Scatter Me Now : 03.09.03 @ 10:46 pm

"For every lie I unlearn
I learn something new
I sing sometimes for the war that I fight
'cause every tool is a weapon -
if you hold it right."

- "My I.Q." Ani Difranco

You know, I think I need to expand my music tastes some more.
I just walked into my room to switch CDs.
Hmmm, What do I want to listen to today? Ani Difranco, Ani Difranco, Ani Difranco or...
It's not that I don't listen to anything else, I do, just not as often.
I pity anyone who lives with me in the future and doesn't like Ani Difranco.
Then again, its mostly a headphone thing so no worries.

I know I had my temperamental artist moment in an earlier entry. I do believe that in life I was swearing up a storm - ("Fuck it all! Fuck these fucking negatives and fuck this stupid fucking dust... I can't fucking do anything right [more grumbling]...") but I don't know if I'd be able to give up photography entirely.

The very thought of having a camera in my hands, taking pictures of Natasha (the girl I work with who agreed to let me take her pictures)... taking pictures of people, catching that look in their eye, that small smile, that moment when their brick walls are down just for a split second...

The very thought sets my pulse up a notch.
The fever I'm in when I take the pictures... the anticipation as I spend forty minutes developing the film... the relief when I know that I didn't mess up the entire roll.
The smile that slides onto my face as on the paper appears exactly what I was trying to capture - or something completely different and more beautiful then I originally thought it would be.
It's all so beautiful - and oh such a high... no drug could ever do that for me.

Can I really give that up as a professional option?
What would happen to me if I did? Would I end up a mediocre lawyer in a mediocre firm? Would I end up being a bitter old high school teacher, constantly wishing she had gone into photography?

But what happens if I do go into photography? Do I end up one of those penniless self employed photographers who does wedding pictures? Do I end up with a B.F.A. that does me jack shit? Yet another product of the liberal arts program... (I graduated with a B.F.A. in photography from a school that cost me 30 grand a year. Would you like fries with that?)

Sometimes.
Sometimes I think about things I have said and/or done in the past that may have hurt someone. That may have made them feel like the worthless shit that I have felt in the past and sometimes still do.

Do you think that is hell?
To know that somewhere, at sometime, you said something that may have made someone go into their room and slice up a few capillaries. veins? Is it hell to know that you made someone cry at some point or another? Is it hell to acknowledge that yes, you are a horrible person, yet know that there is nothing you can do to those you've hurt in the past?

Sure. I wish I could cure everything with a Hug. But I'm not a fucking Care Bear, it doesn't work that way for me.
I think this desire to make it all right through touch comes through my own desire to be touched and to touch.
(Fuck Amy, even when you're trying to comfort someone you have your own selfish reasons)
I need touch. I'm not quite sure why but if I have someone to cuddle with, someone to hold, someone to hold me... everything's all right. Everything will be okay.
The sun will rise tomorrow, I will survive the day and it'll all be okay...
If this person loves me, perhaps I could learn to love myself.

I suppose that's why I've quite wilted withdrawn from this move.
(No body likes me everybody hates me guess I'll go eat worms)
Who's here to hug me now?
Who's here to let me play with their hair? Who's here to curl up with? To hold hands? To be so utterly comfortable with?

No, really - who's here?

Not just for me - but who's here? Who really on this entire planet stops to go...
The clouds look like bunny rabbits?

Who's really here to point out the superficial chocolate coating on The American Dream?
As a race, we don't dream of peace. We don't dream of harmony.
We slave away at desks in tiny cubicles to buy that house in the fucking suburbs with the picket fence, the kid, the wifey, and the dog named Spot.

Why the hell do we go to college? Why do we even go to school? For most of us - those who do not have this inborn passion for learning - it's because in order to have money, you must have a college degree.
In order to have everything you could ever want you must have money.

Tell me again, what good is that cell phone going to do you when you're dead?
What good is that fancy car you drive?
Do you think the clothes you wear are going to make a difference to the worms?

Whole, yet Not.

Ah. The endless mindless prattle we call Life.
- What joy it is to meet you
Tell me, did you smell the daisies on your way in?

/A

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