MoMA

Living in New York has taught me a lot about navigating through the world no matter what medium I'm travelling through. Whether that medium be love, streets, towns, trains, buses, work, or even simple works of art- I am learning more and more about how to find my way.

Here, in this little diary that connects my insignificant and common thoughts to the world, I feel as though I should relate more of my experiences in the city to the web. I will neither live forever nor be young forever. I should feel wiser if I record my thoughts, feelings, and experience here to reflect on later.

My First Visit to MoMA
February 25th, 2012

Precisely two months after my First Christmas in New York. I enjoyed the pleasant gift Rockafeller's Mother gave New York- The Museum of Modern Art. The exhibit I visited today before it was allowed to be shown to the public was the Cindy Sherman tribute. It was an array of characters all portrayed by the same common looking woman. Some of my favorite pieces were silly portraits of herself in renditions of famous works of art others were spread out in a misty range from recent to modern. My favorite work was of two torso+genitalia tied together by a single ribbon (the male part wore a cock ring and the female part wore a tampon). More than anything I enjoyed the fact that Sherman's common features gave her the magnificent ability to be the women and men that we all know and see. The women on the bus, the regulars at our favorite diner, these people who may or may not play a role in our lives, these people we don't always have a name attached to- she was everyone's face. Sherman completely submit herself to the art of impersonation.

Before Will and I were rushed out of MoMA by security officials I saw paintings by Monet and Khalo. One of the highlights of my day was helping Will see the beauty in Monet's water lilly pond.

The last thing I did before leaving the galleries for the long voyage on the escalader was watch a short film.

New York

Here I am- almost a year later. The villain of my own story. Self-centered, greedy, manipulative bitch that I am. I live with a man that I don't know if I'm in love with. The classic tale of great sex and fire in the bedroom, but constant discord outside of the bedroom. He is besotted and beside himself; in fact, tonight, he's taking me out to a romantic evening of Phantom of the Opera and the restaurant we first met at. He gives me everything and more and yet ever since the fight where he strangled me and pushed me, I could never find the love I had for him. I know I care for him, I know I have strong feelings, I know the sex is amazing and yet those emotions don't fit together in my heart and call themselves love.

I find new displeasing things about him each day. I've been patient enough to wait for these parts of his personality and tics about him to turn into sentimentally valuable parts of him I'll never forget, but my heart turns away from attempting to do it. I don't like who I am when I'm with him. The evil girlfriend of a fresh  heart that has only just learned to love another. Another dark detail of this fairytale- he's never been in love and he's 40 years old. So much to disagree about: the way I easily offend him, the way my words turn into chunks of coal, the way touching is something I have to think about, the way I am forced to ignore the way I feel and deal with it. I am mean and evil. I thought before, all these years, that I couldn't like myself any less and here I am each day before I go to work thinking about how much I hate myself.

His sad blue eyes beg me to stay and I do because I feel like I have no where else to go. I feel like no place else is more desirable than here, but I hardly want to be here either. Even still, the one person I wish would help me figure out another option besides a shelter coaxes me to love him. Goads him to pamper me. Attempts to bind us with domestic adhesive known to all as "good food". I don't have anyone to turn to. I don't have anywhere to go. I'm trapped here by my own hand and I've become jaded, evil, sour, rotten, and grinched because of it.

The sound

Maybe, I'll discover more about my sexual preferences later, but for now I must say I prefer the sound. The soft tap of his testicles against mine is more than satisfying and the gentle smack of our lips as the stickily separate only garnishes whatever sexual tension was building before. We as love makers or fuckers are not angry, we may not even be in love, but it's the light in our eyes that make it right. It's the sound of the bed, our lips, our bodies, the covers rushing back and forth. 

We tumble in and out of position as he delves in and out of me and it's beautiful. The echo across my mind of myself moaning in sheer devotion to the act of making love is never ending. The more disgusting, dark parts of me want more than this simple bliss, but for now, it will do. For now, it is everything and it is what I have forever.

Our Time is Running Out

I've got three essays to do. Jeffrey is away, so I figure I'd better get started.
I've eaten two little travel cases of cheddar pringles and two capri suns I think I'm ready to work- after I shower.


Today I had the weirdest feeling of love rush through me. Like a pleasing change in weather, or the smell of freshly mowed grass as you walk by the park, I saw him. His name is MP, but he's very handsome, much like Jeff. He reminds me of Jeff too in a sense. He was wearing a Hollister shirt and I'm nearly certain he's a good writer. So many similarities and yet I know he's not the right one. It scared me to think people like him could exist that he wasn't one of a kind, but it settles me to know that of that kind, he is the one for me. Jeffrey is the kind of his kind that only I could need. It's funny to think of and perhaps the thought may discourage him, but I hope it settles him to know that even with the similar looks and voice and height and strength- MP is NOT Jeffrey Lee Owens. That guy who can kiss my lips softly and roughly, the guy who can shake my timbers at the change of his season. He moves me as nature because he is the force that corrodes and rebuilds. Oh no, I dare not think of it as luck or effort that got us here in this love, but merely a way of nature. The way it probably always has been since we died and were reborn or since God sent us to Earth bound by our ancestral wit to one another.


Perhaps.

Bondage

I'm learning about sexual satisfaction. I've watched most of the movie Short Bus, which I recommend if you're a seer of worlds, not a biased and unwilling customer of the menagerie the world offers. Anyway, I'm learning about bondage. For a while I thought, yes, I'd be willing to allow Jeffrey to do terrible, unsaintly things and enjoy them too. I still believe this, but my needs are much more darker than even the most willing participants of this dark sensual activity. Other than that, I'm learning about sex.


Life is interesting, isn't it? What we see isn't what we get, but merely something we can interpret the way it is meant to or the way we believe it should be. 


I have issues I know, but I'm not writing to make people like me. I'm writing for me. Maybe my friend would figure out what's wrong with me more if I put it out there.


Speaking of friends, what little of them I do have, I feel lonely. Possibly because I am something people resort or possibly because I am being completely and utterly neglected in some cases. And then again there is the otherworldly possibility of a mixture of those two given choices. Either way, it doesn't seem fair. I like being alone though. I can be okay with myself. I accept people, however weird they may be but once people know what I'm thinking they usually don't want to accept me. 


I should get a hobby, but I'd rather stay here.

Alone

Right about now, would be a good time for me to scream. I spend most of my weekends in a house where drawers slam, children fall, parents yell, tv's roar, and cars slowly careen by. It drives me crazy to know that my friends are happily depressed in each other's company, while I am alone in this banal, restricted room. Four corners never looked so forlorn, even as I paint them. Movies make me feel even lonelier, watching quarreling lovers make up with a sweet bedtime smoke and pancake. It's impossible not to feel like I want to scream.

First Entry...

Well, I certainly didn't expect the journey to my blogging to begin so early. Honestly, I thought I wouldn't feel the hardships of a blog until maybe three days later, when I would have to humanely decide, "TO BLOG or NOT TO BLOG." The purpose of my blog is purely selfish, but today people seem to enjoy the inter-working of everyone's mind, so I decided to skip on my perfunctory purchase of a small oddly colored or textured journal that I would forget about for months at a time and go right ahead and begin my blog ages before I got into college.

So, my adventure:
I had promptly finished using the bathroom and decided to brush my teeth. After glancing at my bed for the seventh time, I realized I'd left my watercolors on my bed for a REASON. Oh yes, I was supposed to paint today, but I was so uninspired, so very distraught and left penniless with the currency of the time being ideas. I spit the white froth of my favorite Colgate into the sink rinsed my mouth and the sink and left the bathroom to stare at my paints.

I stole the paints my last year at Mt. Vernon High. It was perfectly alright, they completely dismembered the art classes at the school anyway. I remembered the day I stole them was the last day and I sighed with my hand on my hips and made my decision promptly. I grabbed a vase, and some pencils and sat on my bed with my computer and decided to blog. Ah yes, it makes no sense, but I'm getting to it.

NOW, here I am on my bed with paints and a vase and brushes (that I also stole), sitting next to me in bed not painting and odd picture I'm sure. But I am blogging because I want to stick to something, I haven't stuck to painting or anything except my beloved Jeffrey and even my relationship with him gets rocky. The journey I was looking for, was a journey to something I would have to do, much like brushing my teeth, in order to feel healthy and be healthier. Unfortunately, it began sooner than I had hoped.

I got online excited to write my first entry, thinking I would skip the posh and get right down to business, instead...I found out, I would need a name. I pondered it and LilOwl was born. An aside to my dear Jeffrey Lee Owens, I like little owls too, but that was mostly who it was for. I moved on and realized I would have to write that same trash as usual, favorite movies, favorite music, and when I got to the books I said, "To HELL with it," and hastily typed in, "too many." It is a true statement, I do like too many books, but I could have listed them...I'm simply being lazy about it. And then I came to the lay outs, I don't want to seem too hipster, too emo, too self-centered, too boring, too fat, too ugly, too ....myself. So I closed my eyes, and pop...there it was. My heart was palpating at an erratic speed, I felt alive, I WAS DOING SOMETHING...and I hadn't even begun the first entry. A tiny, "oh" echoed across my room as I realized this...and here I am writing.

So, my first ...reader... whoever you are. BE prepared. I may not write this much everyday, but let's hope I write and keep my head on. History is important it allows us to look back, if I began to record my own history I can look back and recall what makes my journey worth it.