Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, there was a girl who was afraid that she'd misplaced her originality. She remembered having it at one point, or so she thought, because she'd look out any window at any given moment and appreciate things that no one around her appreciated. But one day, when reading a book, she read words that she wished she had the eloquence to say, describing all the beautiful things in her world. It was then she realized that her ideas weren't new, but instead, very old; and probably done over thousands of times.
She was beyond discouraged. She was in pain. Soon, nothing she felt or thought felt worth sharing. "This has all been felt before," she thought, "nobody cares to hear about things they already know so much about."
But she needed to do something. Days turned into months and months turned into years and she had barely spoken of anything she saw, or thought about. Her mind was merely sitting, filling up with ideas that rotted away right where they were, until her whole soul was overflowing with dead creatures made of creativity.
All the good parts still left in her head and in her heart were being blackened, suffocated by the corpses.
When she looked out a rain covered window, she no longer made stories of the droplets, and the meetings and dates they ran off to in such a hurry. She stopped pretending to be fooled by natures magic tricks, claiming she knew it was commonplace, and not to be looked at as anything special. She even stopped thinking too much of her dreams during the day, knowing that the moon would bring them back the next night.
But one night, they didn't come back. She awoke the next morning untouched by the phenomenon. She made breakfast as usual, and headed off to school, sat through all her classes fantasy-less, ate lunch and headed to work. After work, she drove home, brushed her teeth and went to bed to have another dreamless night.
This continued for months.
Until one day, she awoke, remembering a memory from her childhood. She was playing princess dress-up with her best friend. Common for little girls. And the princess aspect just made it even more cliche. But she was having fun, and that is what's important. She was probably dreaming every night and daydreaming all day long then, allowing herself to live in a fantasy world, no matter how Disney-typical it was.
Then she started to look closer at her current way of life. Nothing was more overdone and tired out as her current daily routine.
It was those bursts of creative ideas (that she thought weren't so creative) that set her apart from everyone else in the world. The fact that she struggled to keep her imagination alive was enough to earn her, her dreams.
Before going to school, she sat outside for a while and listened to the world hum and whistle around her.
The wind started blowing away the old rotted fragments of dead creativity and planting new seeds of ideas.
She was happy once again, and content with being an artist.

Starbucks Monologue

I love being in coffee shops at night, because it always feels like Christmas. It smells warm like cinnamon and hot chocolate, but the air is always turned up too high. Most people smile at you because they feel obligated too, not knowing how long you’ll be in there with them. And those that don’t smile don’t affect you too much because you’re positive they must just be in a hurry. In a nutshell, that’s what Christmas consists of.
But that’s not the only reason it appeals to me. I like it because of the stories. The most stereotypical people go to coffee shops, including myself, who all pretend to have culture and class just because they’re drinking coffee or tea, or reading classic literature in a big cozy chair, or eating a croissant, or writing a philosophical essay for a class they’re taking.
Then on top of it all, you have the slew of pretentious music constantly playing. Usually it’ll be something like sad slow instrumentals, or Nat King Cole singing Cole Porter, or an obscure Indie band that isn’t obscure enough, so the majority of people that walk in know who it is and either smile to themselves for their exceptional knowledge of music, or comment to the person they’re with about the EP they own by the same people.
Then the art that hangs on the walls are all things that could’ve easily been done by a college art student experimenting with color, shape, the human form, and incorporating poetry and world studies. And anyone who goes out of their way to stare at one of these pieces for more then a couple seconds is either an art student (who is thinking of a prestigious sounding comment) or a little kid merely soaking it all in.
And there is always an above average looking person working, male or female, who gets hit on at least twice within the period of time you’re sitting/standing there. Part of you is disgusted at the predictability, and part of you is jealous that they aren’t making flirty eyes with you. It is only after this has occurred that you can truly understand Kristen Chenoweth.
Now I’m only allowed to mock all these people because I’ve done all of the above myself at one point or another.
But I love it. I love seeing these everyday people escaping from a life that may not make them feel as special or confident. They might have just come from a terrible meeting, or gotten a paper back that they didn’t pass, or just needed to get out of the house. But here, they can feel awesome about whatever they’re writing, or confident about whoever they’re talking to, because they’re drinking a double-shot espresso with foam. Every person that leaves, leaves feeling better about themselves. And truthfully, that is why there is a Starbucks on every corner; they serve as a wonderful escape.

(Untitled)

Life, slow down.
You’re catching up to me and I don’t know how to look you in the face yet.
I’m not sure how to shake your hand like an old friend would,
Or gaze into your stunning, weathered eyes and smile.
I can’t accept your hovering presence, but you continue to linger in each minute.
You’ve stopped your illusion of strolling through days
And began a race with me that my mind refuses to run;
So you continue alone into tomorrow
Because you decline to take the hand of the little girl who’s sat down on the tracks
Afraid of what may happen to the memory of today
If she tries to keep up with you.

Part 2

About an hour later he ran back across the familiar dark parking lot, the asphalt still soaked through from the rain, and returned to his no longer solitary car. As he drove home, his eyes were fixed upon his newly painted nails. He controlled the car merely with his fingertips, in fear of smearing the fresh polish. His mind wandered, hypnotized by the rhythmic squeaking of the windshield wiper blades. He began replaying what the women at the salon said to him, “Oh, I’m so glad to see you again! Don’t you just look darling?” Their thick Bostonian accents made their comments come across as compliments given from the closest of friends; but he asked himself if they were just making a mockery of him.
He pulled into his driveway, slung his purse over his shoulder once again and stepped out into the rain. He made no attempt to cover his hair as he walked to the mailbox in front of his house. He pulled out a medium stack of envelopes, all of varying sizes and began flipping through them. The majority of them were addressed to his wife, Daria. He put the mail under his arm and listened to his heels clack against the sidewalk, up the stairs in the front of his house and back into his kitchen. He hung his purse over the back of a wooden chair and threw the envelopes on the table.
He picked up his wine glass where he had left it and emptied the rest of the open bottle into it. He raised it to his mouth and finished off the glass. After refilling it again, he climbed two flights of stairs to his bedroom and set his glass on a bedside table. His side of the bed was perfectly made, as if it hadn’t been touched in weeks; on his wife’s side, the sheets and blankets were wrinkled and tossed aside – the way she left them this morning. He kicked off his shoes, carefully pulled back the pristine blankets and climbed in. He lay on his side facing away from the cold, empty side of the bed and watched dust particles fall into his wine.
After a couple of minutes he dared to face the unkempt pillow beside his head. He pulled it closer to him carefully and enjoyed the fruity smell of the shampoo she used, mixed with Snuggle brand dryer sheets, a minty smelling face wash and cucumber lotion. With his face dug deeply into the feather pillow, he fell asleep.

Red Wine

The thick smell of red wine polluted the kitchen air. It gave the illusion that a well-off drunken man was breathing into your face. The atmosphere was cold – cluttered shelves lined the rusty colored walls, but emptiness took advantage of each crevice and clung to it for support. The room sat lifeless for no more then three minutes at a time, but if you were to close your eyes, you’d never be able to tell there was someone there. A small framed man sat at his table in silence and swirled Cabernet in his crystal glass; his eyes however were occupied with the red nail polish chipping from his lengthy fingernails. A long strand of black, frizzy hair fell in front of his eyes and he strategically moved it behind his ear. His fingers fell upon a cascade of jewels that dangled from his earlobe and he toyed with each glass diamond as if it were real. His eyes fell upon his glass, half full for only a moment longer.
Raindrops fell heavily upon the windows and echoed off the tile floor. The man stood from the tiny table and sleepily walked over to wine cabinet filled mostly with empty bottles of expensive wine. He pulled out a new bottle and walked back to the table with it. After taking out the cork he filled his glass again and drained it just as fast. He filled it again and set the open bottle down next to a newspaper from weeks before. His nylon coated legs shook nervously and he watched a clock that hung above the stove. 5:02 AM Eastern Standard Time. He pulled his robe tightly around himself and reached for a remote. A small television turned on and an anchor woman spoke about local news; an old library was broken into downtown but nothing seemed to be missing, and an annual parade was postponed due to the heavy rainfall and ever dropping temperature. The sound of heels clicked through the house from above him and a tall beautiful woman came into the kitchen.
“Good morning.” She did her very best to smile sincerely at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“I think I need to go back to the salon today. My nails look dreadful.” He continued to chip away at the paint.
“Here.” She pulled a twenty dollar bill out of her wallet and placed it on the table beside his glass.
“You don’t understand the pressure put on me to look beautiful all the time. I feel like you don’t even notice how much effort I put in to looking my best.”
He found his glass to be empty once again and refilled it with shaky hands. She fixed herself a cup of coffee and left. He wrapped his skeletal fingers around his wine glass, left the television on, and went upstairs into a bathroom. He watched himself stare back into his own eyes that were heavy with the bags that hung beneath them. He lifted his free hand up to his cheek and caressed it with his fingertips.
“I am beautiful.” He took another drink of wine, but never broke contact with his own stare. He studied each movement he made as if it were a work of art. Beside the sink sat his wife’s makeup. He fumbled with the zipper for a moment before deciding to set down his glass. Once he got the bag open, he took out a tube of red lipstick and twisted it until it was useable. He pulled his lips tightly over his teeth and did his best to color in each crevice of his chapped mouth. Next he took out a long black pencil and clumsily outlined his eyes. He opened the medicine cabinet and took out a pallet of shadows; blues, greens and purples. He dipped his middle finger into a dark blue and pulled the residue over his eyelids as evenly as he could. He wiped what was left on his finger on his robe and took a step back to examine his work. He ran his fingers through his long, tangled black hair, picked up his wine glass and headed one more floor up to his bedroom.
He slid open a large mirrored door to reveal a row of flowy blouses, and women’s dress pants. He chose a long sleeve dark green top, form fitting blue jeans, and a pair of pumps similar to the color of his shirt. He set down his glass only while he changed into each piece of clothing, slowly and with great precision. He closed the closet door and examined himself in the outfit he picked. Obviously very pleased with his appearance he smiled widely and once again picked up his glass. He grabbed his purse off of a chair in the living room one floor down, walked back through the kitchen and out the back door.
He held his hands above his head at a pitiful attempt to shield himself from the rain; once he got to his car, he climbed inside and immediately checked his hair in the visor mirror. He drove himself down to the salon with ease, singing along to every love song on the radio. He pulled into a virtually empty parking lot and parked quite far away from the entrance. Although it was almost seven, it was incredibly dark outside; the rain clouds hung low in the sky and the downpour made it difficult to see anything. He remained in his car for a few minutes with the radio off, clicking his nails on the steering wheel. He felt as if a weight had dropped in his chest and for a moment he realized what he was doing. A lump rose in his throat, and though he tried his best to stop it, it was inevitable. He began shaking with adrenaline and crying hysterically into his hands.
“I’m ruining my life. I’m losing everything that ever meant anything to me.” He paused. It was if a switch was turned back off in his head and immediately he stopped. He flipped down the visor again to look in the mirror.
“I look terrible.” He reached into his purse on the seat beside him and took out a pack of tissues. He dabbed tears away from underneath his eyes and wiped away streaks of smeared black makeup from his emaciated cheeks. The bags beneath his eyes were almost black with resilient residue from his tears and attempt at beauty. He slung his purse over his shoulder, shut the visor and ran across the parking lot and into the salon.

Painting a Picture

Day 51

Today I discovered that even the ice water is hot in hell. The air is as heavy as sand, and every fan you could possibly use just filters the heat back onto you. It’s 112° and I’m coated in sweat; my clothes have taken advantage of my weakness and cling to me tighter then usual with the knowledge that I’m too weak to try and pull them off. I’ve found that boredom is one of the worst forms of torture. At a certain point, there isn’t anything worth doing; and unless you force yourself to stimulate your mind, your brain turns to mush and you no longer care that you haven’t moved in hours. You find your sweltering days slip into illusion filled nights and your dreams become indecipherable. I look out my window at a row of ugly houses that no one dare come out of. Although occasionally, a young man three houses down comes out to smoke. It’s emotionally torturing him; in order to fulfill the constant craving for nicotine he must venture onto the pavement that melts the bottoms of his shoes and hold a flame close to his face until he can pull down a satisfying amount of smoke into his already heavy chest. But every three hours or so, I see him again.
A string of ants trail from my bathroom where they attempt to steal every drop of moisture from the sink. I’ve always found it hard to look at them as living things. I mindlessly crush them with my thumb as they go by. Maybe I’m doing them a favor; they too must feel the heat, and their existence must be painfully boring – it seems as if their minds have already turned to mush, and they don’t care if they live or die because they aren’t intelligent enough to be aware of being. I easily get bored of playing God and begin picking at my fingernails. The red paint I’ve coated them with is chipping off the tips forming jagged, sharp lines that remind me of Andy Warhol.
It seems incredibly mundane to be doing this with my time. It’s the first couple weeks of the rest of my life and all I’ve managed to do is sulk in the hot air that feels remarkably like the breath of a drunken homeless man. I’ve flipped through a couple art books and watched the fantasies melt off of the page; but it only reminds me that I’m not where the painter was when they saw those wonderful things. I think about drawing something, or maybe doing a collage of some sort but the nightmares I’ve been having suck all creative vision out of me; except, for some reason, anything dealing with Alice in Wonderland. Playing cards and neon striped manipulative creatures and tea parties seem to be taking up most of the space in the right side of my brain. It could be worse, however. I could see nothing.

I only need a shot glass of inspiration; presumably, in my current state, one with lots of ice in it. The word inspiration literally means “breathed upon” – and having earlier referenced the air as reminding me of particularly hot breath, shouldn’t the summer bring more artistic inspiration? It at least shouldn’t remove it. But somehow people tend to find things to spark their creativity in every kind of weather, at every location, with whomever they may be near. It’s possible that I may be having such a difficult time because inspiration can’t be sought after; it needs to sneak up behind you, take a step into your bubble, and breathe down your neck until you notice it standing there. Then, if you happen to be having a lucky day, it will wrap its arms around you and start kissing you passionately wherever you may be showing a little skin. It’ll take advantage of the spots you can’t clothe or cover and it will pick open your wounds. But nothing can have the chance of sneaking up on you if you’re looking around in every direction.
I need to be okay with having a little gray in my world or the colors will all be crayon names; forced and contrived. No new colors can be seen amongst a sea of tickle-me-pinks, midnight blues and macaroni and cheese yellows. I just wish my inspiration stalker would hurry up and take advantage of me.

Blogging: Or Something Like It

Because it is 3:00 in the morning and I’ve convinced myself I’m feeling witty tonight, I’ve decided to write a blog. I’ve never actually blogged about anything before, but it seems to be all the rage so I figured I may as well try it out. Hello world! Or more appropriately, people of the world, or maybe an even better word choice, the chosen few who are curious/bored enough to read this. I am an aspiring actress. Yes, one of the seven billion aspiring artists out there who are convinced that they can follow their dreams and become wildly famous and rich and more enlightened every moment. I am one out of seven billion people, who are inspired by reading strange posters and magazines and books, or sitting by myself in a crowded bar, or watching a plastic bag dance for me. However, I am not one of those something-billion who try to be something much more than an artist. I am not trying to be a prophet or a preacher or even an individual. I realize that I am much like every other part-time waitress wannabe Performer. Here is where people normally say, “I’m different because…” but I’m not going to; I probably have no redeeming quality that sets me apart from people who get caught up in the whirlwind of life. It’s incredibly possible that I end up succeeding in whatever temporary job I set up for myself along the way, get married and pregnant and lead a normal, happy life (And that’s if I’m lucky). But I hope that’s not me. I hope for myself only one thing: To always be trying to achieve something meaningful. If one day I find myself fighting for a management position because it pays more, it better be because I’m struggling with money; and I hope to God I’m putting some of that money towards a bigger objective.