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 MIRRORSOUL | JOURNAL ARCHIVE . 004
6-8-2003 || 1:19 PM It was not that I did not understand the words coming out of your mouth. I am not dense in any sense of the word. And yes, I am allowed to be as weak and as confused as I want to be every once in a while. Is it possible that at the same time I became more sure of myself, I realized that I am nothing at all? Can I exist on my own or is it necessary to drown a piece of myself in order to fall into this common commodity. I guess I still do not understand what it is of myself I want to sell. 5-11-2003 || 2:43 PM What if I were completely mistaken. I could have overlooked everything and be wrong about it all. I think a lot of us do not see anything as it is supposed to be. Why should we follow this cookie-cutter existence. And even when we do not, we still kind of wish that we had. No. Let's just forget about it all for a little while. 4-24-2003 || 5:06 PM When the fall there, Soft onto the ground, Thick dirt absorbed the sound, Barely suffering in the silence After that one blinding moment. Was the fall so pretty Tender like cheeks To warrant tears on ours as well? There he fell, Him and then himself, Uncalculated and dramatic as a scene. He did not know what he was to bring, Trailing behind like marriage cans. Somber bells toll, Single-file down the road, One less returning home. 4-5-2003 || 11:33 PM Making lemonade out of powder is fun. You pour in the powder and it turns to crystal and nebulous clouds, dissipating into the mug. Then it turns a dusty pink, like faded fog. The rippling surface reflects the lights overhead. The more you stir it, the more it shatters. And the less it matters. In the end, it tastes like sugar water with just a hint of lemonade taste. It is all artificial and overly sweet, but also calming and home-like in a way. You made it yourself, as simple as it may be. And that fact makes it just a little charming and quaint with a slight divergence off the norm. Kind of like you. Something so ordinary, that it becomes special. The kind of special that, despite the cold tapwater, leaves you satisfied and warm. 3-31-2003 || 11:24 PM I am going to get a digital camera and a laptop. I am going to China, and I am taking pictures of everything I see. Then I am going to go to Italy and do the same. I am going to write about it, draw it, paint it, dream it, dress it, eat it. Live it. That, my friends, is what I am going to do. 3-31-2003 || 11:24 PM Sometimes the work piles up, running away from me. It leaves me in the wake with a sense of indifference and utter lack of motivation. Interestingly enough, I put on some headphones, turn up the volume knob and blast some music. It's better when it's different from my normal music: harder, faster, louder, pounding. It has only been since I got away from myself that I really started to appreciate different kinds of music from different kinds of people. Other revelations quickly follow, small epiphanies that I never really allowed myself to understand. In a way, I feel more isolated from certain groups. However, at the same time, I feel more in tune, more comfortable with myself. It is slow in coming, I'm sure, this maturing. But at least I know it is in the making. 3-1-2003 || 12:35 PM Finally speaking: up and down the stairways trampling out the roads. The Stomp, stomp, stomp of footsteps, and children, and old men jogging on the brick-paved walkways. Cars slow, yielding to snow. Snow yielding to us before yellow-marked road stops. When was it that we ran out of time, but wasted so much of it at the same time? I forget, the dream people making more sense each time. Their words, more poignant than their real ones. Perhaps because they are my own words, inside my own head. 1-29-2003 || 3:25 PM Old ideas, written on slips of paper... Maybe the blurring is the most dangerous part, when distinctions fall away and things stop to have real meaning. When the motivation kind of falls by the wayside. I just figure that I'm O.K. That's I'm not in the redlined yet. So, I can handle it. So, it doesn't matter if I forgo the details. 1-26-2003 || 3:09 PM
I feel comfortable with silence. However, from time to time, I wonder if other people are uncomfortable in it. Like a vacuum, sucking out the animation in the room for them. But for me, it floats like a quiet buffer, calming and stifling like clouds descending lower upon us on earth. I've come to enjoy the light hum of silence. No noises, no interruptions, just peace, quiet, silence and a still sleep. It's like rest from the world without rest from my thoughts.
1-4-2003 || 2:42 PM Yesterday at the movie theater, we sat next to a group of elderly people. It made no difference, obviously, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see something. It was the white of the buttoned-up shirt of the man next to me, the arm of the old woman, the black stripe of the other man's dark shirt. All of these blurred together and dimensions merged in the corner of my eye suddenly looked like an old blindfolded specter leaning forward and breathing out hoary air. Startled, I turn my head slightly to the left, only to see the trio calmly watching the large, flickering screen. Still everyone looks a little strange in the darkened room, concentrating on the movie, afraid to make too much noise in the creaking chairs or cough amid the stale un-circulating air. A blink to two later, and a slight shifting from the people beside me and that vision has vanished. I tentatively wait for it to re-appear, and I realize, I miss its company as well. We had shared a secret for a moment, and in the unseeing darkness of the theater, I smile. 12-31-2002 || 1:43 PM It's hard to write when I am tired. Little snatches of good ideas and half-remembered dreams float by my head. My outstretched hands reach out for them, and they are gone. Wisps falling away and seemingly worthless upon paper. Life, strange child it is, fights through currents and waves, but what can it do when everything seems to stand still and stagnant. That, I suppose, is what Death is like. Luckily, the world senses the need for change and dawns on a new year. 12-24-2002 || 8:29 PM She was spinning, had spun, out of orbit and was now at sea. Not the desolate type, but calm and quieting to an unnerving effect at any rate. And how could this little raft with no paddle survive? Strangely enough, the sea had still indefinitely, frozen and liquid all at the same time. The skies were reflected across the clear water perfectly and for a moment, she did not know if she were really in the water anymore. Could it be possible that she was floating upside down in the sky, still never exactly being able to reach the infinite? Perhaps. Or maybe, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. 12-7-2002 || 3:58 PM So here are the choices: you lay them down like playing cards in front of you on the desk. In the bathroom, the shower is leaking and dripping drops over the bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Two-dimensional and flat, and nothing looks that enticing. Music has stopped playing and all you hear is the clicking of computer keys and the humming of the computer. The snow outside is continuing to melt and a sheet of it has just slipped from the roof and is plummeting, powdery-cold to the ground. The essay you have written is making no sense, and for some reason it does not matter. Its existence seeps from your mind. There is something you've forgotten about. Something you are missing as you sit there, not quite comfortable in your chair, in your clothes, in your skin. Last night you don't remember. Last minute you cannot recall. whatever you were intending to write is sitting alone and sulking in some dark corner of your mind. It's not sad nor angry or really anything. Just bland. And that perhaps is the worst thing imaginable at this point. 11-22-2002 || 8:10 PM I am thankful for the music, for the visions, movements and colors that explode in my head when I hear it. I am thankful for people whose voice carries the soul into something higher and presses the song into the backs of the eyes. For the little children who look eagerly toward playtime. For the people I have, for those I do not, and everyone in between. I am thankful for the laughter, the sadness, and the chance and choice in what I do. The melancholy, the warmth, the burst of everything in filtered colors of my mind. Happy Almost Thanksgiving. 11-22-2002 || 1:57 AM Sometimes it is fascinating how a specific song can just make you feel calm. It does not change your current state of overwhelming emotions per se, but instead makes them, moulds them into something creative and real. 11-11-2002 || 7:45 PM The rain outside falling on the leaves. You can always hear it and feel it and smell it before you actually see the raindrops. Even if I look really hard I can only see the remnants, the wetness of the pavement and dewdrops on the leaves closet to the window beside my bed. It takes that extra amount of scrutiny to see those tiny escapable raindrops. I hum a little song that I made up and walk out the door. Out there the green is greener than it would be. Without the rain. And everything turns painting-like as if someone had dipped the soft-bristled watercolor brush into the oceans of the world and painted the city in drenched colors. The world becomes more real, and I smile to myself as if I had a little secret, one blossoming like a child gently touching a petal of the reddest rose in the garden with only the very tips of pinkened fingers. It's that kind of moment. Tentative, nostalgic, and alive. Alive like Exhausted and satisfied, sleep comes in a refreshing wave to Smile. 11-5-2002 || 1:23 AM Did I say it? Did the words come out of my mouth, or was it more of the look on my face or the pose of my body? I never spoke a word, no breath passed from my lips, and so you did not notice. Even as I faded into the shadows and off to sleep. Because that is who I am, silent, smiling and forcing the beauty of life upon herself. That warmth that sometimes disappears behind the clouds. Oh, how the earth is made up of motifs, symbols and metaphors. How utterly fantastic and useful for my mind to know this. To lean upon it, to breath it in through my nostrils the air so cold that it hurts and stings me. What am I to think? I wonder. When everyone else is so perfect or just more perfect in the ways I would like to be. Onlookers and overlooked. It's time for bed. Do people have souls? No? Then what about art, I ask. What about that? Did you ever consider the existence of that? Good night Hofmann, De Kooning, Klimt. Good night. 11-2-2002 || 9:41 PM When I close my eyes I can see the sound imprinted on the inside of my eyelids, swirling in an enveloping madness. I dare not make a noise, not one sound. Then what shall I do when the thoughts do not arrange themselves clearly in my head? Lying in cocooning comfort and listening to the faint sounds filtering between the crack of the door and the ground. Is this bliss or will none of us ever experience it at all? The wonder does not strike me too much. 10-18-2002 || 1:38 PM Weaving in and out of raindrops on the water-slicked roads. Little boys and girls clutch books and umbrellas close at hand. Everyone's face is covered and shaded with hoods and hooding objects. Yet the joy of getting utterly soaked prompts some people to jump in every puddle they see. I am glad in the world to know these people. Once inside they change their clothes, eat instant noodles and write poetry about the rain, the sky, and the gently bowing, weeping trees. They know that in the morning, the sky will glare brilliantly blue, and the dampness will have dried. No one would expect that the cloudy, overcast, sublime world of the rain had ever existed only a short moment ago. How quickly the human mind forgets while the crevices of leaves and grass hold the glistening memories for as long as they can. 10-15-2002 || 7:38 PM Sometimes it's hard to start over again, getting used to the taste that is a little bit bitter and a little more refined than what you are used to. All of it makes you a bit tired and just a tiny bit wishful for going back in time. But we all know what is not possible and what is not right. Sometimes we are a little bit childish and we write with a little less than grace. But that is alright when we remember what we learned in all those little epiphanies along the way. And all we ever needed was a little piece of sky and a little plot of land to grow in. It was all we had ever needed. But then there is the rest of the world, and despite everything, all those other unnecessary things push onto us like too-powerful waves. You try to remember your little stretch of infinity. Everything should be right. And it is but for ... everything ... and ... except ... 10-13-2002 || 10:12 PM I spent the afternoon in the Baltimore Museum of Art on Friday. I should have written earlier because all of the feelings now have faded away into the background. Yet, I rushed through the rain to the art museum, pants soaked up to the middle of my calves and making such loud squishy noises that I turn to see if there is anyone behind me. And the rain water makes rivulets and patterns across the brick walkway where I disturb them as it makes its way to the drains on the street. Then suddenly, I am in the quiet solitude of the Oceanic Exhibit room. And even though many of the pieces are 20th Century ones, I am standing here hoping that they would be centuries old just so I could know that I share some sort of similar appreciation of this beauty and vision with artists years ago. But I suppose it doesn't matter, and I believe what I like about these archetypal masks and figurines. Besides I am no connoisseur of art anyhow. And I am here, in a room with a painting by Van Gogh or Picasso, Degas or Monet, Pollack and Warhol. Who knows what went into this piece I see here hanging on a pristine white wall being guarded by the ever-wary security cameras and guards. Who gave birth to these men and women? What stories were they read as a child? Maybe I'll drop out of school and spend my time walking aimlessly through art galleries and writing bad poetry. Or maybe I'll do all that while learning how to write in school. Either way. Thanks.
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