Inside Her Dreams

Often I've thought that my imagination would get the best of me. I create relationships and friendships in my mind that won't happen or can't happen, just to feel the joy of the moment. How I have wished since before I was in high school for some of these things to happen to me. Friend sleepovers, friends in my house in general, a boy who was devoted to me the way I've seen my friends boyfriends see them to take them to school and pick them up. Everything was forced when it did happen. I can't say anything bad or traumatic happened to me, but when things did happen, they were too little too late. I feel as though my life was full of drama, but maybe because I wasn't happy. I was too entrapped of the ideas and wishes that I had in my head, that my real life was horrible, lonely, and boring in comparison. I needed to shake things up and make things interesting, whether I ruined my life or other people's lives. I lived so jealous of what these other girls had- they really were girls, while I was something in between girl and boy, not completely feminine, and not masculine either. No one told me I was pretty, and when they did, it sounded like the barks and calls of dogs. My few friends from high school moved away, and my friends outside, I barely see. I told someone who I liked once, "I'm not your friend anymore, but that doesn't mean I won't run your memory dry with stories in my mind. I'll let my mind wander until I'm over you." Romance was always just so scary. Not like I was given the liberty to experience it. Friendship, my mother always told me, was overrated. My boyfriend, can be great, but the idea of romance was burned off of his soul years ago, if it was ever there. So why do I feel like I missed out on something? Why am I so lonely? Maybe my dreams are just the thing that keeps me down from being happy. I've always been the person to see the glass half empty.

Mirror

And the girl who told her reflection to never give up
Gives in
Her soul will keep chipping away until it's just a particle of dust
Floating
"I won the battle I've fought for years now
But that did not end without casualties"
Yet the stranger tells her he sees in every footstep the pains of sorrow
She keeps on believing in one thing to follow her deity
The patter of her feet stop in front of the mirror
As she gazes one more time
Tearing, confused, and eager
Clawing against her own womanly arms
She kisses the mirror and blankets it with black satin
Yet her own mind wants to leave her body
She doesn't want her story untold.

Affection

How does it feel to be loved from a distance?
I'm sending you messages corked tightly in a bottle
Long away from the other sides of the seas
With the pleas of a thousand beggars asking for their fix

Oh well, I think I stated my point already.

I know what it is...

To be lonely.

Today at the dentist I met this boy that was doing my teeth x-rays. He was just my age but he worked as that, his excuse was "I'm just a beast!" All we had in common was our age, but he kept talking and talking to me about how he has been here for about 4 weeks and talked about how boring it was in his home down south in some city I don't know. He told me that his family came up and they were there around 5:30 am, but i didn't have a story to tell him. I felt like I was omitting myself from the conversation. Instead I laughed, and smiled, but had no smart retorts. I was his friend for the twenty minutes we spoke, and I felt a little bad almost that I couldn't be his friend longer, although I am very skeptical of having friends, or giving people my phone number.

Later on at work I met an old woman who was buying 14.99 dollar sandals. she tried to joke with me about how it would be amazing if someone just came up to her one day in the winter inviting her to a cruise. She repeated it two or three times, with only a smile for applause.

It wasn't until a few minutes later that my heart sank for how mean I was being to her. I know how it feels to try to talk to a stranger when all you are doing is being kind or trying to pass the time in this lonely world with a smile or a quick companionship. Why was I being so cold hearted? These two people just needed someone to talk to, and feel friendly, the balloon blowing from your heart when you know that you have made someone happy and it makes you genuinely happy. Maybe the fact that despite all of the attempts of friendship and kindness there is always that anger and hatred in the world that grows inside of people over time, until it is a large emmassed oak in the forest of humans in the world.

What makes a story?

I love short stories. I used to be able to write. I never wrote short stories though, I almost never had the ability to, without turning them into longer stories that I could never finish.
Now I have no motivation, or feel that I have no inspiration or creativity to write as I did. What do I have to write? My life has become so mundane, and honestly, quite pessimistic/passive that I don't give many things long thoughts anymore.
I never felt that I had the ability to write so well as to be published, or anything of the sort. I haven't finished reading a book in a long time either.
when I write, I don't want something cliche. Last time I wrote something, it was an 8 page letter about some psychotic girl who drove another psycho girl to suicide, went to her funeral, and bathed herself in the blood of the dead girl. Creepy I know. It wasn't even written that great.
I kind of miss being pulled into drama,because drama and dreams often gave me reason to write. I don't have the time or energy to anymore, nor many friends of mental worth to actually read with the expectation of them finishing reading or understanding it.
What makes a good story? Must I write or have I become too normal and plain? Too boring?

I feel like Sylvia Plath's story "The Wishing Box:

My Dreams Were All Dead And Buried

My dreams are speaking too much to me about my subconscious fears.
Anyway, I got to see the baby and my family, I love them so much.
I'm so low on money it's crazy and depressing.
I hope to live a great fabulous life, but who knows, I just have to persevere.
I'm so tired.
I don't have time for poetry right now.
Goodnight.

The Hollow

With the slightest
touch
You're ablaze
yet
There's nothing left in
the ocean

A rippled wave.


Reach out for a hand
Drawing back.
The exchange of words
Often slack.



From

nothing.
To

something.

Pulse and pressure
Take

these.

Off me.
Do I measure?


Something will always be missing
When it comes to this
Is it the lack of interaction
Maybe what's left
is


Significance.

Hello again

I haven’t been very active, but the truth is that even with such space in time, it seems that there isn’t much to say. Even if I did say a lot, there is no more meaning in the word. I believe that the only time something impacts you so strongly should be kept to yourself. What’s more intimate than an actual real life journal to write in and express your thoughts? I haven’t written a poem since November. Not because I don’t care about poetry anymore, but because everything seems so damn cliche. A few months from now and it will just be a silly memory or another little thought and blog posted into the millions of people in cyberspace to browse through or not even see. Originality has never existed, but re-interpration lives. Everything is recycled from the past, and there is no doubt that something you are going to has been experienced or will be experienced by someone else at some point in time. I am not a pessimist nor an optimist anymore. I try to look at life as what it really is, although I do love to day dream of what ifs could haves and would haves. But I know reality now, and believe me in the past year I have suffered a lot, but not enough. I have suffered more than my peers who said I was rich and spoiled, I am dirt poor, living off someone else. I have dehumanized myself just for money and pretended to be a dumb pretty girl just to get extra tips to serve men their liquor. I feel as though I have been slowly desensitized and often miss the extreme emotions I would go through when I was younger. I am not sad nor am I happy. I am persevering and that’s what counts. People change all the time, yet I feel I am the same. I am trying to mature much faster than my friends who are years older than me.

Revenge

Karma is not revenge. Forgiveness can be revenge, but karma is fate itself. I do not control karma. I can see how I feel about something, and I can allow myself to forgive, and or forget about something.
The worst part is that some people ask for revenge. Some people expect you to be rash and irrational, evil and angry. These people I ran across asked me why I wasn't mad, and got irritated by my docile answers.
Honestly, sometimes people are able to forgive. Me as a person, I forgive too much. On the other hand, with these people, I did not let them back into my life like I usually do. I let them go, and leave, and they can go on live their lives without me. I can live without someone such as them. Either way, you were probably too full of yourself to think you deserve my hatred. I do give them props- they did inspire me to write.
There is only one person that I wouldn't be able to forgive, but I have yet ot find out the truth. Later on maybe.

Hour Glass

Slowly time passes, and yet I do nothing. I count the grains of sand dripping. One by one, selectively. What else is there to do when you are sealed in a room, tightly shut? Nevermind, I think I'll go stare at a wall now, I don't feel like writing anymore.

Body Movement

Yesterday I took my first Tribal Fusion Belly Dance class with my friend Arielle by a teacher named Mala("bad girl" in Spanish). It was so much fun and through this experience I was able to gain an even better understanding and love of the dance. Watching my body actually move (correctly- our teacher was pretty good) and realizing and understanding my "center" made me realize that I do, indeed have a body. A real, moving, body. I actually got well at the one thing that I absolutely couldn't do, which was ondulations. Arielle and I had a lot of fun, and I felt so strange taking a bus in Manhattan headed downtown so I could take my train to the Bronx. I can't wait until my next class, I'm going to try to convince someone to switch hours with me for next Tuesday. The teachers said that they would take volunteers if anyone wanted to perform with the when they have a show. Arielle and I really want to. I don't know if I stressed this enough, but the fact that I was able to find my "center".... I guess I'm becoming more aware of my body and my spiritual being- I am one in both, and most people have forgotten that.

Doppleganger

Year after year, we existed in a love-hate friendship. I've realized this. Not only do my best friends look like me in ways, but I have this complex with them where I can not get along with them after a while but then we make up, are good for a while, and repeat from step one. I have a feeling I can get close to this one person, but it would be stupid to let her know my secrets. It's stupid to let anyone know my secrets I've realized. Keep it on an intellectual or silly level, but do not talk to me of your problems and I need to learn to not talk to you of my serious problems. If my friendship with you were to become public, it in itself would create drama with almost everyone I know. Let's keep this as two similar minds with similar interests, but no gossiping will be allowed from this point forth in any friendship. I need to get rid of my sidekick seriously, because I was mentally healthier when I wasn't on aim and facebook all of the damn time- even at work. I found it isn't good to go ahead and have all of your friends meet and coerce with each other because then drama gets created and then there begins the needless debate on what exactly what was said, by who, what tone it was said in and trying to know the pre-post info on the statement. Nothing is really ever done and rarely has it been done in history where people came face to face to tell others what their honest thoughts were. Even if they do, they turn out rude. I'm tired, whatever. I hope to see my doppleganger soon.

Rattle The Shutters

I sat there, still. Staring at the screen, trying to decide what is acceptable to my Electronic Maker. He who I fled from not too long ago, yet I still wondered if this or this would be acceptable,- yet that was why I had fled in the first place. Oppression on whether to know what was right or wrong. Now, now, don't go thinking this is a God reference- surely it isn't, although I am trying to be a follower of God. Neither will I give you the specifics on what exactly happened. You can interpret this as you want, if you haven't noticed by my writing style already- I don't exactly want you to get this. So back to me, or her, or whoever the story is about- I could feel the wheels turning in me. I sat there, looking through the photos- trying to cancel out what was needed and what was excessive. Working on a mental budget is kind of tough. The chimes kept singing in my ears, when suddenly it felt as though the roll of filament ran out and cut. The wheels kept turning and turning with no substance to process. I kept trying to read and interpret the photos with little luck, not realizing whether I had already seen the last proof. I looked at my brother, then at my sister. The room began to get uncomfortably hot. I aired out my chest, and turned off the computer in front of me. My head began to hurt with pulsing pain. Becoming irritable, I began my siren calls to clean up the mess around me. I needed some sort of control before I began ticking. Ticking like a bomb- tick tick tick tick. It was 5:48pm. I took random things, throwing them from one place to another, trying to rearrange the havoc around me. This here, that there! No! Not there, open the chest and throw this here! Pull out the hangers then hang everything laying around on them! I was moving so fast I could almost ignore the reverberation in my body. I could feel the wheels crushing against each other, I was fall apart on the inside. There was no use of asking the Maker to repair me. Nothing but myself could repair me, so I'll just let me break down and start again. I turned on the kettle, maybe chamomile would help cool me down. Oh, God, the kitchen is ablaze! My dear brother, extinguish it! Running back and forth, maybe my body can outrun the thoughts and turmoil in me. Mother came home, and held me back. With one quick switch, she shut me down, and I was down for the count. I awoke on my bed, with my chamomile on my bedside, not sure whether to sit up. I did so, and realized that, if I were human, maybe this would be what it were like for those who were anemic with low blood pressure, sensed the lightheaded-ness, and laid back down. Maybe now I'll be okay, hopefully this is the only time that I will have one of these fits, and I can start fixing myself from the scrap metal left around the room.

Saint of Despair

I was pulled up from my ocean of solitude. No longer was I able to swim alone in my center of the world because of the calling given. He beckoned me to come forth, yet I sensed his insecure motion. He didn't want to know what I truly looked like, not before I readied myself to appear before the masses of crowds considered humanity. How wonderful it is to have the ability to emulate emotions. As I came closer and responded sheepishly, I noticed my voice sounded broken, as though a grater was rubbing itself against my vocal chords. Laid down amongst the stones, I tried to move closer but he insisted on sitting at least three feet across from me. He began with simple questions, ignoring the fact that at one point in time he had researched my background and simple daily routines as easily as reading a complicated textbook. I played with the pool of water slowly forming by the droplets in my hair. I was beginning to get nervous, and didn't want to look him straight in the eye. My shoulders gave in, my head fell forward, and my only support was the skin and muscle holding my shoulder blades to my spine. A hand held me by my chin, and he moved my face up parallel to his. He finally decided to stop torturing me with the question both of us didn't know whether we wanted questions or answered for the fear of the results. I needed to answer bluntly. "No." It fell like silence before the storm. There was a moment of sheer and utter uncomfort. I stifled in my area of the stone, and he stared for a bit more. Then he began the hymn of his words. The storm had started, but silently. As rain lulling you on a cold autumn night, his words hit hard and cold as hail. They stung, but I couldn't sit there and cry. It was my own fault. I was losing the man-child I called an angel, but I could do nothing so as to change the irrevocable. I laid there quiet, motionless, knowing he wanted a reaction. I wouldn't give it. I let the cool ice grow in me, reaching up to my throat like cold medicine. Coursing through my capillaries, down my arms and down my legs, all throughout my little toes. I felt the wave of disappointment passing over him. Words rushed through my head, but nothing came to mind that would fix anything. I laid there. I looked up. His face was clean, and blank. No words could explain our interaction efficiently. "Fine." He said, and kissed my forehead. He left me a note. Standing up tall, he stretched. First his legs, then his torso- twisting side to side, then raising his hands to stretch his arms. Finally he rolled his shoulders backwards and forwards, and set off on his own two wings leaving me as the sea creature to figure for myself what to do and what choices to make. One day I'll make a good choice for myself. I took the note and sank myself back into the bed of water and opened the note. Written in scratched ink and on burnt barkwood paper, was the words "I'll fly with you." I smiled and sank back into the deep abyss.

Okay, Fuck it

This is personal. I think it's time for me to rant.
But what the fuck can I rant about? I'm ranting about ranting. I'm sick of it.
You know when you rant so much about something that when it's time to tell the person that really cares, you don't know what to do or say? Everything just disappeared out of your head on what you wanted to say. Your mind goes blank, and you're like "Nevermind, I'm okay now."
Or sometimes it's that you can't really tell the truth on what you're feeling. Or thinking. Or doing. I don't even know the truth out of all the lies I told people. I don't want to lie anymore, so I gave up in the people that I was spinning lies to, spilled out part of the secrets I've been hiding to certain people, and decided to let myself get free of this. I can't feel satiated though. I don't know what's going to happen. I hate this lack of control there is here. I hate feeling caged. I want to do all these things, but when can I do them? Where can I do them? What little resources I have that I can't find the proper teachers (for cheap or free) that I want to learn from. Youtube only teaches so much, and either way I'm sitting in the middle of the living room for this.

Nevermind, I just got off the phone with my hunni bunni, and I kind of feel better. He said he'll come with me to the things I wanna go see. I want to experience the world, not sit in a room full of high kids or things as such.

Corsetry

I know I'll never be nearly as amazing as Mr. Pearl, and even he himself does not believe he is as good as Fakir or good enough to really be called a corsetier. Gladly, now i'm learning how to make real spiral steel boned corsets, and I'm very happy with it. My costume design teacher is teaching me how to make them!

I hope that soon I'll have at least one or two under my belt by March, and I can keep working on this portfolio. :) So far I have a pretty decent amount of money saved up in my account, I just need to stop taking taxis and buying excessive amounts of pregnancy food.

Dita and Bettie Page are huge influences although I'm really not into the dark glamor that often tends to follow them. I love pin up, yes, and the 1950's style fashion. So shoot me :) I've got a million things going or me right now and it's great :)

Updated Update

I'm sorry for not updating lately, I've been working and then loafing around a lot then sleeping on and off. Honestly, I haven't been doing very much productivity when it comes to working on my portfolio, mainly because I'm too stingy to go ahead and spend money on art supplies and fabric. I just hope I don't get fired because I had made two stupid actions last week that were... well yeah, stupid. I have been in and out of sleep as always, due to depression whenever I'm home, and I've kind of been going out quite a bit. Nevertheless, I got my ass up this week and decided to take some of the leftover fabric and brought it to my costume design mentor's room and started working on some things. I'm going to need more of one fabric so I have to go and run around tomorrow looking for the exact fabric for my swatches. I've got this idea of making a double collection of dark and light- basically making a sweet look of my drapes and then maybe altering them a bit and make an edgier look out of all my patterns. I think I'll make about 5 of each side for this semester, but I still want to do my lingerie designs. Those are going to take a while to make though because of all the detail I put into the sketches and all of the searching I'm going to have to do.

I also had a charming thought in my head today while listening to the Dresden Dolls on another art project I want to start working on. I really should take some art classes though, or travel or something because I don't feel as though my imagination is as large as it used to be. I think I'm done here, I wish I had more of a purpose. I'll write again soon and it won't just be personal updates but about things I wrote, read, saw, or drew.

By the way, I do recommend going to the Tim Burton Exhibit at the MoMa and the artwork at Lehman College at the moment. It's pretty amazing, I love the wooden mirror.I wish I could network with more people, I love staying in the Bronx with my friends, but sometimes I feel as though I'm wasting my time unless I'm with that one person. <333