Past Month's Art

Hey Everyone...

I know I've been out this past month...here's a sneak peak at what I've been working on!

Word-tastic blog entry coming up soooooon...stay tuned!

The Old and the Young

The American society today is obsessed with youth.

Everywhere you look, it's another advertisement for a product to make you look younger.  The anti-aging creams, the wrinkle-smoother, stay fit to look younger, botox, Demi Moore - at 40 (or is it 50 now?) and still looking good!  We shuffle our elderly into special homes, where they stay out of sight, in their own communities.  We are losing the wisdom of the years, and we are that much more afraid of old age and death because it is much easier to lock them in the hospital bed, the old folk's home, the closed casket. 

Now we are a society obsessed with youth.  We compliment those celebrities who have managed to fight the look of age for the longest - who's still 50 and looking fabulous in their 20-year-old body, achieved through surgery, chemicals, and loads and loads of money.

This is the age of the youth industry.

Of course, youth has also been the highest indication of beauty.  Even the plainest woman, with her smooth skin and bright eyes, can attract the eye.  What does it say about our society then - are we obsessed with beauty, and so obsessed with youth?  Or is it really death which we fear?

As a child, my family briefly lived in Lafayette, California.  I remember, just behind the house of a close friend of mine, was a giant cemetery.  I remember peering out from her bedroom window and staring at the rows and rows of white and grey tombstones spread over that hill.  They looked like little signs in the ground, there to remind the living that they, too, once walked their dreams upon this earth.

Here lies Johnny, father, son, and brother. 

Here lies Meredith, the kindest of souls and a loving wife.

Rest in peace, dear Paul.
You will be missed, my Adrienne.

Such dull, empty words.  In the end, everyone is loved, kind, missed, in peace.  An expensive casket to seal a rotting body, hiding its stench and the feast of maggots and worms.  We need our painted wood, our marble.

Where is the beauty of life, returning to the earth from which we were first nourished?  From the earth grew the plants our mothers consumed, bringing it to the womb in which we were parasites, taking.  taking.  taking.  We all forget that it is the necessary balance, for us to someday feed back all we have taken from.  Our earth and our mothers.  Instead, we stave off death.  We fight off age.  We are living longer and enjoying life more, and it seems the longer we are alive, the more daunting death can become.

So now, where does that leave us?  I grew up in a Chinese family, and like many Chinese families I know, my grandparents stayed with their children and raised their grandchildren.  They've been an integral part of my life, living in my parents' and my aunt's house since I was a little tyke.  They walked my cousin and me to preschool every day, cooked the meals, and carried me everywhere.  How many children, now, grow up with barely any contact with grandma and grandpa? 

They are too much a reminder of what is coming.  We aren't giving back our bodies.  We want to stay alive, we want to keep taking.

Death scares me, until I remember that there is nothing to be feared.  We did not feel pain and hunger when we did not exist.  We did not feel joy, achievement, or love.  We are participating in the ultimate cycle and balance of our universe.

Sometimes that isn't enough.  I wonder about me, how I would be in old age. 

Will I, too, begin to panic when old age begins to settle in?

A muse, a muse, I muse

Sometimes, words flow.

Precise.  Unyielding.  Capturing the essence of the mind and the beliefs of the heart.  

Other times, speech fills up space, taking up space, a mess of sounds, sewage clogging the pipes and drains.  Unyielding.

What fantasies do our minds create, for ourselves, for our lives?  Is my fear of being captured and bound by the pen and paper, the sounds and notes which draw me?  Or are my mind and talents nothing, afraid that upon capture I would be deemed unworthy and released, to forever stare longingly at the star which has moved on, tossed away by its gravity.  Do I stay unreachable because the answer may be too painful to hear?

Coward.

I did not know yet that these signs which I ignored were the truths I already knew.

This is a narrow train of thought, a structure I can’t break down

Will I only know where to go when you are gone?

Long ago I lost myself, and now I’m Frankenstein

The compilations of everyone else’s desire and design

A poor imitation and a wretched mask

The glitter and the music, cheap and brass

You see behind my pomp and dance

Just a vacant lot hidden behind the shiny fence

Pussy Power

Why is it that when we tell someone to get tough, or just deal with something, we tell them to "grow some balls", or "grow a pair"?  I understand that the innuendo means they should be a man, but seriously, the last thing I want are two fragile pieces of flesh dangling between my legs. 

When we tell someone they need to toughen up, or just deal with something, we also use the phrase "don't be a pussy".  In my experience, pussies are tough.  I'd like to see a man's balls and penis deal with bleeding out once a month for 30-40 years out of their life.  Also, I understand that it hurts when those balls get kicked, beaten, crushed, etc. but seriously...have you seen a woman give labor?  And let's not forget 9 months carrying a baby plus placenta. 

Ah...Patriarchy. 

This is not just a rant about men.  I don't see women complaining when they're the first ones to be let off a sinking ship, as is tradition.  Nor do they seem to mind when a man pays for their dinner on dates every...single...time. 

Ah...human beans.  

Another Life

When she sat down in the cushioned seats, adjusted the mirrors and stuck the key in the ignition, she imagined freedom.  This could become freedom.  Just a small suitcase, filled with clothes she'd never wear at home, and the warmth and comfort of confidence seeping down into her bones.

The engine didn't start the first time, but the second turn of the key started the car shaking.  Two quick looks down each side of the street, and a smooth pull-out later she was on her way. 

She drove quickly.  By the time the sun started dipping, she saw the rise of buildings, the girth of the city bloated around her.  It didn't take long to find the center, people rushing in and out of bars and restaurants, the steady aroma of delicate dishes and hearty meats, chattering and hissing engines all busily unaware of her presence.  It didn't take long to find a cheap hotel.  A quick change of clothes later, and she strolled out the door, barely aware of the lock clicking into place.

She strode into a bar and took a stool.  She had barely shifted into a comfortable stance before the bartender stood before her, tired eyes and exaggerated curve of the lips begging her to make her order - fast.

Two shots of whiskey later, and she was already deep in conversation with the man next to her.  When he got called to dance by his girlfriend, another man quickly took his spot.  Then a woman, then an old man whose white hair seemed translucent under the bar's dim light.  Deep conversations, intense and honest.


She was anonymous, and no one recognized her.  She could be confident.  She could be anyone.  She will never see anyone she meets at this bar ever again.

And then she goes home.  Unsatisfied.  She thinks, and can't let go.  She thinks, but is afraid.  Mind reeling, until it becomes like the screech of nails across a chalkboard, unbearable and impossible to block. 

The only place for solace, a crowded room anonymous. 

Insanity

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result.

Human instinct is to turn to what's easier, even when the difficult path is best for us.  I wake up each day from a dream I don't want to leave.  Even though my head is clear and my body is light, every nerve refuses to get up.  There are no more highs, and no more lows.  There's just silence.

Get up, shower, pick something to wear.  I dress each day just for me, because the few people I see each day probably wouldn't give a shit how I dressed. 

Bike.  Refreshing, no matter how many layers I"m wearing.  I'm usually the first one at the office.  I enjoy the silence of the morning, and watch as people get in.  I wonder what it'd be like to go to the office knowing someone'll be there already...every day.  Almost every day. 

Work.  Work relationships.  Friendship, yes.

Home.  Inspiration is work, but when attained it works for you.  He said the struggle is to learn how to grasp it at your will.  When you sit and there's nothing.  Silence.

The world brings inspiration, but sometimes the world is scary.  What you know about yourself, what you think you know about yourself.  What you don't want to find out.  Every day the same, but expecting the next day to be different.  To find yourself to be a higher authority, after spending your life pushed by "higher authority". 

Fear and self awareness.  Self awareness is not peace of mind.  Self awareness does not let the world rush in.  When you can only sense yourself you turn your senses from the entire world around you.  That sounds like something from Eat, Pray, Love. 

Sometimes the barrier is broken, and the inspiration hits.  But I can be lazy as fuck.  It's always easier to think about doing something than actually doing it.  But I do suck at following my own advice. 

Inspiration is good.  Inspiration is strong.  Inspiration dies.  Sometimes to come back, and sometimes to not. 

Words rush in, rush out.  Don't stop, breathe. 

I choose the same, tomorrow will come.  And tomorrow does come again.  Waiting, waiting, waiting. 

Insanity. 

Hunt to the Death

Today my cat caught a bird and brought it into my room to play.  The first thought that came to mind, as she started batting it around with her paw, was "I hope she isn't going to bring that onto my bed". 

Sometimes, we meet a darker part of ourselves, one who we don't often think of.

Seeing my cat pounce on that bird, tossing it up in the air sometimes before swiping it up again, my head switched between "oh my baby kitty is so awesome!" and "damn there's feathers all over my floor now".  Soon, the bird only had one tail feather left, and it twitched on the ground when it wasn't trying to run, batting its wings, or getting shuffled around.  Finally, my cat seemed to lose a bit of interest in it, and I stooped down over the bird and grasped a leg with my fingers.  I dropped it, feet down, onto a finger to see if it could stand.  The thin claws lightly grasped my finger, and the bird shook on my finger.  A few moments later my cat stuck its nose up and grabbed the bird back. 

I grabbed my camera, snapped a few action shots.  It was like watching a cheetah take down a gazelle.  Although, I'm not sure if cheetahs play with the gazelle after it is helpless but alive.  Or do cheetahs kill so quickly because the gazelle is never really helpless while alive?  Or are they just that hungry?

Play, and honing our best skills, are what people do when their primal needs (namely, need for food and shelter) are met.  People create music, people draw, people build computers, design games, practice a sport. 

A cat's best skill is hunting.  My cat is fed well and has a warm bed and lap to return to.  She catches mice and birds. 

The bird seemed still on the floor, and I picked it up and put it in my palm.  That's when I saw the shaking.  Two puncture wounds, a patch of feathers gone on the back.  I took the bird up to the house to see if my housemate had any advice.  She said that she'd either give it back to the cat, or kill it.  She didn't think she could kill it.  I said I could detach myself equally from either bashing its head with a rock so it dies quickly, or giving it back to the cat.  I didn't say that I didn't really need to detach, I didn't think I'd feel much about either decision.  Killing it would mean it suffered less, giving it to the cat means I won't have its death on my hands, but it'll die slower, in much pain. 

She said it was too much excitement for her, so I took the bird downstairs to the yard.  My cat meowed at my door, wanting me to let her into my room.  I knelt down but she had no interest in the bird; she just wanted to go inside.  I took a rock and held it in my hands.  I put the bird down on the concrete.  I raised my hand, rock in fist, and I saw it heaving, bleeding.  I put the rock back and picked it up, putting it back on my palm.  I put the bird on a corner of our garden, on soft ground.  Silence. 

Suddenly my cat ran in and snatched it back up. 

We both went back to my room.  She played, and I lost interest soon.  Feathers littered the air and ground.

If I killed the bird, I would have taken a life.  If I gave it back to the cat, or hid it, or put it somewhere the cat wouldn't get it, it would have suffered a slow painful death.  I could selfishly refuse to bloody my hands and let the bird heave and shake for another hour or two, or I could immorally end a life. 

Frankly, I was just a bit irritated that I would have to clean up all the feathers from a floor I just scrubbed two days ago.

As I write, the bird is in the trash and my hands have been scrubbed clean.