it’s a truly wondrous feeling, to be mortified past the point of mortification, and rather driven into a state of amused delirium.
one finds oneself asking “really? jokes aside… this is actually happening?” an internally rhetorical question of disbelief, and also one directed at the heavens. the puppet masters of the universe. the devil and his buddy god, or that giant turtle whose back we rest on. karma rears its hideous head in times of stress and despair. cackling. wait, wait–wouldn’t it be hilarious if she ALSO had to… no… no, that’s just too much right? even afterwards? HAH! priceless. let’s do this!
such a colorful emotional beating can be enlightening, if taken with the positive attitude we’ve all been taught to maintain. self-efficacy, thumbs-ups, big smiles all around. i step outside my body (thank goodness, what a terrible terrible mess, how on earth will this wash out!) and observe passively, serenely. here’s a person smart enough to tell when shit’s going wrong. to know when their value is being pissed away. locked in a miserable stall with the familiar smell of vomit, multipurpose disinfectant, and sheepishly faulty sewage pipes.
enter karma in its grand appearance, and suddenly it’s too difficult to observe. i don’t want to anymore; i cannot. so i opt for the simplest sedation and tune out until something better comes on. i handled things on autopilot. i wanted to be elsewhere. i can look back later, feel the shame, spit on myself, resolve to leave, make promises; later.
for now, i laugh. i tell the story to close friends who will laugh with me. it is cheap medication, it is avoidance, and it is an incredible relief. the philosophy is, how could it possibly get any worse?
i have an inkling that, sometime in the near future, it just might.
like a bird of rarest-spun heaven metal
a series of portraits, solidly based on human atrocities with whom i’ve had the displeasure of interacting.
dormant, tucked neatly away in the alleys of mar mkhayel.
because i have opposable thumbs that, while nicely shaped, have not been of any use in grasping reality.
recently i’ve drifted so deeply into obsessive metacognition i fear i will never come out. and how could i ever forgive myself for such neglect? for such passive permeability to the unthinkable? it sneaks up. like the first menstruation. unpleasant, vaguely foreseeable given certain circumstances. my circumstances were, and remain, nothing extraordinary. yet i was still led to the vacuum i presently spiral down, even as i type this.
i have nothing if not distinguished cognitive faculties. nothing to separate me from millions of aspiring artists. all of whom think themselves different, extraordinary. technically skilled. pretty girls and graffiti-ed boys’ names in middle school agendas. compliments from kids who sit next to them in class. (where did you learn to draw like that? WOW.) devoting excess time to projects that demand any form of creativity, in hope that the results will render them a proper novelty. (no no, this only took me half an hour, really.) drawing celebrities for boys they wish to impress. (i enjoy it! this is what i do in my free time!) and for those years, they are superstars. they have no need to validate themselves. the praise and recognition they receive is sufficient.
school ends with ugly robes and fake tears, and hence the challenge builds. specialization takes place. they are now surrounded by other artists and have to stand out. find their niche, make really solid work.
it is natural selection, and it is terrifying to the point of paralysis.
cue my lack of… well, everything. pathetic and lazy, i’ve been ignoring my predicament. spending all of my precious limited time on visually stimulating wastes of carbon. and fermented grapes in elegant glass tulips. yet hope lies in wait at the end of this week—paris, i run to you for solace. show me your wealth of depth and perspective. indulge my eyes. introduce me to jean-marc and jacques with their attitude problems and scooters and ironic hats.
turn me back into a creator.