift, I know this can’t be me. I see my hands and I don’t believe that is me. I surrender.

I stopped trying to control people and the world around me. I started to let go and I felt better. I asked questions why i might not be right, how I could change and be better, so I felt better.

Whenever I can, I help people. I talk to people. We get so busy all the time that I make it a point to talk to people. And for whatever reason, whenever I do, it turns out this person is someone I was seeking. Sometimes it’s a job I needed, sometimes a friend, sometimes an ally. We are all connected.

I help as much as I can. And I get lost as much as I can. I try all the time and I pray constantly.

Things pop up all the time. Sometimes I help someone and I hesitate before I do so, but I do it anyway. Not even five or ten minutes later, I am given something in return. Be it a compliment, a kind sentiment, a physical something. It never fails. Sometimes it takes a couple weeks and sometimes it’s immediate.

I have asked so many questions and strangely enough, the music talks to me. As soon as I worry about something and I have a clear mind as I do so, the next song that comes on answers me.

For so long I couldn’t sleep. I had terrible nightmares. I told myself to experience the anger I felt during my sleep and eventually I found myself sleeping longer than I should. My dreams were vivid and bright. But eventually I forgave my mother and now we are working together to help people.

I stopped blaming people and I learned how to truthfully feel my emotions. I stopped trying to define my feelings and instead accepted times when I didn’t know how I felt, or understanding I might be angry in the future.

Everything I’m angry about I use on a scale. In five years time will it matter? A day? A week? A year?

So what does it matter?

There are signs everywhere. You just have to be open to seeing them. When he spoke about doing what our intuition says, I have felt that 100%. I only ever get in trouble when I doubt that.

I say thank you everyday. Even when I’m having a bad day I say thank you.

I started with forgiveness and then I ended up being grateful.

I stopped giving people the middle finger and started giving peace signs. People are so unprepared to deal with nice things, they just drive away, feeling odd.

I don’t like repeating lessons over and over. So I try to learn the first time around. Trust myself, and I know the answer will come.