And suddenly everything feels right.
Thanks to my mother who noticed my boots had holes in them.
I needed a new album to rock out to because as much as I love and adore Kimbra, who I mention quite frequently, her album sounded lonely.
What better way than with a dubstep violin album made by Lindsey Stirling? Honestly, I love the violin, dubstep, not so much but it just sounds so wonderful and the fact she dances with a violin!
At current I’m working on a picture composition of one of her songs, I’ll probably forget to finish it or give up on it and refuse to show anybody about the forlorn project. So actually forget I mentioned it. 🙂
I find myself sitting between two college students and watching them draw work that i will not see myself doing until years later. The idea haunts me. I eat the following:
As i continue to attempt to draw something way beneath their level:
(sorry about the shadow, its my arm).
the teacher comes out and plops a book next to me:
“youll soon be done with this book this is your next.”
“I think i can manage.”
“Thats the spirit! Youre at the point now where nothing will be easy anymore and everything will be progressively harder. Few will make it and those that dont will interpret this as failure. If youre willing to learn this everything is on you now.”
i look to the left at the beautiful hydrangeas (my favorite flower) the student is drawing and to the right at the mushrooms the other student is. I look on the walls and remember the motto she spoke when i first started my lessons:
“turn your home into your own art gallery.”
i remember when i was younger and drawing was all i had for a friend and for company. I remember how unartistic i was and wanted to learn how to paint so badly that i saved up money for an easel and paints when i was eight. I remember scrounging up the money to pay for these classes.
I answered with a line drawn on the paper. And the teacher dismissed me, planning her next lesson as one that may break me apart.
My father and I, mother watching warily from a height above us, sat by the riverfront. I watch as the river swells, laughter rises, and beauty both diminishes and is soon replaced by the nighttime sky.
I wait until the sun sets the world on fire. I let this moment drag.
“Dad, I’ve never learned how to skip stones.”
“What kind of childhood have you had?”
A nomadic one, a cultural one, a confusing one thoughts flow into my head.
“The one you gave me.”
He bends down with his aching knees and has a fist full of rocks in his hands. He puts one into my hand and shows me how to throw it as if I’m still a child.
Moments like this make my mothers heart swell and my father regrets momentarily how much of a normal life I’ve never had. Then he laughs about it and realizes he could never change it. I’m eighteen now, I look and act nothing like a normal eighteen year old and that’s what makes me their child.
I continue to skip rocks until the fires dim out and the world is cold and cool again. I listen to the sounds of splashing in the canoes we rode earlier, the chanting of the temple we visited and although so much joy and beauty existed, I found my most favorite part of the journey was skipping stones along the river bank with my father watching the first ripple, create a second ripple, then a third, to sink into the bottom of the bank.
What was, what is, and what will be.
Wandering outside the house, walking, musing. Admiring all the people gathered outside for festivities. Getting pushed around by people and becoming slightly claustro/agoraphobic.
Lovely days and lovely nights, finding myself in a beautiful little cafe while tasting Sweet Potato Soup and people watching as the sky falls and the winds pick up the cool air, sending chills into our world and many huddle together for warmth.
When I first started blogging I just figured that I would silently document my life in memories as I always have. Like most bloggers I actually have a camera but a faux photography background; but when I opened up this page I decided to keep the details vague and leave the reader guessing. A mirror to my plight in discovering myself through the use of words. I figured, if it’s in my hands, in my room it’ll become a doodling pad and I would not write every day, if it was public, then perhaps maybe.
It’s much harder with a camera and photos to keep the reader guessing – it’s still hard with text as I want to over document my life as documenting delight does almost every day, lauding her love for her children. I opted to under document it and highlight with (changed) phrases what was eye-opening for the day, week.
I have to refuse to share where I am, my circumstances are different; I’m younger, less wise, more naive and I have nothing to show thus far. I’m not famous; lots of people do know me though through various means. I’m not talented; my work has not been prolific and established world wide. My writing style is nothing like the road is home.
But I’m finding that maybe it’s because of my youth, my confusion, my personal stories that I’m finding myself at peace with this project. It may not be everything that you want it to be for a blog, but just a way, a place where I can hide myself and show my true personality on a piece of paper (in this case on electronic script) and kind of truly be at peace with myself.
The two blogs listed above are the two that got me into blogging. I am inspired by them everyday and hope that one day I can learn to love as they do, to show my talents as they do. I read them religiously and hope and pray and hope and pray that my writings can touch the hearts of people as theirs do.
That said, I should go back to self-discovery starting with the first and most essential question: “who am I?”
Very recently I’ve taken to noticing a dimple on the right side of my face. I’ve always had it but never paid that much attention to it until I cut my hair.
What’s funny, and kind of awesome is that by simply chopping it all off, I have a new perspective on the world. As if I now have to rely on outer beauty or inner. Like Talia does. And looking in the mirror practicing my big smile I noticed the dimple amidst all of the acne craters and forming pustules.
It’s on the right side of my face, and is rather deep. It is no scar. I remember distinctly that my human anatomy teacher told me that one-sided dimples are so rare, that I was lucky. I wore my bangs in front of my face when he said that and half-listened to his compliment.
I smiled and the dimple was there, it is beautiful, wonderful, uniquely me.