"Forgiveness is not something we do for other people, it is something we do for ourselves to get well and move on."
What an awful concept. Can you imagine living in a world where people have such little regard for the feelings of others that even in their FORGIVENESS they refuse to acknowledge them? If everyone lived their life this way, the world would be a miserable place, in my own opinion of course.
5/31/12
Judgement.
Most of us say we don't like to judge people, don't like to talk about them behind their backs, don't like to criticize without proper cause... but let's face it. In some way, we do. It's human nature, we are pretty imperfect organisms.
What I find fascinating is how incredibly easy it is to find those who will pass the most judgement on you at once. Surprisingly (or perhaps not at all), it's usually the ones who are loudest about their lack of judgement upon others. The ones who will say things like "oh, but I don't like to judge others," or "I can't STAND people talking about others!" or "well, who am I to judge?" But all the time. Pretty much any time the subject turns to another specific human being, usually a mutual acquaintance of the two parties of the conversation, they will quickly throw in their piece about how judging others is wrong and potentially toss up a "well, I do hate to talk behind people's backs..."
But then watch carefully as they dance delicately between the social politics and tell you their judgements and talk about them.
It's usually masked in a polite tone, but it's there. And it's always those types.
I find, personally, the people who are most likely to give you honest conversation and keep you out of their extra-curricular discussions are the ones who trust themselves to come forth through their actions, and the way they behave, rather than relying on what they SAY their actions are or will be. It's just an interesting observation I've made.
I don't profess to be perfect, either. I do, despite myself, pass judgement on nearly everyone I meet, almost immediately in fact. It comes with my fearful attitude towards human beings. There's the initial point where I decide whether or not they frighten me, then I decide whether or not I find them predictable. If they make me nervous, but they're predictable in their actions and speech, I am still usually okay. However, if they're frightening AND unpredictable, then there's no going back.
It's a fault I will admit to. I don't like that I will be so quick to make assumptions, but it comes with the gig of being someone like myself. It's like, if you hit a dog enough times they'll jump every time you'll move. If you add the fact that I am deaf in one ear and thus cannot tell where things are coming from, and you get one jumpy human being. I just have some barriers to breach, that's all.
Anyways.
What inspired this rant was my mother. She's one of those people who doesn't QUITE understand how to use the social networks of the world and just likes to spam everyone's experience with pictures that she finds that she likes. They're always the pictures with the sayings on them, too.
But like I said, those who are so KEEN to hide what they're really like will be the loudest about what exactly they aren't like. The one that got me going this time said,
"Before you judge ME, make sure that you're PERFECT."
It hit home because it's the ultimate hypocrisy for her. I just don't understand. And her list of postings is full of them. This one is also confusing.
"It is sometimes disheartening and unfortunate when others think they have all the answers to life. Then attempt to impose and force their beliefs on others as if they're righteous. There is not 1 way to live, 1 way to health, 1 way to truth, light & joy! We are all on our own path and that path may not be for others. It doesn't make us wrong or right. It makes us who we are - a person made in the image of God. Its why we're all so very unique so appreciate & celebrate the uniqueness in ourselves"
This just baffles me. All over the place. So much mixed with what is said and what is done. I'll leave you to guess in what areas.
What I find fascinating is how incredibly easy it is to find those who will pass the most judgement on you at once. Surprisingly (or perhaps not at all), it's usually the ones who are loudest about their lack of judgement upon others. The ones who will say things like "oh, but I don't like to judge others," or "I can't STAND people talking about others!" or "well, who am I to judge?" But all the time. Pretty much any time the subject turns to another specific human being, usually a mutual acquaintance of the two parties of the conversation, they will quickly throw in their piece about how judging others is wrong and potentially toss up a "well, I do hate to talk behind people's backs..."
But then watch carefully as they dance delicately between the social politics and tell you their judgements and talk about them.
It's usually masked in a polite tone, but it's there. And it's always those types.
I find, personally, the people who are most likely to give you honest conversation and keep you out of their extra-curricular discussions are the ones who trust themselves to come forth through their actions, and the way they behave, rather than relying on what they SAY their actions are or will be. It's just an interesting observation I've made.
I don't profess to be perfect, either. I do, despite myself, pass judgement on nearly everyone I meet, almost immediately in fact. It comes with my fearful attitude towards human beings. There's the initial point where I decide whether or not they frighten me, then I decide whether or not I find them predictable. If they make me nervous, but they're predictable in their actions and speech, I am still usually okay. However, if they're frightening AND unpredictable, then there's no going back.
It's a fault I will admit to. I don't like that I will be so quick to make assumptions, but it comes with the gig of being someone like myself. It's like, if you hit a dog enough times they'll jump every time you'll move. If you add the fact that I am deaf in one ear and thus cannot tell where things are coming from, and you get one jumpy human being. I just have some barriers to breach, that's all.
Anyways.
What inspired this rant was my mother. She's one of those people who doesn't QUITE understand how to use the social networks of the world and just likes to spam everyone's experience with pictures that she finds that she likes. They're always the pictures with the sayings on them, too.
But like I said, those who are so KEEN to hide what they're really like will be the loudest about what exactly they aren't like. The one that got me going this time said,
"Before you judge ME, make sure that you're PERFECT."
It hit home because it's the ultimate hypocrisy for her. I just don't understand. And her list of postings is full of them. This one is also confusing.
"It is sometimes disheartening and unfortunate when others think they have all the answers to life. Then attempt to impose and force their beliefs on others as if they're righteous. There is not 1 way to live, 1 way to health, 1 way to truth, light & joy! We are all on our own path and that path may not be for others. It doesn't make us wrong or right. It makes us who we are - a person made in the image of God. Its why we're all so very unique so appreciate & celebrate the uniqueness in ourselves"
This just baffles me. All over the place. So much mixed with what is said and what is done. I'll leave you to guess in what areas.
Starving artist living off of a $40/mo grocery budget
You might say it's impossible, unhealthy, or even crazy, but for the past year my average grocery budget has been around $40. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to secure a few extra dollars, but for the most part $40 is sufficient. I do this mainly with large bags of rice, bulk noodles, and then very cheap sources of nutrients such as potatoes, dry beans, cheap veggies (onions, carrots), cheap fruit (apples), and so on. And discount bread if I can find it, and whenever peanut butter goes on sale, I'm there. I drink only water and milk, don't buy any sort of snack food, and I do just fine on this tiny budget. I do what I can.
But here's where the story gets awesome. Ian works as a line cook at a very high class restaurant, all gourmet, all day every day, and he gets free food. Especially if there's a buffet. So much food. And he lives with two freelancers, and he knows we're poor, so almost every day, at the end of the day, he brings home enough food to feed Laura and I for one or two meals. This is a huge relief on my finances.
So basically, for someone who lives off of $40 a month for groceries, I now eat pretty good due to a very considerate roommate.
I guess there are worse things than eating gourmet leftovers every day for dinner. Life got a whole lot better when this advantage rolled around.
But here's where the story gets awesome. Ian works as a line cook at a very high class restaurant, all gourmet, all day every day, and he gets free food. Especially if there's a buffet. So much food. And he lives with two freelancers, and he knows we're poor, so almost every day, at the end of the day, he brings home enough food to feed Laura and I for one or two meals. This is a huge relief on my finances.
So basically, for someone who lives off of $40 a month for groceries, I now eat pretty good due to a very considerate roommate.
I guess there are worse things than eating gourmet leftovers every day for dinner. Life got a whole lot better when this advantage rolled around.
I think I broke blogger.
I was just sitting here, minding my own business, waiting for Laura to get her butt in gear... and absent-mindedly clicking the "next blog" button up top. Half of me was looking for writing/drawing inspiration and half of me was (is...) waiting so that Laura and I can head out to purchase sustenance for the next week.
At any rate, I'm scrolling through and I found a couple of interesting blogs, one on a journalist that was alright enough, but the one I loved was on a photographer who seemed to have the most tragic job of working with police. Photographing accidents and search parties and whatnot. And it was great and inspiring and left me wanting more, so naturally after skimming through it I clicked next.
Japanese text. Next... more of it. Next... Russian. Then Persian text. None of it was in text that I have any clue how to read. This went on for about 15 blogs before I decided I had gone crazy and closed the browser window.
Blogger hates me. Only explanation. Whatever I did to it, I don't suppose I will ever discover.
At any rate, I'm scrolling through and I found a couple of interesting blogs, one on a journalist that was alright enough, but the one I loved was on a photographer who seemed to have the most tragic job of working with police. Photographing accidents and search parties and whatnot. And it was great and inspiring and left me wanting more, so naturally after skimming through it I clicked next.
Japanese text. Next... more of it. Next... Russian. Then Persian text. None of it was in text that I have any clue how to read. This went on for about 15 blogs before I decided I had gone crazy and closed the browser window.
Blogger hates me. Only explanation. Whatever I did to it, I don't suppose I will ever discover.
I did it!!
Rent is due tomorrow, and I JUST submitted a commission to a customer and got paid, gaining exactly enough currency to pay my rent, electricity, and even have some pocket change left over for a few groceries. Now I just have to get up super early in the morning and get it all transferred to my landlords in a completely different city. All has worked out, as it always seems to do at the last minute. Breathe a sigh of relief with me, everyone, that was a close one.
Now I sit here with writer's block trying to progress so maybe I can make some deadlines, and I have to start securing funds for next month... ugh.
So now I'm stuck with 2/3 of my roommates and a few friends from the arts school, watching in mild amusement as they yell and panic over the final boss in the Legend of Zelda game for the Wii. Apparently they've been taking turns in the game and advancing together and now this one friend is taking on the final boss. And it's funny, mostly because this is a man who's spastic and obnoxious and freaks out easily and swears a lot. It's hilarious watching him trying to beat a frustrating part.
Oddly enough, I'm not one for video games. I love watching for the stories and the art but I dislike playing many of them. More often than not I just show up and watch them go along, in silent amusement as they yell at the inanimates onscreen.
I ran a training run today, the full 10k, only 4 minutes and 19 seconds slower than I want to do in three months. Which makes me think I should raise my standards of myself... we'll see. I'm feeling rather exhausted and sore and stiff, but great.
Now I sit here with writer's block trying to progress so maybe I can make some deadlines, and I have to start securing funds for next month... ugh.
So now I'm stuck with 2/3 of my roommates and a few friends from the arts school, watching in mild amusement as they yell and panic over the final boss in the Legend of Zelda game for the Wii. Apparently they've been taking turns in the game and advancing together and now this one friend is taking on the final boss. And it's funny, mostly because this is a man who's spastic and obnoxious and freaks out easily and swears a lot. It's hilarious watching him trying to beat a frustrating part.
Oddly enough, I'm not one for video games. I love watching for the stories and the art but I dislike playing many of them. More often than not I just show up and watch them go along, in silent amusement as they yell at the inanimates onscreen.
I ran a training run today, the full 10k, only 4 minutes and 19 seconds slower than I want to do in three months. Which makes me think I should raise my standards of myself... we'll see. I'm feeling rather exhausted and sore and stiff, but great.
5/30/12
My MC and I.
We share a thing. It's not the crazy thing that some authors do where they become their main characters, because that is definitely not me. I have an author friend who does that sometimes. I'll see him and he will be completely different in personality because he's "test driving" one of his characters. I find that weird.
But my MC and I have a very special thing. I think mostly because she's such a long-developed character who has been a part of two novels and around six or seven short stories I have written, and is a favorite among many readers which has allowed me to continue working with her.
I think more often than not, the link between an author and their MC walks the line of some sub-disorder of schizophrenia. It's almost unhealthy how much some of us get involved. And I experienced that excessively today. And it made me think about it in depth for the first time in years.
I was writing from the point of view of my MC's best friend. Almost a sidekick-esque sort of character, a secondary protagonist if you will. This character is a large part of many of the stories, as her POV tends to fill in for whatever my MC can't, or whatever is not best seen from my MC'S POV. So, I was writing a particularly hard chapter in which the MC goes through an unexpected tragedy, of which her friend is a disconnected witness. And the anguish the two go through separately is quite extreme, but unfortunately they both are feeling different sorts of pain for slightly different reasons, resulting from this one event. One because it happened to her and one because they couldn't prevent it and then altogether because the event signifies the "impending defeat" of their cause.
I had to stop writing. I damn near needed to run for a paper bag for how light-headed I was feeling from the emotional onslaught. I ended up throwing my ball again for some time to calm down and downing about half an ocean's worth of water. Not only did I feel exhausted from my race training, but it emotionally drained me and put me off for the whole day.
And it's just sparked a sort of thinking about how writers, especially writers of my genre of choice, never seem to fully abandon the childhood imaginary friends. It's not like people with schizophrenia or split-personality disorder. We all realize they aren't real, but at the same time, they are almost as real as half the people in our world, and MORE real than the other half.
It's an odd sort of concept if you think about it. It's not really crazy, it's not grown up at all, yet readers just love the characters, no matter the means for their creation.
Interesting.
But my MC and I have a very special thing. I think mostly because she's such a long-developed character who has been a part of two novels and around six or seven short stories I have written, and is a favorite among many readers which has allowed me to continue working with her.
I think more often than not, the link between an author and their MC walks the line of some sub-disorder of schizophrenia. It's almost unhealthy how much some of us get involved. And I experienced that excessively today. And it made me think about it in depth for the first time in years.
I was writing from the point of view of my MC's best friend. Almost a sidekick-esque sort of character, a secondary protagonist if you will. This character is a large part of many of the stories, as her POV tends to fill in for whatever my MC can't, or whatever is not best seen from my MC'S POV. So, I was writing a particularly hard chapter in which the MC goes through an unexpected tragedy, of which her friend is a disconnected witness. And the anguish the two go through separately is quite extreme, but unfortunately they both are feeling different sorts of pain for slightly different reasons, resulting from this one event. One because it happened to her and one because they couldn't prevent it and then altogether because the event signifies the "impending defeat" of their cause.
I had to stop writing. I damn near needed to run for a paper bag for how light-headed I was feeling from the emotional onslaught. I ended up throwing my ball again for some time to calm down and downing about half an ocean's worth of water. Not only did I feel exhausted from my race training, but it emotionally drained me and put me off for the whole day.
And it's just sparked a sort of thinking about how writers, especially writers of my genre of choice, never seem to fully abandon the childhood imaginary friends. It's not like people with schizophrenia or split-personality disorder. We all realize they aren't real, but at the same time, they are almost as real as half the people in our world, and MORE real than the other half.
It's an odd sort of concept if you think about it. It's not really crazy, it's not grown up at all, yet readers just love the characters, no matter the means for their creation.
Interesting.
5/28/12
Day 1 of the next step of moving forward.
Just away from the chaos that was yesterday.
Today is about starting to train for the 10k and quick-fixing the money problem. We'll see how it all plays out!
Got lots of sleep last night, which is rare, and started out my focus diet of high fiber, protein, calcium, and iron and low sugar. Oh, and high omega 3s which is a reason for me to be grudging because I HATE fish. Hate it. It's so gross. And low sugar means I can't smother the fish taste with anything.
Thanks a lot, running. Making me do stupid healthy things.
Not that I was unhealthy before, I just have to focus eating specifically for intensive training.
So this morning breakfast was oats and a teaspoon of honey in milk. Makes for good cereal, by the way. Then a couple of carrots and an egg fried without butter or oil, a cup (only a cup... sigh...) of coffee with fat-free milk and no sugar (I hate you, focus diet). One cup of water to chase the coffee and now carrying a glass around with me for more water.
The thing about running is you need to build muscle and store energy. You need strong bones, hence the calcium. Things like coffee are good, actually, but only in small doses. So when I made my cup of coffee this morning, I actually diluted it with a HUGE amount of milk (about 1/3 of the mug). Coffee contains high levels of antioxidants and a few other things that help your system out a bit. So a cup a day is good for you.
So starting this morning a little grumpy due to yesterday's events, but excited for this 10k business. We'll see how the money thing plays out.
Today is about starting to train for the 10k and quick-fixing the money problem. We'll see how it all plays out!
Got lots of sleep last night, which is rare, and started out my focus diet of high fiber, protein, calcium, and iron and low sugar. Oh, and high omega 3s which is a reason for me to be grudging because I HATE fish. Hate it. It's so gross. And low sugar means I can't smother the fish taste with anything.
Thanks a lot, running. Making me do stupid healthy things.
Not that I was unhealthy before, I just have to focus eating specifically for intensive training.
So this morning breakfast was oats and a teaspoon of honey in milk. Makes for good cereal, by the way. Then a couple of carrots and an egg fried without butter or oil, a cup (only a cup... sigh...) of coffee with fat-free milk and no sugar (I hate you, focus diet). One cup of water to chase the coffee and now carrying a glass around with me for more water.
The thing about running is you need to build muscle and store energy. You need strong bones, hence the calcium. Things like coffee are good, actually, but only in small doses. So when I made my cup of coffee this morning, I actually diluted it with a HUGE amount of milk (about 1/3 of the mug). Coffee contains high levels of antioxidants and a few other things that help your system out a bit. So a cup a day is good for you.
So starting this morning a little grumpy due to yesterday's events, but excited for this 10k business. We'll see how the money thing plays out.
5/27/12
This life. This... life.
This morning started out like any other Sunday morning for me. Which generally sees me in my religion's place of worship (please don't stop reading because of that. Seriously. I'm nothing if not honest here).
After what I must say was a very soul-healing morning, I came home to receive a phone call from my mother (finally), only to tell me she cannot possibly transfer the $700 that I made off of an American customer for a job a few months ago. The system for American customers is that she gets sent the money and deposits it into my American bank account. However, this time it went to her bank account where she forgot about it. And now "can't afford" to give it to me just now. But my rent is due in 3 days... so I'm screwed, quite plainly. I'll be sure to let you all know how I manage to pull a few hundred dollars out of my ass in the next 3 days.
So much for soul-healing. I spent the rest of the day on my bedroom floor, throwing a ball at the ceiling. It's a surprisingly calming activity, usually helps me relax enough to continue work or calm the hell down.
I spent the rest of the day looking for something to take my mind off of this ridiculousness. Really my mother is using this emergency to say "look, see, you can't make a living off of just art, you just might have to go flip burgers." Well I would have made a living just fine if it weren't for this BS!
At any rate.
I've decided to train for a 6-mile race that will take place in a few months. Will get me out of the house every once in a while to train and build up stamina. Right now a 2-mile run is about average for me, so theoretically in the next 3 months I just have to triple it. Piece of cake.
I've never run a race before, save for junior high school track and field, so naturally I'm nervous as hell.
We'll see where it takes me.
After what I must say was a very soul-healing morning, I came home to receive a phone call from my mother (finally), only to tell me she cannot possibly transfer the $700 that I made off of an American customer for a job a few months ago. The system for American customers is that she gets sent the money and deposits it into my American bank account. However, this time it went to her bank account where she forgot about it. And now "can't afford" to give it to me just now. But my rent is due in 3 days... so I'm screwed, quite plainly. I'll be sure to let you all know how I manage to pull a few hundred dollars out of my ass in the next 3 days.
So much for soul-healing. I spent the rest of the day on my bedroom floor, throwing a ball at the ceiling. It's a surprisingly calming activity, usually helps me relax enough to continue work or calm the hell down.
I spent the rest of the day looking for something to take my mind off of this ridiculousness. Really my mother is using this emergency to say "look, see, you can't make a living off of just art, you just might have to go flip burgers." Well I would have made a living just fine if it weren't for this BS!
At any rate.
I've decided to train for a 6-mile race that will take place in a few months. Will get me out of the house every once in a while to train and build up stamina. Right now a 2-mile run is about average for me, so theoretically in the next 3 months I just have to triple it. Piece of cake.
I've never run a race before, save for junior high school track and field, so naturally I'm nervous as hell.
We'll see where it takes me.
5/26/12
What made me into an artist.
This is a long and personal story. I find it an intriguing story and might even publish it one day.
It starts off with my basis in trust.
Okay. Talk to like 80-90% of young women (18-30) in this world, and they will tell you that they have trust issues.
[Oh man, as soon as I turn 31 I'm going to remember what I said this day and hate myself. But whatever, I still have a few years! Ha... ]
But they won't just say they have trust issues, they will say it in a low, serious tone, as if they are dark and twisted on the inside, and then they will probably proceed to tell you their entire life story, usually with some "personal" stuff thrown in there. And then it's accompanied with "haha you're so easy to talk to! You must be trustworthy!" And I just stare back at them in shock, thinking I couldn't possibly do what they just did, and also feeling pretty awkward because to me, the things they say feel very personal.
So I usually walk away in judgement thinking "trust issues, yeah right." And of course half of these are the people who will tell you every other time they see you that they have trust issues. Just to remind you what sensitive, tortured souls they are. And all I could think of is "stop telling me things then!!" Not because I'm untrustworthy, but because I can probably count the amount of people I'm comfortable with on my fingers. And having people's personal lives at my disposal like that actually scares me.
Now, from what I see, I trust people way less than what these (usually) women seem to trust people. And I don't see how I'm more welcoming than the next person. In fact maybe less, because I don't say much to people I'm not comfortable with. Especially not women. Would you open up to someone who just stares back to you in stunned silence with the odd "that sucks," or "I don't know what to tell you"?
My point from saying that is not to be like "you think YOU have trust issues? I'll show you trust issues!" Because I actually don't see myself as having extensive trust issues...
Anyways, moving on! To my friends, I like to be a wealth of information and help and knowledge, but only after I've gotten comfortable enough to tell them about my opinion and judgements. Which takes a while. Now in my last post, when I said it takes me 2-9 months to warm up to someone, I was not exaggerating. In fact, I might have underestimated that a bit.
I have six specific people that I would call myself completely comfortable with, seven if you include my father, the one parent who raised me. So that's a given. One of them is Laura. Two years before we became close friends, after seeing each other every day. Three more are classmates of mine. It took 3 months to become friends with two of them, 5 months for the other. Another friend I've known for about 9 months, and it took me 6 months to really talk to him. He's special. The last took me a year to talk to, and four more months to trust. There's another that might be close soon, too.
Every single one of these people I saw every day, for a good portion of the day, for the whole time. I went to university with them.
I don't think of myself as hostile, or as having trust issues, or as being dark and mysterious and twisty. I just like to be SAFE. I don't think laying your personal life out for someone you've just met is safe in the least bit. Should they choose to use it against you, you have given them the most efficient weapon against you, your emotions. You've told them how to use them too. AND, if you're the type to consider yourself to have trust issues, you've just given them an excuse to make them worse, should they choose.
Human beings are nasty things, a lot of the time.
So I've found a solution. 5/6 of the people I'm very close with are men. 6/7 if you count my father. I was raised by a man, I grew up having guy friends, of course I've only ever been in relationships with men (seriously, if you haven't figured out "Person" is a woman by now...).
This is because the girls and women I was around were BATSHIT CRAZY MAN. They delighted in mocking others, thought themselves bold if they did it to the person's faces, and saw themselves as incredibly clever and awesome for how higher than all the peasants they were. And you'd think it would change as I grew up, but no. I know some women twice my age who're the same way.
I could never understand how they could look me in the eye and say the nasty things about others they did. And again, it was all personal things. Even my mother would go off on rants about the "scumbags" that were in her life and odd obscenities about her friends, and even the preacher at her church. And she was/is the type of woman who uses Jesus to show others just how right and better than others she is. And that drove me as far away from religion as I could possibly get.
I don't mean I turned Atheist or something, I was actually TERRIFIED to be associated with any sort of belief system, including Atheists and Agnostics. Just because I thought of the judgement it would bring, and the last thing I wanted to be was haughty about my beliefs. But that's changed in the past 5 years, and is also another story for another time.
I dealt with a lot of abuse from women in my early years.
The big one from my childhood I remember was in elementary school. I must have been about ten years old or so. I went to a school that was 300 people and ranged from grade 5-9, so this was my first year at the school. There was only one black person in our school, just because of the area, and she was well-liked and actually very nice. Well, one day a girl decided it would be a good idea to spread a rumor that I had called this girl the N-word, and had been saying a bunch of racist jokes about her. Now, 10-year-old me had never HEARD the N-word before, so I was just over-the-top confused.
So after the whole grade had heard about this, all of the girls in my class brought the girl to me on the playground, clearing off all of the guy friends I was playing with. They demanded I apologize, and I asked for what. And they proceeded to beat the living hell out of me. As I was lying on the ground, struggling not to cry, they hovered over me and told me of my accused crimes and told me to apologize again. I protested like any child would, denying the accusations. When they started beating on me again, until I was screaming and begging the girl to believe me, that I would never do what they said I had done. But she walked away, saying she didn't know what to believe. No one came to my aide because all of my friends had moved to play elsewhere when they saw the field occupied by girls, and everyone else knew what I had done. And we were in the middle of a soccer field, far from the playground and teachers.
Eventually, after covering me in bruises and breaking the jewelry I was wearing (I was a fan of making beaded necklaces at the time and wore about three of them every day), they called me all sorts of names and left me lying in the field. I managed to stagger my way to the school office, only to find the girl who had made the accusations in the office, with the principal, smirking at me out the window as she told the principal of my racism.
So, when I walked in, he didn't seem to notice that I was severely beaten. He could only scream at me in a rage about racism and what a horrible thing I had done and how disgusted with me he was. I remember he mockingly shot a racist joke that I had apparently said towards me. "What are three things you can't give a black man?" When I could only stare back at him in desperation and shock, he sneered "yeah, that's what I thought!" at me. And I lost it. I ended up in the councilor's office because I couldn't stop screaming out of panic and pain and frustration long enough to get a word out. After the councilor figured out the truth (thank God for that) a few hours later, he took my pathetic, shaking self back to the principal and explained how it was all a lie and how they had given me my first very real psychological breakdown at the age of ten.
I don't believe the principal ever apologized, either. According to my raging father, he never did. The people responsible were given a detention each and were sentenced to spend one recess sitting on the edge of the playground and watching everyone having fun without them. Fair punishment, it would seem.
I'm pretty sure that event is the one that started my slow descent into fearing every woman on earth. A year later, I transferred to my mother's house (before she moved to Florida) to get away from the daily abuse. I had been beaten up a few more times at the school in the following year, and I was one of the children that had to take a deep breath to stop myself from panicking every time I stepped into the school. When my grandmother had died, they had mocked me for mourning her. It was the first time I had dealt with loss. It caused another breakdown, and I actually stopped talking. I was afraid anything I said would be used as an excuse to torment or beat me.
So I moved away.
But then I was the awkward new kid who didn't talk, was fashionably inept (a grievous crime for a 12-year-old girl living in the city, I assure you), and pretty socially awful. So of course the teasing started up again, but I had finally had enough, and I learned how to fight back. Every time it started to get to the point where they would throw the first punch, I would fight back like a wild animal, desperate to not be hurt anymore. The fights stopped when they figured out they couldn't get a punch in anymore without about losing their hand. I became hostile and vicious and kept to myself. I only played one sport, and if I wasn't at school or at basketball practice I stayed in my mother's basement, hiding. Drawing. Writing. I wrote a whole novel at the age of 13, staring a badass female with a strong, confident personality. The novel is still on my computer. It's awful in structure and development, as a 13-year-old's writing will be, but it shows a part of my soul that was being so crushed. The MC is a compassionate woman, but also very capable of defending herself and others when the situation called for it.
It was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to care for people, but I had it beaten out of me.
But my mother was losing it with me. I think she resented how like my father I was, and hated what a loser I had become in school. She hated my father and hated that I loved him. She was very popular when she was in school, and hated that I had no friends and had turned into a tomboyish basement dweller. She hated that my activities included hiding in my room and "scribbling," or running around and bouncing a ball "like a boy might." She began trying to make me hate my father, telling me all sorts of lies about him, and she began throwing my clothes out and forcing me to wear something that would be more appealing. I came to a compromise with her only by wearing jeans and t-shirts. As long as they were new, they weren't hideous.
She began forcing me to "go hang out with friends" by locking me out of the house and not letting me in until I had gone out to do something. I took to walking along the many paths in the neighborhood (rich neighborhood with parks and ponds...) and taking the little rat of a dog she had out for hours to keep me company. I had had a job on a farm for a couple of years, and through saving up with that I was able to buy a horse off of a family member and boarded it near our house on my own money, at the age of 13. My mother, who wanted to be a rodeo star when she was young, began living vicariously through me and my work with horses, and so I was pushed to work hard. The cats in the house, and my horse, and the horses I worked with, became my friends. It was good, because I didn't have to talk with them, and none of them were going to fight me. It was a quiet escape from the madness.
And so I started to heal.
It was hard. My mother had taken an abusive turn. Every night she would find a way to be verbally abusive and yell at me. She called me lazy, a brat, and once or twice a loser. She would tell me I was a disappointment. If I ever defended myself, she would hit me, usually in the face. Sometimes she would destroy an art piece I was working on or rip up some writing I had done. More often than not she would prevent me from seeing my horse, causing us to miss some rodeos. If I ever got in the way of her trying to destroy something, she would grab me and throw me either against a wall or onto the floor.
Eventually she sold my horse, and any healing I had done was broken, severely. I bought a metal box and any time I heard her approaching, my art and my writing would get shoved in there and hidden in my closet. She never destroyed anything of mine again.
After a while, it began to drive me back into the reserved depression. I stopped talking again, and became hostile. I forgot any compassion I had learned, and the only escape I found was working on the horse farm. It was the only time I had relief and could forget myself.
If my co-workers weren't around. They enjoyed throwing mud at me and mocking my awkwardness. My only escape was literally the animals.
And she tried to take that from me, too. When she told me I was no longer allowed there, I snapped out of my reserve. I fought back for once, kinda found my voice and defended myself. I'm pretty sure obscenities in every sort of combination, some of which lived only in the depths of my deepest imagination came out at that point, and I probably said more in that argument than I had said out loud in the past month. So she did the sensible thing and punched me so hard in the head I saw stars. I was so shocked that all I could do was sit on the floor in silence. She kicked me up and told me to get out of her sight, so I did. I ran out of the house and didn't come back until around 5am, after having wandered the parks all night. I found her crying on the couch and she told me she was sorry.
The next day, I asked her to please let me back to the farm. I was 14 at this point, close to 15. She said no, and another fight escalated. Some how, saying so much the night before had opened me up to saying more. It got out of hand once more, and I found myself pinned against the wall by my neck. I finally fought back, shoving her away from me and bolting for the stairs, to find a safe haven behind the locked door in my room. She managed to catch me and throw me into another wall. I shoved her away again and she began screaming about how out of control I was and how she was going to call the police on me and have me arrested. I told her I was leaving, for good. She said fine, and told me to pack my bags, because she never wanted to see me again.
I made for the stairs again, and she pushed me, against the wall at the top of the stairs, and I ended up falling down the steep flight into the basement. Now the basement stairs were carpeted and the basement was finished, so don't get too much of a barbaric scene in your heads. Still, it was brutal. Bruised and mentally damaged (but at the same time, oddly I had fixed something mentally), I packed a suitcase and left. Wandered around long enough to find a payphone and tell my father everything that had happened.
He rushed over and picked me up, then we went back to my mother's house. He threatened to call the police on her if she did anything stupid, and I was able to pick up all of my belongings, load them into my father's vehicle, and drive away forever.
Now, like I said, something had been oddly fixed. I had been able to speak out and defend myself against her, and I had been able to protect the last thing I loved, the horses and my art. I continued pursuing drawing, driven by its comfort, and writing was there too. Back under the safe care of my father, I was able to heal for real. I had to go back to the hell-school for one year, but by this time people had changed, some new ones had arrived, and other bad ones had moved away. I had also learned how to protect myself, and thus my ninth grade year was not that bad.
I joined the band class and became a percussionist, and I was learning to play guitar.
High School came, and with it, a new beginning. I learned how to be my own person, and actually found people mature enough to accept it. This was a brand new concept, and I was thrilled to have it. I began learning new things about trust and relationships, started into what would turn out to be a six-year relationship with a special boy. I learned about earning friends, trusting them, and having the friendship expand. I also learned how to deal with it when the friendships ended or the trust was betrayed.
I became sort of a rockstar with my art at the school, too. I found other artists but seemed to be the school drawing master. Because I had worked so long and hard, I was "that kid" at school who could draw anything and impress people. I had never experienced something I was over-the-top good at before, never been much better than other people at anything, but I had found one.
I also found a love of music. I began experimenting on the drum kit, and though I was in guitar lessons I began to love the drums more and more. I also began teaching myself piano and submerged myself in art and music. And for once, I had people supporting me. I had a loving parent who was behind me, and though I had my teenager-esque moments of being angry with him and feeling his decisions were unfair, I think I fared better in those situations than most people that age because of my mother.
I had support, and freedom to do what I loved. I also continued on with horses and began to advance in the competition world. I exited high school with honors grades, and a new life. I didn't even recognize myself from not even four years previous. I had become bubbly and talkative and more out-going, but I've never been completely fixed. There's always been some residual damage there, but it's been a few years since then and I'm learning to get rid of it.
Out of high school, I auditioned for a prestigious jazz school and got in as a drummer. There, I found a community even BETTER than high school, with no worries of mockery (let's face it, it still happened in high school. High school wasn't a walk in the fairy park, but it was a halluvalot better than what I had left) and people who were all there for the same reason. Everyone was super nice.
I finally felt healed, more or less. I had found a place that I, without a doubt, belonged. But there was still an underlying hint of darkness there, which threatened to come right on back when I surprise lost a lot of high school friends to changing lives and their decision to no longer like me. I was hurt, and felt betrayed, and with those feelings once again so strongly exposed, I realized I had another thing to fix, and that was a spiritual matter.
I had thought I had everything. I was paying my way through school and rent on commissioned artwork and playing some shows as a pianist. I also had some horse shows and training jobs. I thought it was the dream. But I still was lacking some purpose.
So, in my second year, I finally asked one of my friends (one of the six I mentioned before!) if I could accompany him to his church, and there through some troubles and confusion and debates, I found a spiritual direction. Now, I'm not a crazy over-the-top, super conservative religious freak or anything, but I do find it to be a big part of my life, and it did begin to come out in my art and writing, and actually helped me to become stronger in my artistic areas.
It's been a few years since then and I couldn't be more comfortable with who I am, I don't think. I've had a long journey, with a long, hard path to healing. I've made amends with my mother, and I've fixed other broken relationships. I've grown up and learned to accept people, and I've become confident in who "me" is. Which is something I never thought I'd have.
And really I have art to thank. I honestly don't think I would have made it through without art. And that's why it's so personal to me. It's the only thing that's been there, since I could hold a pencil even.
I've managed to fix myself through it.
Now that we've come to the end of my story, and anyone who may be reading it might be a bit moved, I would like to point out something that is contradictory in this piece of history. I said I don't open up to people who can use this against me.
Yet here's my story.
It's a conscious decision I've made to put it into the world. Part of the reason why I've done it is so that someone may stumble across it and learn from it. Maybe gain some strength. Maybe reach out to me for help. I would be happy to give it! But the biggest thing is, you don't know who I am. anonymity is a strong tool, and I'm okay with using it. I just thought it was time to share with someone.
I leave you to your thoughts!
It starts off with my basis in trust.
Okay. Talk to like 80-90% of young women (18-30) in this world, and they will tell you that they have trust issues.
[Oh man, as soon as I turn 31 I'm going to remember what I said this day and hate myself. But whatever, I still have a few years! Ha... ]
But they won't just say they have trust issues, they will say it in a low, serious tone, as if they are dark and twisted on the inside, and then they will probably proceed to tell you their entire life story, usually with some "personal" stuff thrown in there. And then it's accompanied with "haha you're so easy to talk to! You must be trustworthy!" And I just stare back at them in shock, thinking I couldn't possibly do what they just did, and also feeling pretty awkward because to me, the things they say feel very personal.
So I usually walk away in judgement thinking "trust issues, yeah right." And of course half of these are the people who will tell you every other time they see you that they have trust issues. Just to remind you what sensitive, tortured souls they are. And all I could think of is "stop telling me things then!!" Not because I'm untrustworthy, but because I can probably count the amount of people I'm comfortable with on my fingers. And having people's personal lives at my disposal like that actually scares me.
Now, from what I see, I trust people way less than what these (usually) women seem to trust people. And I don't see how I'm more welcoming than the next person. In fact maybe less, because I don't say much to people I'm not comfortable with. Especially not women. Would you open up to someone who just stares back to you in stunned silence with the odd "that sucks," or "I don't know what to tell you"?
My point from saying that is not to be like "you think YOU have trust issues? I'll show you trust issues!" Because I actually don't see myself as having extensive trust issues...
Anyways, moving on! To my friends, I like to be a wealth of information and help and knowledge, but only after I've gotten comfortable enough to tell them about my opinion and judgements. Which takes a while. Now in my last post, when I said it takes me 2-9 months to warm up to someone, I was not exaggerating. In fact, I might have underestimated that a bit.
I have six specific people that I would call myself completely comfortable with, seven if you include my father, the one parent who raised me. So that's a given. One of them is Laura. Two years before we became close friends, after seeing each other every day. Three more are classmates of mine. It took 3 months to become friends with two of them, 5 months for the other. Another friend I've known for about 9 months, and it took me 6 months to really talk to him. He's special. The last took me a year to talk to, and four more months to trust. There's another that might be close soon, too.
Every single one of these people I saw every day, for a good portion of the day, for the whole time. I went to university with them.
I don't think of myself as hostile, or as having trust issues, or as being dark and mysterious and twisty. I just like to be SAFE. I don't think laying your personal life out for someone you've just met is safe in the least bit. Should they choose to use it against you, you have given them the most efficient weapon against you, your emotions. You've told them how to use them too. AND, if you're the type to consider yourself to have trust issues, you've just given them an excuse to make them worse, should they choose.
Human beings are nasty things, a lot of the time.
So I've found a solution. 5/6 of the people I'm very close with are men. 6/7 if you count my father. I was raised by a man, I grew up having guy friends, of course I've only ever been in relationships with men (seriously, if you haven't figured out "Person" is a woman by now...).
This is because the girls and women I was around were BATSHIT CRAZY MAN. They delighted in mocking others, thought themselves bold if they did it to the person's faces, and saw themselves as incredibly clever and awesome for how higher than all the peasants they were. And you'd think it would change as I grew up, but no. I know some women twice my age who're the same way.
I could never understand how they could look me in the eye and say the nasty things about others they did. And again, it was all personal things. Even my mother would go off on rants about the "scumbags" that were in her life and odd obscenities about her friends, and even the preacher at her church. And she was/is the type of woman who uses Jesus to show others just how right and better than others she is. And that drove me as far away from religion as I could possibly get.
I don't mean I turned Atheist or something, I was actually TERRIFIED to be associated with any sort of belief system, including Atheists and Agnostics. Just because I thought of the judgement it would bring, and the last thing I wanted to be was haughty about my beliefs. But that's changed in the past 5 years, and is also another story for another time.
I dealt with a lot of abuse from women in my early years.
The big one from my childhood I remember was in elementary school. I must have been about ten years old or so. I went to a school that was 300 people and ranged from grade 5-9, so this was my first year at the school. There was only one black person in our school, just because of the area, and she was well-liked and actually very nice. Well, one day a girl decided it would be a good idea to spread a rumor that I had called this girl the N-word, and had been saying a bunch of racist jokes about her. Now, 10-year-old me had never HEARD the N-word before, so I was just over-the-top confused.
So after the whole grade had heard about this, all of the girls in my class brought the girl to me on the playground, clearing off all of the guy friends I was playing with. They demanded I apologize, and I asked for what. And they proceeded to beat the living hell out of me. As I was lying on the ground, struggling not to cry, they hovered over me and told me of my accused crimes and told me to apologize again. I protested like any child would, denying the accusations. When they started beating on me again, until I was screaming and begging the girl to believe me, that I would never do what they said I had done. But she walked away, saying she didn't know what to believe. No one came to my aide because all of my friends had moved to play elsewhere when they saw the field occupied by girls, and everyone else knew what I had done. And we were in the middle of a soccer field, far from the playground and teachers.
Eventually, after covering me in bruises and breaking the jewelry I was wearing (I was a fan of making beaded necklaces at the time and wore about three of them every day), they called me all sorts of names and left me lying in the field. I managed to stagger my way to the school office, only to find the girl who had made the accusations in the office, with the principal, smirking at me out the window as she told the principal of my racism.
So, when I walked in, he didn't seem to notice that I was severely beaten. He could only scream at me in a rage about racism and what a horrible thing I had done and how disgusted with me he was. I remember he mockingly shot a racist joke that I had apparently said towards me. "What are three things you can't give a black man?" When I could only stare back at him in desperation and shock, he sneered "yeah, that's what I thought!" at me. And I lost it. I ended up in the councilor's office because I couldn't stop screaming out of panic and pain and frustration long enough to get a word out. After the councilor figured out the truth (thank God for that) a few hours later, he took my pathetic, shaking self back to the principal and explained how it was all a lie and how they had given me my first very real psychological breakdown at the age of ten.
I don't believe the principal ever apologized, either. According to my raging father, he never did. The people responsible were given a detention each and were sentenced to spend one recess sitting on the edge of the playground and watching everyone having fun without them. Fair punishment, it would seem.
I'm pretty sure that event is the one that started my slow descent into fearing every woman on earth. A year later, I transferred to my mother's house (before she moved to Florida) to get away from the daily abuse. I had been beaten up a few more times at the school in the following year, and I was one of the children that had to take a deep breath to stop myself from panicking every time I stepped into the school. When my grandmother had died, they had mocked me for mourning her. It was the first time I had dealt with loss. It caused another breakdown, and I actually stopped talking. I was afraid anything I said would be used as an excuse to torment or beat me.
So I moved away.
But then I was the awkward new kid who didn't talk, was fashionably inept (a grievous crime for a 12-year-old girl living in the city, I assure you), and pretty socially awful. So of course the teasing started up again, but I had finally had enough, and I learned how to fight back. Every time it started to get to the point where they would throw the first punch, I would fight back like a wild animal, desperate to not be hurt anymore. The fights stopped when they figured out they couldn't get a punch in anymore without about losing their hand. I became hostile and vicious and kept to myself. I only played one sport, and if I wasn't at school or at basketball practice I stayed in my mother's basement, hiding. Drawing. Writing. I wrote a whole novel at the age of 13, staring a badass female with a strong, confident personality. The novel is still on my computer. It's awful in structure and development, as a 13-year-old's writing will be, but it shows a part of my soul that was being so crushed. The MC is a compassionate woman, but also very capable of defending herself and others when the situation called for it.
It was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to care for people, but I had it beaten out of me.
But my mother was losing it with me. I think she resented how like my father I was, and hated what a loser I had become in school. She hated my father and hated that I loved him. She was very popular when she was in school, and hated that I had no friends and had turned into a tomboyish basement dweller. She hated that my activities included hiding in my room and "scribbling," or running around and bouncing a ball "like a boy might." She began trying to make me hate my father, telling me all sorts of lies about him, and she began throwing my clothes out and forcing me to wear something that would be more appealing. I came to a compromise with her only by wearing jeans and t-shirts. As long as they were new, they weren't hideous.
She began forcing me to "go hang out with friends" by locking me out of the house and not letting me in until I had gone out to do something. I took to walking along the many paths in the neighborhood (rich neighborhood with parks and ponds...) and taking the little rat of a dog she had out for hours to keep me company. I had had a job on a farm for a couple of years, and through saving up with that I was able to buy a horse off of a family member and boarded it near our house on my own money, at the age of 13. My mother, who wanted to be a rodeo star when she was young, began living vicariously through me and my work with horses, and so I was pushed to work hard. The cats in the house, and my horse, and the horses I worked with, became my friends. It was good, because I didn't have to talk with them, and none of them were going to fight me. It was a quiet escape from the madness.
And so I started to heal.
It was hard. My mother had taken an abusive turn. Every night she would find a way to be verbally abusive and yell at me. She called me lazy, a brat, and once or twice a loser. She would tell me I was a disappointment. If I ever defended myself, she would hit me, usually in the face. Sometimes she would destroy an art piece I was working on or rip up some writing I had done. More often than not she would prevent me from seeing my horse, causing us to miss some rodeos. If I ever got in the way of her trying to destroy something, she would grab me and throw me either against a wall or onto the floor.
Eventually she sold my horse, and any healing I had done was broken, severely. I bought a metal box and any time I heard her approaching, my art and my writing would get shoved in there and hidden in my closet. She never destroyed anything of mine again.
After a while, it began to drive me back into the reserved depression. I stopped talking again, and became hostile. I forgot any compassion I had learned, and the only escape I found was working on the horse farm. It was the only time I had relief and could forget myself.
If my co-workers weren't around. They enjoyed throwing mud at me and mocking my awkwardness. My only escape was literally the animals.
And she tried to take that from me, too. When she told me I was no longer allowed there, I snapped out of my reserve. I fought back for once, kinda found my voice and defended myself. I'm pretty sure obscenities in every sort of combination, some of which lived only in the depths of my deepest imagination came out at that point, and I probably said more in that argument than I had said out loud in the past month. So she did the sensible thing and punched me so hard in the head I saw stars. I was so shocked that all I could do was sit on the floor in silence. She kicked me up and told me to get out of her sight, so I did. I ran out of the house and didn't come back until around 5am, after having wandered the parks all night. I found her crying on the couch and she told me she was sorry.
The next day, I asked her to please let me back to the farm. I was 14 at this point, close to 15. She said no, and another fight escalated. Some how, saying so much the night before had opened me up to saying more. It got out of hand once more, and I found myself pinned against the wall by my neck. I finally fought back, shoving her away from me and bolting for the stairs, to find a safe haven behind the locked door in my room. She managed to catch me and throw me into another wall. I shoved her away again and she began screaming about how out of control I was and how she was going to call the police on me and have me arrested. I told her I was leaving, for good. She said fine, and told me to pack my bags, because she never wanted to see me again.
I made for the stairs again, and she pushed me, against the wall at the top of the stairs, and I ended up falling down the steep flight into the basement. Now the basement stairs were carpeted and the basement was finished, so don't get too much of a barbaric scene in your heads. Still, it was brutal. Bruised and mentally damaged (but at the same time, oddly I had fixed something mentally), I packed a suitcase and left. Wandered around long enough to find a payphone and tell my father everything that had happened.
He rushed over and picked me up, then we went back to my mother's house. He threatened to call the police on her if she did anything stupid, and I was able to pick up all of my belongings, load them into my father's vehicle, and drive away forever.
Now, like I said, something had been oddly fixed. I had been able to speak out and defend myself against her, and I had been able to protect the last thing I loved, the horses and my art. I continued pursuing drawing, driven by its comfort, and writing was there too. Back under the safe care of my father, I was able to heal for real. I had to go back to the hell-school for one year, but by this time people had changed, some new ones had arrived, and other bad ones had moved away. I had also learned how to protect myself, and thus my ninth grade year was not that bad.
I joined the band class and became a percussionist, and I was learning to play guitar.
High School came, and with it, a new beginning. I learned how to be my own person, and actually found people mature enough to accept it. This was a brand new concept, and I was thrilled to have it. I began learning new things about trust and relationships, started into what would turn out to be a six-year relationship with a special boy. I learned about earning friends, trusting them, and having the friendship expand. I also learned how to deal with it when the friendships ended or the trust was betrayed.
I became sort of a rockstar with my art at the school, too. I found other artists but seemed to be the school drawing master. Because I had worked so long and hard, I was "that kid" at school who could draw anything and impress people. I had never experienced something I was over-the-top good at before, never been much better than other people at anything, but I had found one.
I also found a love of music. I began experimenting on the drum kit, and though I was in guitar lessons I began to love the drums more and more. I also began teaching myself piano and submerged myself in art and music. And for once, I had people supporting me. I had a loving parent who was behind me, and though I had my teenager-esque moments of being angry with him and feeling his decisions were unfair, I think I fared better in those situations than most people that age because of my mother.
I had support, and freedom to do what I loved. I also continued on with horses and began to advance in the competition world. I exited high school with honors grades, and a new life. I didn't even recognize myself from not even four years previous. I had become bubbly and talkative and more out-going, but I've never been completely fixed. There's always been some residual damage there, but it's been a few years since then and I'm learning to get rid of it.
Out of high school, I auditioned for a prestigious jazz school and got in as a drummer. There, I found a community even BETTER than high school, with no worries of mockery (let's face it, it still happened in high school. High school wasn't a walk in the fairy park, but it was a halluvalot better than what I had left) and people who were all there for the same reason. Everyone was super nice.
I finally felt healed, more or less. I had found a place that I, without a doubt, belonged. But there was still an underlying hint of darkness there, which threatened to come right on back when I surprise lost a lot of high school friends to changing lives and their decision to no longer like me. I was hurt, and felt betrayed, and with those feelings once again so strongly exposed, I realized I had another thing to fix, and that was a spiritual matter.
I had thought I had everything. I was paying my way through school and rent on commissioned artwork and playing some shows as a pianist. I also had some horse shows and training jobs. I thought it was the dream. But I still was lacking some purpose.
So, in my second year, I finally asked one of my friends (one of the six I mentioned before!) if I could accompany him to his church, and there through some troubles and confusion and debates, I found a spiritual direction. Now, I'm not a crazy over-the-top, super conservative religious freak or anything, but I do find it to be a big part of my life, and it did begin to come out in my art and writing, and actually helped me to become stronger in my artistic areas.
It's been a few years since then and I couldn't be more comfortable with who I am, I don't think. I've had a long journey, with a long, hard path to healing. I've made amends with my mother, and I've fixed other broken relationships. I've grown up and learned to accept people, and I've become confident in who "me" is. Which is something I never thought I'd have.
And really I have art to thank. I honestly don't think I would have made it through without art. And that's why it's so personal to me. It's the only thing that's been there, since I could hold a pencil even.
I've managed to fix myself through it.
Now that we've come to the end of my story, and anyone who may be reading it might be a bit moved, I would like to point out something that is contradictory in this piece of history. I said I don't open up to people who can use this against me.
Yet here's my story.
It's a conscious decision I've made to put it into the world. Part of the reason why I've done it is so that someone may stumble across it and learn from it. Maybe gain some strength. Maybe reach out to me for help. I would be happy to give it! But the biggest thing is, you don't know who I am. anonymity is a strong tool, and I'm okay with using it. I just thought it was time to share with someone.
I leave you to your thoughts!
Part of me doesn't understand blogging.
Really, my purpose of blogging is just to get the jumbled thoughts out of my head and off of my computer. I don't want to write them down on paper and store them in a Wal*Mart-bought faux-leather tanned-pages book and keep it on my bookshelf to scream at the world "I HOLD ALL OF PERSON'S PROBLEMS AND DOINGS!" and I also don't want to write them in a word processor on my computer and leave them there, either. Because then they're still just sitting there.
So really this blog is for my own mental well-being, not for others to read. Except it's "public" (I've hidden it on only the best parts of the internet!) so I guess it's a bit for stalker-readers too.
But I kinda just feel every time I hit "publish," I'm going on a self-promoting, asinine adventure. And I'm not really one to brag about myself or really tell people about the things I do. I'm the person who sits in a large group, only to intently watch as conversation progresses.
It's beneficial; I've learned a LOT about body language and facial expressions. TRY TO LIE TO ME NOW, YOU FIEND! But my conversational skills have, for lack of a better word, suffered. Once I warm up to individual people, which usually takes a while (2-9 months), I can talk but I tend to be awful at organizing my thoughts and explaining things to them, which can be amusing.
Good writer-skills, hey? Dangit.
So the fact that I'm just kinda talking about my life to potential passers-by is a little frightening. But I tell myself, I find individuals fascinating, maybe someone else does too. I would LOVE for someone to be analyzing my life like I would theirs. Weird, hey?
So really this blog is for my own mental well-being, not for others to read. Except it's "public" (I've hidden it on only the best parts of the internet!) so I guess it's a bit for stalker-readers too.
But I kinda just feel every time I hit "publish," I'm going on a self-promoting, asinine adventure. And I'm not really one to brag about myself or really tell people about the things I do. I'm the person who sits in a large group, only to intently watch as conversation progresses.
It's beneficial; I've learned a LOT about body language and facial expressions. TRY TO LIE TO ME NOW, YOU FIEND! But my conversational skills have, for lack of a better word, suffered. Once I warm up to individual people, which usually takes a while (2-9 months), I can talk but I tend to be awful at organizing my thoughts and explaining things to them, which can be amusing.
Good writer-skills, hey? Dangit.
So the fact that I'm just kinda talking about my life to potential passers-by is a little frightening. But I tell myself, I find individuals fascinating, maybe someone else does too. I would LOVE for someone to be analyzing my life like I would theirs. Weird, hey?
5/25/12
I hate painting abstract.
I've only done it once, and I hate it already.
Now that I really think of it, I can't think of a single artist who ISN'T an abstract artist that doesn't despise abstract art.
Before any reader (could it be possible there's one out there?!) gets their britches in a bunch, I don't hate abstract art. I know about a million artists who do. A lot of them get in a RAGE about it, and I kinda just wave them off with an "alright, whatever." I like quite a few pieces of abstract art.
For example, when I Google "abstract art," this is what I enjoy:
And the retaliation I get when I explain that I like designs like this, people usually go on big rants about how they don't get how people can GET this art. Well, I don't get it. I think it looks pretty. There you go! I SAID IT! I like to LOOK at art, and just enjoy the shapes and colors without doing backflips in my brain about how it's about the downfall of the economy due to the amount of peanut exports. Or something stupid.
That being said, I also like art that makes you think about its meaning. But only if I'm specifically going out to look for it. If I go to an art gallery, I like looking at all sorts. I also had the privilege to go to an arts school (for music) where the fine artists put up a bunch of displays, a lot of which had deep meanings. It was awesome. Some people also just painted a picture of a deer in the trees. Equally awesome. Someone did this "sculpture" using nails and yarn on a board that actually looked like ocean waves. It was so cool.
Anyways, I'm slightly straying from my point.
What I hate is minimalistic art. Screw that. What the hell is this poo?
It's a stripe. With the word "reduction" in the upper right hand corner. That's what it is. SO DEEP MAN. Someone probably paid a thousand bucks for that. That makes me mad.
So, today, I had a quick thinking-about about why some art makes me so angry, and the only answer I had for myself is that I'm really passionate about what I do, and thus the other side of passion has to be expected. That's the only explanation I can give to you to help you through the next few rage-filled paragraphs (or as rage-filled as I'm capable of getting).
I have determined, today, that there are three things I HATE in art.
1. Minimalistic art.
Art teachers will get angry with you when you say within their hearing range "my 2-year-old cousin/brother/sister/self/child/nephew/neice/child-that-just-walked-by could do that!"
I get angry when you say the infamous "THEY CAN'T AND THEY DIDN'T SO APPRECIATE IT."
They can, and I'm pretty sure my younger siblings did things very similar multiple times on walls with Sharpies when they were toddlers. I had very well-behaved siblings, by the way. Get over it. It's a stripe/square/circle/silhouette-in-the-shape-of-a-boat on a monochromatic background. One of the world's most expensive pieces of art was a red square over a black rectangle on a white background. Or... something like that. I saw it in a documentary once and there's a fuzzy picture hovering in my mind. POINT BEING, it went for millions of dollars. That makes me physically angry. I'm not a violent person, but I would probably smack the buyer right in the teeth if I met them.
What makes me most angry is that, morally, I HAVE to respect them. It's a very grudging respect. Grr.
2. Art that I don't get.
I'm not talking about things like the above three abstract pieces that I like. I don't understand their core meaning, if they have one, but I get why they're appealing due to color and cool shapes and the way they would bring an awesome PUNCH to certain rooms. That's great, don't really care about the meaning.
I'm talking about things like what recently happened in Alberta's capital city, Edmonton. I had the joy of seeing the monstrosity about two weeks ago, for the first time. And I about grabbed the wheel of my friend's car to suicide us into the art, just out of anger. It's an installment beside one of the main roads. It's literally a shapeless pile of large polished stainless steel balls. Sweet. I don't get it.
It looks awful. It's shapeless. It really can't be anything but a messy pile of balls. Maybe if they were in an appealing stack, perhaps a creative curve to them, or make a few peaks to make them mountain-esque, or SOMETHING. I can see them being really cool if they were wave-shaped. But they aren't. It looks like a shapeless lump made out of steel. Congrats. You infuriate me, unknown artist. You are a dick.
Another one came from my school. It was a bedsheet someone had ripped and sewn another ripped piece of cloth on it to look like someone's armpit, then they had taken a needle and black thread and made the armpit ACTUALLY HAIRY. Then hung it up in a window.
Excuse me, but the HECK are you doing?! Seriously. It made me angry every time I walked by it.
Perhaps it's because I view some of these ridiculous things as a mockery of art, and nothing gets me more riled than someone making a mockery of something I love.
3. Painting abstract art.
Okay so this is a new one I discovered today! I love learning new things.
I got an e-mail from a woman asking if I could do an abstract piece for her. And my brain went "Person, you are so creative. Let's be friends with this idea," and so I DID. I told her sure, I could make something for her. And she asked me if I had any examples.
And I went oh, crap. Guess I'd better make some abstract today. So I grabbed a spare canvas that was collecting dust and plopped down with big paintbrushes and pots of acrylic, and got at it. I took blue and green, and made some aurora-esque streaks, then proceeded to flick and dribble paint over the surface of it, took a paintbrush and dragged it through some of the drops and dribbles to make more streaking, and then splattered some more colors on, some reds and yellows.
So, this took me all of twenty minutes. And what I'd come up with had actually turned out into something that I could somehow stand to look at for a bit and wouldn't be TOO mortified to show people, so when the paint dried, I scanned it and sent it off to the customer, who loved it and said she's let me know about the commission.
Great.
I hated every rat-faced second of what I was doing when I was doing it. I was actually so angry with it. I was what I would describe as scribbling paint onto the canvas. I was doing things that made my artistic self scream "NO FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS NO!!!" It's because I'm a realism artist. Art doesn't take me 20 minutes to do... it takes me 20 HOURS. My larger paintbrushes are virtually unused, but that's what I used for these. I do teeny little delicate strokes with my nose hovering inches above the canvas as I inhale the fumes and contribute to my overall health. I paint with deliberate, paced intent until my hand seizes from the strain.
I do. Not. Scribble.
Now, some people are PHENOMENAL at abstract, and I love that. I'm just not one of them, and I hate myself for even proposing to sell my BS piece to someone unsuspecting. By the way, stranger, I could have done that when I was five, but I'll take your money anyways.
The things I do to survive. [enter dramatic sigh here]
Okay, so I'm tempted to continue and see if people actually buy them, and if they do chances are I'm about to become a very angry artist. If all of my art turns blue, we'll know it's because the only way I can stay sane is if I stare at the color I adore so much all day.
But yeah. That's my rant on abstract. Every non-abstract artist needs one.
Oh, and to all of you artists who say abstract art takes no skill... SCREW YOU. Good abstract art takes tonnes of skill. What I did was not good, unfortunately.
Then again neither is this, and I don't think it LOOKS too bad. It's just that... well, it's paint dribbled and splattered onto a canvas, is all. Looks like he loaded up his paintbrush and hovered above the tan-colored canvas and whirled the brush in circles for a bit. And then called it a church (the painting is called "Cathedral.") The only reason why I'm not angry is because it's not ugly. It's got a nice color scheme, in my opinion.
Okay, that's enough anger for today. I'm going to try and write some more. I have NOT made good progress today.
Now that I really think of it, I can't think of a single artist who ISN'T an abstract artist that doesn't despise abstract art.
Before any reader (could it be possible there's one out there?!) gets their britches in a bunch, I don't hate abstract art. I know about a million artists who do. A lot of them get in a RAGE about it, and I kinda just wave them off with an "alright, whatever." I like quite a few pieces of abstract art.
For example, when I Google "abstract art," this is what I enjoy:
That being said, I also like art that makes you think about its meaning. But only if I'm specifically going out to look for it. If I go to an art gallery, I like looking at all sorts. I also had the privilege to go to an arts school (for music) where the fine artists put up a bunch of displays, a lot of which had deep meanings. It was awesome. Some people also just painted a picture of a deer in the trees. Equally awesome. Someone did this "sculpture" using nails and yarn on a board that actually looked like ocean waves. It was so cool.
Anyways, I'm slightly straying from my point.
What I hate is minimalistic art. Screw that. What the hell is this poo?
It's a stripe. With the word "reduction" in the upper right hand corner. That's what it is. SO DEEP MAN. Someone probably paid a thousand bucks for that. That makes me mad.
So, today, I had a quick thinking-about about why some art makes me so angry, and the only answer I had for myself is that I'm really passionate about what I do, and thus the other side of passion has to be expected. That's the only explanation I can give to you to help you through the next few rage-filled paragraphs (or as rage-filled as I'm capable of getting).
I have determined, today, that there are three things I HATE in art.
1. Minimalistic art.
Art teachers will get angry with you when you say within their hearing range "my 2-year-old cousin/brother/sister/self/child/nephew/neice/child-that-just-walked-by could do that!"
I get angry when you say the infamous "THEY CAN'T AND THEY DIDN'T SO APPRECIATE IT."
They can, and I'm pretty sure my younger siblings did things very similar multiple times on walls with Sharpies when they were toddlers. I had very well-behaved siblings, by the way. Get over it. It's a stripe/square/circle/silhouette-in-the-shape-of-a-boat on a monochromatic background. One of the world's most expensive pieces of art was a red square over a black rectangle on a white background. Or... something like that. I saw it in a documentary once and there's a fuzzy picture hovering in my mind. POINT BEING, it went for millions of dollars. That makes me physically angry. I'm not a violent person, but I would probably smack the buyer right in the teeth if I met them.
What makes me most angry is that, morally, I HAVE to respect them. It's a very grudging respect. Grr.
2. Art that I don't get.
I'm not talking about things like the above three abstract pieces that I like. I don't understand their core meaning, if they have one, but I get why they're appealing due to color and cool shapes and the way they would bring an awesome PUNCH to certain rooms. That's great, don't really care about the meaning.
I'm talking about things like what recently happened in Alberta's capital city, Edmonton. I had the joy of seeing the monstrosity about two weeks ago, for the first time. And I about grabbed the wheel of my friend's car to suicide us into the art, just out of anger. It's an installment beside one of the main roads. It's literally a shapeless pile of large polished stainless steel balls. Sweet. I don't get it.
It looks awful. It's shapeless. It really can't be anything but a messy pile of balls. Maybe if they were in an appealing stack, perhaps a creative curve to them, or make a few peaks to make them mountain-esque, or SOMETHING. I can see them being really cool if they were wave-shaped. But they aren't. It looks like a shapeless lump made out of steel. Congrats. You infuriate me, unknown artist. You are a dick.
Another one came from my school. It was a bedsheet someone had ripped and sewn another ripped piece of cloth on it to look like someone's armpit, then they had taken a needle and black thread and made the armpit ACTUALLY HAIRY. Then hung it up in a window.
Excuse me, but the HECK are you doing?! Seriously. It made me angry every time I walked by it.
Perhaps it's because I view some of these ridiculous things as a mockery of art, and nothing gets me more riled than someone making a mockery of something I love.
3. Painting abstract art.
Okay so this is a new one I discovered today! I love learning new things.
I got an e-mail from a woman asking if I could do an abstract piece for her. And my brain went "Person, you are so creative. Let's be friends with this idea," and so I DID. I told her sure, I could make something for her. And she asked me if I had any examples.
And I went oh, crap. Guess I'd better make some abstract today. So I grabbed a spare canvas that was collecting dust and plopped down with big paintbrushes and pots of acrylic, and got at it. I took blue and green, and made some aurora-esque streaks, then proceeded to flick and dribble paint over the surface of it, took a paintbrush and dragged it through some of the drops and dribbles to make more streaking, and then splattered some more colors on, some reds and yellows.
So, this took me all of twenty minutes. And what I'd come up with had actually turned out into something that I could somehow stand to look at for a bit and wouldn't be TOO mortified to show people, so when the paint dried, I scanned it and sent it off to the customer, who loved it and said she's let me know about the commission.
Great.
I hated every rat-faced second of what I was doing when I was doing it. I was actually so angry with it. I was what I would describe as scribbling paint onto the canvas. I was doing things that made my artistic self scream "NO FOR THE LOVE OF BABY JESUS NO!!!" It's because I'm a realism artist. Art doesn't take me 20 minutes to do... it takes me 20 HOURS. My larger paintbrushes are virtually unused, but that's what I used for these. I do teeny little delicate strokes with my nose hovering inches above the canvas as I inhale the fumes and contribute to my overall health. I paint with deliberate, paced intent until my hand seizes from the strain.
I do. Not. Scribble.
Now, some people are PHENOMENAL at abstract, and I love that. I'm just not one of them, and I hate myself for even proposing to sell my BS piece to someone unsuspecting. By the way, stranger, I could have done that when I was five, but I'll take your money anyways.
The things I do to survive. [enter dramatic sigh here]
Okay, so I'm tempted to continue and see if people actually buy them, and if they do chances are I'm about to become a very angry artist. If all of my art turns blue, we'll know it's because the only way I can stay sane is if I stare at the color I adore so much all day.
But yeah. That's my rant on abstract. Every non-abstract artist needs one.
Oh, and to all of you artists who say abstract art takes no skill... SCREW YOU. Good abstract art takes tonnes of skill. What I did was not good, unfortunately.
Then again neither is this, and I don't think it LOOKS too bad. It's just that... well, it's paint dribbled and splattered onto a canvas, is all. Looks like he loaded up his paintbrush and hovered above the tan-colored canvas and whirled the brush in circles for a bit. And then called it a church (the painting is called "Cathedral.") The only reason why I'm not angry is because it's not ugly. It's got a nice color scheme, in my opinion.
Those days where you work all day and finish feeling like nothing got done?
Wake up, shower with new apple-smelling shampoo. Solid start. Sit down, try to write. Unsuccessful.
Lie in the middle of my basement floor and throw a ball at the roof. Brood.
Write for real. A bit better!
Decide to go for a run.
Get back and don't want to write. Spend time looking up potential art jobs.
I may have gotten a job as a graphics designer. I'm a sellout!!!
May have gotten a job as a drum teacher.
Scanned 32 pieces of art and digitally edited the color so they don't look retarded.
Realized that I still hate looking at half of them on a computer screen.
Hatch plan to invent new technology that will make the art appear taped to the person's computer monitor.
Realize I'm wasting time dreaming of a project that isn't real.
No. Do NOT write a blurb on this piece of... oh, great. Thanks, brain.
Try to update HTML and Java coding in my website because I'm an IDIOT and mixed the two.
Fail.
My website looks exactly the same.
Get an art commission. For abstract painting. I've never done an abstract painting before.
Do my first ever abstract painting in 15 minutes on a small canvas. They're right. A 5-year-old can do it.
Sit in self-disappointment over a canvas that I randomly scribbled paint onto and called art.
Scan it anyways and send it away to customer. Laugh when they're impressed.
Hatch a plan to make more and make MILLIONS.
Realize it won't happen and lie back down on the basement floor to throw the ball again.
Throw the ball some more.
Keep throwing the ball.
Realize that extreme habits of brooding and lack of motivation is indicative of depression.
Panic.
Realize that sometimes I'm just lazy and broody.
Make hot dogs.
Decide to go back in the blog and "center text" everything.
Realize it's a terrible idea and stop immediately.
Realize I'm making a list of my day and grudgingly attempt to get back to writing.
I have to meet my imaginary deadlines.
Or I can re-watch all of the Lord of the Rings movies.
My evening doesn't stand a chance.
Lie in the middle of my basement floor and throw a ball at the roof. Brood.
Write for real. A bit better!
Decide to go for a run.
Get back and don't want to write. Spend time looking up potential art jobs.
I may have gotten a job as a graphics designer. I'm a sellout!!!
May have gotten a job as a drum teacher.
Scanned 32 pieces of art and digitally edited the color so they don't look retarded.
Realized that I still hate looking at half of them on a computer screen.
Hatch plan to invent new technology that will make the art appear taped to the person's computer monitor.
Realize I'm wasting time dreaming of a project that isn't real.
No. Do NOT write a blurb on this piece of... oh, great. Thanks, brain.
Try to update HTML and Java coding in my website because I'm an IDIOT and mixed the two.
Fail.
My website looks exactly the same.
Get an art commission. For abstract painting. I've never done an abstract painting before.
Do my first ever abstract painting in 15 minutes on a small canvas. They're right. A 5-year-old can do it.
Sit in self-disappointment over a canvas that I randomly scribbled paint onto and called art.
Scan it anyways and send it away to customer. Laugh when they're impressed.
Hatch a plan to make more and make MILLIONS.
Realize it won't happen and lie back down on the basement floor to throw the ball again.
Throw the ball some more.
Keep throwing the ball.
Realize that extreme habits of brooding and lack of motivation is indicative of depression.
Panic.
Realize that sometimes I'm just lazy and broody.
Make hot dogs.
Decide to go back in the blog and "center text" everything.
Realize it's a terrible idea and stop immediately.
Realize I'm making a list of my day and grudgingly attempt to get back to writing.
I have to meet my imaginary deadlines.
Or I can re-watch all of the Lord of the Rings movies.
My evening doesn't stand a chance.
5/24/12
Blogging in the awkward silence.
Because I need something to do while Laura and Ian sit in silence, feigning ignorance. Well, Laura. Ian's just ignorant. I don't understand it.
Oh good. They've left. Well.
This afternoon has been the most frustrating. Not the most frustrating ever, just frustrating. My mother does this thing, she always has, where she will say "I am going to call you." Then she never does. Except she lives all the way down in Florida. And as we've established, I'm a starving student, cannot afford long distance fees. So I harry her over e-mail and text, which gets ignored, which naturally is accompanied by a sense of rejection and abandonment. I get that I'm a grown woman and all but I probably talk to my mother once every two or three months. I guess I just keep expecting that I might mean something to her one day, mean enough for her to take 5 minutes to give me a shout, check in and make sure I'm still kicking.
Problem is, I have a buyer for some of my artistic-related things. A steep buyer. We're talking $1500 worth of buyer, and the things he wants to buy... well, my mother has them in Florida because she thought she would be smarter than me at marketing them. Well, she gave them to a store to promote, and they've been collecting dust for almost 2 years now. But, suddenly, someone wants to buy a stack of my originals, and about 5 of the ones he wants are in this store. I've been bugging her for these pieces for over a year now and she's only just tried to get them back, and I'm furious. They are my creations, they should be in my possession, not that of a stranger. And I could have made rent on time this month, but now it's not looking good.
Stress, stress, stress.
I spent my afternoon sipping on the bitter tea and throwing a rubber bouncing ball in the air, distracted by the resentment towards myself and my family, and my financial deficiencies. How artistic of me. I found the scene pretty ironic, I have to say, in its own sense, and actually found it eventually hilarious, thinking about the picture I was creating. It gave me a painting idea, even.
But then I realized I was brooding on irony and almost had a heart attack. Had to check to be sure I hadn't been bitten by one of... THEM. You know. Hipsters.
It's okay! I'm clear!!
So anyways, got another 2k words written for one of the novels. Not too shabby if you ask me. I'm expecting company soon, a good friend of mine, one of the very few I've allowed myself... and his girlfriend. Which is alright too! And Ian and Laura.
Who are BACK!
And Laura and I continued our conspiracy of making Ian very aware of her crush on someone other than him. And of course, as per usual, I feel like a dirty dirty scummy woman for doing it directly afterwards.
Ian is seriously mentally handicapped somewhere, I swear. He KNOWS she likes this guy but he keeps lying to himself. I CAN SEE IT IN HIS EEEEEEYES.
No seriously.
Okay, maybe I'm going a little crazy from all the brooding artistry. I blame the tea.
Good thing people are coming over for a movie night so it can distract me from work for an evening! Grudgingly, I admit, I always go into these mild modes of panic when I'm not desperately working at scraping an artistic living.
Must. Resist. Urge. To. Antisocial.
Oh good. They've left. Well.
This afternoon has been the most frustrating. Not the most frustrating ever, just frustrating. My mother does this thing, she always has, where she will say "I am going to call you." Then she never does. Except she lives all the way down in Florida. And as we've established, I'm a starving student, cannot afford long distance fees. So I harry her over e-mail and text, which gets ignored, which naturally is accompanied by a sense of rejection and abandonment. I get that I'm a grown woman and all but I probably talk to my mother once every two or three months. I guess I just keep expecting that I might mean something to her one day, mean enough for her to take 5 minutes to give me a shout, check in and make sure I'm still kicking.
Problem is, I have a buyer for some of my artistic-related things. A steep buyer. We're talking $1500 worth of buyer, and the things he wants to buy... well, my mother has them in Florida because she thought she would be smarter than me at marketing them. Well, she gave them to a store to promote, and they've been collecting dust for almost 2 years now. But, suddenly, someone wants to buy a stack of my originals, and about 5 of the ones he wants are in this store. I've been bugging her for these pieces for over a year now and she's only just tried to get them back, and I'm furious. They are my creations, they should be in my possession, not that of a stranger. And I could have made rent on time this month, but now it's not looking good.
Stress, stress, stress.
I spent my afternoon sipping on the bitter tea and throwing a rubber bouncing ball in the air, distracted by the resentment towards myself and my family, and my financial deficiencies. How artistic of me. I found the scene pretty ironic, I have to say, in its own sense, and actually found it eventually hilarious, thinking about the picture I was creating. It gave me a painting idea, even.
But then I realized I was brooding on irony and almost had a heart attack. Had to check to be sure I hadn't been bitten by one of... THEM. You know. Hipsters.
It's okay! I'm clear!!
So anyways, got another 2k words written for one of the novels. Not too shabby if you ask me. I'm expecting company soon, a good friend of mine, one of the very few I've allowed myself... and his girlfriend. Which is alright too! And Ian and Laura.
Who are BACK!
And Laura and I continued our conspiracy of making Ian very aware of her crush on someone other than him. And of course, as per usual, I feel like a dirty dirty scummy woman for doing it directly afterwards.
Ian is seriously mentally handicapped somewhere, I swear. He KNOWS she likes this guy but he keeps lying to himself. I CAN SEE IT IN HIS EEEEEEYES.
No seriously.
Okay, maybe I'm going a little crazy from all the brooding artistry. I blame the tea.
Good thing people are coming over for a movie night so it can distract me from work for an evening! Grudgingly, I admit, I always go into these mild modes of panic when I'm not desperately working at scraping an artistic living.
Must. Resist. Urge. To. Antisocial.
The most infuriating!
Just don't mess with how an artist does their tea! I've been recommended to cut back on the sugar. All good and well until my tea isn't suitable for a writing environment! Now I need that rainstorm back to get me brooding again. Brooding artist time.
Chronicles of the slightly unsound roomates.
Okay, so we're doing the anonymous thing, so I'm going to fabricate a couple of things here. Mostly names. All the events and stories and such are true, but just a head's up that the names are not.
So I live with three of the oddest people I have ever had the pleasure of living with. I tried the four-people-to-one-house thing before, which ended in disaster, but that's because those people were... for lack of a better word, assholes. I pretty much picked three of the most lazy, dishonest, two-faced imbeciles I possibly could and thought it was okay to put all of us in an enclosed space together for an extended period of time.
Life has its learning curves. Believe it or not, it seemed like a good idea at the time. (They may or may not have been friends of mine. I like to keep it classy).
So after that I settled in to a rather nice living situation consisting of me, my cat Oleo, and just one happy roommate. Our parting of ways a few years later was just us moving on with our lives. The best kind of way to part ways, I think. Just a mutual, comfortable letting go.
So I found myself moving in with a few friends of mine because the house is nice and the rent is cheap, and the people are pretty good to live with even though they're all batshit crazy in one way or another.
First, there's John. He's the before-mentioned person that I can never quite interpret. That sometimes gives me a teensy bit of anxiety. Sometimes I can tell he's feeling hostile and will keep to himself, but other times I can just tell he's tired. Sometimes, I can tell he's feeling very friendly and I'm pretty alright with that! The rest of the time, I just have no freaking clue. I'll think he's being hostile, then he's all, "hey! Come have some drinks with me!" To be fair, he's never flat-out hostile. He's just got compulsive tendencies that make him irrationally annoyed with the little things. I like to mentally tell him "hang in there buddy!" but 90% of the time, too scared to say it out loud. Which SOUNDS awful, but I'm actually just apprehensive of everything with a pulse.
Then there's Laura. She's outgoing enough, but like me, everything that moves gives her a bit of a start, so we make a fine pair. Wandering around the house, scaring each other. By accident. And getting startled by the other getting startled. It's really healthy for our young hearts, I promise. Her and I are pretty close friends, so we're good to lean on each other through the rough life times, and that's great! We also share a lot of the same interests and views on the appropriate time and place for conversation, so I'm actually able to work around her and not be interrupted by continual stabs at conversation. Too bad the same can't be said for her, for she is continually plagued by the third roommate, who will soon be explained! Long story short, this relationship is pretty healthy, which is odd enough because I do not cope well with women, 90% of the time. Only this once!
The third roommate is Ian. Ian is also a friend of mine, so that helps living with him! Mostly he works, but also likes to jam in the basement with his band, barbecue, and landscape our miniscule back yard in the spare time he finds. So basically a guy who likes guy stuff. Sometimes I suspect he's trying too hard to impress the idea of him being a man (his multiple shower products suggest a less manly side...) but for the most part, he's just a typical young man. He's also in love with Laura, and is thoroughly convinced that neither of us are aware. Seems pretty proud of it sometimes, too. Makes for awkward evenings sometimes, as I've mentioned before. However, the majority of the time it's not even an issue, so I'm good to deal with it. Laura, not so much... but of course like a typical woman she's refusing to talk to him about it "until he brings it up himself."
Women, I tell you. Where else do get this craziness??
So you have these three, plus me; an artist struggling to live as a freelancer. I spend most of my time with my face buried in my laptop, making faces at research, manuscript readings, music editing programs, or graphics designs programs. They've just learned to deal with my sporadicness (NOT A REAL WORD) at this point. (okay, apparently it's sporadicalness, sporadicity, or sporadism according to the online dictionary...) So it's been nice to find some who can mentally cope with an ass who will stop in mid-conversation to stare at the wall. My conversational abilities are often obliterated by fast-turning wheels and breakneck gear-changing in my skull. Really the best I can do is jerky conversation that is awkward at best.
Okay so long story short, the group of people living together make for fun stories. I just needed to fill you the potential reader in on some character background.
So I live with three of the oddest people I have ever had the pleasure of living with. I tried the four-people-to-one-house thing before, which ended in disaster, but that's because those people were... for lack of a better word, assholes. I pretty much picked three of the most lazy, dishonest, two-faced imbeciles I possibly could and thought it was okay to put all of us in an enclosed space together for an extended period of time.
Life has its learning curves. Believe it or not, it seemed like a good idea at the time. (They may or may not have been friends of mine. I like to keep it classy).
So after that I settled in to a rather nice living situation consisting of me, my cat Oleo, and just one happy roommate. Our parting of ways a few years later was just us moving on with our lives. The best kind of way to part ways, I think. Just a mutual, comfortable letting go.
So I found myself moving in with a few friends of mine because the house is nice and the rent is cheap, and the people are pretty good to live with even though they're all batshit crazy in one way or another.
First, there's John. He's the before-mentioned person that I can never quite interpret. That sometimes gives me a teensy bit of anxiety. Sometimes I can tell he's feeling hostile and will keep to himself, but other times I can just tell he's tired. Sometimes, I can tell he's feeling very friendly and I'm pretty alright with that! The rest of the time, I just have no freaking clue. I'll think he's being hostile, then he's all, "hey! Come have some drinks with me!" To be fair, he's never flat-out hostile. He's just got compulsive tendencies that make him irrationally annoyed with the little things. I like to mentally tell him "hang in there buddy!" but 90% of the time, too scared to say it out loud. Which SOUNDS awful, but I'm actually just apprehensive of everything with a pulse.
Then there's Laura. She's outgoing enough, but like me, everything that moves gives her a bit of a start, so we make a fine pair. Wandering around the house, scaring each other. By accident. And getting startled by the other getting startled. It's really healthy for our young hearts, I promise. Her and I are pretty close friends, so we're good to lean on each other through the rough life times, and that's great! We also share a lot of the same interests and views on the appropriate time and place for conversation, so I'm actually able to work around her and not be interrupted by continual stabs at conversation. Too bad the same can't be said for her, for she is continually plagued by the third roommate, who will soon be explained! Long story short, this relationship is pretty healthy, which is odd enough because I do not cope well with women, 90% of the time. Only this once!
The third roommate is Ian. Ian is also a friend of mine, so that helps living with him! Mostly he works, but also likes to jam in the basement with his band, barbecue, and landscape our miniscule back yard in the spare time he finds. So basically a guy who likes guy stuff. Sometimes I suspect he's trying too hard to impress the idea of him being a man (his multiple shower products suggest a less manly side...) but for the most part, he's just a typical young man. He's also in love with Laura, and is thoroughly convinced that neither of us are aware. Seems pretty proud of it sometimes, too. Makes for awkward evenings sometimes, as I've mentioned before. However, the majority of the time it's not even an issue, so I'm good to deal with it. Laura, not so much... but of course like a typical woman she's refusing to talk to him about it "until he brings it up himself."
Women, I tell you. Where else do get this craziness??
So you have these three, plus me; an artist struggling to live as a freelancer. I spend most of my time with my face buried in my laptop, making faces at research, manuscript readings, music editing programs, or graphics designs programs. They've just learned to deal with my sporadicness (NOT A REAL WORD) at this point. (okay, apparently it's sporadicalness, sporadicity, or sporadism according to the online dictionary...) So it's been nice to find some who can mentally cope with an ass who will stop in mid-conversation to stare at the wall. My conversational abilities are often obliterated by fast-turning wheels and breakneck gear-changing in my skull. Really the best I can do is jerky conversation that is awkward at best.
I'm working on it. First step, admitting you have a problem, right?
Though it's gotten me this far in life.
I type over a bowl of discount food that can't even be taken as a real meal...
So I'm writing a book.
Actually, two... at the same time. And writing always puts me in the weirdest of psychological roller coaster. I invest so much in my characters that I find my speech patterns changing to suit theirs, which might be okay if they weren't from a different era in time, which leads to certain oddities that aren't really said... anymore.
The other problem is that my speech is very impressionable. I learn well when I imitate things back to someone, so it actually comes out in my music too. I start to play like whatever musician has recently taken my attention. It's also why I work well as a visual artist. I see it, I imitate it on paper. But I'm kinda getting off-topic here.
My speech is very impressionable. This is a problem. Not really because I've started talking like my characters, that's more or less just amusing. But I have this habit of watching television as I write. Helps to keep me focused if there's something running in the background. However, I've been watching back-to-back episodes of multiple series as I work, and THEIR speech patterns are showing up in my WRITING.
I've got two modern shows on the go, one from Great Britain and one from the USA, so those are two accents and speech patterns different than mine... and then one from medieval times. But they've modernized it quite a bit and they're British too so maybe I'm not all THAT bad off.
But I've come to a point where suddenly one of my characters sounds like a completely other person. And I'm trying to beat a deadline, here, I don't have TIME for a character crisis. But beyond glaring at the tiny print on the bright white screen, I haven't found a very good solution yet. So I decided to take a break and do this... blog thing.
Is anyone out there? Comment this post up, help me out here? I'm kind of angry at my MC right now; I don't have time for her personality 180. Her and I aren't talking at the moment. Which is probably for the best!
It should only take a bit to fix, all I have to do is get the British out of her in the past two days of work. Maybe it isn't THAT bad. Maybe I should get back to work. Deadlines and all.
(The deadlines aren't real, I've invented them.)
The other problem is that my speech is very impressionable. I learn well when I imitate things back to someone, so it actually comes out in my music too. I start to play like whatever musician has recently taken my attention. It's also why I work well as a visual artist. I see it, I imitate it on paper. But I'm kinda getting off-topic here.
My speech is very impressionable. This is a problem. Not really because I've started talking like my characters, that's more or less just amusing. But I have this habit of watching television as I write. Helps to keep me focused if there's something running in the background. However, I've been watching back-to-back episodes of multiple series as I work, and THEIR speech patterns are showing up in my WRITING.
I've got two modern shows on the go, one from Great Britain and one from the USA, so those are two accents and speech patterns different than mine... and then one from medieval times. But they've modernized it quite a bit and they're British too so maybe I'm not all THAT bad off.
But I've come to a point where suddenly one of my characters sounds like a completely other person. And I'm trying to beat a deadline, here, I don't have TIME for a character crisis. But beyond glaring at the tiny print on the bright white screen, I haven't found a very good solution yet. So I decided to take a break and do this... blog thing.
Is anyone out there? Comment this post up, help me out here? I'm kind of angry at my MC right now; I don't have time for her personality 180. Her and I aren't talking at the moment. Which is probably for the best!
It should only take a bit to fix, all I have to do is get the British out of her in the past two days of work. Maybe it isn't THAT bad. Maybe I should get back to work. Deadlines and all.
(The deadlines aren't real, I've invented them.)
A personal blog
Probably the most exciting thing you can think of to read, someone's personal blog. Okay, so I'm a bit sarcastic, but at the same time, I'm a bit serious. Maybe. People are funny things and any attempt from someone to put themselves out "there" can be a learning experience for anyone.
I've been under some interesting circumstances lately, and though friends and pieces of paper are always good outlets I felt like I should share some of it with the unsuspecting public. I don't suppose you'd be here if not by accident, as I really don't see myself promoting this blog.
So maybe you decided to scroll through Blogger's blogs today, and ended up here? That would be cool.
Allow me to teach you about myself.
I am a woman living in the Great White North, AKA Canada. I'm sometimes short, sometimes tall (depends on the day, I guess), sometimes I'm blond and sometimes I'm not entirely convinced I'm not really a redhead. Not really what you were expecting as a first impression? Well, I just figured we'd get the materialistic out of the way right away. I don't care much about it, but I know others do, so I figured I might as well throw it out there this once.
Right now I'm living with three people, which would be good and well, but I can't decide if one is hostile or friendly, one is a bit out there, and the other is completely in love with the one out there, so I guess they're a bit out there too. Out there doesn't seem to be doing their love too good; the recipient can't really be bothered with it, if you know what I'm saying. Makes for interesting evenings, when everyone is home.
I'm a musician and a "fine" artist (what the hell does that even MEAN), and a writer of prose. And apparently a writer of a blog as well. I've gone to school for some and others... well, not so much. I sell most of my work too, so I'm a sellout artist at my best, but I have rent to pay and more or less groceries to buy.
Starving artist isn't JUST a stereotype, you know.
I'd love to share specifics, but I feel like if I keep things more or less anonymous, it might let my true self shine through a bit more comfortably. We'll see how this goes.
I've been under some interesting circumstances lately, and though friends and pieces of paper are always good outlets I felt like I should share some of it with the unsuspecting public. I don't suppose you'd be here if not by accident, as I really don't see myself promoting this blog.
So maybe you decided to scroll through Blogger's blogs today, and ended up here? That would be cool.
Allow me to teach you about myself.
I am a woman living in the Great White North, AKA Canada. I'm sometimes short, sometimes tall (depends on the day, I guess), sometimes I'm blond and sometimes I'm not entirely convinced I'm not really a redhead. Not really what you were expecting as a first impression? Well, I just figured we'd get the materialistic out of the way right away. I don't care much about it, but I know others do, so I figured I might as well throw it out there this once.
Right now I'm living with three people, which would be good and well, but I can't decide if one is hostile or friendly, one is a bit out there, and the other is completely in love with the one out there, so I guess they're a bit out there too. Out there doesn't seem to be doing their love too good; the recipient can't really be bothered with it, if you know what I'm saying. Makes for interesting evenings, when everyone is home.
I'm a musician and a "fine" artist (what the hell does that even MEAN), and a writer of prose. And apparently a writer of a blog as well. I've gone to school for some and others... well, not so much. I sell most of my work too, so I'm a sellout artist at my best, but I have rent to pay and more or less groceries to buy.
Starving artist isn't JUST a stereotype, you know.
I'd love to share specifics, but I feel like if I keep things more or less anonymous, it might let my true self shine through a bit more comfortably. We'll see how this goes.
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