Journey Through My Mind
I think a lot. I try to think a lot; sometimes I end up thinking when I
don't really want to. My mind is filled with all these thoughts and I want
to get them out, want to put them down somehow. I am an artist, and a writer
of sorts. I am not as good a writer as I would like, but I try. So here is
this trip through my mind...
October 29, 1998
The "Destruction" of the City
(For one of my classes, we built a city from blocks used to show 3-D objects. They were mostly
rectangular, with some smaller square ones. We brought in "stuff" which belonged to us, and
put together a small city. Then we drew and painted from it, [see art section: "Our City" and
we had to write a reflectional piece after taking it down. So here it is...)
Destruction... the word is more than just an action. It's symbolic of what had once been. To
destroy, you must have something to begin with.
Taking down our city was, for me at least, not very emotional. It was kind of as I thought it
would be. Just reclaiming my stuff. I wondered if "my" stuff had any meaning to others, just
as some of the other stuff had taken a place in my memory. Now that it is gone, it exists
in my memory. Isn't it weird that something that was shared by you and/or others is
remembered, in a strange way. It's hard to explain. There is an empty space and people see
this empty space, but you see what had been there before, even if it meant nothing to you.
And when others had been a part of it, it sort of holds you together, for that one period in
time.
I guess I was sort of happy and sad, because all the cool stuff that had been a part of my life
was being taken away from me, and I really liked the blocks, but I was happy because the
city was a little uncomfortable- it was there, and it was a "city", in which one is allowed to
travel, but only with the eye. I felt very uneasy getting too close, and I wanted to go "in" the
city, but I was afraid to because of the size and I thought I might accidentally destroy it...
destroy... destruction.
November 27, 1998
Stuck. Stuck in the middle of a thought. Don't you ever get those days when
all you can do is not think? I get them all the time. And I resort to
typing on my keyboard, trying to resolve something that I really don't
understand.
So I journey through what thoughts I do have and what they may mean. I
write down random words and sentences. I draw little doodles, hoping they
turn into something meaningful. And the whole time, I am still thinking.
It's not that I can't think of anything, it's that I can't think
of what I want to say. I always have a million little thoughts running
through my brain, and I want to do them all, focus on all of them. Yet,
what I really want eludes me.
November 28, 1998
I just recently (well, today) realized something. I have been taking my
frustrations out on my computer. All the pent up feelings I hold deep inside
me that I can't let out, that I wouldn't dream of sharing with anyone, I vent
about in stories, in drawings, or just staring mindlessly at the screen for
hours. It seems strange to me that this is happening. I know how and why it
started, but I just realized exactly what I was doing, and I realized I can't
help it, can't even stop myself.
There's this one thought that I have that I want to share. I feel sort of
safe in saying this, since you don't know me, and if you do, how do you know
who wrote this, right? Well, I really have to get this out...
There have been periods in my life when I feel like dieing. I feel like
everything I've ever done has come back to haunt me, to drive me insane. I
can't think of anything but all the terrible things I've ever experienced. I
get very depressed. And I look outwards for others to cling to for support.
I don't tell anyone these things, and I guess sometimes I don't realize that
I'm doing it. I think most people do certain things that are for a certain
unconscious reason.
At one time, several years ago, I met someone. They were friendlier than many
people, actually most people, that I know. I don't have a lot of friends, so
I grew really close, inside, to this person. It started as a simple
friendship, but grew to be more. I wasn't the one who initiated this, and I
didn't feel right at first, but it got better. I know I could have, at any
time, let it go, and I didn't, so I do blame myself partly for what happened.
This person was very special to me. They didn't know it, I guess didn't care
as deeply as I did. They moved on to the next and the next, all the while
making me feel terrible. I regretted even knowing them, and I decided I
didn't need anything more. We never actually went out, but it felt almost
that way, and at one point, I was asked, but I couldn't say yes. Deep down
inside I knew it wouldn't work.
I still think about this, but I always think of the good things. "You always
remember the good times." So true are these words. Happiness clouds the
memory and makes it distort. I feel, still, that I haven't totally let go.
Even though I know this person is gone far away in time and distance, and I
have no way of finding them, I still think about them. I have moved on
physically, but where do I stand mentally, spiritually? I don't know. And I
guess the only way is to be in that situation again, to know how it would
actually feel to see, to hear, to feel...
So I play over and over in my head little situations. What if...what
if...what if... And I wish they would go away, or come true. I only wish I
knew.
I feel so much better now. Not really, but oh well.
January 1999
I sit here in the middle of millions of rocks. Rocks that somehow are warm and friendly, even in this cold weather. Maybe it's because I just crossed the river. Barefoot. My toes and heels are just beginning to feel the cold. After drying they warmed so suddenly, now they're chilly. I can feel just about every nerve in them buzzing. I could have gone back. I could have went up to the bridge on the highway and walked the half mile it spans. But I am too stubborn and that would be too easy. So now I am sitting here among the rocks, hoping the ridge next to me is only land, and not the fork in the water i think it is.
Excerpts From Dream Diary:
April 19, 1999
The other day, I was looking up phobias, and one of them was bridges.
On Saturday (night), I had a dream
that we were walking under one of those highways, where
there's lots of rocks underneath, like near the post
office, and the road was a bride, sort of. But I was
very scared. Mom or Mike was with me and I asked them
to hold my hand... (even though I knew it wouldn't help
me from falling through the cracks)
April 25, 1999
I had the most wonderful dream last night. I was at the
lake, I'm pretty sure, and I was talking to Kevin, a
kid I had just met. There was this wonderful freeness
in the air. I can't remember what exactly was happening
but I remember the feeling.
But the important thing was what he said. It came out
to about like this. We don't have much time for
anything because time is so short. So don't waste your
time thinking about something or waiting for it to
happen. Just do it and don't worry about it. Enjoy it
while it lasts.
And that one statement totally changed my whole
perspective on things. I understand why he said it, and
I know I'm that type of person to not be able to easily
do things like that, but it made me feel like empowered
somehow. It gave me the energy and freedom that I've
been looking for for such a long time. And it made me
feel so much better. =)
April 27, 1999
Hanging art. Making art. Art critiques. My goodness, even in my dreams I can't escape it.
So there was that.
There was also a part where I was inside, and something was going on, at one point my
little brother had run out into the rain, and my older brother Michael went out looking for him,
and was yelling all over for him. I went out and said that Michael would kill him if he didn't
come out right away. And then Michael laughed when I told him. For some weird reason, I
was expecting my little brother to be a little kid, but he wasn't. He was actually how I
remember him before he left to dad's house.
I went back inside and was looking under Mom's dresser for something, clothes maybe, and
I kept finding money stuffed between the dresser and bed. I tried to hide it because my sister
and some older bald guy were asking me what I was doing. I can't remember what I was
thinking I would do with the money. Oh, yeah. the art. I was in the gallery hanging art, and
critiquing it, and also painting. And Kevin was there helping me, and pointing out things I
should do. I remember a lot of color. Color and light streaming in through the windows, but in
patches. Happy dream.
May 3, 1999
lots of windows and doors to be locked. There was a game that you were supposed to play and it was like brainwashing you. If you didn't, "they" would come after you. They knocked on the door and asked what the game was called. They said "it stars with a z". I (and the guy with me) couldn't remember. We said something but it was wrong and the I remembered what it was. There were other things about the house and the locks. I was in the bathroom, and couldn't figure out if the window was locked or not, so I opened it to find a city alleyway one or two floors down. The smell was strong and unpleasant. Also, the plumbing was strange. There was a bathtub filled with water, flowing like a river out of a huge white pipe into the tub. I was afraid I would break it.
I start another chapter in my life. June 24th, 3:24 a.m., 1999. Ok, so this has nothing to do
with dreams, but it's night, and I keep telling myself that I have to do what I think everyne is
telling me, like why can't I put something somewhere where it doesn't belong? Who says it
doesn't belong? Anyway...
I guess the writing will help distract and calm me. I finished putting all my stuff away, if
hastily at the end, but who cares. And then the noises started. The radio is on, which helps.
But why do I have to hear those damn noises? Why can't there be a time in my life where I
go to sleep later than everyone and don't end up with a freaking night light or on the couch,
teddy bear in hand? It sounds retarded. I know. When I was a kid it was ok. I told Mom I
wanted to live with her forever. I didn't tell her I couldn't live by myself because of the
thing under my bed or down the hall. And I'm beginning to believe this is going to
continue. I'm really scared that I'll never be able to live by myself.
Please, please, please, go away. leave me alone for awhile, or longer than awhile.
I need my life back, no, I need my life. Period.
August 8, 1999
Yesterday I wasn't asleep but I was lying down when I had this feeling. It wasn't really an image or daydream, but more of a memory... It was dark, and probably raining, but I felt a warmth, wrapped around me like arms, and it was comfortable, but I could barely breathe and my chest felt tight. It was almost as if it was a realization of a distinct memory from far and long ago. I thought maybe it was just one of those pictures you get in your head where you just think them up out of the clear blue for no reason, but it felt like it had happened, like a memory suppressed into a thought. It felt almost like deja-vous, like those pre-life, past life memories. It was just really weird and kind of scary, but I don't know if I was scared because of the feeling, or scared because it might be real.
December 28, 1999
Last week I had this fragment of a dream where I was talking to Julie D. I think, on the phone
November 16, 2000
Why does life have to surprise you? Why does life have to be wonderful and peachy-keen and then be so nasty and rude and just plain miserable?
I feel like it's always me. Like I'm the only one that has wonderful great things going for them and life, knowing this, walks up to me and slams me in the face. Sometimes I hate life.
But I have my reasons. I have good, logical reasons. It mostly has to do with things that I love, things that I feel are a part of me, things without which I would surely die. Things like love and home and friends and art. All these things keep me going from day to day.
I've been doing good lately. I've been pretty happy with my life. My pride and joy, my love, my life, specifically, my figure drawing class, has been going wonderfully. My professor even commented on how one of my drawings looked "Michelangel-esque". How great is that? But what I love more than drawing is painting. And my professor just doesn't think I have it. Every idea, every attempt, has been cruelly shot down. So I finally found something that I thought would be good, I worked on it, and then in just ten minutes, one tiny meaningless critique, all my hopes left and my fears pounced. "Feeding time!" It's like every art critic from everyone of those disgusting hateful magaizines was there. Oh, I wish everybody would just f-ck off. Leave me to my brush and pencil and paper, and never speak to me. I wanted to cry. I did, every time I talk to anyone who I respect as an artist, I want to cry. I left and even after sitting in the solitary bathroom stall, tears pouring from the depths of my soul, I came back, buried my face in my hands, and had myself another good cry.
Was it all worth it? Was the effort and time and soul I put into my art every day really worth it? In the end I come out with less than I started with. It sucks my very essence from me. It leaves me hating the world and hating myself. It leaves me wanting to never look at another canvas, never want to pick up another brush.
The most terrible tragedy that can befall an artist has occurred, and I stand, no, I lie the loser. I do not think I can go much further. Without my love I am but nothing. And with it I am even less.
"Tonight" Created: Saturday, May 19, 2001 5:50:33 AM
Tonight, yes it’s still night, I had the most horrible dream.
It was mostly about this house and even now, fully awake, I shiver at its thought.
There were people who faced their obsessions in this room but didn’t seem to leave.
And the candy hearts, and names, and the job I ran from when I was criticized, and then there was the stairs, the stairs on which I almost fell, the stairs on which I now realize I thought actually existed. I realized that they are only a part of my dreams, that the falling feeling and crawling only occur in my dreams. It was the most horrible experience, and I refuse to ever "fall" for it again. The next time I see stairs on which I think I may fall, I’m just going to turn and walk away.
