Monday, March 2, 2009
I'm painfully weak. A weak body that refuses to move, motivation deflated, released from every pore of every patch of skin, every movement a strained, painful exaggeration. A weak mind that refuses to stop, overreacting even as it desperately strives toward something else, endless words and images fluttering through in super speed snapshots that my body could never actually live up to acting. A weak will that gives in so easily to temptation, that bends and shapes itself every other minute, that is endlessly connected to its counterparts, yet hopelessly different and flexible in a way it shouldn't be.
Outside there is a snowstorm and at times, the thick layered carpet of white is an occasion for epic poetry, for songs and grand cenematic scenes to be played out in front of frozen cars and buildings from another white world. And then there is the sludge, the soaking heels dragging on the pavement, struggling to maintain balance and walk and stay upright against roaring winds. The difficulty in usually plesant trips to a classroom or a dining hall made into a vicious challenge.
A battle of the elements and physical, but mostly a battle of the mind. Weighing options and necessities: starvation versus comfort, exhausion versus socialization. And meanwhile, all the while, that eternal ongoing battle beneath these exterior temperal concerns. That of the weakness, clamping on, spourting into flowers of abstract worlds and concepts that will never become of anything...
Ah, abstraction. Vagueness. Turning every single word and sentiment into a meaning laden something else. Wouldn't it be so much easier to take things literally, and never reach for that impossible to articulate "more"? But this is the curse. The curse of the weak will and the weak mind that gets overtaken so easily. Speaking in abstracts simply because it is easier to speak, personal without being personal, revealing without really saying anything at all. It's a special talent, and in a way it is the job of the writer, the poet, the artist. In a way it is a jailhouse of the mad, and every word written lets another demon escape.
But see, there. There it is again. Vagueness. Metaphorical something more. Sketches of a life or mindset that is not quite real...or maybe too real. Hyper saturated, brightness/contrast sharpened, digitally enhanced version of reality blurring the line. Buildings that look too beautiful and glow too wonderfully, art that turns into an experience, awe spiraling out of control and conversations that may or may not have ever happened at all. Maybe it was in my mind, always, half in my mind, and half expressed in reality in gestures and moments and sewed inside labels of certain pieces of clothing.
So why not just tell the story. The story. Hi, my name is Laura (but not laura not really not originally and sometimes not even now sometimes someone else someone with stylized hair and fierce heels someone who struts rather than walks someone who smiles someone who the world stops to watch strut past), this is my story. This is the story of my life, maybe the novel of my life, told in snippets, told in painted blurred polaroids so that you never really know. But I wouldn't want you to know. Not the details, not the reality of it, anyway. What fun is reality, what fun is getting caught up in minor technicalities, what fun is a laundry list of things done and waiting to be done, what's fun is this, mind games, self analysis, portrait of a girl, portrait of something else, portrait of a world that is between the gray white cold angles of this very real New York City and the glowing, selectively colored perfectly captured film reels of this other reality, this reality that exist within the sharpness of photoshopped photographs and stylized, abstracted words upon words and words.