Approval from "Him"?...I think not

Although I have been quite surprisingly upbeat of late, tonight I am frustrated and might I say, hopeless. Maybe not entirely hopeless; but I have lost some of the hope that I have accrued over these past weeks. I still want to be accepted and I still very much want to be assured. I was quite proud of a recent accomplishment. I showed it to "him", seeking his approval. I just wanted my work to be good enough....for once. I didn't quite get the reaction I had hoped for. He never mentioned anything about the quality of my work and point out any seemingly good thing. I did seek his input, yes--but all his input seemingly consisted of was just criticism. "I would have done this. I would have said it this way...etc." I went out to show him my work with a beaming face, a lilt in my voice, and a jump in my step. I returned with a sullen face, dragging feet, and a heavy heart. I was so proud of my work and he couldn't say one good ting about it. And, if anything, I wanted his approval most of all--and didn't get it. But, I guess there comes a pint in which I must step out and do things for myself and not to seek the approval of others--because others will let me down. Therefore, I will not alter my work to please him; I will keep my work the way it is because it pleases me. It is a little piece of me(which makes it all the harder when being rejected). Thus, all I am worried about pleasing is myself. And today, I made myself proud.

Nothing to F ear

I have nothing to fear...really I don't. Over these past few weeks, I have taken some initiative; finally taking control of my life, as it were. I applied to a place that I would absolutely love to work. Although they haven't gotten back to me, the whole experience was nonetheless a freeing one. I even called them a couple of days later to "check on the status of my application"--oh, so sophisticated. I also took the initiative in contacting some coffee shops to see if they "supported local artists by hosting exhibits at their locations"--oh, so professional. Good news: I will probably have an exhibit coming up come September and October. I'm just a little excited about that proposition. No, I rephrase that: I am supremely excited! I finally--FINALLY--started my collage. It's not exactly turning out how I planned that it would. It's basically trash, if I might. But, I started it. Yay for me! Seriously...yay for me. I'm not being sarcastic now. I am being truthful, sincere....genuine. For once, huh? Yep, for once. So, although I am disappointed about the tea job, I am glad that I at least applied. See? It wasn't so bad after all, was it, self? I really did have anything to fear. Even though they haven't contacted me, I am not discouraged(weird, eh?). I know that there is probably a better opportunity out there for me. Maybe the time just wasn't right for me to work there. My time will come, I am convinced. The coffee shop situation is an entirely different matter. I just emailed some coffee shops thinking it would nice to have another exhibit. One got back to me. They have coffee shops in two different locations. I inquired about their Northwest location, as opposed to the St. John's location. They said that they were booked in the NW location until the New Year and they asked if I would be interested in the St. John's location. I said that would be fine. She emails me back and says that they had a mix up with one of the artist's and will have an opening for September and October(their exhibits run for two months)...guess where? That's right: at the Northwest location. Amazing!! I am going to go down there next week to meet with her--Sarah--to see how much room I have to hang my work. Then I will kick into high gear and get some pictures printed and buy some frames....I am even thinking about making a collage--just so the whole thing won't be black and white pictures of downtown. I will throw in some color definitely though. The coffee shop seems really nice, too. I have never been there, but the description and the pictures online were amazing. Thus, I am excited. This so works out great. What did I have to fear? That some of the coffee shops would have said "No, we don't want you to hang your artwork..." See, I lost nothing in the process. I seemingly didn't gain anything either...oh, but I did. I gained the courage to go out and be the initiator. I gained experience. Although, there is one thing that I did lose come to think of it: my fear. Or at least some of it. But that's good. All I needed to do was to get out there. "Advertise myself" as I call it. I'm not especially good at that type thing. But enough practice...and I will be...better. Yes, I will be better. I will be better without fear always by my side, telling me I will fail...so why even try? People have told me these exact words before. I highly considered them, but my fear was too great. It wasn't quite time yet. Now is my time. I will conquer the majority of my fear. I might even conquer the world!! I shouldn't get too far ahead of myself though. Baby steps, baby steps. But, I am at a good place now. A really good place. I am surprised that I wasn't more discouraged about the tea job...but I guess the possibility of an exhibit makes me excited no matter what else is going on.

Fear of Failure

I am afraid of a host of things; everything from horses, to buses, to the color purple to failure. To you, the average reader, some of my fears seem insignificant(like the color purple). However, to me, most of my fears are the same. Although, there is one that stands out among the rest; something that I fear so entirely much; something that permeates every aspect of my life. It is my fear since before I can remember(okay, that may be a slight exaggeration. But I've had this fear for awhile). I don't even know where to start when discussing this weighty matter that is my fear. In short, I am a man-pleaser. I do what people want(or what I think they want) to gain acceptance. I fear that if I am "myself"(whoever the heck that is!!) that people will not accept me. So I change myself..outwardly at least. I put on a face, a facade, if you will. I play the part. This deems me a hypocrite. I do not change myself for everyone; however. That is just some ways my fear affects my life: socially. It also affects me in the "work world". I tend to become complacent. I am content with mediocrity, with just being average .I fear that if I "step up", there is a chance of failure; so therefore, I would rather stay where I am(because I know it is safe) , on the bottom--I figure you can't get any lower than that, right? I would rather stay at a "sucky" job then go out in search of a new one, with the possibility of rejection. My life is the pure epitome of mediocrity. So far, I have discussed my fear of failure and its effects on my social life and my working life. My fear also affects my creative work, such as my paintings, my writings, my photographs, my music. When it comes to painting and drawing, I am very hesitant to even start making something. What if it doesn't turn out? I don't want to waste my resources on something that will be ugly. With my writings, if I don't life it, I can just throw it away. With my photographs, it's a but different somehow. I can never quite seem tot rid myself of them(see "I'm a Creating Destroyer") Sometimes I am hesitant about showing my photographs to others for fear that they won't like them. I put my heart and soul into those photographs; I couldn't stand the rejection of them...of me. The ways my fear affects my creations: I either don't create, create it then destroy it, or hide it. Those are the some specific areas in which my fear of failure affects my life. I will discuss some of the more general and often subtle ways my fear affects. I stick to convention because if I think of a innovative way to do something better, it might not pass, I might fail at it. therefore, I stick to convention. I find that I just do the same thing. I get stuck in a rut; although sometimes it feels as though I am between a rock and a hard place. But I must remember that I have put myself there. This is where my occasional spontaneity comes in handy. One day, I just decide I will not stick to convention. I throw out my plans. I do everything different. I buy a drum. I write a song. I dye my hair. My occasional spontaneity comes right when I need it. It saves me from myself, really. I don't fear or worry about anything when I am being spontaneous. It's such a freeing feeling. I am but a mere bird flying across the Pacific Ocean, not worrying where I will land when I get tired. I don't fear. I have been working on my fear, or somehow ridding myself of it. I am more spontaneous, yet still slightly predictable. I like this feeling much. In fact, I am liking this feeling so much that I might just throw out my fear altogether. Imagine that: a world in which manda doesn't fear. A lifetime in which manda doesn't fear. THAT is this world. THAT is in MY lifetime. I am ready not to fear. Watch me soar....

I'm a Creating Destroyer

I love to create......I also love to destroy. Contradictory, I know. Therefore, I deem myself a "creating destroyer." Almost as soon as I create something, I want to destroy it. It doesn't really matter what I created; whether it was a painting, a photograph, a collage, a song, a word blurb, etc. I want to rid the world of seeing it. I want to rid myself of seeing it. But the memory of it in my head I can never seem to destroy. It all starts with an idea. I want to create that idea. I want to see it in real life. I want to touch it, I want to feel it.......then I inevitably, it seems, I want to destroy it. But destroying it wasn't my initial plan. I get around to creating that idea, that intangible being. I see it, take a step back, examine my work, and most often hate it. I despise what I create. Then why create it in the first place? I cannot answer that question. I, in my ignorance, do not know. Does that mean I don't know my own self? If I don't know my methods and reasons behind my madness, can I really know myself? What if I have no methods or reasons to my madness? Does that make me just mad? (Side note: I often write to solidify my vortex of thoughts and answer many of life's questions. But with this, it seems I am asking more questions than I can answer. Craziness....Madness. I am just mad, aren't I?) Some things I have destroyed. I have thrown most of my paintings away. I have thrown away and deleted some of my writings. I have wanted to burn some of my collages(including the one I am working now. That's right: I'm not even finished with it and I already want to destroy it! Utter madness, I tell you). The hardest thing I find to destroy is my photographs. I will always keep the memory of them. I cannot forget the moment in which I "snapped" that picture and entered into an unknown world, my curiosity following close behind me. I simply cannot forget. I try everything to rid myself of the memory of certain photographs; but, I can never turn my music up loud enough. I can never drive fast enough. I can never drive far enough. I can never write enough. I can never play the piano loud enough. I can do nothing to rid the memory. It stays with me. I can destroy the physical evidence, but never the mental picture. Because that's where it all started. It started in my head as an idea. I am the one that threw myself into the situation willingly. I entered the new, unknown world. There is no going back now. But, perhaps, maybe it is that my photographs are not meant to be forgotten? I seem to often photograph "forgotten" people if you will. If I forget them, then who else is there to know them, remember them? ....No one. Absolutely no one. Is this my calling? To remember the forgotten? Should I keep the physical evidence(as opposed to destroying it) for posterity? It is hard to break a habit. My habit: destroying my creation(good thing I'm not God)........Those "continuation" dots(periods) are a symbol of my fighting, warring really, against myself. I long to destroy those photographs and the memory that lies within. But I cannot. But I must. But I cannot. But I must. But, alas, I cannot. I am fighting my calling. I know that since I am fighting it, it must be the calling for me. I must answer. Yes, I must not destroy my creations, or at least some of them(that's where discretion comes in). Yes, I must the remember the forgotten. This is my calling..for now: remembering the forgotten. The forgotten have no one else but me. I must remember the forgotten....

The Calling of the Sun

I have a big day ahead of me, yes. Today, I must be the sunshine, such a daunting task, I know. The sun just got tired of doing its job today so it went away. So unpredictable the weather is. My eyes are heavy today. My mascaraed lashes act as lead weights, making my eyes droopy. How am I supposed to play the part of the sun if I am feeling like the moon? How can the moon be the sun? The two have to work together; I try this daunting task...alone. I fear that I cannot feel like the moon---BE the moon--if I am to be the sun. I am unsuitable for this task: I cannot fulfill the requirements for being the sun, no matter how hard I try. I am discouraged at this. Why would the sun pick me anyway? Did it think that I would actually qualify? With each passing moment, I am more and more assured that the sun is indeed crazy.First of all, how could such a vital member of the universe just decide it didn't want to work? And secondly, to pick ME for the job of being the sun(*I don't even have any previous experience being the sun!) In every aspect of myself, I am the moon--although, I must say, I am flattered that the sun chose me. But seriously, what a calling! It was yesterday. Yes, it happened yesterday; yesterday evening to be exact. The sun had almost retired for the evening; I could only see an orange glow behind the trees, now only mere black figures. I happened upon being outside, flipping through a book "War and Remembrance". As I was about done, a single ray found me through the trees all the way to the valley, where I reside. It was just a single ray, and it shone bright upon me, highlighting my red hair. My eyes squinted. Could it be? Finally my moment under the spotlight?
I am flooded with sunlight; it inundates me. The sun calls me. It calls me quietly, almost a whisper. It whispers through the slight breeze. It calls me to be itself. It tells me to BE the sun tomorrow. In an instant, it is gone. The ray disappears and I stand in the dusk. The sun leaves no explanation for why it has called me. No story. It comes quickly and leaves even quicker. What am I to do? Is the sun seriously going to take the day off? This cannot be. I go to sleep and don't think another thing about it. In the morning I awake, not by the sunshine, but by the beeping of my alarm clock. "Where is the sun?" I wonder. It is now that I remember my encounter with that single ray of sun. The sun didn't greet me. I should have suspected it though. It told me in advance that I was to BE the sun. I crawl out of bed wearily. It hits me: I HAVE TO BE THE SUN! I, of course, cannot shine as bright as the sun, but I shine as bright as I can. Throughout the day, I get slightly discouraged; clouds crowd around me. They cover my good spirits. How does the sun do this everyday? I cannot fulfill my responsibility. I give up as being the sun. The sky is now filled with dark gray clouds, announcing the arrival of a storm. The world is counting on me to fulfill me job; the sun is counting on me. I cannot give up. I muster up all the good spirits I had and finally break through the clouds. The real sun came out then and thanked me for filling in. The sun taught me a lesson: I must NEVER give up. Although daunting the task may be, I have to at least try, not fearing failure or incompetence. I CAN be the sun. I AM the sun.

Above and Below

I write in blue ink today. It seems to stand out more than black ink does: it is more distinguished but still has some whimsy to it. Today I want to establish variable differences and similarities between doves and crows. The obvious similarity is the fact that both are birds. The obvious difference is the stark contrast in colors: one being white, the other being black. However, I want to delve in deeper; look beyond the slight obvious. There are only 2 likenesses between both birds that I will list: both are birds and both fly. The differences are many; I will discuss these in greater extent. The dove is a universal symbol of peace. I could see a dove being manifested in the form of a graceful ballerina-like angel. Often accompanied in the dove's symbol of peace is the olive branch, which suggests it being an herbivore. In contrast, the crow is a ravenous creature, a carnivore of sorts. The crow is associated with darkness, and grimness. The crow is often seen eating dead meat of sorts, fulfilling its desires for flesh. The crow is a selfish creature and could eat a whole dead being alone if given the chance.The crow is also seen as an annoyance and a nuisance, probably because of its "caw". The "caw" of the crow is demanding; demanding food....and NOW! Its only concern is with fulfilling its desires. Contrast that with the dove; seen as a servant. I will now contrast these creatures using a theory on Noah's Ark. When Noah's boat had landed on the tip of Mount Ararat, Noah sent forth a crow(raven) to see if there was land. If there was, the raven would have brought back a sign(such as a leaf) that the water had subsided. Noah waited for the crow to return; it never did. It was then that Noah sent forth a dove, which came back, although it was unaccompanied by a sign of land. Noah waited and sent the dove back out. This time, the dove returned with an olive branch. Why didn't the raven come back, when the dove did both times it was sent forth? As the story of Noah's Ark goes, the only family spared was that of Noah; all other people and some animals were destroyed. A theory: Many people and animals probably sought high land when the water rose to an uninhabitable manner. the dead bodies of the animals and people probably floated on the water, as they still do today. Therefore, when Noah sent the crow out, being the ravenous creature that it is, it most likely planted itself on a floating carcass and went to work eating away. the raven was so consumed with its desires and of pleasuring itself, it could not focus on the task at hand. Thus, I find the raven to be a "human" creature, almost. Ergo, the crow is very similar to how humankind acts. The dove is a heavenly creature, compared to an angel. The dove is in the sky, soaring freely above, keeping peaceful watch over mankind. The crow preys the ground, seeking to fulfill its desires by taking advantage of mankind's distress. Dove: Above. Crow: Below.

Hemp Granola and Drumsticks

I have arrived--I couldn't have gotten here soon enough--literally! All the way here, I was thinking about all the things I could write about today. I sit on the grass, my back leaning against a lamp-post in the park on Everett and Park, one block down from where I was on Monday. There are more people in the park today it seems. I brought granola and yogurt with me to eat. Now I eat. I mixed my strawberry vanilla hemp granola in with my strawberry yogurt. I'm not quite sure why it's called "hemp"-but it sure tastes swell--even the cashier was befuddle. At any rate...hemp granola. I am eating hemp granola. First item of business is out of the way. I thought about my medicine wheel while driving down here today. It's supposed to bring good feelings and reminds us to respect mother nature and become one with nature. It brought me good feelings. The favorite part of my journey downtown is first entering the city. I take Barnes Rd--it winds through the forest, the sunlight flickering through the breaks and shadows. It's psychedelic really. The trees cease to be, the sun breaks through, and I see the first sign of downtown. A good feeing overwhelms me--I am overtaken by this feeling--I HAVE ARRIVED> This is where I belong. The city has embraced me, as I have afore said. I have hugged back.
.....
I finish my yogurt parfait: awesomely delicious. In my bag I carry drumsticks: today they keep the beat for the song of downtown. They drive the song; and since I am the one to carry them, I guess that means that I drive the song. Yes, today I drive the song for downtown; styling with my hat, rocking with my Sanuks, cruising in my skinny jeans. Today is a marvelous day to compose a song with downtown. Yeah, today is a good day. The grass is vibrant green, swaying to my music in rhythm with the breeze. My eyes are tired today; even with all the beautiful things around here, they do not want to stay open. I would love a cup of caffeinated tea now. Which reminds me that I stopped at a tea store and had some samples. The green tea mixture was the best. The fellow there was nice too. I can hear the song: *clank clank from construction; *bugs fluttering; *bicycles ticking; *basketball bouncing; *grass swaying; *car whizzing; *cell phone ringing; *chit-chatting; *dogs barking; *skateboard gliding; *drunks yelling; *car radios blaring; *high heels clicking on pavement; *plane soaring above; *flies buzzing; *all the while my drumsticks keeping the beat. I do like the beat, but the melody is even better: it tells of and diversityacceptance. It's a beautiful song, it really is. And the force that drives it today: ME! How grand a thought! I don't write much today: I cannot focus: there are too many sights to see; too many sounds to hear; too many feelings. Downtown is filled with everything today: everything good. I see particle board covering once open windows, chipping paint on concrete walls, a few white puffy clouds and a few white wispy clouds, the green color inundates me. The Irish hippie just left. I have been observing him since I arrived. His red hair is matted. His ride: a bicycle. The breeze is chilly on my bare ams. Dudes with long boards walk by and take up residence on a bench across the grass. One of them has long hair; one of them has an afro; "the other?" you ask, is "normal." The sun has found me through the trees and creates a billion shadows on my notebook and the surrounding grass. I like it. A baby yellow ladybug lands on my notebook: "Are there any boy ladybugs? And if there are, what are they called?" The answer: "Yeah, the Beatles." I now see a Jude Law look-a-like. He passes by and goes out of sight. I love the bumpy surface that the bark on trees: the texture it creates is epic. In slight, I am in love with barky trees I guess. I guess?!?! Who am I kidding?(*Myself). I LOVE trees. I haven't climbed a tree in so long. I must needs do that soon. I also must soon leave this patch of green grass that I have claimed for the last amazing hour. It has been a good patch to me. I thank it. I respect it: just like my medicine wheel taught me to do. There was an instant silence in the city. Almost all activity and noise ceased(except for my drumsticks keeping the beat). Time for a DRUM SOLO! I rock on. I give myself seven minutes to wrap this up and wind down. Now it seems that I have so much to write and my pen cannot write fast enough. I am pressed for time. Which of my thoughts will be written down in this short span of time? They all jump out of the tornado-like vortex, each wanting to be written. Some are quickly sucked back in. I resign my drumsticks and hemp granola for now and I get serious. Four minutes.....I discuss hair. It seems to be that a hairstyle defines a person. Dread locks, afros, long, short, wedge, mullet, curly, straight, even the color. I have decided that when I am 80 years old and fearless(whichever comes first), I will dye my hair jet black and get dreads. By this time, I will own a trailer park and the style will be suitable for someone of my standing: owner and manager of Ritz Palace Estates: Trailer Homes. I will be famous and fearless: fearlessly famous...famously fearless. The me of the future.
.....
Sights on my trek back to my car: girl on a park swing alone, not swinging. girl on the park play structure, sitting on a concrete step alone. "ponce de leon". dread locks. shirtless man. fruit tattoos on calf muscles. eyeglasses to die for. a man dancing interpretively in the park--I can drum to that. a man whistling that song of "Diversity and Acceptance" to the beat of my drumsticks.
.....
Good day, good day.

Park Musings in a Memoir

Whenever I go downtown, I usually take pictures with a camera. This time is different. I am going to paint pictures with words. We'll see how this goes.
.....
It is a beautiful day; a slight breeze but not too cold. I sit on a wooden bench, obviously weathered and worn from much use. I approached the bench circumspectly. I needed to find the perfect spot you see because I didn't want it to be so crowded with people that I wouldn't be able to accurately describe it, but I also did want some people action. So, here I sit on the perfect bench on NW Davis and Park. My left leg is crossed over my right left, foot firmly planted on the ground. My stray hair blows in the breeze, tickling my face, sticking to my chap stick. "Do you have a cigarette?" I am distracted. "No," I reply firmly, almost disgusted that a man would assume that I had a cigarette and would give him one nonetheless. The pages in my notebook blow in the wind. I see a bird feather lying ten feet ahead of me on the other side of the walkway. It looks as though it has been picked up many a time and thrown back on the ground with dismay by a young child wondering why the feather couldn't do more things. Right now I feel like that feather: thrown-down by people who discover that I can't do more or who finally discover what I do and dislike it. The feather use to help some bird in flying; now it lies on the ground, torn. I'm sure I was like a feather before, feeling freedom by flying(or rather assisting one to fly). But now I, like this feather before me, am tossed away, deemed unuseful. It is an inanimate object, I know, but I can relate to that feather. I cannot relate to any person lately, it seems; but a feather: now that I can do. One such person I cannot relate to right now(it seems) is a man, shirtless, sitting across the green grass diagonal to me. He also sits on a worn bench very similar to mine. He has sunglasses atop his head; nothing to cover up his hairy chest and beer belly; dark blue sweat pants; and white tennis shoes. he now sits with his left hand on the bench, as if to prop him up; his other hand resting in his lap. he is not clean shaven. His legs now shake back and forth for no apparent reason. This is a mystery to me. He drinks light purple Gatorade, not beer as one might suspect. many of the people who occupy these benches are wither homeless, or artsy(which begs the question: which am I? I will discuss that later). A woman sits down in the bench next to his and strikes up a polite conversation. He smiles and chuckles a bit. He has a good smile. the woman sits uncomfortably with both hands on her knees out in front of her, anticipating something. the man retrieves something from his pocket and fiddles around with it. She gets up and introduces herslef and they shake hands. She resumes her position, as if she is subjected there. I wonder why the man is there: he could be homeless or he could just be enjoying a wonderful day in the park, as I am. Some things about the man make me think he is indeed homeless; but I hate to be so quick to judge. As people walk by him, he stares them up and down and observes them. With just a few glances, he seems to know who people really are: it seems to me that he can see through epople into their hearts: their true essence. The woman has moved closer to him and they talk more in depth. i can hear snippits(sounds bites really) of his voice: it is surprisingly upbeat. She shows her farmer's tan:ironic. He's not even wearing a shirt. She says goodbye and walks away. I wonder at her story too. I also wonder if he knows my true essence and knows me by the few glances he's had of me. I wonder if he knows why I'm sitting on this bench(refer to my previous observation *homeless or artsy0. Am i homeless? Or am I artsy? I can't stand to be at home now: I needed to escape(perhaps voluntary temporary homelessness?). Or maybe I am here to write and muse over my artistic ideas: this park bench being the perfect place to do so? Or, maybe it is a combination of both. I wonder if he knows; and if he does, I wish he would tell me because I don't know.
.....
I hear rustling of tree leaves and a train horn harbingering its imminent arrival. these are soothing sounds to me. They flow together, almost creating a song. It keeps the rhythm too. The song and rhythm of downtown I love. I could spend every day here: heck! I could live here!
.....
I see more couples walking the streets now. I am alone(...but with my pen and notebook though). I again look at the feather *leaves rustle, *horn blares, * woman laughs, *car swoosh, *bicycles tick, *footsteps. it's beautiful music, it really is. Although I'm alone, I don't feel alone. the city embraces me. Dare I hug back? What if it rejects me later on?(my fear of rejection). Although, I must point out that I do have somewhat of a crush on Portland. It's irresistible, it really is. I hear whistling; the sun is disappearing. What a treasure this place is. How in the world could this place embrace me? Maybe for the same reason it accepts the homeless man diagonal to me, or the couple on my two o'clock. I don't know that reason though. I will now try to speculate as to the reason. Portland has a smattering of people who come from all over with different stories, all trying to fit in somewhere. Portland is their place. Bottom line: it accepts ALL. I think I would consider myself under the umbrella of "all". But there has to be something else, I'm sure. Everybody here seems so special and unique. And since I am here, does that deem me special and unique or maybe that everybody's special and unique? What a revelation! The city may be an inanimate object, but it taught me a lesson. Just like the feather. As the day slips from my grasp, the breeze gets colder. I am considering walking to my car and retrieving my sweater; then maybe walking to the waterfront. I think I've learned my lessons from this park bench and the feather and the man diagonal to me. I see drunk men swinging. That is entertaining. Maybe I will stay here just a bit longer. I will finish this page and then trek to my car. I'm ever so glad I came down here tonight and escaped from my regular life as I know it...or don't know it? I cease from my writing and look up: the man is gone.
.....
I told myself that I would leave at 10 p.m. that doesn't give me much time left. But no one knows what I told myself. Who listens to me anyway? I sure don't. The hell with what I say! As I left the park, I saw a black man in a green striped polo(with a cigarette tucked behind his ear). He was standing at a street corner. He caught my eye. "Why don't you smile?" I turned my head and smiled, but kept walking. "How are you doing tonight?" I turned around. "Good, I said, accompanied with yet another smile. "What're you up to tonight?" "nothing much," i responded. "Partying?" At this point I had stopped and he walked closer. "No. I'm too young to party." "really? How old are you?" "18." "Oh? You're pretty though. That's not too young to do the things you want like..." he rattled on. "Not legally, at least." He chuckled. "Do you smoke?" "Nope." "So you're good through and through, eh? And probably will always be that way?" "yeah." "Well, you deserve a hug right there for that." He gave me a hug. I needed it. Even though it was from a complete stranger(and not to mention the fact that it was given because i was "good"). I walked a couple blocks and a Jeep drove by with two guys in it, the passenger leaning out the window. I looked and smiled. He waved; I waved back. They stayed at the stop sign until I got closer. "How're you doing tonight? Look pretty." "good. You?" "Good. What you doing tonight? Just cruisin' around?" "yeah, Writing." "Oh. You go to school own here?" "nope." "hey, well, we were juts watching a preview for man on wire showing at cinema 21..." He handed me a flier. "meeting your friends down here tonight?" "no. I fly solo." "I see. Wanna burn one?" "I don't. But thanks." "Really?" "really. I'm "good"." "Oh, you're 'good'. I see. Well, have a good night. It was nice meeting you. What did you say your name was?" "Manda." "Manda?...Matt." We shook hands. "Nice to meet you. Have a great night, pretty lady." "buh-bye." Matt was a nice fellow. Green polo guy and Matt taught me something about myself: I don't compromise my beliefs(or change for anyone) as much as I think. I'm also apparently "good"; but good girls are just bad girls that don't get caught. I am sitting at the waterfront; no jacket needed actually. I am perfectly fine. I'm not hungry; thirsty; don't have to use the restroom; and am not cold. My only complaint: writer's cramp. I need a laptop. Nonetheless, I write on. It is peaceful here. The street lights scintillates and sparkles on the river. The tree leaves rustle. Bridges are mere shadows in the darkness, lit up only by car that whiz by. People are here to relax, exercise, stroll, have a romantic night much like the couple under the tree to my right. They are lovers making out in the park. I hear sirens in the distance nearing me. They pass on and cross the bridge; cars part for it. The lovers are gone. In their place there sits a lone girl, with a bicycle. She leans against the tree, looking tired and in despair. How ironic: a lonely, discouraged person currently occupies the place that lovers once claimed. I wonder as to why she's there. No home to go back to? Or maybe a stressful home situation? An escape perhaps? Just resting before she continues on home? I know not. But I noticed that we both are in the park alone: a common thread.
.....
I stretch my left hand's fingers that are stiff from writing. I wiggle them. with my able-bodied right hand, I check the clock: 10 p.m. But what does that mean to me? Nothing. I care not. I am apathetic. It's one of my weaknesses...or maybe strengths? I don't woo people or feel sorry for their being in a situation that they put themselves in. I am sympathetic and empathetic to people though too. I am the opposite(or extremes) of the spectrum...AT the SAME TIME! How can this be? I am simple: complex. Easy:difficult. Quiet: loud. Self-conscious: self-confident. Shy: outgoing. Nice: Mean. Independent: dependent. Respectful: rebellious. Determined: lacking self-will. Stayed: a voyeur. An open book: subtle. Trustworthy: sly. The list goes on and on. You get the main gist though, right? Sometimes even I don't understand myself. This time was a nice time to reflect and look inside myself to reveal what's really there...if anything is. The lone woman walks away, holding her bike with her right hand, rolling it beside her. She sits on a bench at the end of a line of benches. I look over and stretch my fingers once again. I love how I can see the shadow of my pen moving as I write; and the way it stays still as I am pondering as what to say next. It's like someone else is writing through me, possessing me and taking control of my hand and pen. Am i a different person when I write? I wonder. Does another side of my personality shine through when I'm writing? When I am writing. I imagine that I am everything I want to be. I have become the person I dream of being. I have a voice when I write. I have collective and organized thoughts. My dreams come true through my pen. I save the world through my pen. I change the world through my pen. I rule the world through my pen. (And I have plenty of time to do so: the park closes at 12. It's only 10:15. Yes, I still have plenty of time the save, change, and rule the world before I must needs go. That's good news). It is getting colder now. My jacket is almost in need, but not quite yet. I like to see how the lamp-posts' light reflects off my soft, smooth skin. It creates a golden color, a warm color. I haven't written this much in so long, I am happy for this time. My pen is steaming from being worked too hard and too fast. Before my world-saving pen bows up, I will resign myself from writing now. I will go back to my "normal" self; my thoughts will create a tornado like vortex in my head once again; I can be free no more until I pick up my pen once again(the key to unlocking my dungeon.) I cannot wait for this moment when I am able to reunite with my pen once again. Oh, how free I will be! I look up and stretch my fingers once again. The lonely girl is gone(....*and it's 10:22 p.m.)
.....
I thought I had resigned my pen for the night; but ti's not true. As I was walking down the street, the street lights created some awesome shadows: I looked up and there were two of me(two shadows of me rather). The further I would walk down that block, my shadows would merge into one; I would cross the intersection and again I would see two of me(one in the street; one on the sidewalk--opposite of the spectrum, if you will). And again, the shadows merged into one. Block after block after block. It was amazing to "see" the two side of me merge into one. I am one person....yet two.

The Art of Art

Stifle.Muddle.Confuse.Hide.Reason?
Thought. Process.Motive.*Naive.
Know.Ignorant.Ego.Feeling.Artist.
Self-obsessed.Essence.Living.
Interest?Obviously.Gallery.Money.
Reason?Man.Understand.[Not].
Vulnerable.Exposed.Selling.Self.
*Short.Reason?Acceptance.Lack.
Thereof.Contribution.Mankind.
outlet.*Emotions.[Pent Up]. No
more.Thoughts.Released.Organized.
Impact.Effects.Change.Artist's
Stifled Public Life.Vulnerable
Exposed Emotional Art.