Tag: artist

Wit’s End Symphony: Minds Unveiled

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In the enchanting realm where thoughts took flight, picture a narrative unfolding—an epic tale of Minds Unveiled. As the sun dipped below the horizon, societal twilight, like a fleeting mist, attempted to cloak the brilliance of these bold and bright minds. Yet, it couldn’t quell their might, for within the dance of freedom, a compelling story emerged, reaching towering heights.

Imagine a caged bird’s song, a call so resilient that it echoed through the corridors of time. Maya’s triumph, breaking through the thrall, reverberated like the triumphant crescendo in a symphony. In the echoes of her melody, Mary embarked on a courageous journey, leaving an indelible mark—a trailblazer’s path adorned with the vibrant hues of displayed courage.

Grunya, with a gaze as pioneering as the first light of dawn, illuminated minds in the gentle night. Her profound observations became the brushstrokes on the canvas of diversity, a celebration echoing across the expanse of thought.

Each mind, a chapter waiting to be unfurled, played a note in the grand symphony within the playground of ideas. Taylor Swift’s words, a comforting rhyme, became the guiding thread, weaving through the passage of time, uniting these tales in a harmonious chorus.

Trials faced and choices made became the rising crescendo, a symphony of resilience where courage flowed like a river. Melanie’s wisdom echoed through the ages—a cherished poster, weathered by time but eternally relevant. “You never fail until you stop trying.” This mantra adorned the mindscape, a beacon urging these tales to keep striving, to persist through changing paths, and to never surrender the pursuit of their dreams.

Picture them navigating stars, breaking through the tapestry of the night—a shared lore, a collective might, a story told with the finesse of a gifted storyteller, infused with the eternal wisdom to never cease trying.

My Kindergarten Book Publishing Party

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Surrounded by a cacophony of adult voices during the kindergarten book publishing celebration, my book about dreams remained tucked away in obscurity. It seemed the world had more pressing matters to discuss that day. However, during the editing process, my English teacher, the embodiment of properness, took a moment to acknowledge my dedication, which hadn’t been to myself. Her worldly knowledge, including the fine art of beans on toast, left an impression, despite my aversion to the bean’s texture and her occasional soggy toast. Her words etched into my young mind the enduring kindness of dedicating one’s dreams to others.

It would take exactly twenty years since then for me to understand the paradox that in doing so, I would have to be unkind to myself.

I wanted to be a portrait painter and artist. I still do.

Drowning in Woolf’s Past: Timed Writing c. 2014

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I’m going through some of my old papers from high school, and I’m sharing them here unedited because I want to have a journal on here sharing my progress as I find them.

This is the first one I found.

AP Lang- Period 1

30 October 2014

Drowning in Woolf’s Past: Timed Writing 

Language and word choice determine whether or not readers are able to experience memories with the writer, or simply hear of them. Virginia Woolf, an extremely talented writer, knew how to use language in a way that allowed for any and all people to live alongside her in her past, specifically her summers spent during her childhood. She was more than capable of enhancing these experiences by adding copious amounts of details to them. Woolf’s ability to speak through her stream of conscience and her use of vivid metaphors only contributes to these enhancements, as well. 

Woolf’s use of language enriches the significance of her memories by repeating and going in depth over minute details. Her talent to describe even the most average of characteristics makes it unforced to visualize the summers she spent as young and vulnerable girl. For example, Woolf tells the readers that her brother, Thoby’s eyes were not just blue eyes but they were “blue eyes very blue.” Woolf also spends more than a few sentences remembering her “passion” for fishing and her father’s unapologetic attitude against the sport. She intertwines her father and herself effortlessly by using these thrilling words that contrast, yet combine their views. It is her attention to specifics such as this one that makes it clear she is not just glancing over her summer; Woolf is remembering the lasting impact her family made on her.

Woolf uses her stream of conscience to leave her memories lingering on readers’ minds. She does not always follow a strict type of language style. She uses analogies followed by a “but” that does not flow the way one would necessarily believe it to be. She asks questions directed towards herself as if she is completely baffled about the specific topics, but follows the questions with extraordinarily accurate answers to them, too. Through her back-and-forth style of language that mimics her thought process, one is able to understand the impact her childhood has left on Woolf. 

A large part of Woolf’s childhood is relayed through a metaphor: a single seed. Woolf compares her passion for fishing with a seed. She speaks of her love for fishing as a love for “the thrill and the tug”, meaning she enjoyed the unexpected moments fishing brought to her. This is similar to a seed because seeds grow into such new creations than they were previously thought to be. Woolf continues the metaphor by adding that every person has a seed that will take a unique growth route than another’s seed. Woolf’s metaphor finalizes the message that her one summer spent fishing with her brother and father changed her forever. 

Overall, Woolf’s ability to use language in a smorgasbord of ways makes it so apparent that the one day in the one summer in her one childhood renovated everything she thought and valued. Her richly contrasting wording through her attention to details, her stream of conscience, and her enduring metaphor are what is able to fully serve that purpose.

So that’s that. And then this just came up on my tiktok, and it’s making me think in relation to this essay.

Well Shit

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Where do you go for help when you’re yourself when you’ve looked everywhere for help?

How do you find anyone on Earth to help you if you’ve asked everyone you know?

How do people make it through life lmao because wtf why did I raise myself with no guidance? I mean… Kudos me you did better than you realized you did. But you probably should’ve been placed up for adoption, and you know that lolz.

And if you bring this up to anyone who’s aware of your immediate family, they wouldn’t believe you because abusers don’t abuse in public and they don’t abuse everyone.

It’s blunt, and it’s not all terrible. But damn just want a smidgen of a break over here haha.

Best of luck to me!

Love,

Me of course!

What I’ve Learned throughout the Past Five Years of my Life: Quarter Life Crisis Style

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Five years ago was actually my 20th birthday celebration. At the time, it felt like a celebration of my introduction to the end of my youth. I really thought I had learned all of the most important lessons there were to know, and I was preparing to plan my entry into the nearest nursing home because of that very serious old-age milestone I hit way out of the park. The feeling of finally making it into my twenties was simultaneously paradoxical, though, because I knew I also had more than plenty of room to grow.

This juxtaposition of my existential thoughts and my naivete was, and clearly still is at times, more cumbersome than I would like to admit. And I was not aware that not everyone was burdened with the same questions concerning their purpose as deeply as I was. Truth be told, I thought my way of thinking was the status quo. Therefore, “the plan” for the rest of my life…

Yes really, the rest of my entire existence… That I did not whatsoever think I would live this far to see this far out…

That plan I had perfectly assembled to a T was, for all intents and purposes, going to pan out exactly as I had written it. By that, I mean everything I was working towards would come to fruition exactly as I had, in a way more frank sense, rewritten it until I allowed my perfectionism to accept the final draft of my whole life (i.e., that same one I thought would be over before I reached the age of 18).

It is making me laugh typing that out now because I really took that plan extremely seriously; I cannot underscore that enough.

I was working multiple jobs, volunteering at least fifteen-to-twenty hours a week, taking as many classes as I possibly could, and… Using that little old plan of mine to avoid the harder memories and feelings that I thought would magically disappear if my daily planner reflected my days in literal ten-minute increments.

It is very much safe to say that the whole running from my problems ordeal did not go well for me… At all. 

What a shock considering this account’s coming of age is all I can say. Who would have seen that one coming? Not me… That is for sure.

Even though my bank account, and truthfully my life in general at that time, looked outstanding on paper, my mental and physical health took the toll for it throughout the course of the next five years. Excessive nerve damage that branched into more serious problems ultimately led to me having no choice other than to take time off from school and work.

It crushed me halfway through the past five years when everything hit its peak. The last few things I felt I had control over were slipping through my fingers… Because they were. And I was not only so angry that my perfect life plan veered so far off track from my aspirations, but I was also filled with so much shame that I did not reach the goals I had set for myself.

I mean, I am very literally still trying to figure out the instructions of my graduation date for my graduate school program. Graduation is tomorrow. That is not a joke.

However, it is now five years later, and my 25th birthday just passed last week. Thus, it is more than safe to say that the little life plan from my 20th birthday clearly did not make itself manifest… At all. It is also more than safe to say I am, yet again, so grateful it did not. Life is more than working yourself into the ground. Spending time with loved ones is the greatest gift of all. And most importantly, learning it is not only okay, but also necessary, to help others after I have taken the necessary steps to help myself has altered my perception of how I live my life completely.

So, if there is one word I have for my life right now it would be contronym.

And I like it that way. I would not have guessed that at age 20-years-old. Mostly because contronym was not in my vocabulary repertoire then, yet contemporaneously because I wanted and felt that I needed others’ perceptions of me to be in my hands only. 

It is so much better than I could have imagined to relinquish that and just be perceived even when it is the harder option. Authenticity is the payoff, and it truly does pay more than any job or perfect plan ever could. I am looking forward to what the next five years will look like for me. And what tomorrow brings my way… No really, I found out I have total aphantasia, and that word, aphantasia, means without an imagination. So I really do mean it when I say I do not know what tomorrow has in store for me. I am choosing to look at that as a gift.

I Have Been Making Art Again

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I have been making art again, and it feels like I never stopped.

And I don’t mean I have been making some little quick sketches during class or when I am waiting for my appointments to start in businesses’ lobbies. I mean I have been really making art again. In the comfort of my humble apartment that’s actually not humble whatsoever.

And I hate that I stopped.

Fortunately, the almighty question of Why did I stop? isn’t lingering in my brain. I’m not desparately trying to analyze this decision of mine while I go through the motions of my everydays. I already know the answer. It’s an answer that is so prideful it even hurts my own feelings, but I think maybe, just maybe, these prideful answers in my life make manifest the areas in which I need to self-reflect. And God knows that list is long, so adding to it never hurts. If anything, that list reminds me I never have to be bored, for there is always work for me to be completing.

You can guess the reason. It’s not that hard to decipher.

There is something about making art that is so catharthic; it’s indescribable. You don’t have to say anything to try to be understood. You just sit back and let your creation do the talking. You sit back and watch other people try to analyze what your work means, and you’re finally in the driver’s seat. You get to watch them react and respond. And you don’t have to provide any feedback on whether their interpretations match your intentions. They’re finally the ones with the unclear understanding of communication. I find it beautiful in a twisted way. I find their interpretations to be absolutely stupid the majority of the time, but I like to stand there and listen to them explain away pieces that don’t need any explanations. It’s a cruel pastime, but it’s one I’ll keep in my back pocket despite the negative connotation; sue me, please. I would recommend it to a friend in need of a positivity boost for sure.

Of course, there are the many other reasons art is the thread I hold onto during times that make existential questions erupt in my brain like lava spewing from a volcano over every square inch of land as far as the eye can see. But mostly, hearing the elites’ and the genuises’ takes on pieces of art that need no takes is music to my ears.

I’m just the kindest girl in the world, aren’t I?