newborn writechild

www.stainedfingers.wordpress.com

I'm still unsure of the survival potential of today's birth.
I'm floating in and out of blogs trying to find myself as well as a "correct" way and place to write and type and love and hate. I don't know very much of late, only that I learn much more when I observe those around me who I do and don't know. But as opposed to judging from my observations, I'd like to think I am instead constructing new/different or building on old understandings of people. We are a strange species, and one I couldn't be more in love with!

reassurance reacquainted

So finally these many waves
Crashed upon my plastic caves
Tell me why they wouldn't hold
These pressures are a little old
These broken shards of plastic shields
These obsolete and aging fears
These mechanisms of defense
Impersonal, fearful immense.

But wash me over salty waves
With songs and Psalms to make me brave
You whispered love, swiftly disarmed
Validating me without need of charm
Your concrete truth, I hold to tightly
Shared passions urge me, keep on fighting
I find in you my greatest peace
You bought my life for yours released.

Tell me what I would ever gain
If all I did was run from pain.

never ever clever

I stacked atop the mini wheelbarrow because I tried to transport more junk than the little tike could comfortably manage when it got caught in a crack in the concrete and my momentum carried me forward... my left shin still feels the repercussions twelve hours later. I just thought you'd like to know.

Apparently my emotions seem to mirror this awkward, clumsy, somewhat accidental yet self-inflicted amusement forwardslash annoying bruise pain. I don't know what to do with myself and I don't know why I do this to myself. I think I'm much too susceptible to a little bit of...I wouldn't even call it charm or chivalry, but somehow whatever it is encompasses both. Black and white or sepia? I can't decide.

Not a fan of wine (red)
Though I like nightime's navy blue
Bedtime's getting later
I also like playing with staples and glue.

Challenge this!

I have the best friends

in
the
world.

Rhyme and rhythm of she incoherent

Late shower
Hair dryer
Dry skin
Sleep in

Thoughts on fire
Dreams expire
Distinguishing, truth from liar

Waiting, wanting
Temporary
Finding, minding
Those worth caring

Smiles and handshakes
Syrup, pancakes
Firm but fluffy
Tell me nothing

What if we all
Never looked for
Love or told you
"You are beautiful"

Love aint
For the faint
Look hard
Junkyards

The truth felt like overheated concrete on my naked sole.

Matthew was right, we're in love with the concept of falling in love, not the person who acted as stimulus for such drama. Hi again, it's your favourite frigit, romance critic. I haven't vomited such opinion in a while so here's to the fresh revisit to why we might never find the one. I was talking to Joshua yesterday about entertaining such notions of who and how, and two sentences in, he begins kicking sand onto my small hopeful bonfire. It's funny how our best friends have capabilities to irritate us with truth. I suppose wishful thinking is for the unprepared, for those who prefer to worry about foreseen and obviously upcoming complications only upon confrontation and not a moment sooner. If you see a glitch in a car you want but know it won't have any apparent problems within the first year and only after, would that not effect your decision to buy it? Why then would I give any less consideration and judge with any less scrutiny if the decision was as potentially permanent as the person I'm to marry and be with for the remainder of my life?

Seriously nic, your young, ambitious and very...immature. I think I scare myself with talk of marriage. I'm twenty, fresh out of teenage years, with thin knowledge of how to party and little root in common knowledge and social government. Which is probably a good thing in an awkward way.

I'm still curious though, about love, true love between man and woman. I'm just too unimpressed with generation Y's embedded narcissism (and mine, being part of said generation) to wonder when I will start to truly care about somebody without the need for return. Not because of the attention or the physical attraction or any self-revolving reasons satisfying ME, but for reasons of the ideal picture-perfect marriage print. Oh, and when did purity come into it and does it still exist? Imagine being in love and pure, it's unheard of in the twentieth century western world's sex-selling, body-abusing and media obsessed temperament. I think sexual purity scares me because desensitisation has come into play since childhood was introduced to the beloved magic box within which sex is reinstated again and again and begins to promote itself on the walls of the street and the talk of the town.

I suppose it's a relief we don't spend forever on this purposeless and cracked moral earth. I want more, I want so much more than I currently hold. I don't want everything quantifiable either. I want things that cannot be seen. I want to care, I want to be generous (alas, funds I have little), I want wisdom to enrich my words, I want the things I do to ripple into challenging those around me, I really want to get over myself, I want not the superficial worries of skin deep perfection to poison my priorities. I want my life to have meant something, as totally cliche and daggy as that is, if I look good now, it won't change the fact that I will age, I will grow old and those pimples I previously fretted over simply marked a memory over which to reminisce. I'd go so far to say, however, that every person on this planet, from all manner of peoples and places wants the same, wants better for somebody else, usually their children. But whoever cares little about anybody else should re-evaluate their standing in humanity.

I don't know what to do when a ten year old girl tells me she thinks she's fat.
I don't know what to do when I see her critiques as consistent to what mine were only earlier.
I can't stand how insecurities ruin everything.

Have I told you, you'll look wonderful tonight.

i didn't mean to be so vain

i've just exhausted myself with five to six hours of plastic laughs, sucking in, sore feet and a huge zit on my lip. Both the models I requested couldn't turn up today, as planned, as arranged and disarranged within 12 hours prior. So my faithful photographer (Sammie, bless her soul) and I exhausted ourselves with 27 different items of clothing and such.

I'm actually really embarrassed about having myself modelling all the clothes I planned to sell. I was really hoping for an array of bodies when fortune would have them whom i'd requested unavailable at the last minute. I was really hanging on passing out this site to everybody for them to boast on my behalf and to cover a greater radius for publicity, but now i'm considerably more reluctant...

But if i were to have delayed the shoot, i'd never have started, so here's to beginning. Here's to facing this with half a face. I'll keep you posted. I'm darn nervous and pretty freakin' excited!

It's funny I seek the limelight, of sorts, and upon finding myself there, freak out and wish I weren't there alone...This is all nervous chatter...God'll light up my path and I'm sure this wont be half bad. it's about time I materialised one of the hundred thngs I said I'd like to do but couldn't gather half an ounce of initiative to do so. SO here. Here's a justification for my hobby/obsession for op-shopping/shopping/thrifting/finding...

ahhhhh'm gonna stop yackaty-yackin now. I hope you like it. (If I look good, Sammie digitally edited the photos;)

what's yours?

no there's nothing to loose and there's nothing to prove

Things are working out to be pretty odd.

http://lookbook.nu/look/68650-a-million-ways
I love this. I love these. There's a different sort of impressive that solidifies upon the average person's persona, making said person not so average. It is, to me, the marriage of unashamed creativity and a contentment not having conformed to the typical "barbie". Such a person so sealed with an indifference yet amusement regarding superficiality to not be affected by it, I admire, unequivocally.

I am as rich as I perceive with the acknowledgement of my monies in banks totalling $42.75. Apparently I'm along with a carload of asian girls to asian night at a renown asian club coming friday. Planning to wear my aasics. I'm feeling restless enough to cut my hair right now...but I can't reach the back so I think I'll be calling upon Mother's hand since she mercilessly snipped against my will for the first half of my life. Anyway, if it turns out a screw up, I'll appreciate it with serves of humble pie. Whoever doesn't like me after this, didn't like me before and I'm can deal with that.

He made her famous, she made him loved.

Pablo Picasso and Henriette Theodora Markovitch, alias Dora Maar were together as a couple for a decade through the 1930s and 40s. The stunningly beautiful French photographer, poet and painter, was most famously known as Picasso’s private muse, model, companion, and intellectual partner.

Their relationship was wild, stormy, and unconventional. Maar greatly suffered from Picasso’s mood swings but her love for him was unconditional. Picasso, who was known for the pain that he caused his lovers, often painted and depicted Maar in grotesque, appalling forms. Maar would often deny Picasso’s ethereal love for her by saying, “All his portraits of me are lies. They’re all Picassos. Not one is Dora Maar.”

(Above text, cut & pasted: http://culturazzi.org/review/art/10-paintings-on-women-immortalised-by-famous-artists)

There's something about this piece that absolutely draws me. Perhaps, it's her beauty, perhaps her colour, perhaps the refreshment of seeing beauty outside convention and the story behind it.