and - pretension!
why is it that when i become frustrated with my writing, i feel the need to make a livejournal post? that is really quite ridiculous. it's been coming up in my mind in a lot of ways lately, but this itch is just one of the reasons i think we were better off without blogs, online communities and things of that nature. i don't much like this alternate online universe of alternate personas, where we say things we don't say in person, because if we did, why would we feel the need for repetition? and i still shudder to think of dead girls' facebook walls and the scattered consciousness that comes with the blogging community. i feel like we're all trying to define our own reality through technology, and we're all trying to be bigger than we are. and truthfully? this post does not make me any more prominent in any reality that counts, and the internet should not be a graveyard message board.
i make no sense.
i've been wanting to write poetry lately. isn't that strange? it's an urge i almost didn't recognize, it's been so long since poems were a daily part of my life. i think i've forgotton how to do it. and i don't know that a poem will convey anything i want to say any better than any other form i cannot master lately. but my recent tendency to introversion and a sunny day on an idyllic campus and one of my favorite lunatics bring out that part of my brain, the part that used to arrange my interior monologue into stanzas. it never ceases to amaze me, how things that used to be so natural, now come so difficultly. poetry, and speaking my mind, and finding a retreat.
and things happen now that didn't happen before. i don't know if it's the different streets i walk now or the way i'm walking them or what, but i am constantly hit on of late. and that's so strange to me - before this summer i could count on one hand the number of times i've gotten so much as a "hey, baby." i don't get it - and honestly, when i'm limping down the street with a sprained ankle and my tummy falling over my jeans and my hair in a tangle, at 7 pm, in soho, the land of the plastic perfect, i don't think i deserve the wolf whistle. and i am confused by it, so i smile politely and say "thank you." who does that? i can't stop myself from talking to strangers. i should not be left alone.
i've also realized lately that i spend alot of time checking out women. which, for me, isn't abnormal - but i am so fascinated by women lately, in an aesthetic rather than sexual sense. i can't stop measuring the angles of this one's cheek bones, and contemplating the alignment of that one's curves - the dali exhibit really brought it to prominence, but i have always, i think there is not a truly ugly woman in the world. sure, there are ideals, and standards, and they should exist, and there are shades of beauty and many women fall insanely short of "attractive." but in the right light, with the right posture, any woman can be beautiful to someone. it's an idea that seems fuller and more complex in my head, and it's something i like to think about walking down the street. beauty can be created without anything superficial - just an attitude and the right audience. and i think it's true, kristin, that there is such a thing as too much self-confidence, and it will ruin someone who could have been, at the very least, fascinating. i like thinking about what could make the woman ahead of me on line beautiful. this is what i wish i could convey in my writing. the potential for grandeur.
it feels like a sunday, with how full my head is, how quiet my room is. laundry and post-its and dirty dishes. but it isn't, and i have too much time to force myself to buckle down, and it's a frustrating thing, saturday morning. it never seems to live up to it's potential.
i make no sense.
i've been wanting to write poetry lately. isn't that strange? it's an urge i almost didn't recognize, it's been so long since poems were a daily part of my life. i think i've forgotton how to do it. and i don't know that a poem will convey anything i want to say any better than any other form i cannot master lately. but my recent tendency to introversion and a sunny day on an idyllic campus and one of my favorite lunatics bring out that part of my brain, the part that used to arrange my interior monologue into stanzas. it never ceases to amaze me, how things that used to be so natural, now come so difficultly. poetry, and speaking my mind, and finding a retreat.
and things happen now that didn't happen before. i don't know if it's the different streets i walk now or the way i'm walking them or what, but i am constantly hit on of late. and that's so strange to me - before this summer i could count on one hand the number of times i've gotten so much as a "hey, baby." i don't get it - and honestly, when i'm limping down the street with a sprained ankle and my tummy falling over my jeans and my hair in a tangle, at 7 pm, in soho, the land of the plastic perfect, i don't think i deserve the wolf whistle. and i am confused by it, so i smile politely and say "thank you." who does that? i can't stop myself from talking to strangers. i should not be left alone.
i've also realized lately that i spend alot of time checking out women. which, for me, isn't abnormal - but i am so fascinated by women lately, in an aesthetic rather than sexual sense. i can't stop measuring the angles of this one's cheek bones, and contemplating the alignment of that one's curves - the dali exhibit really brought it to prominence, but i have always, i think there is not a truly ugly woman in the world. sure, there are ideals, and standards, and they should exist, and there are shades of beauty and many women fall insanely short of "attractive." but in the right light, with the right posture, any woman can be beautiful to someone. it's an idea that seems fuller and more complex in my head, and it's something i like to think about walking down the street. beauty can be created without anything superficial - just an attitude and the right audience. and i think it's true, kristin, that there is such a thing as too much self-confidence, and it will ruin someone who could have been, at the very least, fascinating. i like thinking about what could make the woman ahead of me on line beautiful. this is what i wish i could convey in my writing. the potential for grandeur.
it feels like a sunday, with how full my head is, how quiet my room is. laundry and post-its and dirty dishes. but it isn't, and i have too much time to force myself to buckle down, and it's a frustrating thing, saturday morning. it never seems to live up to it's potential.