thoughts, #1 I don’t really ever seem to learn from my mistakes. This is a bad thing. I always seem to think that this time is the exception, that this time it will really be okay, even when every alarm in my head is going off and deep inside I know that I’m setting myself up for a heartsore.  I tell myself that it’s for the experiences I glean from them. I do glean a lot of experiences. But today, a friend + I were at a cafe, just talking about everything + nothing, when we brought up the subject of art. We talked about Frida Kahlo, and how her suffering and pain enabled her to pour her emotion into her work, creating a lasting body of work that still speaks to a generation of new viewers + aspiring artists today. But that pain, that suffering, that misery! Was it worth it, for what it produced? We see the vibrant colors + stare in awe at the symbolism, but what about the hours she must have spent, hunched over in her bed, unbearably miserable—shedding quiet early morning tears that never made it to any canvas?  I’m not Frida Kahlo, and I would hardly be presumptuous enough to make some grand overarching statement on art. But for me, it’s not worth it. I can’t regret it now, I can’t do that to myself. But I’ve got to learn to wisen up. To not take everyone’s words at face value; remember that people can be vicious to me as I’ve been to people in the past. To listen to my friends. Watch for those flags.  And most of all, to throw away the bullshit excuse that this, and maybe sometime in the future, when I’m at the crossroads again (because, sigh, I know I wil)—is okay because it’s an experience. Because all the experience I’m getting right now, sitting in this bed, nearly 1 am, unable to sleep, feeling my heart sink lower + lower with every ticking minute of the bedside clock: is not an experience I’d like to repeat ever again. 

thoughts, #1


I don’t really ever seem to learn from my mistakes. This is a bad thing. I always seem to think that this time is the exception, that this time it will really be okay, even when every alarm in my head is going off and deep inside I know that I’m setting myself up for a heartsore. 

I tell myself that it’s for the experiences I glean from them. I do glean a lot of experiences. But today, a friend + I were at a cafe, just talking about everything + nothing, when we brought up the subject of art. We talked about Frida Kahlo, and how her suffering and pain enabled her to pour her emotion into her work, creating a lasting body of work that still speaks to a generation of new viewers + aspiring artists today. But that pain, that suffering, that misery! Was it worth it, for what it produced? We see the vibrant colors + stare in awe at the symbolism, but what about the hours she must have spent, hunched over in her bed, unbearably miserable—shedding quiet early morning tears that never made it to any canvas? 

I’m not Frida Kahlo, and I would hardly be presumptuous enough to make some grand overarching statement on art. But for me, it’s not worth it. I can’t regret it now, I can’t do that to myself. But I’ve got to learn to wisen up. To not take everyone’s words at face value; remember that people can be vicious to me as I’ve been to people in the past. To listen to my friends. Watch for those flags. 

And most of all, to throw away the bullshit excuse that this, and maybe sometime in the future, when I’m at the crossroads again (because, sigh, I know I wil)—is okay because it’s an experience. Because all the experience I’m getting right now, sitting in this bed, nearly 1 am, unable to sleep, feeling my heart sink lower + lower with every ticking minute of the bedside clock: is not an experience I’d like to repeat ever again.