Deep Submerge.

This is my finished painting for my ART 326 Upper-Division Abstract Painting class. It was inspired by many things, including sea foam, water, bubbles, hair, octopuses, and even nipples. My objective was to capture sensuality through movement and flow. It is my very first abstract painting, and I am proud of it. It even has a title.

Deep Submerge. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 22 x 24 inches.

I've always been quite fond of the ocean. Its the one body of work that never fails to enamor me with both fascination, and fear. It can evoke a quiet and calm beauty, emitting only the distinct smell of fresh seawater and the gentle noise of delicate waves seeping into the sand. At other times, it rages loudly with anger and fury, as the storms undertake the skies and direct every movement, and every rise and fall, every crash. I've always secretly associated myself with the sea. A connection that is rather unexplainable, to be honest. And while the ocean carries my heart, it carries some of my greatest fears, as well. One of them, being inconsistency. The ocean is always moving. Always traveling, pushing and pulling, surrendering itself into producing an endless flow of energy. Right now, I am in a rut. A sleepless, advance-less, seemingly-endless rut. But, as always, water will somehow find a way out.

------------------------------------------------------------

Lately, I haven’t been getting much sleep, let alone rest. Roughly about three hours in four days? I am still confused as to how my brain still functions properly. Every night, I lay myself down, clinging tightly to my pillow as I spend hours thinking. I think about all the friends I have recently lost. How I wish I could tell them something to make their presence in my life less impermanent. I think about that night, and how I wish I never had gone in the first place. And I think of you more often than I want to admit. Not because I feel incredibly hurt by what you did to me, but because I miss you. The absolutely indisputable beauty that was once your being has been immortalized in my memory and within these scattered pages of my sketchbook. But whenever I now drive past your street or even hear your name, I am overwhelmed by complete and utter disgust… and then afterwards, remorse. I miss someone who doesn’t even exist anymore. Sometimes, I will cry about it. But lately, I’ve been too exhausted to produce any more tears. And it is at this point when the sun shyly comes up, and I realize that my arms are still wrapped around my pillow, imagining it were your body.

I found an old seashell I had stolen from the beach as a child. When I've given up on trying to sleep, I place it next to my ear, and finally, I can hear it. "I can hear the ocean".

mkp.

Apart.

Untitled page from my sketchbook.

"My heart becomes transparent through to the core."

I don't want to go to school today. I don't want to see her. I don't want to critique student artwork. I don't want to talk. I don't want to get dressed and drive. I just want some soup. I just want some sleep. I just want to draw in this book and be alone today.

mkp.

111111.

For the longest time now, I’ve wanted to get 6 tally marks tattooed on my left wrist, primarily where the face of a watch would lie. For those of you who know, I am particularly terrified of even-numbers. Kind of like how some people are particularly offset by the number 13 (which is ironically, my favorite number). The disdain towards the even numbers has always been an annoyingly ever-present part of my everyday life. The number 6, however, has always been most inauspicious. What the tattoo would have meant was the end of a chapter. Some form of closure, if you will. You see, I was 6 years old when my life was forever changed by the adverse presence of one repulsive man. My cousin passed away when I was in the 6^th grade, and in that same year, I smoked my first cigarette. I was one out of a group of 6 young, naive girls, out whom 2 are now dead. I spiraled out of control for 6 consecutive years, due to an intensive struggle with 6 primary obstacles, which include that of addiction and self-harm, my gender identity, my sexuality in relation to my faith, familial problems, molestation, and loss. Though these things have long been anchored down at sea, they still float back up to surface every once in a while. I still don’t know what to tell people when they ask me about my sexuality. Other times, I’ll smoke the 6^th cigarette of the day just because it makes me feel so damn good. And of course, I can’t control when the people I love will leave me, and I’ll look for solace through any way I can. I thought I was strong enough to wear the tally marks as a permanent reminder that every big wave will in turn, collapse. But I’m unworthy. I’m not strong at all. I’m pathetic. Weak. And until I am free to roam the sky, I suppose my arm will have to endure these 6 new scars. I feel like an idiot. But my knuckles were already too bloodied to punch any more walls.

mkp.

Beep, beep.

I told myself, "If she answers, I'll reconsider."
All I got was her answering machine.




mkp.

X

"The light has gone out of my life."
-Theodore Roosevelt.




mkp.

I Don't Like This.

Again, you are too tired to talk. I didn't stay on the line long enough to hear you hang up. I immediately shut off my phone and threw it on my bed. I suddenly was overcome by a flurry of emotions. Most of them were negative, I think. I don't mean to be such a needy, annoying bitch, but I can't help but feel that way when you can make time for everyone, except for me. I haven't really spoken to you in days, and when we finally get a chance to catch up with things, your mind is elsewhere. I'm annoyed of having to be the one to call or text you to hang out. I'm tired of not being invited all the time. I don't like not knowing what's going on with you. I can't shake off this feeling, as if I'm somewhat being replaced. I miss talking to you on the phone at night, even if I'm already trying to fall asleep. I miss our debates that go on until 3 am. I miss movie nights. I miss study groups. I miss surprising you with a fresh batch of cupcakes. I miss driving to your house after school just so we can nap. I miss hugging you tightly enough to crack your back. I miss taking embarrassing candid shots of you while Skyping. I miss plucking your eyebrows. Kind of. I miss hearing a new mix cd I've just made for you play in your car as we drive to some cheap fast-food joint. I miss you. And you can take that any way you want to. It's faint, now. Please don't let it go out.




mkp.

Nostalgic Valentine's.

Before school today, I drove to the grocery store to buy a box of cheap valentine cards and chocolates to pass out to friends, as if I were a meager little kid in elementary school again. I couldn’t help but notice the bouquets of roses that flanked the sides of registers, or the gaudy balloons and teddy bears that waited to be adorned by their recipient. This is by far, the most pointless holiday, created by stupid greeting card companies who make you believe that the most sufficient way of telling your significant other that you love them is by taking them out to a fancy dinner and buying them useless crap. “Here’s a diamond necklace, honey!” “Wow, thank you, darling! This must mean that you DO love me!” Expressing genuine love for someone shouldn’t be an expected yearly occurrence. Where is the sincerity in that? I’m not saying that I disbelieve in doing something special for your lover on the 14^th of Februaries; I’m just saying that if you love someone, then love them everyday. Give them something of sentiment and real value.

I’m a great gift-giver, and I don’t even feel the slightest bit of guilt or embarrassment for saying that. I never pass up an opportunity to send a little love down your way, regardless of how little money is sitting in my bank account. I don’t do just money and gift cards. I do effort, thought, consideration, plans, and affection.

Exactly a year ago, I gave someone something that took weeks of preparation. …A collection of 22 little gems that represented 22 specific memories that I had pinned down onto my heart. And these weren’t your typical Valentine presents. They were merely an assortment of random everyday items: a warm fleece blanket, a box of band aids, a sparkling Christmas ornament, and a good bedtime story. It was so random, but it was really quite specific. The night ended with us falling asleep after sex to a mix I had made for that night. I don’t think she ever received anything quite like that gift before. I wonder if she liked it… I wonder if she even remembers any of those priceless treasures and their meanings. Or, maybe they’ve just been bundled up together and thrown in some desolated area to be forgotten about.

Either way, I told her I loved her every day. And every day, I really meant it.

mkp.

Reindeer Tulle.

Three things I am proud of about my personality:
1.) I find genuine happiness in the simplest of things, like the smell of freshly-squeezed lemons, or opening a new book for the first time, or receiving a hand-written letter, or coming across a really good song that I hadn't heard in a while. These things never fail to excite me, and always leave me giddy. My former figure drawing professor told me I'm like "a little kid, in the sense that I'm not jaded, and I celebrate the eternal youth in us all".
-
2.) I'm not afraid to voice my opinions and express myself. I know what I like and what I don't. I don't try to compromise these things, unless there is a soul brave enough to show me the view from their perspective. I am proud of the way I see things, irregardless of whether or not it is accepted my the latter of society. I stand up for what I believe in, and I can defend those beliefs.
-
3.) I rarely, if not NEVER, half-ass anything, be it a painting, an essay, or even an unwavering friendship. I really give things my all, and I don't settle for less.

But of course, all these things have their downsides. For example:
1.) As soon as I finish up with this entry, I'm most likely going to ignore working on my tedious project due on Monday, just so I can catch up on watching the last season of Sailor Moon.

2.) Sometimes, being super-opinionated just leads to not having any friends, or just constantly being seen as a bitch.

3.) Investing so much time and effort in a friendship, where the other party seems to always care less; Always being there for them when they need you, and then having them flake on you, when you need them; Trying to spend time with... but of course, it just ends up being another one of those Saturday nights where I'm stuck at home all alone again.

On an unrelated note, I went to see my former painting professor, Victoria Reynold's gallery opening at Bergamot Station. She has really outdone herself. Her new paintings are so beyond beautiful. She has moved on from painting only meat, and has added some beautiful vegetable substances, and creamy consistencies to her subject matters.

[Creamed, 2010. Oil on Panel. 24 x 18. (My personal favorite)]

If any of you read this thing, and are interested in what the LA art scene has to offer, I highly recommend it! Plus, parking and admission is free!




mkp.

Sea and Sky, Wind and Water.

I used to believe we were flowers, flowers which would never bend. Through the sleet, through the storm, we stood upright and erect. Of sweet aroma, and gentle beauty, no one could overlook. But flowers wilt, flowers die… A short life that they must live.

We were the legs of a compass. We were two, which made one. At an expansion, or a breach, I knew we’d end where we’d begun. But at the centre, I sat waiting. Waiting and wishing, as time grew old... impatient, and overbearing. My warm heart then grew cold.

You were my other half, as modern romances allow me to go. In earlier times, I was surer of it, but I’ve been caught in the undertow. Sun and moon, wind and water; Our differences remain unmatched. The stormy sea now lies beneath the rustling sky. We've burned out, my dear. We have finally crashed.

And to my dismay,

The silver has already faded out to grey.

mkp.