I’ll get it done… hopefully.
In a tragedy, there is a dramatic term known as "Hamartia" it is the tragic character flaw of the protagonist that ultimately leads to their failure or demise.
Mine might just be my self absorption, which is emphasized in this little space one calls a blog. Indulge me before time whisks me away.
Hubris is excessive pride, and bathos is the switch from a serious subject to a trivial one.
*Disclaimer, everything I say on here should not be taken seriously. I mean what I say mostly, but my opinions and thoughts and ideas and conclusions about life are subject to change as one's often do. I say what I think in that moment, on the day. It could be entirely different the next. That is just how I, as an adolescent, function for the time being.
** All content is my own excluding the theme or unless otherwise stated or linked to the source
I’ll get it done… hopefully.
I just came from an interview with a chase producer of a radio show. It was exciting to see a real, albeit empty because of the time and day, newsroom. It was terrifying and I felt horrendously out if place. I’m not a real journalist, I’m not even a very good journalist student. I’m shy, lazy, and not imaginative- but I love to listen.
The way she talked about finding stories or talking to little old rural ladies was mesmerizing. It was fascinating to hear what her reality of life is. Of what mine could be if I developed a passion. But I don’t feel like I will. I feel like there is potential for me to enjoy being a journalist, but I won’t ever be a good one.
Right now I’m dreaming of a different future reality. I dream to grow up and make corsets and lingerie. I want to make a company and market and kind of be a business person. It’s a weird thought. This isn’t what I ever thought I’d want. Granted I’m also still clinging onto learning how to make historical costumes and dressing tv and movie stars. Maybe these will be my lifetimes. But what order do I live them in ?
How do I combine my passions and pursue and develop them ? How do I apply myself ? I want to love what I do. I want my hobby to be my career.
I want to switch to costume studies and complete that program. Work for a while (maybe 5 years) and then try to go back to school and do a lingerie program (hopefully contour).
My clothes, which are scattered on the floor, haven’t been washed in weeks. There are food wrappers and empty bowls on my bed of which the flat sheets have fallen off.
When my dad called the other day, he asked me if I was okay, I said I was- but I hesitated. Something told me I wasn’t. The clue should have been my lack of attendance. Perhaps I was too rattled by his announcement or his tone of voice to say so. He sounded slurred, overly passionate, illogical- intoxicated. I heard the horn of a car, he was driving. I could be over analyzing his behaviour, but I’m not home anymore, I don’t know who he is anymore.
I’ve dyed my hair four times this weekend. I’ve watched seven movies and am watching a eighth right now.
It’s got me thinking perhaps I’m not okay. I see a lot of my past in this movie, mostly in the protagonist’s mother. She has the same glazed expression and slow speech my own mother has shown at the height of the chaos. The protagonist is hugging his mother in the freeze frame I’ve paused on. I can feel those tiny bones under sagging flesh, he’s reluctant and disgusted to hold her - or so I read because that’s how I used to feel to hug my mother. I just wanted her to be a mom, but unlike his mom mine had no passion, no dream. I’m not sure if that’s a blessing in disguise.
I’ve hid in my room all long weekend. I’ve stayed away from friends mostly. I don’t feel like responding to texts or messages. I’m in a small slump. I didn’t want to acknowledge it because I feel unjustified to behave this way. My school work is not tremendously overwhelming, my fathers marriage isn’t something I’m against, I’m not home. Likewise, I struggle to validate my experience with my family. Everyone’s family is dysfunctional. My friend’s have grown up with far worse- yet I talk about mine and hate mine far more often. I feel like I don’t have a right too. I had more privilege and even less pain. I feel guilty for having such strong emotions about something that’s not that horrible. Perhaps how often I speak of it is because for so long it’s dysfunction defined me as a person.
I watch this film and I see my family. But only in small tender moments such as this embrace, or the blank wounded expression on his mothers medicated face.
I’ve spent most if it in the studio sewing, badly. I slept in this morning and missed that class. I’m headed there now to hand in my samples. I still need more plastic page protectors though. I suppose then I’ll head to my other class. Probably late. Maybe not at all. Depends when the bus gets here, maybe I’ll head there after class- that seems to make more sense.
I told my dad I was fine. I don’t know. I feel like I keep telling myself that while I let dishes and laundry pile up and I run out of food to eat.
I’m a weird kind of overwhelmed- I’m in a phase of wishing I was in a different kind of place. I spent most of the day researching an undergraduate degree in contour fashion and lingerie making- wishing that could be me.
When I was younger I often wrote fiction from the male perspective. I wrote of loving women, of loving fragile, feisty, pale, thin fingered and dainty boned women. To me it was easier to describe falling in love with a women, then to try to capture what falling in love with a man would be like. I think there were two main reasons for this- one I didn’t know men, and the media told me they were strong and muscular and not in touch with their emotions. Two - I thought that’s how the ideal woman would be, based on media interactions. She would be feisty and defiant but put her in front of this insensitive manly character I was writing and she became this broken baby bird.
It disturbs me now. I see a lot more about relationships then I did when I was younger. I know a lot more people then I did, and I understand that’s not how they work. People are complex. Women aren’t always fragile, but they don’t have to be strong either- they don’t have to be one all the time. Men too, don’t have to be macho, both genders aren’t exclusive to certain personality traits. Their roles are unfortunately different, and their expectations are different in society, but humans have a wide range of qualities.
I just thought the male view of the world was the only story I could tell, even as a girl. I thought men were more interesting, because that’s all I ever saw. Women were just plot devices and objects for men to describe and pretend to understand.
This is all coming up again because my friend told me I should participate in a kind of nanowrimo. I said I couldn’t do a novel. She said, I should just try to write every day, so I went back to things I used to be proud of, and found myself disturbed.
i have nothing to say
" I want to go on long walk" I think as I sit leaning against the bus window under fluorescent lights.
Half an hour ago I sat in a blue grey building in the darkness listening to a small man delight over ancient roman togas and tunics.
My arm kept lightly searching for an off switch on the back of my neck. How do I turn off these awkward side glances? How do I turn off this intrigue for her?
I keep stealing glances to the right of me, hoping to see more then her inked hands rolling through her shaved head and long dyed bangs.
How do I know if what I’m feeling is real?