Tuesday, December 22, 2009

If Alice Hadn’t Fallen…

If Alice Hadn’t Fallen…

Everyone has an Alice story; typically it is a situation that one feels uneasy in. I must have been born with an Alice chromosome. I stopped fitting in as soon as I realized what “normal” was. When I was 3 I would strip naked and sit behind my bedroom door. We had hardwood floors and I liked the way the cold floor felt on my bare bottom. I was not aroused, despite what weirdo doctors conclude, I just liked the sensation on my rear.

When I got a little older I still felt like I was still in Wonderland. I didn’t feel like the freak, I felt normal… and that perhaps the world around me was wrong. I thought that if I was from God than I must be normal (we were a religious family). However, the flaw in that mentality is… the rest of world was made by God too. So once again I was lost.

The difference in my self-awareness now is that I am fully aware that I am a mess. I wake up in the morning and say, Angie, you’re a little pudgy today… and then I smile and say, you are still you so what can ya do. And I swear everyday it makes me smile, could be a bad hair day, circles under the eyes or bloating. Whatever tizzy I may find myself in a simple proclamation of disgust with a smile washes away the feelings that the media so adamantly applies.

I may still be Alice at 33 but I am okay in my fallen state, probably because I don’t remember ever being any other way. My first memories all consist of a strange coexistence with mere mortals who strived for perfection. Perfection never existed to me, or maybe everything was already perfect the way it was before external perception was realized. When it was just me behind my door with my bare ass it was perfection… it wasn’t until my mother yanked me up and spanked it, that I realized there was something wrong with me.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Stranger than Fiction

I feel so silly, hanging on to old pictures of myself. I mean, we aren’t really who our pictures say we are anyway. It is merely a reflection of that time period… and really only a reflection of my shell. I mean, I’m not really into all that garbage about “society says we have to be beautiful on the outside so let’s just be a bunch of ugly pigs on the inside” anyway. Yeah, I am guilty when it comes to hygiene, even when it comes to being presentable. But I found myself tonight wanting to hang onto fragments of a moment of a fraction of a second… just because I liked the image staring back at me. There was a point in my life that I crudely and boldly proclaimed that “vanity is my vice”. That was before I realized vanity came with a price. I was always so unhappy and unfulfilled. I like who I am inside this shell now. I never did for like the longest time. Once I realized that the only validation I needed was in me it seemed like everything was alright. I still find myself lingering on those photos though. I am not talking about the ones on facebook… which by the way thank you all who have commented. I assure you however that I only post the “good” ones :D The pictures I refer to are of my modeling days. Beautiful photos to say the least, and short lived as well. I did it while in college my first time. I can’t toss them though, and I am sick of being reminded of the low in my life at the time. The torture I put myself through during that time is nothing less than scandalous. I no longer have an escape anymore. Reading isn’t an escape for me, my vanity has taken shape of a new monster and I see myself in the literature I read. Plagiarizing emotions and feigned love interests… that’s my new game. The funny thing is… no matter how arbitrary life seems to me I always see that glimmer of sunshine in the distance. So, basically I feel that I am already molded and my character will spew out of any outlet that my mind is engulfed in. It’s hard to slay a monster that I acknowledge but don’t fear.

Blah… an addict without an addiction is definitely stranger than fiction.

Floundering

I don’t understand. Why is it that I can’t stop wondering about people that are dead? Geniuses! My mind is always plagued with the likes of Henry Miller, Richard Wright, and Virginia Woolf… I want to be in the presence of someone who is garbled with constant nonsense. A person who is forced to find their way out of their own mind by any means possible; whether by means of a pencil, a paintbrush or constant painful soliloquies. These are the things I think about. When summer dies, I watch nature hibernate. I wonder if others pay attention to the small details, leaves dancing in the wind, bareness of the branches and the utter sadness and beauty that comes with fall and winter. I crave the rebirth of spring. It is a curse that I fall in love with dead people, their dead words seeping from their dead hands. I am alive but I do not find the life of the dead in the living. I just wish that these sort of people with a mind that never stops could have a heartbeat that to mimic the constant noise. I wish that noise could last forever. It is painful for me that it cannot. It reminds me too that I will not live forever. However, I feel what I offer is not nearly on such a grand scale. I will be planted as a protected tree in a forest preserve when I die. I will be cremated. Instead of having my life circulation take place through maggots and flies I choose my own path of reincarnation (so to speak). Even this does not calm my shaken thoughts. In Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch Miller says “Men are not suffering from the lack of good literature, good art, good theatre, good music, but from that which has made it impossible for these to become manifest” such clarity in those words. I soak up the words and art of others everyday. I steal my passion on days that I cannot bear to create my own. It’s not that I do not appreciate those simpler aspects of life, such as a good comedy and a beer. It’s just that conversation, music, art, literature rule my mind. The beauty of life is all encompassing, almost too beautiful to bear at times.

Toxic Emotion

Vomiting words up seems to come naturally these days. I have written five short stories and even an erotic one; so six. My husband sat and listened to it with a mixed look of horror and pleasure. It amused me, raw emotion usually does, that’s why I love to read my work to people and not have them read it silently. They can mask and cover their eyes when they read it, but when I slur where it needs a slur and purr when it needs a purr all they can do is sit, stare and desperately maintain composure.

Poor guy though, he does not just sit through the sensualness and ambiguous sexuality. He also sits through essays, poems, and random observations. I insist someone witness it all, I need someone to witness the creation; even if it is sometimes accompanied with a look of ennui.

Writing turns me on; it jars something loose in my head. When the motors start in my mind, my whole body rumbles and comes to life. No matter what the time I must arise, I always turn in between 3-4 in the morning. The clock is insignificant in comparison to the grander scheme of life. Sleep creates nothing but pointless, lucid dreams. Unfulfilled sensuality and truths no one should have to know about themselves.

My dreamscapes used to flourish the second I hit the sheets, but these days it tears through me roughly, maniacal I peer around the room… looking for the answers that would surely appear in the dark.

I remember this one consistency from the movie Love and Death that kept reiterating itself to me. He constantly questions God, saying “just give me a sign” that’s all he wants the whole time. And I laughed to myself because I thought, your sign was Death in the beginning… when he appeared to Boris as a child (as it did to Jung). Then as the movie continued on I began to realize that Death and God were different entities to Boris (or Allen; however you wish to interpret it). It was so strange a revelation to me because all this is rolled into a big source of the unknown to me. I have read The Divine Comedy, I have read Origin of Species, I have read the Incarnations of Immortality, I have read the Bible; the only thing I took from everything I have read is nothing is conclusive… it is wrapped together in philosophy, theology and botany. The most beautiful aspect of the clever ways literature depicts divination is that it is just that… it is prose, it is poetry, it is life, it is death, and it is love. I never separate entities, gods… I don’t separate myth from fact. Myth and fact combined would create the ultimate life. But we are a black and white society, it must be one or the other… it can never be all.

At some point you must realize there will never be answers, only questions. A friend and I mused at love tonight, talked about how love is the ultimate pyramid scam… only the pyramid never ends.

Death is the same way, I don’t fear death. When my friend Missy passed away, I thought to myself why couldn’t it be me? I was never afraid, I am afraid of a lot of things. Germs, the dark, the boogie man (his friends lol), but I have never feared death. When love failed me the first time, death was my friend and offered to ease my sorrow. Although I declined the polite invitation, it was still nice to have the company. Death stayed until I was able to stand and walk around. The ants were everywhere and my brother was scared. The poison and toxins in my system made it unbearable because the ants were everywhere, and the scratching on the window kept on for hours, with the eyes of my father looking down. I pushed the bed up against the wall; it was a mattress on the floor, I liked it there within reach of my books and cd’s. But the ants were getting on it, they were getting into everything. I sat with my recliner up and waited for the ants to leave, they wouldn’t. I was confused at the vacuuming and the stomping how they were multiplying. It was upwards of midnight and my brother was screaming at me to stop vacuuming. He was saying, “Angie the ants are not there, Angie you have been vacuuming for an hour.” Later he said he spied the empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor parallel to a half bottle of sleeping pills. I hadn’t contemplated suicide, just a long nap.

That is what love did to me. Love tore me from the inside out and bled me dry onto the carpet of ants. I never let it happen again, I put a shield up, a mixture of the different entities and became one with the soil… but only the soils surface. I realized I cannot stop love, death, life, time but I can work around it… I can structure myself to meet these needs.

All these things exist within me, without them I would not have passion, purpose or pulse. Even death serves me, Missy left something behind when she made her journey to swim with the dolphins in Maui; she gave birth to a new life in me. She reignited my soul, and reminded me that I had a spirit. Never let anyone die in vain, my friends, let them release unto you. I will never forget her, her significance, her forgiving heart, and her everlasting innocence.

A Past Life

A Past Life

A lot of you know me from high school; I was the awkward girl with crooked teeth. I leaned on my friends a lot for moral support and kind of thought high school was a joke. I hated most of my teachers, except for Mr. Spies who eventually furthered his education and got a job where he looks down on products of Waukegan Schools. The latter just proving that I should have been more thorough to start with in my collective loathing of the administration. I liked a lot of people but found many people didn’t really give me a chance. Most guys liked me for my boobs and most girls liked me initially because I wasn’t a threat in the looks department. I was a geek before being a geek was cool. However, I was never a loner, I always found people to be my favorite part of existence… hence, why I majored in Psychology.
What has made me take this trip down memory lame (pun intended lol), you may ask. Well I found someone I have been looking for. This search has been long, 20 years long. Because before I was the haphazard mess I was in high school, I was a girl that had a circle of friends in junior high… this was before Jefferson. This was in Great Lakes. This girl drove me crazy, she was prettier than me but was so evil and mean about it. She knew she was prettier than everyone else and made sure we didn’t forget it. We were a trifecta the three of us; we were best friends that detested each other.

We were camping one summer and a secret was told, a really disturbing one. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I told another friend and asked her advice about whether or not I go to the counselor. Well she was stumped, but secretly hated my friend and told the whole school. It leaked to the administration and they had to get involved. It was really that bad. The girl had to leave school because everyone knew. I was so ashamed, and she hated me. I really thought I was helping. I was 13, just turned it. However, this still haunts me even as an adult.

After years of looking for her I found her. But the shame still grips me; I have no right to apologize even now. I know the pain of constant ridicule and I do not need the apologies from those people today. Does she really need mine… I think it would be motivated by pure selfishness. Just because I didn’t get over it, doesn’t mean that she didn’t. And what if she has, drudging it up isn’t going to make anyone happy…

I remember being a good friend for the most part; I was confused when she revealed her secret. She was my best friend but didn’t want me to help her. Yet, if you were to ask me if I would have done the same thing today; I would have done worst; I would have just gone straight to my parents.

I am choosing not to contact her. I am choosing to finally set the demons free. I meant no harm in what I did. Apologizing to her is to declare a mishap on my part. I cared about her, I was jealous of her and disliked some aspects of her, but overall I loved her. I know this because even still I do.

You may think this is weird, but that is how I gauge what love is to me. If I still have a place in my heart for someone, I know that the love I had/have for them is real. I felt as if I never knew what love was when I was younger; it was just something I didn’t take lightly. I guess being abandoned by someone who is supposed to “love” you distorts the meaning and concept. Despite the latter I was able to find what it means to me.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Vanity and the Snake

Vanity and the Snake

Vanity to me is like being in the Garden of Eden but instead of the tree of knowledge in the middle of the garden there is a tree of mirrors. We are told in society that we must be confident, yet when we exercise confidence we are somehow seen as arrogant. People have very precise opinions about what the boundaries of humbleness and arrogance are. However, what gives someone else the right to dictate whether one is arrogant or confident. It all has to do with perception, if a person is predisposed to a low self-esteem than anyone with any type of self-esteem will seem arrogant. Yet, if a person is predisposed to self-love than he or she will likely see another likeminded person as being confident.

Arrogance is a love for oneself that supersedes love for everyone else. Just because a person likes being in the skin he or she is in does not mean that they are selfish and arrogant. It simply means that he or she has accomplished a goal that should be the goal of every sane person. Attaining confidence and self-preservation is not an evil, but rather leads to a rational state of mind. The person one must love before he or she can love purely and honestly is oneself.