struck.

 

One encounter enormously shaped how I saw my art and myself as an artist.

In high school art classes, I was more technically skilled than most other kids. I was confident in my ability and often experimented with color and media without fear. I drew and painted, and I read stories and made stories, expanding where my mind could go – at home, in class, in after-school class, during breaktime with friends, alone in the studio instead of eating lunch.

There was a girl – let’s call her Sam – who attended “Advanced Studio Art” too. Composed, thoughtful, somewhat sassy. Generally, I noticed her as much as I would notice any other schoolmate.

One day, the teacher invited us to share some kind of personal art – I forget exactly what it was about – but I remember when it was Sam’s turn. 

This was an Artist.

I don’t remember what she talked about. I don’t remember what the artwork even looked like. I only remember staring at it… and seeing something I could not do.

Her art showed her Self. Authentic Self.

It didn’t matter that the shading was flat, that the rendering wasn’t all smooth. The work as a whole showed her intention – she had expressed her Being. Composed, thoughtful, somewhat sassy. And deep and meaningful, dark and light, genuine and unabashed.

This was Art.

I saw it and knew – that I don’t know how to do it, how to make that. I wasn’t sure I could ever become an Artist. I don’t know if I could ever have the courage and/or if I am able to nurture that kind of inside connection, a way to bring my Inner to the Outer.

I’d always remember Sam and that moment with her art.

I hope one day I can be like that.

haste not.

Once begun, suicidal thoughts never really go away.

But it isn't that I've ever attempted suicide. Even when despair seeps into the cracks of my self, I know I will continue. My thought is "What if I end my existence now and stop all this?" And I imagine the loss to the world I know — the pain to my family and the plaguing questions to my friends.

And I imagine that a terrible car accident tomorrow causes my hands to be cut off, and my life is now handless. (Please note that drawing, designing and climbing are me now.)

I don't have great ambitions or goals. But still, there is so much I want do — more that I want to experience, more that I want to learn about my self and existence.

When reminded of my want and mortality, I feel a panic rising and pounding from my chest straight into my head. "I must hurry."

Before the panic reaches my face, I tell myself, "Haste will not give you what you want."

And it is true. I can start things now, but it might be some time before the want is satisfied. When will it ever be? Perhaps when simply I'm tired or too aged to continue. During my haste, things will be missed or discarded in the efficiency and pace.

What I want is life by living.

Then simply I must live here now.

– design by Georgia Perry

a character sketch: the cigarette girl.

Being a bouncer at the LURE for the last couple years became a routine experience. In Los Angeles, the abundance and frequent sightings of immaculately preened and dressed smooth-skinned women can make one desensitized to the allure of gorgeous women. Some of them are really beautiful, and some of them lack class to say the least. People who meet in the club never know what they are actually like as a person – that's not what they come to the club for.

And sometimes, no one really knows what they come to the club for, at all.

She stepped out of the smokers' doorway, with a click of boot heels on asphalt steps. I nodded at the Asian couple to enter the building and then checked my surroundings, glancing at the girl, didn't remember if I saw her inside or not. She was of mixed ethnicity, the type that's hard to place. She looked to be in the early or mid-twenties, slender, average height, pale skin. She nonchalantly shouldered on a loose and ridiculous-looking faux fur shawl, her shoulder-length light brown hair puffing slightly from the shawl's mass under it. Her cream-colored top and black shorts shined satin-like passing under the light, and her low black boots had thick heels, unlike the pointy ones typical in the club. She wore no accessories, except a thin black rectangle of a purse hanging by a skinny strap from her shoulder under the shawl. Her make-up was light, practically nothing compared to most clubbers.

She briefly looked around standing in front of the steps, seeming to take note of things but not really paying any attention to anyone. There was a group of young men relaxing and chatting amongst themselves nearby, some of them scanning her over. She walked away from us, around the corner of the white brick wall, and stopped at the edge, leaning her back against it. She pulled out a cigarette and a lighter from her purse. I heard the shick of the lighter as she lit up. In the next fifteen minutes, I gave my other surroundings more of my attention but stayed aware of her just in case. She was leaning still against the wall, gazing up at the starless sky, her arm relaxed at her side and a lit cigarette loosely held between long fingers.

She hadn't smoked it at all.

The girl moved, her hair falling a little towards her face. In one smooth movement, she flicked the cigarette at the ground, crushing it under her boot, and reached into her purse. I couldn't see the object, but she then rubbed her hands together, turning on her heel to head back inside. As she passed by, a sharp floral and alcoholic fragrance whisked into the air.

It was hand sanitizer.

_____


Every once in a while throughout the next several months, she would arrive, and the same thing would happen. Sometimes the girl arrived with acquaintances, sometimes alone. Always in the middle of peak club hours, she would step out by herself from the club. She would stand alone gazing at the city's starless sky, a lit cigarette delicately held in her fingers, never smoking it. And always, she used hand sanitizer to mask the tobacco smell from her hands.

That night was chilly. She was wearing her absurd faux-fur shawl, which she held together with one hand to block out the chill, keeping her cigarette away from her clothes with the other hand. One of the loitering boys approached her, a smirk and swagger exposing an attempt at confidence and nonchalance. He slowed a few feet from her, saying, "Hey, can I join you?"

She looked at him without moving her head, taking her time to say the next words. He didn't back off from the awkward pause, and then we all knew he was an idiot.

She smiled faintly then and tapped the ash from her cigarette. "As long as you talk to me from over there." He laughed, thinking it was a joke, and took a step forward. She straightened up still smiling faintly, her hand casually reaching into her purse. "It's as if you didn't hear me."

The idiot paused in his tracks, finally understanding. His eyes flicked over to her hand in her purse with suspicion dawning on his face. I shifted my stance, mentally preparing for a possible scuffle. The boy had decided to press on with his idiotic advances. "Aren't you cold out here? What are you doing by yourself?"

"Trying to not meet guys like you."

He frowned, stepping forward again. "Why do you gotta be a bitch about this? I'm just saying hi."

She tipped the cigarette his way, tilting her head. "Exactly." The boy looked offended but couldn't seem to find more senseless words to say to close the space between them in the face of sound rejection. With a snort, he dismissed her with a wave and walked away as though she was missing out on the party. The idiot hadn't comprehended that she went outside to do just that.

The girl stood there a moment longer. "Tsk." She dropped and crushed the cigarette, finally pulling her other hand out of her purse and revealing a small bottle of hand sanitizer. As her hands rubbed the gel together, her brow was slightly furrowed in annoyance. She started to head back inside but paused and turned to me. She took out a half-empty pack of cigarettes and held it out to me. "Do you smoke? I'm going to quit."

I didn't smoke. "Yeah, sure," I replied, taking the pack.

She looked at me with her sky-gazing eyes, unreadable and unknowable, and smiled. She turned away and stepped into the building.

I never saw her again.


All characters and events are fiction, although they may be loosely based on existing persons or events in reality.

a character sketch: encounter at art school.

She was a painter in Fine Arts, probably younger than me. Long locks of dusty brown curly hair framed her oval-shaped and stereotypically bookish face, with slightly buck teeth that definitely once wore braces, squarish glasses, and freckled pale skin. I liked her nose – it was annoyingly prominent, but that suited her. Her smile was extraordinarily wide, that I felt it would take over her face entirely. When she would smile, her cheeks would lift into her eyes. She expressed with all her features.

She glanced at me, then looked away furtively. Perhaps I stared for too long. I took my time casually settling my gaze elsewhere, as though I couldn't be less interested in her. She spoke.

"Why do you do that?"

I looked back at her. Her brow was furrowed in agitation, her voice slightly high-pitched in nervousness.

"Do what?"

"You act like... You look around, like... so full of scorn," she finished with a huff. "You never say anything out loud, but anyone can tell."

I paused. I hadn't really anticipated interaction. I liked the way she spoke; despite stumbling over choice of words and her nerves, her speech was steady and articulate.

"Well?" she demanded.

I continued staring into the distance, thinking about what to say or not to say. Slowly I ventured, "Are you asking because you want to know why I was looking at you?"

She seemed to relax a little, but her annoyance stayed. "Well, that too. I've seen you before in between classes like this, and you just seem so snobby, like you can't be bothered with anything or anyone. I just want to know why you do that." She nearly spat out snobby. Maybe she saw me with other members of the "graphic design posse." We were notorious for turning our nose up at anything or anyone that didn't meet our standards.

I laughed. "Snobby... I probably am. And I think a lot, stay in my head too much. Are you sure you want to know what I was thinking? It might get awkward. Much more than now."

"Were you thinking how stupid I look or something?"

I leaned forward, resting my elbows along my knees, gathering my thoughts. "I was thinking... I don't know you. We've never spoken to each other before. But I guessed what kind of person you are. It's just a guess, something I made up," I soothed as she started to say something.

I continued. "I guessed that you're the kind of person who is sensitive, probably emotional. Sometimes you overreact. You stand up for your feelings and whatever you think you believe in. I think your life sometimes could get messy because of that." I paused, but she waited quietly.

I tapped my chin, contemplating. "I guessed that, because you're like that... the people around you love you more. You're sensitive, because you leave yourself vulnerable to many different people and experiences. You leave your feelings bare, and to some, it looks like you're just an emotional, perhaps naive person. You might frustrate people. But you explore the world with your heart, and all the feelings you show are true and honest. This means you constantly connect with those around you, and it makes people feel like they belong somewhere, like they will always have a place next to you. You are cherished, probably, especially by your grandparents and teachers. A person like you brings brightness to the lives of people close to you. Outside, there will be people who would not understand or appreciate you... They wouldn't understand why I would envy you." She remained wordless in her seat with her face lightly flushed, possibly dumbfounded at my totally made-up story based on her appearance.

I sighed, leaning back on my hands and lifting my legs straight out in front of me, lazily gazing at my shoes. "I could never be like that, so... open-hearted. I could try and make it work, but it isn't me naturally. It's uncomfortable and exhausting." I stretched my back and turned side to side, then settled back again. "But for you... Being vulnerable energizes you. I don't think a person like you is naive. I think you deliberately walk into the unknown, knowing you could get hurt. It's not that you embrace pain; you embrace the fact that the world can be ugly and cruel, just as it can be warm and radiant. Your life could get messy... but you wouldn't have it any other way. That is admirable and beautiful." In fact, it is very artiste.

I leaned forward and held out my hand toward her. She blinked, taken aback, not comprehending. I smiled and said, "Hi. I'm Jess."

She stared at my offered hand and took it cautiously, saying, "Hi..." She looked at me. "It's Finley. Most people call me Fin."

That suited her so much – such a mundane word, but it's odd, delightful and hard to forget. Stifling laughter, I nodded. "Nice to meet you, Fin."

Her face slowly and then suddenly broke into her remarkably wide grin. "Same to you!"



All characters and events are fiction, although they may be loosely based on existing persons or events in reality.

My Medusa.

Great Perseus then: With me you shall prevail,
Worth the relation, to relate a tale.
Medusa once had charms; to gain her love
A rival crowd of envious lovers strove.
They, who have seen her, own, they ne'er did trace
More moving features in a sweeter face.
Yet above all, her length of hair, they own,
In golden ringlets wav'd, and graceful shone.
Her Neptune saw, and with such beauties fir'd,
Resolv'd to compass, what his soul desir'd.
In chaste Minerva's fane, he, lustful, stay'd,
And seiz'd, and rifled the young, blushing maid.
The bashful Goddess turn'd her eyes away,
Nor durst such bold impurity survey;
But on the ravish'd virgin vengeance takes,
Her shining hair is chang'd to hissing snakes.
These in her Aegis Pallas joys to bear,
The hissing snakes her foes more sure ensnare,
Than they did lovers once, when shining hair.

– Ovid, Metamorphosis

Athena's high priestess devotes everything to her. The woman abandons family or any hope of building a family, she would never know the love of a man and denies any, and every day and night are consumed by the effort of dedicating her life to her goddess – prayer, festivals, rituals, sacrifice, mental fortitude. Her duty is to share, celebrate, and give to Athena. She loves Athena, and Athena loves her.

Something in the corner of Poseidon's eye flashes tantalizingly. He slows as the mortal being steps out onto the entrance of the temple. What beauty! What a picture of grace. He peers more sharply at the lady and the temple. Ah, he thought. A priestess of my cunning niece. How wondrous her devotees, that Cecrops chose her and her little olive tree over me and the power of the sea. His rage from the past calms as quick as it had come. Relaxing his fists, he grins wickedly and begins striding determinedly toward the temple.

The priestess turns around and views the approaching figure with astonishment. What need have he, that the god of the sea would come knowing Athena is not present? She watches warily from the entrance but dread increases in her heart as Poseidon drew closer. He means ill. She steps back and then flees into the temple. He would not dare to step inside these walls, into a house of the goddess.

Poseidon pauses at the entrance, making certain Athena was absent from the vicinity and she would not be alerted should the cries of her devotee carry. Terror rising in her throat, the priestess looks on in understanding – his powerful presence overwhelms the protection of Athena's blessing. Smilingly, Poseidon steps inside.

As Athena arrives into the temple's hall, she realizes something is wrong. There is none of the peace that the temple had possessed. Her eyes catch the sight of her tearful, ravaged priestess, weakly beginning to sit up. Comprehension breaks waves of emotions in Athena – such pain, such fury! Barbarism and atrocity, all that Athena stands against, occur in her own house. How could this happen! This insult to everything she represents and the soiling of her temple's sanctity, her own purity! Why was I not called, why did I not hear. Why was I not here to shield her. Oh, my precious child... Athena turns away, tightening her lips and closing her eyes against her own tears. The priestess watches her quietly with adoration and fear, waiting. The goddess looks into her eyes, and her rage over this violation of all she held dear burst.

How dare she betray me.

Forever know my wrath. And never will men gaze upon you and see beauty – the very sight of your face causes such terror as to petrify men into stone, and your gaze will freeze them into death. I will change you into your true form, venomous serpent.

Her goddess's sudden animosity shocks the priestess. And as she transforms – her legs attach and lengthen, her hair thickens and begins to move on its own, and her skin chills and collects into scales – she grieves. Her heart mourns for the love of Athena and felt pierced by her goddess's anger and abandonment of her.

I loved you, she rages.

Watching how hatred, pain, and grief fed the vipers slithering as Medusa's hair, fueled the madness in the creature's heart, and nurtured the monster's powers ever more, Athena's hurt starts to fade. Remorsefully she recalls the days and nights of adoration by her beloved priestess. She can not undo what has been done. One day, Athena hears of a young man named Perseus given the task of defeating the Gorgon abomination Medusa. Could she use him? In Perseus's journey, Athena helps him gather the necessary weaponry for confronting Medusa. He must succeed, she grimly thinks.

Athena turns to look as Perseus returns, presenting the head of Medusa as a gift. Ah, she thought, she is still beautiful, my precious child. How I have done you wrong. With eyes that glistened, Athena empowers her aegis with Medusa, immortalizing her beloved priestess for all to remember.

No excuses.

The self is unimaginably strong.





What are you but your senses, your opinions and perceptions, your emotions, your bodily existence, your everything in you?

No one is in charge of you.