Just stop. Please. I beg you. All of you. I'm just heart broken. I'm just hurt. So please. I'm just hurt. Leave me alone. I just want to be able to live. I just want to perform. I just want to improvise. Please, stop hurting me. Don't judge me or figure me out. I'm just hurt. Be my friend and understand. I was in love, and that love saved my life. I don't want to lose my life. Please.
Understand. And just be a friend to an average heart broken girl, who misses improv. Please.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
I'm angry.
Damn the stage. Stop its existence. Send its glory to hell. Take the lime-light victory and demean it. Rip the pride from the actor. What are you achieving on that stage that you can't win in your real life? What do you want so badly from that piece of wood that has a rug on top of it with a few colored splices of light on it? WHAT DO YOU WANT?! What is it that you want so badly from that stage!? I want freedom. I want confidence. I want that elusive, yet true, perfection. The unquestioned decisions, the leap into something that will not only catch me, but also send me towards the heavens. Blind my foresight, steal my predictions and give me Now. Send my one way street and blindness into a swooping fall, a turnpike rocketing of . . . Now. Better. Perfection. Fun. Oh Fun. Just Fun. I want you back. I want an escape. I want to spasm out of my head. Give me nothing but the terror of a freshly ripped heart convulsing in the desperation in my ears and flood my two brain with it. The peace of exhilaration. And yet, I am bound. Because my inability. My criticiality. The very things I so despairingly try and escape from are my chains. So Damn the Stage! Damn the lies of imagination. My fettered life will scream, and bite in spite towards this treatment. This cruel irony, the thing that makes Chevov laugh so. That by the things that make me a better person, I have been damned from the thing that I want to perfect me. Damn me. For I have not become enough to live.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Lot
Marine Biologist, Astrologist, Psychologist, Paleontologist, Chemist, Electrical Engineer/Computer Scientist ,Anthropologist, Lawyer, Photographer, Business Management, Improviser, Politics, Mechanical Engineer, Mathematician, Physicist, Carpenter, Welder, English Major, Economist, Designer - Graphic, Computer, and Fashion, Philosopher, Engineer, Architect, Computer Programmer, and Actor.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Stairs and glaciers.
One foot, two foot, right foot, left foot. Eye-snag upward. Numerical evaluation of needed progress: 24. Brain bobb, lung pumps; stiff play-doh moves rhythmically 24 more times. You have triumphed over the stairs.
My arms are screaming. It hurts, It hurts, It HURTS! Gasping for air I look up and try to see much farther I have to go but all I see is the wall leaning forward to eat me alive. Frantically I claw at the wall with my ice picks, hoping that I'm going up as that I can no longer tell whether or not I'm going in the right direction. My pick doesn't connect for a second, I'mgonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna- I'm on top. In my failing I had made it from the side of the wall to the platform. I'm Here! I MADE IT! WHOOOHOOOO!!!
This is the difference between climbing stairs and scaling the wall of an ice glacier. Metaphorically, this is the difference of being an average and a late bloomer. One you can measure your progress because it comes in small little steps, and you can see how close you are to meeting your goal. If you're a late bloomer though, its a little different. You know, that, if you put lots of work in for something, you'll get your goal. When you will, and how much work you have to put in it, you don't know. You don't know when it will finally click with you, or when you will have put enough work into it. No one really wants to help a late bloomer, because they aren't sure that you will ever make it to the top.
I never passed the 100 addition questions in one minute test. I had to miss recess every day I didn't pass. I did the same for subtraction, multiplication, and division. I never got 100% in my spelling tests. I had to stay in every lunch and rewrite each word I had missed twenty times, and if I misspelled one of those I would have to write the word fifty more times. I got called a liar by my sixth grade teacher when I told her yes, I had written that book report by myself, and yes, I knew what melancholy meant, and even if I couldn't define it I could use it in as many sentences as she'd like.
I still do need to touch up my math. But I think that I'm going to pass that 100 in a minute addition test now. Now I carry a dictionary with me everywhere, and use things that have spell check because my writing is too small to read if I just write it up. But that doesn't even hardly matter; I have been the genius artist who can transpose words to a higher form that will slip into one's palm and brush up their arm, smile, and lead one from being into living since my Freshman high school year. I may not have an English degree, but I'm not someone you would question for using a long word.
I'm sitting on top of a glacier, looking at how far I've come. I turn around, and look up. There is another wall of ice. This one delves into a crevice; I have no idea how long I'll be stuck in a tunnel hurling upward, but I'll get to the top.
I will work hard. And this year, I'm doing Math Flash Card again.
My arms are screaming. It hurts, It hurts, It HURTS! Gasping for air I look up and try to see much farther I have to go but all I see is the wall leaning forward to eat me alive. Frantically I claw at the wall with my ice picks, hoping that I'm going up as that I can no longer tell whether or not I'm going in the right direction. My pick doesn't connect for a second, I'mgonnaDieI'mGonnaDieI'mGonna- I'm on top. In my failing I had made it from the side of the wall to the platform. I'm Here! I MADE IT! WHOOOHOOOO!!!
This is the difference between climbing stairs and scaling the wall of an ice glacier. Metaphorically, this is the difference of being an average and a late bloomer. One you can measure your progress because it comes in small little steps, and you can see how close you are to meeting your goal. If you're a late bloomer though, its a little different. You know, that, if you put lots of work in for something, you'll get your goal. When you will, and how much work you have to put in it, you don't know. You don't know when it will finally click with you, or when you will have put enough work into it. No one really wants to help a late bloomer, because they aren't sure that you will ever make it to the top.
I never passed the 100 addition questions in one minute test. I had to miss recess every day I didn't pass. I did the same for subtraction, multiplication, and division. I never got 100% in my spelling tests. I had to stay in every lunch and rewrite each word I had missed twenty times, and if I misspelled one of those I would have to write the word fifty more times. I got called a liar by my sixth grade teacher when I told her yes, I had written that book report by myself, and yes, I knew what melancholy meant, and even if I couldn't define it I could use it in as many sentences as she'd like.
I still do need to touch up my math. But I think that I'm going to pass that 100 in a minute addition test now. Now I carry a dictionary with me everywhere, and use things that have spell check because my writing is too small to read if I just write it up. But that doesn't even hardly matter; I have been the genius artist who can transpose words to a higher form that will slip into one's palm and brush up their arm, smile, and lead one from being into living since my Freshman high school year. I may not have an English degree, but I'm not someone you would question for using a long word.
I'm sitting on top of a glacier, looking at how far I've come. I turn around, and look up. There is another wall of ice. This one delves into a crevice; I have no idea how long I'll be stuck in a tunnel hurling upward, but I'll get to the top.
I will work hard. And this year, I'm doing Math Flash Card again.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Welcome, Why Hello. Good Day. My Name.
My Name is Kay.
Someone killed a kitten in the sky and scattered it's fur across the sky to disrupt the twisted light and bring more unseen colors into it.
It is nice to see your face.
I'm happy to see you.
I am not very good at small talk. Nothing is very small to me, that's why I suppose. How you're doing is something I'm really concerned about. Good or Bad. I want to hear you. If your voice doesn't work that's ohkay. I still want to hear you.
I want you to hear me too. I tend to stammer and not make much sense. My conversation follows the path of a fly zipping through the rain. But it isn't pointless. When I start talking about how the trees seem to be swaying to far to the right for today, and then ask if you noticed that she was really hurt yesterday and wanted you to listen, it makes sense. I'm asking you if you want to make her day better. You don't hear that though. You don't hear me too much.
But I still listen to you. I really try to. Details slip past a diligent and torn net. From one caught shred of information a piece of furniture lights up in the dark room so there is one place I'm not supposed to step. Bright, small thread of wire mesh falls from my forehead. It stays on the ground. A bright forgotten trail is made. Its following me, following you.
Today has been a great day. I had lots of fun. The deep end has been neglected again.
Someone killed a kitten in the sky and scattered it's fur across the sky to disrupt the twisted light and bring more unseen colors into it.
It is nice to see your face.
I'm happy to see you.
I am not very good at small talk. Nothing is very small to me, that's why I suppose. How you're doing is something I'm really concerned about. Good or Bad. I want to hear you. If your voice doesn't work that's ohkay. I still want to hear you.
I want you to hear me too. I tend to stammer and not make much sense. My conversation follows the path of a fly zipping through the rain. But it isn't pointless. When I start talking about how the trees seem to be swaying to far to the right for today, and then ask if you noticed that she was really hurt yesterday and wanted you to listen, it makes sense. I'm asking you if you want to make her day better. You don't hear that though. You don't hear me too much.
But I still listen to you. I really try to. Details slip past a diligent and torn net. From one caught shred of information a piece of furniture lights up in the dark room so there is one place I'm not supposed to step. Bright, small thread of wire mesh falls from my forehead. It stays on the ground. A bright forgotten trail is made. Its following me, following you.
Today has been a great day. I had lots of fun. The deep end has been neglected again.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Today
There was a point in my life, where I was sure I would die. Granted, this is very true; I will die. As will everyone else. But it felt immediate. I was in no danger. I would just wake up and it felt like I was going to die, sometime soon. Maybe even that day. It was terrifying. I didn't want to die. Not now. Yes, I had no friends. Yes, I didn't like school. Yes, I was constantly sick and generally didn't enjoy anything. But that stopped mattering. I wanted to live. Then after a few weeks, the feeling left.
I now have friends. I'm now starting college. My health is relatively good and I enjoy plenty of things in life. But maybe I'm slipping again. Maybe why I was dying was because I wasn't living. And now, maybe its time to commit fully. To become more. To apply every inch of me to that full spin of life in the air around me and become.
My little sister is an amazing artist. She can't draw from real life too well, but she can draw. She is good. She practices. I want to Practice Drawing. My friend is a history buff. He can remember everything in history and make wonderful connections from it and make it all make sense. I want to read a good history book and understand it and remember some of it. Another friend is excellent at remembering things. He listens very well to every little detail, in order to remember. I want to engage myself in listening. I want to become.
Tomorrow, I will:
1) Do 10 push ups.
2) Draw for half an hour.
3) Read a history something, and make connections.
4) Listen to a mundane conversation with interest.
5) I will begin to live again.
Don't die and take care.
~Kay
I now have friends. I'm now starting college. My health is relatively good and I enjoy plenty of things in life. But maybe I'm slipping again. Maybe why I was dying was because I wasn't living. And now, maybe its time to commit fully. To become more. To apply every inch of me to that full spin of life in the air around me and become.
My little sister is an amazing artist. She can't draw from real life too well, but she can draw. She is good. She practices. I want to Practice Drawing. My friend is a history buff. He can remember everything in history and make wonderful connections from it and make it all make sense. I want to read a good history book and understand it and remember some of it. Another friend is excellent at remembering things. He listens very well to every little detail, in order to remember. I want to engage myself in listening. I want to become.
Tomorrow, I will:
1) Do 10 push ups.
2) Draw for half an hour.
3) Read a history something, and make connections.
4) Listen to a mundane conversation with interest.
5) I will begin to live again.
Don't die and take care.
~Kay
Sunday, July 4, 2010
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