Who I am in a nutshell… a very large nutshell with lots of room for words…
I wrote this at 16… Dont know what I think of it. Please forgive the massive grammar errors. I’m too lazy to edit.
I write, I act, I lust, I dance in front of my mirror, I teach, I paint and I try to save the world. I will save the world . . . or take it over. Whichever happens to be more convenient. I am free-spirited. It has been suggested that I am too free-spirited. I am going to be an actress, writer, activist, poet, screen writer, novelist with seven houses, two kids, three adopted children, five husbands . . . So screw you and your white picket fences. I know what it’s like to lose a hero. If I don’t like you, it’s probably your fault. I hate and am hated by a reasonable amount of people. I love and am loved by several. The several are all that really matters. I like to be provocative; I might do it just to throw you off. Sometimes it’s nice to be ugly, naked in the rain with no need to cover yourself. Screw the cold, screw the wind, screw their eyes. I will not live backwards. I have tried and it doesn’t work. I regret ever trying. What you think of me is none of my business. I sport provocative opinions while safely inside my 25,000 dollar car wondering if anyone gets the irony. I am quite aware of the atrocities in the world. I wonder if the Red Cross realizes that more people die of aids in Africa then will ever die from freak tsunamis. I wonder if we truly lack racial pre-conceptions or if we just pretend to. I am bored of the microcosms I live in and I am sick of contorting my own wisdom to justify vanity. I am sometimes vain. I don’t intend to make my words stab you but sometimes it’s an ugly disposition. I am afraid of how long I have left before the world looks small then again I am afraid the world is so big it will swallow me up. I am annoyed with the ignorant who don’t understand the beauty in contradictions. Moreover, I am annoyed with contradictions. I want to slip to sleep, falling hurts too much. The kind of sleep you found as a child where Daddies girls get taken from their car seats and whisked to bed where they’re tucked, kissed and adored. But I am not the apple of your eye . . . I’m much more of a passion fruit. I am a woman with baby swirls making curves on my body. I love boys. Smart funny boys with killer wit. I sometimes wonder why god has forsaken me by making me attracted to boys. Ugly, bitter and small boys who only dream of being men. I hate the word, “man.” I don’t know if I’ve ever met one… I am in love with Ernesto “Che” Guevara and the Cuba he created.
I lived in Cuba. A Cuba where children escape in lost boy wonderlands and adults flick guitar strings or splatter paint into the late afternoon.
I love the look of a persons shadow behind iridescent fabric, I love how scandalous and innocent they look when light is cast on them. I love exploring human emotions and dipping my toes into the coarse waters of your sanity. (If you can call it that.) I love innocence but hate ignorance. Yes, there is a difference. I don’t want to see you how most people do. Maybe that’s selfish. I feel out of place here. I will be the first lost girl to venture into Neverland and why did Wendy have to nurture? I would like to constantly do crafts so I can constantly peel dried Elmer’s glue off of my fingers. I know that the wisest person who ever lived was not mentioned in the text books. His name is Carlos and he exists off of beans and rice in a wonderland ninety miles off of Florida. I hate Florida. I know that beautiful is the most ambiguous word in my vocabulary and one of the most precious. I know you don’t think much of me. I’m rarely invisible even though at times it is my most sincere yearning. I wonder if it shows. The people who love life are the people who don’t have any reason to. I love life. I have known death. It is one of the acquaintances I wish I never encountered. I miss the people I lost to heaven. I have lost too many of you to heaven. I miss the one person who could make me laugh while I cried. I miss being real. Or maybe I miss being fake. I love being confident when I look ridiculous. I love doing yoga on sea-eaten beaches with my toes tasting sand beneath the ocean and light waves reaching at my knees, my hands dancing in the air. I love laughing uncontrollably. That incredulous laughter that convulses in your stomach and makes you remember why you ever connoted the word, “living,” with beautiful. I love being simple. I love having no secrets. But, I have a secret and it’s too complicated and too simplistic to tell you.
I have never known hatred but I have swallowed it. I love chlorine-infested neverlands where awkward girls in popping pink suits become mermaids. I love the smell of the woods and the sound of rain on a tent. I am not sweet or innocent or fake or girly. I’m a heinous bitch and I’ve never been prouder. I am a woman who will always be a girl through my own choosing. I love acrylic paint and untouched canvases. I love to paint although I have no talent. I love that I love it anyways. I am beautiful… Whatever that means. I love daydreaming and contriving shapes from the clouds. I love pretending I am someone other than myself. I missed that period in your life when you are supposed to suddenly find house games and make-believe dumb. I love finding someone worth admiring although I am often disappointed by the lack of worthy role models in my world. I love to be loved; but who doesn’t? I love long skirts and loose tops; I think it’s the sexiest outfit. I love imperfections. I love finding beauty in unusual places and have come to believe that the only real beauty is hidden in unusual places. I love the word, “quirky.” If you call me quirky; I might make love to you. Then again, maybe not. I love being drunk when I’m sober. I hate alcohol/cigarettes/pot/drugs but probably won’t think too much less of you if you don’t share the same sentiment. Notice I didn’t say I wouldn’t think any less of you. I would think less of you. But probably not too much. I remember a pillow that became my savior and helped me drown out the sounds of the world microcosomed in my kitchen.
I love skinny dipping in the pacific ocean at midnight. If you don’t, you haven’t tried it. Or you’re just stupid. Both are entirely plausible. I love being naked between the sheets or anywhere for that matter. I remember how I asked god if he was real and was crushed upon hearing no verbalized loud-speaker-like response.
I love sandwiches from O’Briens. I love breathing life into a script. I love Denzel Washington. He is the one person over fifty I consider attractive. Then again, that’s a lie. I love Coke slurpees. I love swings and blame Robert Louis Stevenson and his damn poetry. When people doubt me it’s a challenge. When I doubt myself it’s a grave-stone.
If insight was looks I’d be screwing Lawrence Ferlenghetti. I love wearing no make-up and still feeling beautiful; Although this rarely happens. I love swing dancing. I love a cold shower after being dirty, hot or sticky. I love the snooze button. I love forgotten cash in old wallets. I love pink cellophane and the sound it makes when you fondle it. I love popping the plastic bubble wrap that comes in packages. I love making outfits out of newspaper. Don’t ask. I like wearing dresses that fly out when I twirl, I love worn-in flip flops that mold to my feet. I love finding a way to fit the word, “rapture,” into a sentence. I love those never wake me up-intensely deep-trancelike-perfect-relaxing-exciting-I wish it were real dreams. I love stretching the piece of cotton on the top of pill boxes. I love trampolines. I love red lipstick but rarely wear it. I love myself. I love to kiss. I love to look into people’s eyes; partially because it intimidates them. I hate staring at the sidewalk. I love looking up . . . I am waiting for a revelation or a revolution or an epiphany to strike my body like lightning and send electricity through my veins.
I don’t know who I am, what I want or where I’m going. But if I was Eve, I would have eaten the apple sooner . . .
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