I am not 100% honest on these posts, I feel. Instead, they end up being a random amalgam of whatever is on my mind– which turns out to be a lot of frass, most of the time.
Sometimes, I wish I could truly speak my mind: really let it all out and shock you and entertain you and tell you that life is an illusion and that we all watch a shadow play, and we seldom if ever venture beyond that, much like Plato wrote about.
I wish I could post some of the stranger and racier pictures I’ve snapped– strange pictures of my back or the beauty mark there, or of my underwear around my ankles, and of cuts and scabs, and of truly ugly and/or revealing things such as what I look like first thing in the morning.
But as I write down all this, I realize I lack something– something like courage.
Being an artist not only requires integrity, but also a very large suspension of disbelief. Or perhaps just a gingerly placed finger over the “bullshit” button. You seldom press it: everything around you becomes art. Art, beautiful art, so much in the eye of the disgusted but captivated beholder.
But I feel I am not honest enough –brave enough– to be an artist: I pine over the impossible and I giggle at others for dreaming big and being socially responsible; I scoff at the royal wedding and yet I watch and discuss it, ad nauseam; I get drunk on mimosas and suffer the stupid hangover not too much later afterward, instead of keeping on drinking and sucking it up and making a beautiful and terrible mess.
My nails chip and they also collect dirt that looks unsightly; few things are wonderful around me; my mascara runs and gives me an allergy, and it is all more sad clown than retiring diva.
My hair, it goes flat, but not before it frizzes. There is nothing artistic or painfully beautiful about a frizzy head of waves, let me tell you.
I don’t arouse torrid passions in random men, or women; I can’t even hold a steady gaze with someone I truly fancy, opting instead for averting their gaze altogether and leaving without saying goodbye, as if eye contact would kill me; I mild-manneredly issue compliments; I grin instead of guffawing; my heaving bosom went away with my ability to produce milk to feed a small human; I am awkward when I think I’m elegant, and stiff when I think I’m dignified; I am still stuck in high school, where the one boy who was brave enough to ask me out on a date must have thought I was too boring after all, and started dating a happy, vain and bubbly girl a couple of weeks after we had our first date; and finally, I don’t tell the man who’s currently making me suffer to fuck off: the most I can muster is a whispered, staid and wilted, “I hate you”, so the children won’t listen.
I can’t competently mix green, or purple, and I view it as an allegory of my life (too much blue, and not enough).
But I can write a semi-embarrassing post telling you my failures as a human.
Maybe that’s enough art for today.