So Much Closer.

I'll be alone in my bed tonight. But I already know that I won't sleep. I'll just be thinking about last night/this morning.

I was blatantly upset coming home from class yesterday. I couldn't keep my mind's wandering down to a minimum, and coincidentally, all I wanted to do was burn that old journal of yours that you gave to me, and throw everything else that held any memory of you in a box, so I wouldn't have to see it again. I was planning on taking 22 (mini) shots of tequila in honor of the stupid day, when I get a call from someone. So, instead of drinking my problems away and passing out from intoxication, I drove us to the opening of the CSUN student art show. We really tried not to feel bitter about not making it into the show. When it came to an end, we smoked our smokes and tried to outrun the pitter-patter of the drizzling rain to the safety of my car. The night was still young, but everyone seemed to be out or busy, and there was absolutely nothing to do. We ended up just talking in my car. For four hours. I haven't even known her for a year, but I've never had a similar relationship with anyone. Needless to say, we have an... interesting friendship. And other than the fact that we have so much in common, and we practically finish each other's sentences, she knows and understands me on so many levels. I never feel ashamed or embarrassed to approach her. I know she'll never judge me. But for the past week or so, we were both a little distant with each other. We both had to deal with shit, that we seemed just so sick of everything. But last night, we ended up closer than we have ever been. It started when we were first reminiscing back to our first memories of how we met. We talked about how quickly we learned to trust one another and how we both never felt that way with anyone else before. We talked about our friendship and how much it meant to us. She ended sleeping over, and for the first time in months, my bed was warm again. Maybe it was because we slept so much closer, both literally and emotionally. In the morning, our fingers were still slightly laced together, and I stayed like that for a little longer because I wanted to hold her hand. As she was getting ready to leave, I told her I loved her, and I don't even know by which way I meant it. I just do. There are so many types of love, and sometimes it's difficult to distinguish one from the other. And I have a love for her. I asked her if I could kiss her goodbye. It was short, but sweet and sincere... intimate. When she left, my heart sank a little, and I only wished she had stayed longer.

mkp.

Selected Memory.

The way my memory works is a very peculiar thing. I can remember voices and faces even after only hearing or seeing them once. I can remember what people were wearing the very first time I met them, the latest dating back to ten years ago. I can remember AND lecture you on the thorough history of vibrators and various other sex toys (I learned it in Anthropology of Sex, okay). Yet, I couldn't remember anything from the 9 years of my childhood, or that one math equation to save my life. I always seem to forget my parents' ages even after asking them yearly. I wish I could sort through the piles of recollections which my memory automatically decides to hold on to. Discard what is unnecessary and make room to store more. For example, I really don't need to remember what I had for lunch three months ago, but I really need to remember to make an appointment for advisement (which has been delayed for far too long). I'd rather my mind attach itself on things far more important. Yesterday, I went to De La Salle with my father to pray the Stations of the Cross. The last time I was there was a week after I had gotten back from leading my first Kairos, approximately six months ago. At this time, she had been stopping by church weekly to meditate before commuting to school. And this one day, she asked for my company, telling me it "would mean a lot" to her. I agreed, and I changed out of my sweaty clothes into a crisp white t-shirt while I waited for her to pick me up. After praying, we sat down on a bench near the parish office outside. What she told me then, I still vividly remember, as if it happened yesterday... though I'm sure she's already forgotten all about it. I latched onto her arm, while we both cried silent tears of sweetness, excitement, joy, and reassurance about what our future would look like. It makes me laugh now about how incredibly wrong she was.

Two years ago today, I sang her a stupid, cheesy song I wrote on the guitar. I can't recall all the lyrics, but I can still play it. I messed up a little bit, and I think I sang too quietly. But still, she said "yes".

Happy April 22nd.

mkp.

It Was Not Your Fault.

"The mirror always shows truth; It's the heart of the viewer that distorts it".

I did this in my car, using my reflection in the rear-view mirror as reference, during the twenty minutes before class. Self-portraits are especially difficult for me. Every time I've ever drawn a self-portrait, I have "beautified" myself. I'm guilty of making my nose look that much smaller, trimming off some extra weight that I'm self-conscious about, lightening the color of my skin, purposely giving myself small breasts because I hate my boobs. Sometimes, it isn't until afterwards when I realize what I've done. And it always starts episodes of self-loathing, because I don't look like that, and quite frankly, I probably never will. So today, I really tried to draw myself as I am.

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

Something happened at home today. There was a lot of screaming and crying. My neighbor had to knock on the front door to ask if everything was okay. The panel on my door broke off again from the slam, handfuls of my hair were cleaned up from the floor, fist met face again, but I still didn't fight back. Instead, I left. I grabbed my phone and my keys and just drove off. I was hysterically crying, to the point where my eyes were burning and all I saw were blurs and bright lights. I was speeding like a maniac, stamping hard on my breaks whenever I met a red. I needed to calm down. But I didn't want to be alone. I called my ex, but I knew she wouldn't pick up. I drove to my friend's dorm, and waited outside his door for a good ten minutes, until I figured he wasn't home. Lastly, I dialed your number. I called three times. And when you didn't answer, I stopped crying. I stopped feeling anything. Because I know I fucked up with you. I know you're upset with me, even though you claim you're not. Whenever I try to start a conversation with you, it's ignored or quickly dismissed. I fucking hate that. We used to talk for hours a day, and now we barely say hello. I know you've read my blog. S0, I'm just going to put this out there: I'm sorry. I acted without thinking. It was a tender moment, and we when we were lying down together, I swear our hearts began beating at the same time. What happened that night was real. My feelings were on the line, just as much as yours were. So please don't think I used you. I would never, and you know I never would. I acted accordingly to how I felt, and it felt right. But when you asked me, and I told you I couldn't... its because I care too much about you. Yes, I miss being close to you. I want to be your friend. I just got out of a relationship with someone who made me believe I'd be with her for the rest of my life, and quite frankly I'm not over it. You deserve someone who is beautiful and wonderful and honest, and will give you their all and make you a priority. I cannot give that to you. I need to learn to pick myself back up again. I need to be able to make myself feel okay. I need to be able to look myself in the mirror and smile, and be okay with the person staring back.

mkp.

Angel.

Angel Veins Exposed, 2011. Acrylic paint on canvas. 30 x 24 inches.

Being rejected sucks. I worked my ass off on my diptych so that they would be ready on time to show at the student exhibition. I wasn't sleeping at all, and I was practically eating and smoking oil paint because it was always slathered all over my hands. I submitted a total of three works, including a portrait of Dita Von Teese. Nothing was picked. It's a little discouraging. Obviously, it isn't my sole purpose as an artist to only create things merely for everyone's enjoyment. And if it were, then I would be selfish. I paint for me. Still, it's not easy to face denial, especially when I'm trying to leave my mark in an industry too tough to break through.

Anyway, the photo above is more or less my finished Abstract Expressionist painting. It was not at all easy to do, but I like it a lot.

mkp.

The Moon is a Kite.

Today, my mother came home early. I looked her in the eye, but all she saw was the bruise on my face, still dark and purple. She said absolutely nothing to me, just stormed into her room, and locked the door. But I heard her sobbing. It wasn't one of those faint, silent cries. She was hysterically crying, and her uneasy breathing made me feel sick. I wanted nothing more than to leave. Drive somewhere, and not worry about coming home. But I didn't want to be alone. I didn't want to see anyone, but you. I called you once, and you didn't answer. For some reason, I knew you weren't going to. Immediately after this, I felt really lonely. The only person I have ever trusted or have ever turned to isn't as "there" for me anymore. I have to get that through my head. Still, it's so strange not knowing how you are or what you're doing. Had this been two months ago, I would've excitedly texted you about the illustrations I came across that featured alien sex. I would have thoroughly lectured you about the history of dildos and vibrators which I learned about in Anthropology of Sex. I would have shown you preliminary sketches for new painting ideas. Now, every time I see something that reminds me of you, I refrain from telling you about it. Mainly because I never get a response. I figure you're busy with work. Or out with your new girlfriend or family. Or maybe you simply just don't want to talk to me anymore. So when you called me back today, I was sincerely happy about it. I felt like finally, the stars were fearlessly shining again. But the moment I accepted the call, it was uncomfortably quiet, with the conversation ending with you saying "I'll talk to you... when I talk to you". The second I hung up, I cried so much, my nose started running and my eyes swelled up. Tonight, I feel like we've become strangers. We were once the closest of friends who could talk about nothing for hours on end, but now, we have absolutely nothing to say to each other.

Nonetheless, I do miss talking to you. I really miss telling you about all the stupid shit that happens during the day. Maybe that's why I write on this so much more lately. Because maybe you still read this when you want to know about what's going on with me. I secretly hope you do. And if you are, please come back.

"I promise all I will echo back is

'Beauty, beauty, you have always been beauty.'"

mkp.

Art is Hard.

I've been back in school for three days now, and its been miserable. Not only am I overwhelmed by the intensity of the workload (since we've only got a month left), but I'm also not sleeping much again. I'm up to my neck in homework assignments for the weekend, one of them being my final Abstract Expressionist painting for ART 326.

[practice paintings on Bristol board paper]

I paint because it is all I know. I paint because when I open my mouth to speak, I don't know what to say or how to say it. I paint because I can take any given moment from my reality and enclose it within a single frame, and have it there forever. I paint because it helps me let things go. I paint because of the sheer satisfaction of knowing that I've made something out of nothing. I paint because it comes naturally. I paint because it makes me feel okay. So why can't I get this? Every preliminary draft is utter shit. It's all shit. I have never struggled more with painting than I do now. I've always been somewhat skilled at art. I've never really had a problem with it like other people do. It's what I'm good at... Like how some poets can speak so powerfully, that the stars seem to shine brighter. Or how some dancers can emit grace and beauty and emotion through a flurry of movement. So even though I sometimes fail miserably at voicing myself, my paintings always succeed in expressing what I need to say. So why can't I do this? What am I doing wrong? For some reason, I can't grasp the technique. I don't understand it.

My brain is pounding like hammer in my head, screaming at me to render, to think, to draw from. The noise is so loud, that I can't even hear my heart, telling me that what I need is to stop thinking. What I need is to think and to feel.

On an unrelated note, I will be twenty in exactly a month. I hate it.

mkp.

Remember Me.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, directed by Michael Gondry.

I have a new bruise dancing along my cheekbone. I wonder if it's the last time it will happen. I thought maybe I could depend on someone to make me feel happy and not like shit, but I should have known better. It's not the first time I've been been flaked on. I need to remind myself that even though I really try to always be there for people, I can't expect it in return. So instead, I took shelter in my bedroom. I ate four bowls of cereal and a pack of Now & Later's. I worked intensively on a series of 10 drawings. I kept Andrea Gibson's "Yellowbird" audio cd playing on repeat. I left only to pee and to refill my water bottle. When I was younger, I used to disappear for days. Between drawing in sketchbooks and religiously reading the Lord of the Rings, I found no real reason to have to leave my room. But right now, I'm feeling sick. Sick of food, sick of not fighting back, and sick of feeling like I'm really disappearing.

But this has always been my favorite film. And today gave me the perfect excuse to watch it again. I actually haven't seen it as much as the others in my collection. The last time it was watched was over a year and a half ago. Clementine is my favorite character from all of film, but she can be so unlikable. I usually feel a lot like her, though. An eccentric, impulsive, vindictive, little bitch. However, today, I felt more like Joel, with his initial want to erase everything, in hopes for a new beginning of some sort.

mkp.

I Wish You Were Here.

Tonight, I had the greatest pleasure of getting to see Andrea Gibson recite some of her poems at Occidental college. We arrived just in time, right before she started. She was more beautiful than I had expected, and she was and so sincere and down-to-earth. I was one of the last people to talk to her while she was packing up the rest of her merchandise. I told her about the yellowbird tattoo. Instantly, her eyes widened, and her mouth morphed into a smile. She asked me to send her a picture of it after the last session, but I told her that I'd track her down instead to show it to her in person whenever that time came. She gave me a hug and I swear I fell in love with her a little bit. Andrea, you melt me alive... I knew every word to every poem by heart. But still, every time your strong voice started shaking, it sent shivers down my spine. And every time you cried out a solid "fuck", my bones melted into jelly. At the end of my favorite poem of yours, which you had done last, I realized that my eyes had welled up with tears and my hands were light and sweaty. Both my feet were numb from having fallen asleep, yet I felt lifted, and I wanted nothing more than to call my ex-lover and to tell her that it didn't matter if I was with or without her, because all I want is to wish her well.

"You were the first mile where my heart broke a sweat.

And I wish you were here. I wish you never left."

-Andrea Gibson, Photograph.

mkp.

Things That Are Ephemeral.

Transient, 2011. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 48 x 36 inches.

Directionless, 2011. Acrylic and oil on canvas. 48 x 36 inches.

These are my two newest paintings. I usually take about 4-8 months on a single given painting. But these two are the only exceptions. 85 % of the first one was done in about 2 months, and I allowed it a few months to dry before touching it again. The second was completed in 36 days. The first is centered around the concept of holding on while everything else is falling apart, and you know that inevitably, you must let go. The second is what comes afterwards, during the separation: you are emotionally numbed and you don't know what to do with yourself anymore or what direction you must take. They are very much like self-portraits, without actually having my face plastered on. They are raw fragments of me that have been broken off and rendered and pasted on thick pieces of cotton-duck for the world to see and judge. They are my realities, as broken, and tender, and dismal as it may sound. But I love both of them even more than my own skin.

mkp.