I’m sitting next to her
She died beneath the Buddha
The sound of chimes and bells
Singing in the wind
I can’t smell her yet
But the flies won’t leave her alone
My poor little one
I knew her time was soon
I bought her a bed
They mailed it today
A little too late
That’s all I wanted to say
There is hope in me
I feel the spiderwebs
I’ve been so asleep
Waking only in my dreams
And now I am not
I do still feel it
There is still hesitation
I like that, it’s right
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
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”
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?
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.