Ballpoint and Micron pen on paper, 3/3/14

When I draw, I get so focused on my work that it becomes impossible to critique it clearly. By either using a mirror, or taking a photo of the work, you can see your work from a new viewer's perspective. I made this .gif from those photos:

My room was a time capsule.
I invited the cat in,
and latched that antique door.
Two loves sat on the bed,
one with dilated green eyes,
and one with a guitar in hands.
They said we would be cast through space,
scaling the stars
in a dizzying fashion.
The room was still.
Preserved on the 28th.
I questioned
the position
of every object.
The medicine on the floor,
the sideways bottle,
the crooked books on the shelf.
I couldn't imagine
a shifting speck
of dirt,
or drinking the rest of my coffee.
We were just three humans and a cat, surrounded by walls and statues.

The word "courage" stems from the Latin word for heart: "cor". "Age" comes from the Latin suffix "aticum", which can indicate action, collection, state of being...

Courage is acting from the heart, or even just the state of having heart. I like that.

Brainsick adj: Mentally disordered.

Brassica n: Plants from the genus Brassica, such as broccoli, cabbage, and mustard.

Bravura n: 1) A musical passage requiring excellent agility and technical skill. 2) A show of daring brilliance.

Brecciate vt: To break a rock into fragments.

Brevity n: Shortness of duration, or conciseness of expression.

Briar n: A plant which has a woody and prickly or thorny stem. (Rose, blackberry.)

Brittle a: Easily broken, cracked, or snapped.

Bromeliad n: Plants from the genus Bromelia, such as pineapple, spanish moss, and various ornamentals.

Bromidic adj: Lacking in originality. (A bromide, in regards to people, is someone tiresome or boring.)

Brusque (also brusk) adj: 1) Markedly short and abrupt. 2) Blunt in manner or speech, often to the point of ungracious harshness.

Brute adj: 1) Of or related to beasts. 2) Inanimate. 3) Cruel or savage.
In my mind I always knew
I didn't have much for looks.
Rather than catching young men's eyes,
I turned my own to books.

Though art and thought occupied my time,
I grew increasingly jealous
of girls who never read a line,
but were still upheld desirous.

With later age
my body changed
my acne-marked face cleared up.
Frazzled hair became soft and tame,
and those books I soon forgot.

Now I've known lust a thousand times,
and with more partners than I care to name,
but I owe all love to my intelligence,
not the beauty I became.
We don't always like what we put on the page. Understatement. The inadequacy can be shameful, disgusting, and painful. Some days, I don't keep more than a phrase. The brushwork seems sloppy, and the proportions are off. I have thrown away paintings and whole journals without regret.

Some amateur artists feel deeply astonished by their own work. They step back to admire their blocky monotone watercolor with great pride, or ramble about the wittiness of their dialogue while readers search desperately for positive things to say.

While constantly feeling that your work doesn't measure up is frustrating, the ability to criticize your own work is a gift. It drives advancement, because the voice that says "That's not good enough." is the same one that says "I can do better."

Sometimes you've got to produce a whole lot of crap before feeling satisfied- and that makes it even more rewarding.
Friends, family, strangers...

After some internal debate about fears and publicity, I've decided to reopen this blog. Maybe it's to share my thoughts, or maybe to get a glimpse of my own head from the outside, but I'm not sure. I've been pretty confused lately.

Truth be told, I've spent a long time trying to disguise a fucked up psychology. A poem from 2012:


Borderline Personality,
General Anxiety,
Dissociative Identities,
and Eating Disorder

The more I learn, the more I realize that modern psychology is just a means of applying a label to a set of symptoms. And it's harmful.

It's harmful because at 13 years old I got my first diagnosis. I was told, in paraphrase, that I was mentally ill, that most people with mental illnesses never get better, and that my future was likely suicide if I didn't fix myself.

It's harmful because it implies that there is a correct way to live life, and that it's not okay to relax with symptoms that are really quite human. It creates an expectation of constant happiness, but we have all experienced more emotions than visible colors. There is a sense of shame and inferiority stamped on every label. It also places so much importance on things that are out of your control. The past can't be changed, but it supposedly molded you. Genetics are also inescapable, and for the longest time, I think I identified myself with that pile of diagnoses more than I identified myself by my own name. However, the human mind is remarkably malleable, and the present moment is completely new. Every single second of your life is fresh.

At 13, I got my first bottle of pills. I got my first stay in a mental institute. I got my first journal, and I've been writing ever since.

I've had enough with hidden issues. Sometimes I panic, sometimes I get depressed, sometimes my thoughts race, and sometimes I can't sleep, but I'm not going to spend the rest of my life hiding in a drawer beside my bed.

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