Monthly Archives: September 2002

Belligerence in Ignorance

I’m not sure what to think right now, but I know that I’m steam­ing. I’m boil­ing. I need to calm down. I haven’t been this angry in a while. I need to calm myself. I need to write while I’m shak­ing. I need to get this emo­tion down, and break it apart, piece by piece until I can see why and how I can get like this.

This is all so very inter­est­ing. I sit here, my heart beat­ing, my hands shak­ing, my mind throb­bing, breath­ing deeply, try­ing to take in calm­ness with each inhala­tion. System of a Down pumps in my ears, the scratchy sound of my head­phones hurts with the great­est of delight. I miss the bass. I feel my blood pump­ing through my veins, feed­ing pas­sion through every ven­tri­cle, mak­ing me mad with rage.

I try to keep my san­i­ty, my cere­bral­i­ty, my mind. I turn up my music. Only log­ic can help me here. I grip to every shred of calm I have, so as to not act on some super­flu­ous emo­tion.

Only this can bring me clo­sure, can give me res­o­lu­tion. A screen of grey, of som­bre colours, of seri­ous­ness point­ing to seren­i­ty.

I have learned.

Art For Art

I once made an origa­mi rose for a friend. Written inside was a poem I com­posed one night when I had an excess of for­lorn emo­tions. One of my best pieces. In order to read the poem, she would have to destroy the rose, ruin­ing the piece in itself, though sati­at­ing her curios­i­ty. If she nev­er opened it, she would nev­er be able to see exact­ly what I wrote.

For me, art must have three attrib­ut­es; it must be aes­thet­i­cal­ly pleas­ing in some way, it must car­ry a mes­sage, and I must be able to under­stand it or relate to it in some way. So many peo­ple seem so super­fi­cial to me when they put paint­ings in their house, or stat­uettes, about things they don’t under­stand. They own these pieces because “they like them”. They enjoy look­ing at them. Do they under­stand what the artist was think­ing when he or she used a cer­tain stroke of the brush? For all they know, the sculp­ture could be a mes­sage about any­thing they nor­mal­ly would­n’t agree with. They don’t under­stand what the artist was try­ing to do. They can’t appre­ci­ate the piece. It sad­dens me.

So I made anoth­er piece, as a rep­re­sen­ta­tion of the rose I made for my friend, because I enjoyed it so much, it is a sym­bol for some­thing I cre­at­ed. It is a sim­i­lar rose, but with the words “art for art for art for…” writ­ten all over it. When I look at it, it reminds me of my friend, what I was think­ing when I gave away such a pre­cious piece, and what she’s doing right now.

And to this day I don’t know if she opened it.

I Believe I'm Getting A Cat

I intend on get­ting one, after a lot of care­ful con­sid­er­a­tion. I’ve always want­ed one, but I was­n’t sure if I would have the resources to take care of it, time being the most impor­tant one. Another ques­tion I asked myself recent­ly was whether I was mature enough or respon­si­ble enough to take care of one for over 10 years. I refuse to be one of those peo­ple who sim­ply buy a cat because they want one, then grow tired of it, and give it away. I would def­i­nite­ly need to take care of my apart­ment bet­ter, which is a good thing. I was think­ing of pur­chas­ing every­thing that I need this week, then going to the pet store that I’ve been check­ing out and look­ing for a cat on the week-end. I seem to have an affin­i­ty for any­thing in the feline or pan­thera genus. I love the way they move, they hunt, every­thing about them. One of the most beau­ti­ful ani­mals cre­at­ed.

My work­load is start­ing to get heavy. I seem to have neglect­ed my assign­ments for the most part, so I have three due this week, and I’ve only looked at one so far. Fourth year seems to have gone well oth­er­wise.

Ah! Well...

I’m not real­ly sure what to say. I mean, I’m not com­plete­ly sure what I’m feel­ing right now. Maybe a hint of jeal­ous­ly, a touch of dys­thymia, and a sense of hope­less­ness. Everything is so light that I can’t tell what I’m feel­ing.

What should I be feel­ing? What can I feel? I feel so pathet­ic, yet com­pla­cent. Maybe writ­ing has made things worse. Usually, I feel bet­ter, because there’s always some­thing that I need to get off my chest. But late­ly, it just seems to be mak­ing me real­ize what my actu­al sit­u­a­tion is. Well, I already know what my sit­u­a­tion is, it has just giv­en me a neg­a­tive spin on it.

I wish I was very depressed. Being depressed is such a com­fort­able, and famil­iar feel­ing, that I would feel right at home. Yet I’m not, because of my com­pla­cen­cy.

Have I been able to accept every­thing? I’m not quite sure yet. I com­pare myself to oth­ers, and noth­ing seems right. For me or for them. Everything just seems so fucked up, and it sur­pris­es me.

I should­n’t be com­par­ing myself to oth­ers. It’s not a healthy thing. After all, I’m very dif­fer­ent from many peo­ple I know. Even the ones that I believe are com­pa­ra­ble to me are very dif­fer­ent, and lead very dif­fer­ent lives.

God, it just makes me sad. I can’t seem to fig­ure things out. Many things sur­prise me. And this just keeps hap­pen­ing again and again.

And I won­der, why not me?