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I am not the contents of my wallet.
I am not my skin of grime.
I am neither as strong nor as weak as you may think.
I am not of this earth.
I am not as quiet as I seem.
I am not a crispy potato, a buttered mollusk, or a spicy tuna.
I am not finished.
I am not a liar. Now ask if I always tell the truth.

I yearn for objectivity, but thus far have not risen above the subjective human experience.

I long for the proximity of warm fingers yet fear their touch.
I know many people, but cannot see most of them.
I bathe in the glow of their majestic presence and remain physically alone.
I try to wear my heart on my sleeve, but will shy away if given due provocation.
I abhor transience, however, I know the difficulty of permanence.
I have been told that I am a dreamy little human, but do not fully believe so.
I have much to be thankful for and hope that this is known.
I want to realize my connection to the infinite yet allow myself to be weighted down by inertia.

I am trying to come to the point.

I am a beautiful and unique snowflake. So are you.
I am a friend.
I am full of surprises.
I am unknowledgeable of a great many things.
I am becoming.
I am partly cloudy with scattered moments of clarity.
I am just as confused as you are.
I am an infinite capacity for love. Or at least I try to be.

Anonymous honesty may destroy me.
My inability to effectively express my thoughts is driving me crazy.

We built our heads from plasteline, a stiff and dirty clay with little give.

Put the mirror away.” He threw the pictures we’d brought to the wayside: “No, no. Build the portrait you could never make in paint.”

“Try to make it something more.”


The self-portraits of our mind’s eyes opened up. Every insecurity, every possibility came slowly into play, sculpting itself as we closed our eyes to the world and to sight. Those with little skill made better pictures than they ever could have made while looking at themselves, growing frustrated over noses and the rim at the edge of the eye. “Build the portrait that you, and no one else has ever seen. Feel out your face the way you dream yourself to be.”

Is this a lie?

This is the fat girl with more chin than she has cheek. This is the quiet little Asian girl with the tiniest features you could ever imagine. Here is the dreamer whose head still sits unfinished, half his face in relief and half clouded, the hair never rooted to the world. As if he might fly away.

“But that’s not you.”

This is the portrait that no one could have seen.

It is easier to build a portrait in profile, looking up. The eyes of the figure make contact with yours so your own face can look in your soul to root out what you’ve been hiding. This entire self-portrait feels like a picture of me running away. This little girl is looking down, into space, her eyes small depressions in a long, smooth face. Her hair is in her eyes: no intensity, no solidity, all left back in a haze. This is me, never looking up. I couldn’t figure out why I needed to build it that way. This is the portrait of me, looking down, avoiding the world that has scared me for so many years, no matter how often I've laughed it away. This is me, looking down through these unformed eyes in the hopes that looking down will let me live in the dream a while longer.

“Build the portrait you never have let yourself see. Build you.”

Build me. Me, finding me.

back by popular demand..

i like images. and collages. i am not merely a product of my nodes. i am layered. i am cerebral. though i am often not much more than a land of ideas. (how very plato). i am powder pale, and curious like a kitten. i have too many names, and i will paint myself for you here, because phyllis_stein requested it.

sheepish. coy. i like to bleed. i like wrists. i rape kiss boys. i want a vending machine wedding ring, and a tacky vegas style road trip. i owe 28 days of happiness to little white pills, and fruit. i like using semicolons. i am a victim and perpetrator of violent love. i have been so confused and so brainwashed by everyone i come into contact with. i think love is the suggested consequence of teenage propaganda. i don't believe in heterosexuality. i think in dimensions. i get tangled. i wear petticoats at dusk. i am lone. i like boats; i like warm rain. people think i am french. i am obsessed with my childhood. i find foetuses beautiful (yet ugly). i'm reflexive & imbalanced and i want my life to be soup & scarves. i'd want to be lolita but i'm too old. i am left-handed and therefore like tetris and shapes. i am a glimmer here & there, a dapple, mythic and bombastic, a black frill. i am a very delirious pony, i can sense things, i am volatile.

one of these days i will be a member of mensa.

i'm not a part of this world. i will spend the rest of my life devising my own utopia. i will spend the rest of my life perfectly conscious that i'm deluding myself about everything. i use too many colours when i describe things. i am franny glass; i live some days in an utmost Sisyphean misery. i don't like to eat; i want my body to cry out in true need. for i cannot bear the tragedy and waste of having pursued the ephemeral satiety of my base, earth-bound body at the expense of the nourishment of my soul. i am not candy: i am not a brilliantly coloured treat without any particular nutritional value. 'its not so bad': my motto. i'm a writer; i have too many projects. i'm autonomous & i spend too much time at this place. i want to design clothes to murder in. i have a best friend or a soulmate or a business partner or a belle amie or even a partner-in-crime, her name is eroticbetty and more accurately, we overlap into less than two people and slightly more than one. we are doing a good job at pretending to be humans.

i like anything kitsch. i like alphabets. i like air. i like china. i like eggshells. i like train stations and supermarkets. i am distressed and sometimes prim and i am torn to pieces by ill-formed education systems (i think knowing doesn't mean so much), moronic religious conservative types, and all round closed-minded fuckers. i bear the weight of the world on my shoulders, it doesn't fit inside my skull. i sometimes want to stab it so many times until it is composed of not pieces but holes. i am a planet of anxiety. some days it is lucky i have a face or otherwise you would see how sad i am. for this reason i am often in an apparent state of interminable disorientation, and i sleep too much.

i want to revamp charlie and the chocolate factory, cleopatra, and jesus, and if they are turned into feature films i want marilyn manson to be the lead role in each. i want to wear a dress that will make you dizzy. apparently red suits me like no other colour. people also believe that i am in touch with the surreal, or that i possess some higher awareness; that my mind is too big for this galaxy. i have cried in case it's true, because i don't understand it. or anything. i like apples. i want to eat nothing but apples until i have skin like apples, like a girl i dreamed about once named eia eia. i savour apples, because god damnit, adam sacrificed eternal life for one. i think the perfect gift will consist of any or all of the following items:

i love and miss the seaside and i think when i actually step inside the cool cool water once more i may melt. i endorse decapitalization.i like infrequent cigarettes. i like letters and sodas. i try not to be too existentialist. i want to wear a catsuit. a noder called me a little bell jar girl. i wish sylvia plath never existed. but i am putting myself back together with words and paper. she couldn't.

i don't believe in anything besides possibility, and people who stifle others, and essentially themselves, by believing otherwise, make me cry. i don't think life is so serious, i don't believe in any one person's idea of 'success' being better than any other's; society isn't exactly the same thing as life now is it? a ferrari and a lush house aren't as important as doing crazy things and being young and growing old gracefully and tasting everything; this is what i think. i wish i had the courage to be an absolute nobody. i wish other people had that courage.

i get sad because i can never explain myself wholly in words or pictures.

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