||[01 Apr 2007|11:29am]
( This has been taking way too long, but here is a huge bunchCollapse )
Installment of thought (revisit an object everyday):
A single rose chosen under great speculation with heightened awareness for the vision of unconscious beauty. One from a dozen--which one stands alone best? Which flower conveys the message you are most seeking to offer your admirer? Maybe a message of romantic involvement, of sincere passion or committed love. I knocked on the glass of the flower shop window, “How much for a single rose?” I wanted love to be contrived. Roses have always been slightly pathetic to me; an easy way to say how you feel without saying anything at all. I find it cowardly of a man to show up with a rose—or roses—and leave behind his letter. I want words that will live on as evidence, not a flower that will slowly fall apart (petals, like leaves from a tree) and shrivel to its death. I feel almost insecure as I stand in the aisle of the shop with my lone rose—as if others perceive me to be the one alone or lonely. But I like the idea of treating yourself to romance; of celebrating your love for life, peculiar attributes or the imperfections you find interest in (all of that is romance, a committed involvement in beauty at any certain level). I am excited (insert more enticing verb!) to watch this rose live out its lifeline; to begin as beautiful and end with decay. “Suffering in the decay of the heart…to understand in order to do away with my terror.” Sure, I will rob it of its potential life expectancy by not feeding it water, but I do not want this rose (signer of love) to depend. I want love to be independent from others and things. I want love to recognize that you do not have to suffer when being alone. Or maybe I want to watch the suffering and find beauty when beauty is being removed from the pigment of the rose itself. I want this rose to be stripped of the plastic it is showcased in. I want this rose to be naked to the world; exposed and vulnerable to nature and nurture of mankind itself. I want this rose to become crisp, golden and brown. I want this rose to break off so I can wedge it between the pages of great literature—between the words that a man would have left behind had he given me the rose, expecting me to read into the message when no message was delivered.
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. I suppose it is human nature to poeticize even the most typical and mundane. But why? Is it a hunger to find meaning? Is it human nature romanticizing their interactions with objects and others to assure themselves that they can feel these emotions of lust, desire and longing (to know the feelings exist and are plausible?). But when do we go too far? When do we—perhaps—destroy what was there/what it is and automatically give it expectations and symbolism? I feel that in doing so we rob it of its chance. Its chance to be anything it wants to be—mean anything it wants to mean. Roses--Why an offering of love? Why a gentleman gesture? What is the man perceived as gentle if he comes baring/sends roses? Is Gertude right? Is a rose just a rose a rose a rose? Is a kiss just a kiss? Was the boyfriend wrong or right when he cheated, but claimed it was “just a kiss”? Maybe it didn’t really mean anything. If so, are these words just words? Are words just letters of the alphabet? Am I subscribing meaning to them and expecting the receiver to automatically understand the message? A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose. The only importance this rose signals to those that see me with it is: she was admired, she was lusted after, she is worthy of receiving affection, she knows how it feels to be given a rose.
But yet, that isn’t my story. A rose is a rose. Nothing more, nothing less, nothing in between.
The rose is looking rather pathetic. It reminds me of the morning after. You wake up with clothing hanging off one limb or another (a bra strap falling beyond your shoulder, your shirt missing buttons: revealing that you, maybe, aren’t that classy). In the mirror, you don’t recognize yourself: how your eyeliner and mascara create a puddle underneath your, now vacant, eyes. You look destroyed, ravaged and removed. Same with this rose. Three petals are attached and hang separately from the others; they are removed (and I should be remorseful because of it). The rose offers meaning of what it was (positive note) and how the moment has passed since receiving it (negative note). I find myself speculating a circumstance that doesn’t exist—I have to remind myself that this rose was a gift from me to me. But I think half of this experiment is to see how and why one tries to continually attach meaning to an object of “desire.” Why can we not just love the idea of love that the rose signals? Why do we have to love the object itself (the way it looks, its image, its materialism)? Why do we have to have beauty created for us? Why can’t we create it ourselves?
Last night clouds appeared to be etched across the sky. It was this ripple effect that I found unnatural. I felt like I should be looking for a giant bunny or bear, like in the movie Amalie. But how come I even questioned its appearance? Why is one cloud more real than another to me? What is one rose from another? How come when choosing a rose one considers which one is more appropriate, more ideal for signifying the emotion of real love? Image (huff), we are all trapped and confined by our individual image’s meaning. Hence why it takes only thirty seconds to make an impression.
Across from the building I sit in, is another building (naturally in New York City). Most of the curtains are drawn up, so traveling eyes can peer in and those residing in the space can peer out on life being lived below. Nothing fascinates me more than observing how others live in their space. One room in particular is piled high in a corner with novels, papers and a FedEx package. Who is he? Who is she? Has he/she left that pile there for me to speculate over? Is the idea that, if I am going to be voyeuristic, I mine as well have something worth observing? Puzzling. I’d rather a picture of that room be sent to me than a rose. Because I don’t know the meaning of the life in the room or the novels the individual is choosing to read or what may or may not be in that package (all things I have to figure out, I have to study to find meaning). But a rose has already been given its meaning and I would become neurotic if I tried to study the meaning behind its intent more than has already been done. I want the challenge of making meaning and someone, long ago, has already decided the meaning of a rose (no challenge for me there!).
The tips of each petal are dark (no longer robustly red, enticing and enriching!), as if they have been burnt. I can draw great parallels and even excite (perhaps) outlandish metaphors of how this rose is burnt by the give and take of life. Think: the human psyche and even overall physical manner can become burnt out by the misfortunes of life. This rose is no different—since it has been given such humane characteristics (love, beauty, courage, romance, passion, sincerity) —it then, must be capable of experiencing trauma. Well, the rose is. I have sat, observed and studied life, meaning and form be taken from this rose (as if drained from the stem itself). Sure, maybe I am dramaticizing (if romanticizing exists in the Dictionary, this word can too!) the rose’s scenario—but roses are poetic and poets are absorbed in the personal attachment to human issues. And this here is a human issue; the rose is dying. It is becoming less and less necessary. Is that what becomes of us when dying—when making the transition from capable to incapable of eliciting the same purpose (?), of providing the same benefits that you had bestowed upon another? The rose’s purpose was capturing a human emotion and holding it as a means for symbolism; a human’s to be individually unique with his/her motives, interests, pursuits and characteristics. Motives, interests, pursuits and characteristics are purposes and benefits (all things you give to another to observe and be apart of)—and is the reason one should be allowed to be particular, to have preferences and opinions; use your fingerprint to your advantage! But really, is this what dying is: a challenge, a battle, a struggle, a burn you suffer from? Is that why family and friends sometimes make the decision to “pull the plug”? Maybe watching some[thing/one] slowly die causes the observers pain, too. Maybe they suffer the reality of existence; that one day it will be our time to go, our time to take on a new meaning, to signify something we had not planned on. However, can we outsmart this before it happens? Can we recognize (not anticipate, but understand) that forms may loose certain aesthetics, meanings may become redefined and one will, at some point, no longer move upward in prosperity, but gradually decline till decay? If we accept this, maybe no one (the observer or the observed) will have to suffer. Maybe by doing this, we will always be able to keep some[thing/one] around and give it purpose. I knew the rose would die (I sped up this reaction, in fact). I knew the rose would suffer and be strangling for air. I knew I would see a human quality in the rose’s course of life; how at one point we can be so well poised, put together and borderline perfect—yet, (to use a terrible cliché) in a blink of an eye, we can be falling apart, torn by a thorn we had not expected and bleeding for a second chance. I knew this because maybe I am hypersensitive on purpose or like to use personification because I am abstract and eager to surprise myself with new notions. Maybe I am just a poet within all these lines. Regardless, I knew the inevitable and acted upon it. From the moment I purchased the rose, I told the cashier that I could not wait until the petals no longer exposed themselves in the perfect bloom, but came inward (collectively holding on to each other during death) and hardened. “But how useless, then, it will be”, he remarked. I smiled and said, “No, I am desperately in need of a bookmark. This rose will be perfect!”
So much--to me--is going on. I keep swearing that I will write a diary---no time now. But I do want to update. Until then, I hope everyone is smiling and inspiring.