Life Beyond the Classroom

I used to believe I understood what contentment was. I thought I knew how to be completely satisfied, but now that I'm getting glimpses of what my future could be -- what it could really be, not just faint wisps of longing, I know that it wasn't full contentment that I've experienced up until now. I'm not content yet. On the verge of adulthood and a career, I begin to formulate an image of myself as a professional illustrator, well employed and fairly paid; with a studio and maybe even a family. The family would come later. But the picture of Arwen, poised in front of her art desk inside her spacious studio inside a medium-sized house filled with bright and stupid Arwen-things makes me understand how variable my lifestyle is and how impossible it is for me to experience true contentment.

I don't control my life right now. I do more than I did four years ago. I do more than I did three months ago. But I still depend on other people for essentials. Even when I move away for school next year, I will still depend on campus for living space (depending on what school I attend) and if not that, I'll be sharing some place with a roommate because of expenses. School will still control my life.

But someday, when I've gained my degree, I will know what it's like to feel truly content and satisfied. I'm more eager for that day than I would've ever thought. 'Just thinking about it motivates me to work hard and constantly on a portfolio that'll bring my art that extra-degree by attending a classy art school.

The idea... oh God... it gives me multiple and long-lasting mental orgasms. Getting there will be just as exciting. I'll be in school with people who are extremely serious about their art as I should and will be. The sheer intensity that I'll share with them in that- I can't think right now. My boner's too big and livid for me to concentrate on writing articulately. Fuck, I can't wait... I just can't wait.

Dear Cedar's Bloom,

I thought nothing could encapsulate passion. For me it's always been a fleeting intensity, entering and leaving at whim. But then I came to know a group of guys who were all musically inclined. Through the fire of a lasting passion and devoted conviction, they've become a stupendous musical success. Too soon my friends will have left Saskatoon; again I feel a familiar ache as close friends relinquish their transient place in my everday life. I love you, Cedar's Bloom.

Plates, all empty

Sitting at a table, fingers folded in knots at my knees; I watch the people of my life engage in conversation -- with each other and me. I open my mouth once in a while, proclaim a word or two, but it's difficult for me to understand why I don't feel too. I'm not inclined to smile back. I don't care to know why. Perhaps that's why my table is empty, the vast array of plates all empty, and my fingers are left in tangles. I'm by myself but I don't care enough to be lonely.

The other round tables are filled with laughter and understanding. Mine is alone in its desolate propriety, lonesome with its singular occupant staring apathetically to the sea of enjoyment outside. We share the same room, but our worlds are too different to fathom. It's not that I'm afraid to be a companion; it's not that I'm too bereaved to be friendly; I just don't feel the inkling to entertain with all the rest. My spirits are not high, but that doesn't mean I'm not content. Ordinarily I would be amongst them, fixated on generating their attention towards me. But tonight is different.

I'm by myself but I don't care enough to be lonely. Perhaps that's why my table is empty, the vast array of plates all empty, and my fingers are left in tangles at my knees.

Average Vagabond-Youth

Take four people in their late teens, add boredom, and presto... public mischief and shopping carts. I blame the escapade on my prevading anger for London Drugs. They weren't open so I couldn't buy sideways chalk. Fuckers.

Humans are Emotional

The make-up is drawn on smoothly,
Contours, lines, fresh perfection;
I count down the minutes,
Until a parched eye
Interprets my longing
Slicing through
the foundation,
Cutting a fine track
Through my delicate,
Rose-fettered cheeks.

The make-up is leaking softly,
Ravaging, sopping imperfection;
I count down the seconds,
Until my knees give way
To the blemished portion
Of my heart, an unhealthy
obsession, weeding
Into my everyday life
Through my patient,
Diluted sensibility.

I, like the arachnid in the corner,
Intimidate.
They, as though in the clutch
Of a perverse fear, shimmy aside,
Away;
turning heads, turning
To their smiling companions
With smiling eyes and smiling voices.
Understandable avoidance.

The nail polish is drawn on thick,
Each stroke a precise arch of ink;
Poised, I count the moments,
Until an itchy finger,
Becomes inclined
To scratch aside
the paint.
Wrinkling the surface
Pulling aside the facade,
Expressing my imperfect self:

Through the chips of
My nail-painted finger tips.

The foundation,
obsession, weeding
turning heads, turning
the paint.

Asians for Breakfast

Apparently I'm an artist. I forgot.

libra ·

Step on the scale to determine your daily worth. Clear blue eyes dispassionately survey the plain white platform. It is routine, a sort of twisted comfort like no loving embrace or verbal assurances can give, so coldly honest while the sea of compassionate faces tells only compassionate lies. Her long, slender leg trembles slightly as she moves it forward; her tanned foot with its innocently pink-painted toe-nails contrasts starkly with the bleak white of the square platform. She steels herself. Another step. Just another day beyond the point of no return.

A mild beep signifies the device’s initiation. With an impassive face she watches the numbers as they begin to flicker greenly across the tiny screen. At first they burst forth like a flood released from its gates, rushing upwards from zero – oh, zero, that epitome of ideal and complete perfection! Steadily, then, they begin to slow to an indecisive crawl. Ninety-nine… one-hundred three… one hundred and five… Ever higher creep the ghostly green numerals. She bites her lower lip as she stares downwards, transfixed. A wispy tendril of long blond hair falls across her cheek.

One hundred and seven. One hundred and six. One-hundred seven… Perilously the numbers teeter, swaying precariously between pinnacle and precipice. She is holding her breath without realizing it. Her long feet are turned inwards as if silently imploring the screen to afford her clemency.

The number flashes suddenly, decisively. One hundred and six point two.

She does not smile in her victory, her narrow brush with utter failure; she simply gazes down at her inanimate evaluator with a face as impassive as its own. She nods once, then, and primly steps off of the scale. Her feet pad briskly across the tiled floor. The bathroom door swings open with a slight squeak and she steps beyond it, silently rejoining the outside world. Amiable chatter echoes for a moment in the hall before the voices fade away down the stairs.

She will be back, inevitably, drawn ever tighter in a noose of her own making and fighting a private war that will see her dead before she wins. Back on the cold tile floor, the green numerals flash once in finality before the screen goes blank. It matters not.

In her mind green eyes are watching.