To Be An Artist

Monologue written from the perspective of Adi,a character in a novel I'm working on.

I'm not shy. Everyone thinks I'm shy, but I'm not. I'm just quiet, I think a lot. But I'm not sure people see that. I want them to see me as this quiet person worth getting to know, worth drawing out. You know, like I'm butterfly in a cocoon and if you just have some patience, I'll emerge. Gosh, that sounds stupid. I was trying to sound literary and stuff, but that never works. You're the writer, not me.

You always say that everyone is an artist. I don't really think that's true but I'd like to think that. It would be nice if people look at me, me who doesn't say much and just assume I'm deep in artsy brilliant thoughts. I bet Van Gogh didn't talk much either. He spent a lot of his time in his room, too. And then think of Michelangelo, he spent years painting way up high in that Sistine Chapel. He probably wasn't social either. Maybe I'm like that, maybe I just need a lot of time alone so that I can get to my masterpieces. I guess it's wishful thinking, but it's sure nice to think maybe I can seem brilliant, or I don't know just special.

You know how I collect stuff? Like that bottle collection and all those random sticks? You call me a pack rat, but have you ever actually those sticks in my room? And then there's all the sea shells and sea glass I pick up. But none of it's sitting in my room. You once asked me about that. I didn't answer you. Well the truth is, well part of the truth is, I use it. I use it for art projects. It makes me feel like maybe I could be an artist. I know I'm not, but I could be.

I don't want to tell you what kind of art projects, it's a secret. That's another thing I collect, secrets. Remember when we used to share secrets, before I started collected, before I stopped sharing mine with you? But I guess I owe you at least one secret. I'll tell you one of mine but I can't show you it. I'll tell you what I use those things I collect for.

I'm building a village under my bed. I've been building it since I was 9. That's six years ago. I didn't even tell you about it back then. I've built little houses out of sticks and bark and broken tea cups, turned thimbles into buckets, glued moss to parts of the carpet. I make little yarn figures, place them on popsicle stick chairs. I even have twine hammocks hanging from the bed frame. There's a little pumpkin patch of orange marbles and fake plants. I've even painted the back of my wall with a sky of swirls and clouds and colors. My mom would kill me if she knew. I have a small clay gnome, you know I love gnomes. The village is my secret. No one has ever seen it.

I keep a lot of secrets. They make me feel safe, I don't know, maybe they give me power. I spend a lot of my time alone collecting them or building them. I don't bring you to the Spirt House with me because you wouldn't understand. You'd think I was snooping. I guess I am. But you snoop too, what do you think all your gossip is? I know you're going to judge me for this, but I guess I just like stories. And secrets are stories you know.

You'd be amazed what I've figured out. But I can't tell you. I just want you to know. Know that I have secrets. Then maybe I'll seem important. Maybe you will actually need me. I just want you to know I know things.

Because when people know you have secrets, they know you're important. And you know who have the most secrets? Artists. They steal them and they write them down. They don't just collect secrets, they paint them, they hide them in strokes and in the curves of sculptures. I want to do that. I want to be an artist. There I said it. I want to be an artist. Now, don't gloat.

But I don't know how. I know what you say, that everyone is an artist. But they're not. I'm not. I'm not an artist. Unless the village under my bed, the secrets I collect make me one. But it doesn't. It doesn't make me an artist. Because an artist has to be brilliant, to make beautiful things. Artists are people like you, people who can write amazing things and make people cry and still be elegant. That's what an artist is. And I'm not that. I'm just this quiet little girl with a head full of secrets. That's not an artist.  

The Dove

 She sits on the scratched wood floor, her back resting against the slanted wall. It's dark in the room, he knows he shouldn't have picked this room for filming. He adjust the tripod, she plays with a string of her sandy brown hair. Leo looks at the two of them. He tries to ease the tension. “Well look at us, bonding in the storage room, how sweet.” Zara fakes a smile, Patrick refocuses his camera.

“Yeah so, Patrick wanted me to ask the interview questions, while he's doing artsy crap with the camera.” explains Leo.

Zara nods. Patrick blushes, looks to Zara, but not at Zara. “I just want to do a lot of close ups of your face, if that's cool, I mean.” Zara pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Um, why?”

Patrick doesn't respond, so Leo answers for him. “Because he's not all that good with like, you know, social stuff, so he's trying to hit on you by zooming in on your eyeballs and up your nostrils.” Patrick turns the color of a cherry tomato, Leo slaps him on the back. Zara reaches for the silver chain around her neck, rubs the silver dove pendant uncomfortably. “Don't listen to him. This is just for the school assignment.” Patrick rushes in, dropping the words at the end of his sentence.

Zara shrugs.

“Okay, enough of this crap.” begins Leo. “First question?”

Zara Nods. Patrick, with evident relief, presses the record button.

“Name, Age, Interest?” Leo asks.

“Um, Zara. Zara Schwartz. I'm 16 and I, well I'm a clown, well, training to be one.” Her eyes flit about. Patrick moves the camera closer to her, he kneels, holding the camera a couple feet away from her.

“How did you get involved in clowning?'

“Um.” she tugs at her necklace. Patrick leans forward, zooms in on her face, the prominent cheeks bones, long lashes. He can smell her, a sweet, soft rose scent, contrasted against the dusty, damp smell of the storage room. Zara tries to ignore him, she stares down at her hands.

“I mean, it's going to sound strange..but..well..I don't really to talk about it. But when I was in middle school, my stomach ruptured.”

Leo shakes his head, “What, why?!”

“I just well, I don't really want to talk about why, just well, I ended up in the hospital then and..”

Patrick scoots closer to her, holding the camera inches away from her face. Through the lens he's starring into her green eyes with gold speckles, long blond eyelashes blinking, he can see the little freckles dotting her nose. She flinches.

“Uh, Patrick?”

He moves the camera down, towards the nape of her neck, to her collarbone, farther.

She quickly crosses her arms across her chest. “Uh, Patrick?”

Leo looks at his friend. “Dude?!”

Patrick focuses the camera on her silver pendant, the dove with an olive branch in its mouth. Before she can respond, he reaches out,grabs the pendant with one hand and with one deft turn, snaps the bird off its chain. The chain falls to the ground. Patrick holds the pendant. All three look at the small silver dove nested in his palm.

Zara begins to cry.

Body Systems

I thought by now, I would have found the chart in a textbook
right and left atrium
left and right ventricle
blood flows in the heart from the vena cava to the right atrium
storyboarded out
Girl grows up--->Girl learns stuff-->Girl figures out heart-->heart beats independently of nervous system and pericardium always protects, anchors and covers the heart
But apparently emotions don't stick to body systems
and physiology has not been the answer to all my heart palpitations
It's not like I'm in love, It's not like I've ever been in love
and I don't write poems about particular guys
And least not ones I show
It's just maybe sometimes blood doesn't flow through my heart like it's supposed to
It rushes to my ears, plays at my finger tips
heart hijacks nervous system, sends messages to brain
Muse over this
Re-evaluate this
translate that
And my brain, my poor little brain
which wants nothing more than to be a sensible, intelligent creature can't deal with my heart
her bold assertions, cardiac cycle of contractions, oxygenated/deoxygenated blood
and simply sits split between its four cerebrum lobes
hoping for higher functioning, sitting like a useless flower pot
swaying from right side to left side to heart
Or maybe, maybe this has nothing to do with hearts, because hearts don't control your emotions
maybe this poem is more about hormones
I don't know, I'm confused
Physiology textbooks really aren't all that great at explaining hearts
but maybe it's just that I haven't found the right chart yet, maybe the explanation is in the index
maybe they forget to write this all in
I'm just not finding any answers
Where's the footnote, where's the paragraph on why
emotions don't stick to body systems?

The Lovely People

Sometimes I like listening to my heartbeat
wondering how long it would take to look in the mirror till I can see myself as beautiful
how many poems I would need to write to cover my indecencies and backside

Maybe lovely people are the ones full of light
or maybe the lonely ones
I'm not quite sure.
Because I find ripped quilts and sandy toes quite lovely too 
and people don't usually have the attributes of porcelain teacups or foamy waves

I think my giggle is a note off for the lovely ones
It's a little squeaky, but I like how it sounds.
Sitting in a church pew, choking back laughter
oh, isn't religion funny?
aren't people droll?
and doesn't this ocean breeze make you want to run your hand through your hair and sing
I'll tell you a secret/I've got them sugar water blues/where everything's real sweet/But I can't help but think about you?

I'll tell you another secret
Sometimes I want to stand out in this wind naked
with a notebook pressed against my stomach
and a pen in my hand
It has something to do with feeling innocent, 
knowing nothing but this wind, my goosebumps and flesh
The sensation of shivers with the association of emotion

Sometimes, I think I care too much about my clothes
maybe that's how they decide if I am one of those people,
one of those lovely people
or maybe it's the curvature of my cheeks and hips
maybe the closer one's curves are to a circle
the closer one is to complete

It's not like loveliness has a definition or perfection has a form
Just sometimes, I want to know if I am one of those
the lovely people
without knowing what that means

I said I love the broken people
the slightly askew noses and shoes
misplaced clocks and wind blown hair
mismatched patterns, word snippets, ink spills

And I think waves are the ocean's lovely ones
and the clouds are the sky's pride
But I've never seen anyone who looks like the sky
or cries like the sea

Just sometimes I wonder if I looked long enough in the mirror
could I figure it out?
Could I figure out if I am one of those people,
the lovely ones?

But then again, sometimes I just stare out at this beach
listening to my heart beat
and I don't know if I look like one of those people
but I feel like one of them
a lovely, broken, sand sculpted being that can always touch the first wave of the sea
But I'm not sure if I'm one of those people
the lovely ones

Run Ons/Fragments

I've lost track of the number of times someone's told me "You're going to be a writer." This definite statement I've come to inherit, Mrs. Gibson, 7th grade "Have you ever considered being an author?"

My family, this rolling novella, part saga, part drama-a story of 5 people stuck in a house too small and hearts too wide, brains filled with entire libraries of books, postcards from Grandma, religious debates and sandy forests.

You have so many stories. I know, I know. You're going to be a writer. I know, I know.
I don't know.

I don't know what being a writer entails, if there is a certain cloth I need to wear, if I should use black or blue ink. I'm good at writing because I know my rules, but I'm not bound to them. I like being strategic, but I hate strategies. I know I'm going to be a writer, lived the course of a couple books-13 schools, 7 or so moves, bobcats, raccoons, 30 chickens, a VW bus, some miracles, nail polish/flaking paint hands, bright colors, patchwork people and a 5 3' frame against the backdrop of taller mirrors.

I've always felt marked, known some kind of buzz that comes with a pen, ink dancer, bzzzz. I never was good at ballet, but have you ever watched my pen twirl? You're going to be a writer. I know, I know. 

But I'm not afraid of that, I just know the feeling of a pen against my throat. Pens with arrows attached to them, "This way, this way!" And on the other end, I can't find my way back. I don't know what exactly I'm afraid of-maybe it's myself, maybe it isn't living up to all those voices, the ones that can't see the legitimacy in what I've become. All those be-rationals, be-sensibles, why would you go to college to scribble in your notebook, find a plan B, you'll never make money doing that, you'll never be successful doing that. 

The scariest thing is that most of the voices from me. This cracked creature, my deepest confidant and midnight whisperer. Today I thought, I'm grateful for the ability to love myself, this ability I haven't employed all year-not good enough, not good enough. 

And maybe this is why I entrust so much of myself to page, a page can't judge. It's not like I'm any different from anyone else, rather I seem to have found some find of loophole into an extension of myself that let's me look at my crookedness without hiding. And without that paper perspective, I come to loathe myself. And it's about that, sometimes. You're going to be a writer. I know. I know.

I reply. I hope so. I know so. But I think, I have to be. Not a stone, but rather if I don't write, I'll hate myself. I'll hate the curvature of this earth and its vertical lines. It isn't all about that, but it is sometimes. I just know that at some point writing became the one thing my life lacks-a definite structure, a structure that always knows my weight. Yes, structure, but the one thing I've come to most respect, a free willed freedom to rearrange, clean house, dust or throw glitter. A place for wet and dirty dogs, big black sweatshirts, little hands and grey high heel shoes.

It's a part of me I can't control, and I'm constantly letting go of. They say opposites attract. I've never known who exactly they are but maybe it's ironic. The control freak fell in love with a free spirited pen. I don't know. I don't know. It scares me.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. But it scares me. Like I've been branded. Like I've been branded with a recipe for success or a filing cabinet for disaster. Because Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

 I'm a hit the pavement running/bloodied knees/orsmoothsailing/brokenwings/orhighflying/marked with adjectives

gorgeous-plain
exceptional-just a know it all
hysterical-annoying
self aware-just plain oblivious
Lord knows, I don't go for in-betweens.

You're going to be a writer. I know. I know. It just scares me. 

Toe Gratitude

I like to make lists of the things I'm grateful for; yellow flowers and books, warm beds and warm words. But there are the kind of days, my lists are listless. I'm sad over accumulated little things, tired from endless homework assignments and emotional rolling pins, my fingers itch and the architecture of my face is not pleasing me in the least. And it's those kind of days, these kind of days, I'm grateful for my toes.

I always hate when girls say they hate their feet because they're ugly. How on earth can you possibly hate your feet? By definition, feet are feet. There really aren't beautiful feet and ugly feet and mediocre feet and plain feet. Feet don't wear makeup and you can't have botox or liposuction on your feet. Feet are just feet. They don't follow an attractiveness scale. No dude is going to say “I think most attractive thing about such and such is her feet. Her feet are so hot!” So why on earth would you hate you feet?

I love my feet. I love my toes. I'm grateful for my toes, because they are just toes. They aren't something I can beautify or think of ways they would look better. Unlike my face, from which I can pick out a million ways for it to improve, my toes are adorable. They are little, they are toe-like and what more could I ask from them? They are uncomplicated. They exist to help me balance, to help me walk. And I could certainly use some help with balance.

My toes are adventures, they are wanderers. And they aren't great at waltzing, but they can keep me walking on tippy toe for a very long period of time. My toes haven't grown since 6^th grade and they don't like toe rings. All in all, they are just toes.

So on days when I find myself struggling to remain grateful for all the great things in my life, when I'm upset about things I'll laugh at later and confused about life in general, those days I'm grateful for my toes. They are just toes. They aren't ugly or beautiful, they don't ever confuse me, they aren't emotional or nostalgic, they don't have anything to do with poetry and they don't ever wonder about meaning.

They're simple. They are just toes. They are my toes. And I'm grateful for them.  

Trick Candle

April 10th, 2013
Inspired by "You Can't Have It All" By Barbara Ras (absolutely amazing poem)

You can't have it all
But you can have middle school notebooks filled with your first poems and the smell of worn leather
And when Spring comes, you can have all of Spring, with her soft horned bucks and sunshine flowers 
bees buzzing with an intensity your washing machine will never know
Spring, with her warm mornings, brisk afternoons
fog tantrums and quiet rain beckonings
Such a wily  child and she's all yours
You can walk in her beauty, hold her lupine and wet grass
take your old notebook to her fields 
and fill all those pages you always meant to fill
lose your dog and lose yourself in her bright yellows
and royal purples
feel sun beating on the nape of your neck and 
against that one beauty mark your grandma's look at with suspicion
"make sure you wear sunscreen, make sure you cover that up."
that one mark you've just begun to love
And you can have the bird songs, tribbles, screbbles, and twipples
push wet hair off your forehead
You can keep the dog barks and chicken clucks
all those spring tea parties you had
pink dresses and rose embroidery
And today, you can have all 17 Springs you've known, the red shoes, dirt stained fingernails and bouquets for momma
You can have all of Spring,
her wild flowers and wild ways, her earth awakenings and vibrant voices
You can't have it all
But today
today,
 You can have all of this