criticism is inspiration.

garden party trailer

finally catching up on all my old reading aka going through my newspaper clippings that have been piling up for a second read through (i will try and scan articles soon). and boy are they a read - it is quite often that i feel the new york times and wall street journal are sharing secrets - secrets that most everyone has access to, but must have curiosity for. although it may sound cliche, i have felt an interior change since turning 21 on july 18th - trust me, this was unexpected - to one extreme i believe i see an acceptance of my self character (and with that, most importantly, a pride) and of course with that comes a responsibility - to and of yourself - a responsibility with "becoming an adult" (indeed, cliche, but let's face it - it's a cliche because the majority lives by it) and a responsibility that comes with having pleasure with my past and future achievements. but with that has come manifestations of concerns. spread out across my bedroom and kitchen table, is the business section and there is me, internally and externally pacing - wondering whether i should pursue what i was studying at the FIT's business school (marketing, advertising and publicity). traveling through time, it is close to impossible to remember the thoughts that you were digesting at an early age - let alone as a "child" - one may even wonder whether he was thinking at all. but i do remember one specific thought. i remember knowing that the only reason i was alive was to leave a trace for the coming generations that would not believe my being here, need to know or even think to know of my experiences. i remember feeling it was a necessity - my job - my role - my passion - to record, to make a stamp on the timeline, to leave an impression in the sand of time. i knew i could not just be living and then cease to live, a dying away, an in and out. i live for presence, i aspire for permanence, i desire preservation. in elementary school, i remember the corner in the cathedral where i was tutored after school for reading. i remember the sepia tonalities that saturated space as it bled through the murals. i remember the difficulty of mastering any efficiency. i remember learning of my father's fear that his child could end up dyslexic as well. i will never forget the christmas morning and the hooked on phonix underneath the tree. from then on i studied and became mesmerized with overcoming adversities. i will never forget walking down the bleachers to receive the english award in middle school - hugging my professor and hoping to hold on to the moment forever. i remember moving into the garage and being (somehow) inspired by p!nk's lyrics about her parent's arguments. i remember writing my first poem about a child witnessing her parent's potential divorce and i remember feeling -knowing- that writing was an act of escapism, yet a way to re-enter reality and perceive it with clarity. i want to be a voice of this time because i am a voice of this time and i am fearless enough to let it be heard, challenged and criticized. i have been through differing extremes that come with exposure (a website created about me as an attempt to belittle me, my image stolen and used to inspire anorexia) that sometimes i wonder what else has all my persistence been for but in some way to teach, explore and honor the imperfections that become you - distinguish you and therefore, make you perfect in your own right of passage. being remembered for my words, rather than for a contribution i gave to the media's power of persuasion, will be a more successful feat (in my mind). graduate school for writing means following a path of production - a path so entirely mysterious and vague and in doing so, only have one thing i can rely on happening - becoming increasingly passionate - falling deeper - falling where the pride lays. i see many "business oriented" mindsets tell me that "the arts" (writing, photography..) can only be a hobby, that passion is fun but it doesn't pay the bills. i don't want what keeps me healthy to only be a hobby... (but at twenty-one does the pressure of the world make you feel the weight of giving in?).