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Chelsea Faye Leigh

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tumblr [19 Jan 2009|04:04pm]
Anyone have a tumblr? Let's follow each other around.

1 comment| comment

claudeleanmusee.blogspot.com [14 Dec 2008|12:01pm]


inspire me. aspire to inspire. aspire to be the inspiration.

[28 Feb 2008|08:37pm]

comment on writing, pleeeease.
i use to receive multiple opinions
now i am alone in the internet world.

[12 Dec 2007|02:36am]
finally got my work back from paree': volume needed:

2 comments| comment

[21 Sep 2007|09:02am]
Watching you, watch me. You look down and I look up as we spy inside the homes that are internalized. The homes we sleep safely in. Not covered by the dreams that are dealt to us in the dark depth of the night. The dreams that cloud our head and clothe our eyes, leaving us bare bodied and engaged in nudity. Our cheeks bloom roses, as we try and shy away from our vulnerability-- the exposed I that is only visible beneath the sheets that disguise our blemished flesh. White and draping like a morgue's blanket down our sides, we request not to call upon the other for our individual viewing.

In this kitchen we stand illuminated by the enlightenment of lived daylight. Lids are lifted and our pupils both hang like half moons still suspended by the dreams of a destiny we both grieve to be partners in.

Although your cigarette rests erectly on the base of your mouth, paralyzing words from their potential materialization, I hear you request for me. And against my cocktail glass, my champagne lips bid themselves to you. I feel my lashes swoon underneath the penetrating gaze of your reply and watch as your forehead tears with impatient expectation.

Fumbling fingers prod in your pocket as the young kids play pick up sticks on the kitchen table. I pretend to be too busy listening to the faucet drip to hear your hand seize jerking. What is it? Keys? You want to go. We should leave. Everyone will notice. You are right, no one is watching. No one is watching you watch me as I am watching you. No one is caring about our figures, whether they exist or cease to exist inside these walls that encumber us from awakening destiny's dream. From what I think I can see, we just exist. Here, now, existing separately together.

anotherCollapse )
3 comments| comment

[29 Apr 2007|09:21pm]

Wish I had spent time on this, but excuses are for the excuseless.
15 comments| comment

[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.
5 comments| comment

[28 Mar 2007|07:29pm]

ha. random picture taking has been happening.
i'm thinking about working with this guy (just featured in nylon).

keep asking questions.
the more in dept the better.
it will help with the final project.
or any other suggestions on what you would like to hear covered in an autobio.

[27 Mar 2007|03:41pm]
Tomorrow I'll post the pictures (hopefully).

I am overwhelmed and need a Zanax, bad.
I need to begin writing this autobiography.
I have so many ideas of ways of structuralizing it
And I know that once I begin I will want to pour and divulge everything into it.
I love the therapy that is involved with speculating on your past and present.

Any how, it feels like a Miami summer outside and I wish I were out there with a bottle of Asti, enjoying Proust and catching people on my camera. But, alas, I'm not.

So I need imput for a certain part of this autobiography.
You can respond anonymously.
You can list a few responses.. whatever.

If you could ask me any question for me to answer what would it be.
11 comments| comment

[21 Mar 2007|04:37pm]
Much I want to begin writing about. Once I get my computer better working I will be able to update a good bunch of pictures and start writing. I have been inspired to truly begin (after reading novel after novel and many fascinating journals).

But in today's news. I just found out I got accepted to study at the Paris Institute (video art -- working with self portrait/biography). More on that later.

And in about an hour I will be dolled up and cut. Bumble and Bumble wants me to be their demo model, so tonight I get to sit infront of a camera & audience & hopefully get something "fun" done (I just want to stop taking myself so seriously).

Will talk soon.

Love Letter [08 Mar 2007|02:20am]
Champagne, wine and a delivery of Indian food later - this was regurgitated:
(Sidenote: I don't know how/when/what I will pack for leaving NYC, I just want to be left to my books and pop Henry & June in the DVD player!)

Dearest George Bernard Shaw,

Last night was spoiled of you. I lay naked in my bed watching the moon tell stories to the night. Oh, how he put the clouds to sleep and made the stars illuminate with curiosity.

You know how I am at such an hour--all my idiosyncrasies awaken when most everyone is fast asleep. I cannot discern dream from reality and myth from truth. I know I have made your mind ill, but I cannot give up on the possibility.

The fight my body struggles against, as it grows tired and lazy with sleep, is a battle we must watch with discerning eyes and hungry minds. We must starve ourselves on questions and remain healthy by proposing theories and awakening our weary judgment with Enlightenment.

I write to you in belief and disbelief, under precepts of reality and truth but with looming questions of whether time, place and occurrence are no more than a lustful and hopeful dream---a myth the night is whispering to the lucky star, Me.

When I saw this tale come to life, I may very well have fallen into a fictitious state of exaggeration, where my mind gave itself to the imagination and self-deluding fantasy of god and goddess frolicking for the soul intention of explaining a social phenomenon to the reader at hand.

Or it may have been much simpler and less poetic. It simply could have been an occurrence that existed in fact, that stamps itself in the timeline of each of our minds; an experience, a happening, a telling of our character beings and/or a factor that accounts for our romance.

I haven’t a clue because I cannot discern or discredit these presents and yet, plagues of what my mind constructs and my heart grapples with. I want this love to be easy. I want to assure you I know of its actuality, but I haven’t a clue when it feels so untouched, unknown and unbelievable (but, maybe that is what true love is and if not true love, but first love!).

Ever since last night I have felt changed and transformed. It is as if the moon stripped my naked body of its physique and left me as adjectives paired to the nouns of your soulful script.

I felt this way as I looked out on to the night, as if the vast sky was a screening of your Hollywood masterpiece. Sure locations had been edited, repositioned and relocated, but is that not what a myth is—a collection of the ponderings, the intrigue and the escapism of the mind? And so, you weren’t jamming your fingers away on a typewriter in the Hills—page after page inserted and spitted out from the roller, cigarettes burning between the peace sign of your fingers, coffee staining the back of your teeth and stale breath lingering like notes from Bach in the spotlight of a saloon.

No, you appeared to be nothing I had imagined you to be if I were to witness you in the makings of your craft. And this is where conscious rivals subconscious, where invention tries to outsmart convention and where fable tries to pass itself off as truth.

I saw you, Pygmalion, in the clamoring seaport of Amathus. The seagulls rioted from your window, as the fish were busy chasing their mate through the corals of Cyprus. And you praised the commotion—the way the breeze tangled the spirals of your hair and how your eyes matched the waves that crashed into the sand like a male perpetuating a response from his apathetic lover.

It was so unlike the aggressive and arrogant director of American cinema. Your pen did not bleed for the acceptance of the spectators. You just let your hand make life of the script—the characters dancing to the harmony of your words across the ballroom of the page.

You did not choose to have a companion calling to you from your window or a friend begging you to leave your pen to rest and submit your masculinity to the erotica of the night.

Instead, you gave yourself to the creation of your script; as if you were balancing on the borders of love and lust with the character you had fashioned when pen was put to page.

I watched you last night, as you marveled into madness, beseeching Venus to direct your hand, and from your script come the figure of a lovely character worthy of acceptance from the eyes of spectators!

As the moon became more slender in the night, illuminating the stars less and less, your imagination did just the opposite. Your script rounded itself out and became full with symbolic life. Your themes were illuminated by the context you entwined them in. And the vision you had of your female lead was more beautiful and magnetic than any actress you had envisioned casting in the past.

You could not close your eyes, in fear that you would lose her silhouette in the sketching of your dreams. You did not want to risk parting from her figure that was so chiseled in the forefront of your view. And so you cemented your eyes to the pages of your ongoing script. You could not lose her in between verb and noun or afford to leap irrationally or abruptly from one paragraph to the next in fear of losing her. You needed her. You were devoted. She would be the cause of your masterpiece. She would be the only one given credit in your speech to the Academy.

George, do you not see how you have made reality out of the fiction of your script? You have made characters dance in the dreams of your imagination, but what happens when the music stops?
You have brought one woman to life right from the pages of your script. She is a combination of noun, adjective and verb, yet all she really is is a product of your imagination. She is a protagonist for your film that will packaged, released and sold for consumerism.

Love is not that easy. It is not always told in scenes or guaranteed when a prayer is sent to Venus. When I watched from my window last night, naked of truth and unspoiled of deception, the moon illuminated the lucky star, Me. It let me see into the windows that had always been drawn closed by curtains.

In dream or reality, in myth or truth, last night I saw that under any spell an artist always fabricates his composition. And I, the protagonist of your love story, without fail will always be the creation of your product.

Always illuminating your dreams,
Your Fair Lady
5 comments| comment

[04 Mar 2007|10:20am]

It felt impossible to transfer this on to my MAC, so things got a bit out of sync. None the less..
11 comments| comment

[01 Mar 2007|05:05pm]
There is only one thing to be bitter about (if I must be). I haven't eaten vegetables (maybe a few brussel sprouts and cauliflower here and there) since Christmas break. It is disheartening to think that what is suppose to keep you healthy can keep making you turn orange. No matter how much better my skin looks (less orange -- it still remains). It has been nothing but protein and such. To think I wouldn't go near protein a few months ago shows me what my vicious mind can choose to convince myself of. Makes me wonder what it can think and reflect over in the coming months.

But, I have to go (class is beginning). There are so many activities, involvements (personal and school related) that have made me so invigorated and happily consumed: films, video making, novels galore, galleries.. I will write soon. But I hate this lj.

pro-ject. [24 Feb 2007|12:32am]
So I had an idea, then I had another, then something happened and once I began writing it changed after every sentence. I haven't exactly reread it. It needs some touch ups (if you know of a reknown scientist that would be the first step for help). But here is a glimpse:

Dear Psychiatrist,

I am writing to you for two reasons and two reasons only. One: an event has occurred in my life, just over an hour ago, and I know that you will end up being the first I personally tell whether in our appointment on Thursday or just out of pure fact that I remain hidden, mysterious, enclosed and ultimately safe (and desirable) from the rest of my immediate world.

As I write this even, I find you taking form in front of me and underneath my palm across this page. I see you because the importance of you being here in conversation with me is grave. It is necessary. It is my only hope for revealing my shadows, scars and bruises. It is my only hope for unavailing my delicacy…my vulnerability, really, but you and I both known that I love to keep things poetic, gentle and young. To be delicate is to be naïve, a virgin to the world of harm. To be vulnerable is to be perceptive of the truths, but choosing to be weak towards the actions that place one at a level of self-respect and stern regard.

You are lucky that Freud claimed, as a psychiatrist, you are a “safer” target. I have not cast bullets in your [bulls] eye, yet! But really, you are lucky. You get to feel the temperature of the water I am sinking in and without saying a word to me, you decide whether it is hot, cold, or lukewarm. You register this; write it down on your lined paper or record it in your mind and never demand me to get out of the bath because it is burning my flesh or freezing my skin. In fact, you never say a thing.

You are lucky that I see you as safe; that I see you at all. And I am lucky because I am like a pearl; hidden, mysterious and enclosed in an oyster of life’s opportunity—to quote Shakespeare himself, “You are in a position to take the opportunities that life has to offer.” He was a wise man; romantic in his sayings and brilliant with his gestures—the way he need not be in one’s immediate environment to propel thee to lust forward and beyond imaginable securities. I am a pearl enclosed in an oyster shell that exhibits my valuable prize of worthiness. Now who should be paying whom for our time together?

Hush! I am sure you are scribbling down notes ferociously over my character, motives, unconscious desires and wishes. You are no Freud, Ann. You are not even as good as Ingmar Bergman’s character Alma in Persona. Oh how she thought that she could just be a spectator dissecting her patient as she eroded in a chair.
You baffle me Ann! You cannot be a scientist and simultaneously a leisurely observer of a tennis match. That is not being discreet or professional! That is being desperate for knowledge of the other. You are probing but asking no questions—did any extraordinary scientist ever do such a thing and discover a difference? Ask me something! Say a word! I cannot uproot my deep-seated emotions in your office seat if you do not strike me across the face with truth. Hunt me down and shoot at me when I am not camouflaged and harming myself!
If you will not listen to your desperate patient, listen to a mentor. George Sheehan advised it himself, “The mind’s first step to self-awareness must be through the body.” You saw me as I walked into your office the first time. You shook my hand and from that engagement I believed you felt the same as I; that our relationship was an honor. Why shake another if you do not anticipate the electricity of the shared grasp? Why commit yourself to the germs my hand is bathed in, if you are not willing to wash me of my disease and decay?

I know you. I watched you as you tried to penetrate my being like a rapist does to a pretty young girl. I watched you as you attempted to spike my drink like the bastard of a party. Oh Ann, you are so sly, are you? How you lend yourself to thinking your narrowing eyes, pencil skirts, leather briefcase and 250-dollar appointments were like narcotics dropped into my beverage that I would ingest and insensibly produce verbal diarrhea as a result of. Ann, I can swallow my tongue. I can catch your mechanisms and use them as my defense.

You should have helped me. I melted into your seat for so long and talked to my mouth became dry. And what did you do for me, but sit in stare. So before you analyze me, let me emphasize my own emotional progress and personality development. Let me help you, help me. Let me push the timer down, lock the door, cross my feet and say, “Your therapy begins now.”

My ribs are not what should be visible when wearing a plunging hemline; the vulnerability of my life should be what is exposed to the coherent mind. So Ann, do not tell me this battle is over food. Ask me when I am susceptible. Ask me to recall the time when my former lover dove beneath the covers and tangled his erotic fantasies in the disarray of my fleeing hair. Or the time we drank red wine from the bottle; him feeding me cheese and baguette like a romantic couple in a film noir. I left the restaurant full from the red of wine and love, just to have him pull my arm out the door and say, “Kate Moss would never let her man feed her cheese, no matter how hungry she was for pleasure.”

And you think I am starved from food! How about normalcy? How about I am human Ann. I have feelings. I share thoughts. Are these not blessings? Who has the certificate to say that feelings and thoughts equate problems?
You are lucky, Ann. Lucky that you are safe. Lucky that I am writing to you for two reasons. My grandmother died this morning at 7:07. I suffer not her loss, but the loss of never having known her. I find myself envious of those that knew her—her best friends, her diaries. They knew her. They knew her marrow, her make up, her blood. And thus, they must know me. They must know me and yet, I have paid them not a cent. All those diaries did was allow themselves to be revealed, naked, unclothed and spread wide to be bled upon with ink. Know me, Ann. Reveal yourself with me.
My grandmother died this morning at 7:07. Was she lucky in her own way, too?

[16 Feb 2007|10:42pm]

Still, Chelsea is happy to have her capris back.
4 comments| comment

[14 Feb 2007|06:42pm]
As I said previously, there is somethings I have been wanting to write. Sometimes the quickest way to sort out thoughts is by writing them; by forcing yourself to fluidly string them together in a sentence. See how these fragmented thoughts become equations to a larger answer.

It wasn't until one of my best friends called it to my attention the other night that she had read my journal from the beginning up until we began our friendship.. that yes, she was right, I was portraying myself inacurately. I wasn't and haven't given myself any credit. I haven't portrayed myself in writing in a light that eludes to who I am on a one on one basis, face to face, in the realms of interaction.

I have presented myself in a light that cripples me more than applauds me. And I do have so much that I am proud of, but I never speak of it. I ask myself why. Home come I never share or pat myself on the back for the simplicity in my life. The simplistic moments that are so significant that make me special.

Like how I must be best friends with every worker at coffee shops or supermarkets. How I will sit over coffee, order my venti no room americano with cinnamon powder, read, and get interrupted to ask what sort of music I like and would I perhaps be interested in a concert in the coming weeks. How come I don't smile more over that?

Or how I desire being alone, no matter how much I say I may hate how much I think. I love the comfort of my surroundings. How I have breakfast each morning by myself. How even though I despise doing the same thing, I somehow find myself relying and looking foward to the routine. Ie., I fall asleep each night with anticipation of the coming morning. I wake, not needing an alarm anymore because all my classes start at 2. But I wake early because my apartment is the highest up and my window recieves the most light. Each day I feel as though I am waking to Miami sunshine. I immediately light incense, turn the shower on hot hot hot, and watch people outside my open window already experiencing the day as I shower for a good ten or more minutes. I then float around my apartment, making everything look perfect (for who? myself.. this way I know I will enjoy this soliditude). I make myself extravagant omelettes (this morning, two giant ones with crab, onion, and peppers.. not to mention all the spices). I'll leave my apartment in good spirits and everytime regret why it took me so long to get out; that I wish I had been walking the streets sooner. And I ask myself why don't I eat more of those meals, more meals, sooner, so I always feel this good.

How come I never talk about what my teachers wrote about my writing. How it is truly intriguing! How my train of thought is evocative and alluring. How the readers what to know more, they want to know all I elude to and am hiding. They want to know my mystery. etc, etc. How I dominate class conversations. How my teachers can't believe I am a new transfer, but somehow feel so at home, so in place.

I never talk about all the films I have been watching. All the screenplays I have been reading. All the quotes I have highlighted or the newspapers clippings I have taped in artbooks. I never talk about how I hate to shop and therefore don't do it. How I can cry seeing a performer play their instrument because I am so proud they followed their dreams. Or how my favourite thing is school supplies. How my definition of beauty is when another capitalizes and accents their imperfections. How I love men. How they open doors and live. How I don't get along with girls. Or how I have always hated my voice (even though everyone asks me if I am British) because it is soft, yet I think I talk so loud! How I hate talking on the phone, but still smile aloud when I get a text message. How I have journals from all my years that have never been fully used.

Oh gosh. The list can go on and on. And yet, I choose to show this side of me that is wounded, weak and desperate for help. I am kidding myself. And I would be lying further if I did not admit that the reason I am so specific, choose to be alone, and believe so much in who I am is because I think I am pretty damn good, actually the best - for my setbacks, but at large for the simple treasures I do everyday.
3 comments| comment

hair [13 Feb 2007|11:45pm]
i need something new.
something exciting.
a fresh start.
extentions? e.eee?!
not dying of the hair.
perhaps the ole' shannon sossamon way? bits shaved on the side?

there is a lot i want to say
about this journaling & the ways in which i present myself
something was called to my attention last night over it.
i will discuss soon...
2 comments| comment

[09 Feb 2007|09:57pm]

galoreCollapse )

As of lately I have been watching European films on shuffle. One in, one out and repeat. I admire the language of the films. The fact that in Europe many directors write the screenplays, as well. And how there is an evident sense of realism.. to a large part I am finding because the directors allow their actors to not act, but be. Sometimes scripts are never read, improvisation is done and lines are reworked. So I have been doing that, starting the day off with coffee and liquour (which, is giving me awfully bad headaches and eye pains).. so I think I'm going to have to stop making it a regular happening. But once I get hooked, on anything, I get hooked. I just worked on a video for three hours. As I went to upload it, my computer said it was out of memory, shut the program down and nothing saved. I want to be furious,... but my head hurts. I want to do it from scratch again, but I am bitter at myself at this point. I have been going everywhere with my video camera taped to my palms. And really admire my boyfriend more than anyone I have ever met. Never have I had a muse, but he would be and is it. His accomplishments make me feel lost with my own ambitions and he is just too good of a person, too big of a heart. I always want to say so much for a moment, in a minute, over the course of a day. I want all the energy in the world to do so. When I was filming my video, I realized that not for one moment did I think about self-negativity. Not once. Not once did anything get in the way.

And that is why I signed up for the class.

So something silly, really. No editing was allowed. Bleh, blah, boom. I won't try to make excuses. Just giggle with me. Because I laugh my assssss off (in the best way possible).
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Letter As Literature Project [07 Feb 2007|08:29pm]
I'm not going to lie; sometimes I really love for my thoughts take me. And I definitely love what NYU is providing for me.

Dearest Love,

Tonight I spent my lonesome hours observing an odd couple in our corner table of a darkly light restaurant. I place such great emphasis (and I hope you can hear it in my voice as you read this postcard aloud to the empty air) on ‘our’ because had we been there, you know just as well as I, we would have had our shoulders caressing one another’s in that corner. Not them. And that is why I find them so odd; so artificially flavored with “love.”
I almost felt humiliated for her. You could tell she was terribly naïve. She had all symptoms like a contagious flu. Of course, her man was no better. He was cruel and I was scared. Scared of what a criminal he was. How he was robbing her of the love she believed they possessed. I could see that he was bound to murder such a fantasy. She would be committed to tears and he would flee himself into the distance… armed and ready to rob another young woman of her childhood dream of romance.

I sat at the bar for hours listening to Diana Armstrong play amongst the walls. I ordered a 2001 blend of Zinfandel and Syrah each time. It reminded me of us; how together we lend ourselves to such enticing flavors and aromas. Oh, what I would I give to taste you now!

Is it unpractical how loyal I am to you? I find myself, perhaps insensibly, committed. Take tonight as an example; as I ordered my wine I placed an order for you. I made myself believe you were freshening up in the restroom and waited anxiously for our ritual cheers. My manicured nails drummed themselves against the marble tabletop; anticipating what you would say we were celebrating this time. I did not want to drink unless we were becoming intoxicated by the ripe berry together. But when you did not come, I accepted my ideas for just being ideals and buried this reality by taking both glasses of wine down in few swallows.

Oh darling, I am insensible and I cannot deny this mental extremity any longer. It is the result of intoxication from love. They can call us dangerous; write us prescriptions for our harmed health. But we are addicts. Addicted to the sharp inhale. Addicted to the second we breathe in and are left feeling light-headed. Maybe it is that. Maybe it is this light-headedness that is making us not think correctly or at all about our enamored love, our fanatical fervor for one another.
Darling, I am drunk. Intoxicated by love. Intoxicated by the berries in each glass from tonight. Darling, I am scared. Scared that you will rob me of my dream. Scared that you will be that criminal I sit in the corner table with. Scared that I will be that terribly naïve female a stranger in love is looking upon; feeling humiliated for her obvious flu of fantastical “love.”

+2 & the other is in the previous postCollapse )

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1 of 4 [07 Feb 2007|12:59pm]
Quick write up (ie. draft like) : Letter as Literature Project

Dearest Love,

As I write this I risk my words being blurred by the water I am currently emerged in. You may laugh because my words are always slightly confusing (over the phone, across the table at a café, and surely after a bottle of wine), so I am confident that regardless you will derive the most from this postcard.

Since you cannot be here, I will set the scene for you. My feet hang from the left of the bathtub like an unhooked bra dangling in the seduction of the night. Freshly shaved, they are as smooth as Chinese silk and as polished as your grandmother’s finest silver. My stomach is not half bad, though you know how I loathe it even at its most exquisite. I imagine how if you were here amongst the bubbles and smell of lavender oil, you would intertwine your fingers and place them at the cleavage of my back. Creating a cocoon with your handsome arms, you would pull me closer and kiss my belly. You would insist I stop hating myself and begin admiring the territory that I own—every inch of my land. How I love when you are stern with me! I feel young and intolerable then, and extremely submissive.

The candles cradle the outskirts of the tub. Artificial lights are inexistent. Therefore, the flickering glow serves as my only light source. You can imagine how writing this is such a challenge. But than again, what is romanticism without difficulty? What is intimacy without a subtle touch of mystery, of darkness, of the hunger for absolute light?
I miss you, darling. And must tell you, I have cried more tears than could fill this bath without having it overflow. But do not worry about me. I shall not sink, but only rise in the anticipation of us being together soon. Once you get this run yourself a bath and phone me. I will be waiting right where I am now. It will be like a first date, but without the kiss underneath the wreath at my doorstep.

I will be waiting right where I am now. My skin turning to prunes and the candles burning down. Hurry! Run yourself a bath before the sunlight robs us of our intimacy.
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