Summit Abyss

26 10 2011

I know I’ve talked about this on here. But I guess I’m trying to understand my disassociation more.  *trigger warning*

****

I first saw the mountain peak inside a men’s stall in a marble bathroom. There was to be a gala that night right outside the outer door.

 ***************************************************************************

Excuse me, excuse me ma’am?

I turned to my right on the corner of some Manhattan street on my way to the Natural History Museum and I saw before me stood a tall and broad shouldered shadow.

Yes, I answer.

Are you Italian? Asks the shadow with a heavy African French accent.

I’m sorry?

Your necklace is Italian, so I thought you might be.

Oh, no I’m not, but yes, the necklace, I got it in Venice.

Are you going this way? He gestures forward and finally the sun is not behind him so I can get a clearer look at his face. I nodded. And walked even with his pace. He mentioned his name, it started with an H, but sounded like a U, damn French.  A journalist based out of DC. He had an Umbrella in his hand, and he was excited to go and watch part of the world cup.

What are you doing?

Well, I was mostly just killing time, taking photos, walking around till later when I’m supposed to meet up with a graduate student who’s going to Columbia and offered to talk to me about the program. But that’s not for a couple of hours, why?

Would you like to come with me? I’m going to the Samsung store to watch the next match.

We were in front of the Natural History Museum, and I had planned on going in and wandering about. I stared at the ancient trees, the massive museum, and then back at the stranger. He seemed interesting, and he had offered for me to go with him to a public place.

My stomach growled and I was reminded of how broke I was. In hopes of perhaps a coffee, or cookie, I agreed to join him.  While walking the several blocks to our destination he spoke of how he frequently went back and forth between the city and the district. He was from Paris, and wanted me to go with him to the gala he must attend that night.

I looked down at my raggedy, stained converse, the only shoes I had with me in the city.

I don’t have anything to wear, I’m sorry. Plus, I’m here visiting a friend, so I wouldn’t be able to go even if I did have the proper attire.

Don’t you know that in New York you have to ready for anything?

************************************************************************

The match was over and my coffee cup was empty. No lunch though so my stomach still growled. I checked my phone for the time, and remarked how it had been nice to meet him and it was kind of him to buy me the coffee, but that I needed to be heading back toward Columbia, soon.

First, let me show you something.  He took my hand, and led me up an escalator, down a hallway, then there was a doorman, he showed a card, and we were let into some secret part of the building.

We walked down a spiral staircase with pink carpet and I started seeing Crystal chandeliers and my thought was, that this room was more expensive than my entire existence.

The View is very good. Said the stranger.

The closer I got to the window the more and more excited I was, but the height also made me nervous. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up as I looked out into the city. How beautiful it was! New York, in all her glory.

The man took my hand again, and said, I have one more thing to show you.

I really need to be going…

I promise it won’t take long.

We went around a wall he was leading me. My mind had gone blank, and though my breathing was even, I couldn’t feel my heart beat.

Why are we going into the bathroom? I asked.

He laughed.

*****

 There was nothing alarming about him. His features were striking I suppose, handsome, sure. I had met many a stranger, male, female, who had been friendly enough we held conversations, sometimes talked for hours. Nothing really in my past gave reason for the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end when I looked at this man. French Allgiers. He was French Allgeiers. Of course I’m just guessing. But his relations were definitely African.

 *****

None of the doors creaked. There was no one around. The walls were maroon and the stalls made up of a golden marble or alabaster.

Not even the stall doors creaked.

He took my backpack off, and the camera from around my neck. I looked up at him, What are we doing?

He kissed me.

I kissed him back.

But then as if I was a paperweight he swept me to the opposite wall. I gasped.  My breath increased. He kissed my neck.

I breathed in and I could feel the cold of mountain snow. My chest was even tightened from thin air. It was so beautiful, so high. The air was so thin, my vision was blurry, dizzy even here and there. I would start to spin.

Tears, dreadful stinging tears coming out of my eyes and I’m in the stall begging the stranger, please, please, no! Stop! Don’t do this, No!

ARRETTE!

He looked at me, his shirt open. Did I open it?  I don’t remember.  My dress was at my waist and he had been pawing at my bra.

His pants open, too.

His large long fingers cup my face and wipe my tears.  The way he crouches down is not like a predator, but more like when the hero kisses the heroine in all the John Hughes films.

I just want to see them, that is all! I have to see them, he says. It’s okay, nothing to cry about. He picked me up and put me on the Handicap rail.  The tears stopped. My breath quickened.

He grabbed my hands pinned me against the wall, then reached into his pants and made his desires clear. He pushed himself inside me and when I looked up, I saw myself though no mirror was on the ceiling, tears running down my face and great pain rushing through my body,

I turn my head, feeling a cold blast and through a snow flurry I see a distant object. The mountain peak again.  I stood there mid air, snow blowing all around me. And I was calm, as long as I kept my eyes on the summit -I was calm. The purples, the blues, the chilling air…I breathed in slowly, a thousand icicles stung my lungs, but it was okay. I was okay, there was no fear.

Something inside my body betrays my will and I’m launched back into the marble stall.

My nerve endings respond like needles on fire, stabbing me. But then, the cruelest thing of all, my body betrayed me and a flash of pleasure came over me.  Not even a millisecond. But my back arched, my toes curled and maybe even a hint of a moan came forth from my lips. There was something that was still inside of me telling me that I had to be sure to prove that I was good.

The same instant my heart leapt into my throat and I was able to push, with my feet. I pushed him off.

No more, s’il tous plait!!

No more.

I choke back tears.

Yes, that is good for now. Says the shadow.  We shall finish later.

A deep pain is inside of me, worse than my first time. I grab some toilet paper and wipe. Blood, brightest of bright reds, blood.  I quickly dress, and say that I must leave.

He takes my hand again, and gives me directions on the fastest way back.

I can’t remember if I looked him in the eye, hugged him, or if we said good-bye the French way.

.

As I turned on my heels and started to walk away I heard him say…You were so, good.





It’s Personal

24 10 2011

Things I’ve considered doing if I weren’t an artist.

  • Underwater Welding
  • Non-Sex Dominatrix
  • English teacher in foreign country
  • Art Historian
  • Vagrant
  • Chocolate Factory Worker
  • Farmer
  • Migrant Worker
  • Off the grid self sustainer in undisclosed local

Of course these things I could do as well as being an artist, as my more practical side…except for the las half.

Its unclear if my waning passion is because I’m just tried, I’ve come to realize that my parents were right all along and this whole art thing was just a phase, I hate art school(well mostly the people in it), I don’t like Boston, I’m terribly lonely, or I am not really an artist after all.

What makes an artist, an artist any way? Why make art? do I still have this crazy drive to create things, sure.

So maybe, I’m just a bad artist? If so, then what? Do I care? Do I just keep on keepin’ on and say fuck it? Thomas Kinkade is a pretty bad artist in many ways. But that doesn’t stop him from making millions. Same could be said for several people I suppose. Well…maybe not several, but you know, a few.

I’m not looking for fame. Or am I?

Am I just waiting, longing to be discovered? No, but maybe my work is. I’m not so much interested in the spotlight. But I could be cool with a piece or two being in an Art Forum or Juxtapoze.

I got in free to the MOMA in NY yesterday, because the museum owns a couple of my friends pieces. I suppose I would like to one day get to get in free to the MOMA or some other museum, because they own some of my pieces.

In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t much.

I know I shouldn’t compare myself to my friend…but then why shouldn’t I? Any way compared to where he is, I feel as though I am still inside the womb. I haven’t been birthed. And none of my art has really breathed yet because of it.

He asked me why I wouldn’t want to live in West Texas again. This was my response, “Its like being constipated (really constipated), but also being incredibly full, like just after Thanksgiving or something, AND being nauseous, all at once.  You’re so full and weighted down and on the verge of  exploding every way possible.”

He looked at me for a second and repeated what I said, I clarified a few things and then he paused…”That sounds horrible!

It is horrible. And that’s how I felt living in Abilene. For nearly six years of my life.

But the more I think about it, the more I realize that, that’s how I feel about all of Texas really.

So I think about how I’m never going to live there again, how that would be the worst thing for me, ever. And then I pause, process, and think to myself, then realized I need to be more Okay with who I am before I can live there again.

So it’s really more of me needing to learn to deal than anything else. Maybe ‘deal’ isn’t the right word. Maybe accept, maybe I need to learn to accept who I am. Maybe I need to learn to love myself.  It’s a strange contradiction, but it seems like if I really loved myself, I could be less selfish.

Sometimes I wish I had “more” to say in my art. But then I realize that I have too much to say. There are lots of things I could say about the content I’ve been working with. The surplus of meaning within the context of this work is overwhelming.  I think perhaps if I write some of it out, instead of just storing it up inside then I it wouldn’t bother me so much. Also, I need to do more research, to help clarify things for myself.  And I need to organize my research better. Much better.

Sometimes I wish I could be more political and give more of a universal damn, with my art, but then I’m reminded by things that were said to me over and over recently, by people who have little in common other than knowing me. They have said something to this effect, ” It’s good that it’s coming from a personal place, work is always powerful that does that.” And so I think of this. I keep this in mind. I hold this as my security blanket. For this much I know, my work, it’s personal.





Dust in the creases of her face…

19 10 2011

I went back to Texas this past weekend. It was good. Needed.  My grandma is 80 today. I cannot fathom living that long. But her’s is a life full of wonderful stories. It was good to see loved ones.

I felt myself instead of having clipped wings around my family, for the first time stretching them out, letting them grow back out. You know I don’t want my families approval, I just want acceptance.

I’m starting to think that slowly but surely my parents are learning how to do just that. My sister, has a very long way to go. But my grandma, she accepts me. And encourages me. I don’t know if I’ve, or could ever really express the gratitude I have for her because of that. She believes in me. I think she believes in me more than I believe in myself.

Dr. Maddox believed in me, too. I just hope that I can always strive for the greatness and meaning that he did, and that does see in me, in who I am, in what I do.





19 10 2011

It got dark early today. The rain started with out notice. Just suddenly the sky was all gray and the air cold, winds changing slightly, whispering, speaking of things to come.

Walking in the rain isn’t so bad, keeping your head down is the trick when umbrella can be found, or you ignore the forecast.

It hasn’t stopped yet. And the wind it still whispers. I don’t know what its saying. Maybe its not saying anything, maybe its just jamming out with it’s voice like Dylan.

One foot in front of the other. That’s how it starts. ‘Suppose how anything starts.

Hot tea to warm my hands.

Breathe. Try, just try to breathe. Some days breathing just doesn’t seem to happen.

Drowning, telling secrets, encased in water. My life, my thoughts, they’re all first sentences followed by a string of flashing images that don’t make much sense to me so I doubt they would ever to you.

But then perhaps there are those more insightful than myself.

My hands ache. From lack of sleep and being overworked. I’ve thought out a thousand stories, essay responses, and planned out thousands upon thousands of drawings in my mind, and they all swirl together. I dive inside my mind, the attic forming slowly, what a cavern.

Some song I hate stirs in my head and drives me to draw that damn smile again. Putting on a face. Smiling, going on, even when it gets dark early.

But now the cold, too?

I’m so lonely.

Part of me thinks answers will found in some foreign land where no one I know is around. But really, isn’t that just the case right here?

So where, are these things inside of me? That peace I feel resides in some distant land out side myself.

I spend too long outside myself looking back. When I look in the mirror, I’m not looking at my body, but looking for who I am. Trying to see it in my eyes. Trying to squeeze out of my pores the things I hate.

Letting myself be, doesn’t seem like an option. Seems too dangerous, too unstable.

 

My long crooked fingers want rest, but what might be my soul needs pouring out.