(Beginning of some book thing)
I’ve always wanted to write a book about myself because I know as selfish and ultimately narcissistic as it may seem, it’s my way of expressing my gratitude to all the people in my life that have shaped me into who I am. I’ve got all these pieces, fragments of memory but I’ve never consistently journaled and I just… do what I do. I remember whatever I remember and gloss over the rest, sometimes because I’m careless, other times because I just forget. I’m just making this up as I go along…
I like to reference pop culture, because I like stuff. I like to name drop (refer/infer) other people because I’m not self made, only self taught…
If we follow my map, we start in the lion’s den. Leo in the 4th.
In the beginning, there was… The Lion King
· Simba, remember who you are. In doing so you have forgotten me.
· Rafiki knows. The past is in the past, come follow me. Look harder.
· Timon and Pumbaa as comedic side kicks, complementary opposites, but loyal to the hero.
I’ve pretty consistently lamented that I wish I had some semblance of artistry, that my creativity was something that was acknowledged and admired. That’s not to say that I can’t imitate the greats, I know how to copy and mimic and conform with the masses. That is not what I associate with art. To me, art is the divine act of CREATION, and making something that is new and unique and not like something else. It is the combination of difference into a beautiful NEW. It doesn’t matter what it resembles, or what form it takes. But that it now exists and it is not something that existed before. That to me is what it is to be an artist. That to me is what it means to be god.
I also know I’m fallible. I am contrarian and complex, and finite in knowledge. As much as I appreciate science, I don’t understand it! I think it is fascinating and awesome and something that is necessary for the continuation of growth and spread of knowledge.. But it’s not me. My brain just isn’t wired for the memorisation of minute codes and facts and definitive details. I am fascinated by the physical world, my intellect is aroused by the cracking open of a thing and scourging the insides with all questions “Why?”
I often times refer to myself as feeling in myself that I am anachronistic. I’m out of my depth and I don’t know if it’s in space or it’s time. I don’t think it really matters which, I’m not bothered on the finer details of existence all around me. But I am interested in me. I want to devour Venus, and consume her beauty almost as if I could absorb and radiate that energy from within me. I could be the light of a million suns but it doesn’t matter who or what I am if nobody notices. I’ve learned to dim the light that I know is within and find my own inner beauty and loving myself just exactly as I am. Yup, I am a narcissist. I’ve learned to heal myself and my short comings through accepting that I am rebellious and I never really learn anything that other people tell me until I learn it for myself.
I know who I am. I know a whole bunch of shit about because for all the psychological and psychiatric scrutiny I’ve subjected myself to, their advice is meaningless because their advice is what I have always done, lessons I have already integrated into my being. I’ve always been searching for something, just “doing my thing”. I like learning, and looking, and participating, and appreciating. I consistently change my mind, but have enjoyed self examination through appreciating the arts. I’ve looked to the stars and I don’t know if there are any answers, but again, I don’t care about that. I care about me. I like me. I am the scales of Libra, the centrepoint of balance. On one hand I hold my soul, and the other hand I hold my heart. But these are mere metaphorical figures in which to perceive and discern the key markers of similarities and difference.
I know I am complex and contrarian, I am a chimera of sorts. In the beginning of self discovery as you prepare for your journey, you don’t really know where to start so you define yourself by the people around you: we learn to censor ourselves to conform to the people around us. We know how to read and write in the language of our parents, we subscribe to the common aesthetic ideals, traditions and practices that we see around us. We are just kids and not yet jaded by the flying fists of fate. Our parents sheltered us and shielded us, protecting us from their own inner demons. They wanted the best for us so that way we could have a better life than they did. In all their effort to protect us, they don’t see the proverbial bruises their tight grip leave behind. They don’t see that their act out their inner demons and inflict new wounds onto their children. The fists of fate are figurative, they are fictional, mere figments of imagination. But it is the imagery, or the sentiment that pique that sensation you feel inside. An invisible force unto form that once inspired curiosity but now evokes fear and dread.
The times we live in require indentification to differentiate ourselves from the millions of other John Smith’s and Jane Doe’s. We have our name, we have our birthdates, we have our address, maybe some form of classification. But the one thing I complete by our hand is our signature. That’s where we show we can write out our own name. You might just be someone who shares the exact name or birthday as someone. Maybe in your household your parents liked a particular letter and it could get a bit confusing trying to sort through the mail.
“Ms. K. Kardashian.” Ok.. which one?
I thought it was interesting what made people choose names. I liked so many, I would come up with lots of different names because I thought they just sounded beautiful. In high school I’d give my friends nicknames because it was fun. I thought it was funny to attribute different characters upon them and play act some silly scene.
· I was a sperm and I’d headbutt my friends and call them different parts of the reproductive system. I called it my sperm dance, and I’d make whale noises like a sperm whale. I would headbutt them in a specific order, and make a huge scene about trying to penetrate the hottest friend because she was the egg.
· “What about me?” Someone would ask, so I’d have to think of what we missed along the way. Or something we bypassed. But I was also particular about my designations, I’m symbolic by nature. The sanctity of words no mere nomenclature.
· “You can be the zygote!” She was quintessentially weird. It was my way of ostricising her from my little commune of disciples I’d inspired with names that were just words. I’d put her in the middle and did a little magic dance around her to signify the beauty of creation, she would be venus born.
· At the time I was derisive, I lived out my satire. I was selfish, rude, vain, bitter. I was lonely and sad and a bunch of shit. But that friend, the Zygote, she was my muse. I was the performance artist Terpsichore.
· I’d dance and sing and spin – you couldn’t tell if it was Melpomeme or Thalia, who was really speaking.
· Her name was Sara. Leo. She was always rather fierce. She may be one of my gateways to heal my empty.