following 03/04/08 around

“Chelsea, your working is becoming frighteningly brilliant, both in terms of conceptualization and articulation. Can we read your 'Each voice transcends' piece in class? It’s unique. So unique that it’s difficult, maybe impossible, to critique.”

* * *

My eyes feel heavy from a continual condition of fatigue. My lashes seem to stick to my skin, whenever they blink in closure. Skin that feels coated with wax, or the remnants of tears, though there has been none of those. However, my skin doesn’t look slick or shiny, but puffy as if from lack of consideration. There isn’t much more to say. I don’t know why I feel effected, like so, but the effect fills me with an overwhelming sense of emptiness. Though that sentence contradicts itself and sometimes I feel I do, too.

* * *

I hold a grudge, that I don’t openly or verbally admit to, over [him] and my decision to prolong our time together. I left other obligations to dedicate more intimate, personal time and relations to this one person. Someone that wasn’t as widely known, but that I felt served my time, need and personal fulfillments better. Nothing I take back, at all. I just regret my decision, recently, to withdraw from other activities to supposedly dedicate my attention to this one thing that has seemingly petered out. Now these long hoards of time leave me feeling more tired then ever. Though I deny liking routine, I find I do. I like the business a schedule requires of me. I like when I’m not the only one telling myself to focus, do this, be there, give more. I am hard on myself—this I can tell. I shouldn’t regret or hold grudge against any of my endeavours. I laugh at myself even now for not enjoying and relishing in more of my youth, and yet, I haven’t stopped myself yet to be more my age, get [more] high or put off a few more papers. I feel like I am past the time of reassembling my character, the concrete structures of my mind (sure things will change, and I will too with it, every hour, but the natures of my character are stuck with me), and therefore, I will always want more of myself, feel I should know more, wish my memory were better,…


* * *

Met with Victoria this afternoon. Spent a good amount of time talking about Phenomenology. She must have figured my mind was slipping up with thoughts of it, because after she left I looked down at her notes to me, and it clearly mentioned that a work of mine had a motif that was essentially dealing with Phenomenology, awareness of Being. She surprised me with yet, another book (Hotel Du Lac by Anita Brookner), assured that this would be a fit. My bag was already piled thick with books, seeing as I am always in between multiple reads. I suffer from impatience and eagerness. However, I decided to begin the novel this afternoon. I felt it was nice, an enjoyable read but the language wasn’t anything that struck me. But then, hitting page 92, it all made sense. Victoria was absolutely right, and I think after her reading three new works of mine over the weekend, she felt inclined to pass the novel along secure that it would hit me on a level that told me more about myself, than perhaps something I would find in the literary language of the author. For some reason—and perhaps this is the power of words—I feel better…about things, thoughts and my relation to them.


* * *

This weekend was scattered with meetings of really satisfying people. Occasions where no one was talking about people or things, and yet there was no mindfulness to avoid those topics, they just weren’t of any immediate interest. I got great recommendations of films, literature and the like. Ran into an old face, well really just a new face that I had seen in a class the first day of NYU, then dropped the class (these run-ins with him have happened all throughout my time at NYU), now finally spoke and was intrigued, definitely. Also met another SVA photography grad. How come I always feel this great vibe from all SVA students? I want to try and take a class there again this summer. Invited to an IFC event on Sunday. It was in Park Slope (damn, loved the area, all these cozy little dining spots). The event was in this space that felt like an old library from one of those Clue Mystery games with old school bachi ball. So many attractive faces! New York makes me lust after men like no other place in the world. Which means, of course, in my awkwardness (since it can only be suspected) that on my way out the door, I saw the actor and hearing that all women swoon for him, said in a suggestive manner, “Oh thereeeeee you are.” Sometimes, I take notice, around certain men I act like a “naïve yet poised blonde”—this aggravates me, but I find I play into it. Blah blah blah.

* * *

A year ago today, I was reminded, that my grandmother died. Instantly, I remembered the moment of my finding out well. I remember being on break from my Video Art class, my body spiraled around the rail of the stairs. Calling my father, for one reason or another, and in a very monotone and somehow what felt casual voice was told that his mother had died. I hadn’t known there had been any red flag, but I suppose everyone was denying that the time had finally come. I remember having no words, and what felt like no sympathy. I remember writing two works after that day, inspired by her death and the feeling that perhaps I had not known her intimately enough. My writing was driven by feeling then, feeling and suggestion. I have grown up a lot in a year. I have asked more of myself. I have quit bad habits that harmed me and in doing so have expected myself to be even more mindful and more in control. I have aged, and my writing has too. That is one of the most promising and rewarding things about writing—you document your mind, your progress and the surprise of your change.