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Reading about other peoples problems*, makes me understand how uncomplicated my own issues are.
Why am I so concerned with how my parents view me? Why does it matter how other people live their lives so long as I live mine to the maximum (or minimum if) I so chose?
Do I really need to compare myself to my sister? My brother?
I don't really know myself that well; my friends and family have said that I "have balls" and was courageous for what I did to my hair.
Why would - should - a hair cut be an act of courage?
I was sick of my hair.
I got rid of it.
Yes, I concede, I am making a statement of sorts, though I'm not really sure what kind.
A feminist statement - "Long hair = Slavery to the Patriarchy"?
A queer statement - "Fuzz-Head = Dyke"?
I'm a firm believer that no one know who they are in their teens - our bodies are too messed up and ever since James Dean and "Rebel without a cause"; we are merely perpetrating the fact that we separate, independent organisms from our parents.
In our teens we are islands... Huge, volcanic, Krakatoa like islands, but islands none-the-less.
We are so self-centered and selfish, we don't notice how we hurt those we love by accident.
That doesn't change when we enter adulthood.
(At 20, almost 21, am I actually an adult?).
But we are no longer islands, we are part of an archipelago surrounded by stormy el-nino seas and on the rare occasion that we find relief from the storms, we sometimes fail to realize that are merely in the Eye of the storm and that soon the wind will shift and we will be bombarded with rain, thunder and debris from our neighboring island.
As I write this I understand that I am derivative and unoriginal; in my thoughts, metaphors and similes.
Mummy told me an Artist gets blocked and that a craft-man plods on.
This is merely a diatribe, an attempt to relieve myself of this block.
I am so deeply afraid that my one, only and last prolific stage of my life will be high school.
High school - A time of violent eruptions.
Has my fire gone out?
Is all I have left ashes, not even enough to cover my metaphorical Pompeii?
Pliny died on the beach.
Will I be revived in Philly?
*"Prozac Nation" by Elizabeth Wurtzel
Why am I so concerned with how my parents view me? Why does it matter how other people live their lives so long as I live mine to the maximum (or minimum if) I so chose?
Do I really need to compare myself to my sister? My brother?
I don't really know myself that well; my friends and family have said that I "have balls" and was courageous for what I did to my hair.
Why would - should - a hair cut be an act of courage?
I was sick of my hair.
I got rid of it.
Yes, I concede, I am making a statement of sorts, though I'm not really sure what kind.
A feminist statement - "Long hair = Slavery to the Patriarchy"?
A queer statement - "Fuzz-Head = Dyke"?
I'm a firm believer that no one know who they are in their teens - our bodies are too messed up and ever since James Dean and "Rebel without a cause"; we are merely perpetrating the fact that we separate, independent organisms from our parents.
In our teens we are islands... Huge, volcanic, Krakatoa like islands, but islands none-the-less.
We are so self-centered and selfish, we don't notice how we hurt those we love by accident.
That doesn't change when we enter adulthood.
(At 20, almost 21, am I actually an adult?).
But we are no longer islands, we are part of an archipelago surrounded by stormy el-nino seas and on the rare occasion that we find relief from the storms, we sometimes fail to realize that are merely in the Eye of the storm and that soon the wind will shift and we will be bombarded with rain, thunder and debris from our neighboring island.
As I write this I understand that I am derivative and unoriginal; in my thoughts, metaphors and similes.
Mummy told me an Artist gets blocked and that a craft-man plods on.
This is merely a diatribe, an attempt to relieve myself of this block.
I am so deeply afraid that my one, only and last prolific stage of my life will be high school.
High school - A time of violent eruptions.
Has my fire gone out?
Is all I have left ashes, not even enough to cover my metaphorical Pompeii?
Pliny died on the beach.
Will I be revived in Philly?
*"Prozac Nation" by Elizabeth Wurtzel