so visual literacy in America is sky diving off roof tops with no ropes … so art is cultural and intellectual and aesthetic suicide … so i am deemed crazy in a society where i do not, have never, will never be able to belong … however much i want to be a part everyone, however much i AM this part … this disease, this artistic pornography, i am finding where this is, in my gut, i have to let it decay me, whore myself to the colors and the patterns and twisting logic of contradiction and paradox in this scientific apotheosis, an abnormality, this lie everyone so fervently believes … i never believed, i still do not believe, and at least now i know why this is happening …

i feel so cold …

yeah, it’s happening again … i’m starting to want my professor because sometimes he is so damned hot when he’s passionate and KNOWS what the hell is going on, can put everything into context and spin you around like a top rocket … and i am so sick of superficial shit, and all the damned hang ups of young boys with their menstruation … i want to learn something in a relationship for once … i want to ask him out but i don’t have the balls to do that with a 35 year old man, especially my TEACHER … and he intimidates me something awful because he is so intelligent and a real human being, i can see him in a timeline so far ahead of me, where all my thoughts are just beginning, all my artistic ventures just uncurling beyond cliched or figurative bullshit … my art is starting to get complex, i have a faint feeling that i might be going somewhere with these apophenia strands … and it’s partly thanks to him … i’m leaving this town soon because i can’t stand this school … i want to keep in contact, but am woefully inept at social exchanges as of late 🙁 it’s just i get so nervous and i feel so young these last couple months … i am realizing how green i am, how far i have left to go and how difficult it is going to be, artistically and as a person … not that i’m giving up, more like i’m letting myself feel the strain for the first time in my life and really trying to link the roots to where all this comes from, who i am, and where i am, and what i might become …

see what happens when annika reads 5 different books in a weekend? *splurge*

yeah, i did that … i am a cliched, soap box freak! cuz devils’ adocate’s are hot …
muhahaha muhahaha pssst. he’s gay, too, isn’t that fantasticular?

what is it with Christina Aguilera calling herself a fucking artist? how could SHE possibly identify herself with this, except to hype her already high nipple hard image? careful baby all that glamour and no show … when you fall it will be on no foundation …

people seem to be confusing PERFORMERS with artists nowadays, just because you can sing does not make you an artist, just because you have a skill or talent at a skill does not make you an artist, an artist is much less definable, much less ON THE SURFACE … it can be many things, but it definitely is not THAT … gross disgusting language decay georgeorwell help me face the nightmare hype word euphemism dying culture of a culture of the gods of capitalism/slavery i want my mother when she was a human feeling being …

(steps off soap box still muttering)

you know who you’re talking to? (to give a visual foundation)

i am realizing i refer to the image or concept of >man< or penis a lot in an overwhelmingly negative sense ... to divert the issue from me being sexist, i will attempt to clarify: in assigning symbols (like this, > <) i am showing my internalization of this concept, which should be looked at more as a personal animus, not as the physical beings of males. i like men very much, i would just like to see them show or at least analyze ((read: come to terms with)) their anima, and not be so blatantly carnivorous, although not in the act of sex, that would be boring; more like in everyday conversation, "play with me") so this means the penis or the man, the partriarch, the order within myself more than anything HA! it just keeps getting deeper, too ...

when people say to me they desire marriage and children, and i say to them that is something i will never do … i mean it more in the legal, physical, external sense because that desire still exists in me, i am not truncated and the product of a divorcee extrodenaire, where all commitments are shunned as a result of childhood fear (actually it probably has something to do with this, but not totally)

really, i desire such things as being pregnant and having children as well, but more in the internal sense, as having mood swings and months of endowed bulging sweat sweetness, times of pain and tired, frustrated exhaustion from this—these things growing inside me, widening my mental libia, crushing my innocence and virginity to experience the creation of life … and all the muddy depths progeny entails

does this mean i know what it is like to be physically pregnant? have an “in” no one else sees, so to speak? fuck no, but i do have my own ways for fulfilling desires, and i will clutch at them like a mother, and i will not let this pragmaticism and socialization of EVERYTHING seep too far into my womb to destroy whatever nestles there … waiting to be born again and again …

it always tries to insert itself, though, like a violation, a rape, when i am comfortable, so insidious it is to catch me in my moments of walking sleepy, dreamy eyed …

i am coming to find lunacy is a finite name for the unexplanable crevices people fear to tread because science cannot breach this realm of the free associations of human creation … it is an unknown depth, it is personal, it cannot be homogenized without the “splurge” affect as i call it … when you see mr. self-righteous fucking a goat he is so out of control to be in control

structure as defined by humans, organization as sterilized by beaucrats, definitions, definitions == easy ways out … order as confined and internalized by >man< 's tendency to avert entropy, natural chaos, unexplananle patterns like numerology and symmetry in nature (when i want math to show me the way, but it could be another complex apophenia as well, combined with the ringing of energy/magneticism within our vertebraes)... reflection: i see myself in EVERYTHING (it sucks, i want to be free from myself: futility) THIS IS ALL PERSUASIVE POSSIBILITY AND NOTHING CONCRETE EXCEPT IN THE ART THAT MAKES THESE THINGS EXIST >>> FREEDOM (my definition because i CAN create them on my own)

… i don’t care about all this prioritization of abstraction, this monetary elitism and the intellectual elitism (even worse) makes me cough something awful, instinctual competition as applied to things that should be available to everyone makes me nauseous and disgusted … are tools for oppression and suppression and cages meters-continents wide … everyone should have the learned ability and freedom of accessibility and culture to get high off books instead of reverting to the intellectual death/dismemberment/(anything this easy is a lie) of so many drug-induced, drug-based euphoric enlightenments, chemicals must be organized, integrated fully into the system to be appreciated/learned from, not flooded and treated with such abandon to their inherent magical quality of reacting within us. your chemicals will go blind …

i just want to explore my fucking existence, dammit … i only have so much time …

i have rationalized myself into corners i cannot deal with … depressed and repressed tendencies in an effort to reprogram, timothy leary style … and i think i have to go into seclusion for awhile … work as i must, but this progress, this pressure of artistic success is NOT WHAT I WANT, even further NOT WHAT I AM, so i will kill it when i become it, i will kill myself if i become this … i am dropping out and becoming something i create, not an institutionalized bullshit spewing asshole >man< with no eyes ... i want to give myself and others more than this pedantic repetition of the starving artist, spiralling into apophenia discharges that make no sense ... if this means i am becoming subjective, so be it, if this means i am "copping out" so be it, if i am poor but can eat and buy art supplies, i don't give a flying shit about this piece of paper that tells me i am an artist because i have an art degree and a variety of supposed experts in the subjective have deemed my work postmodern enough to be postmodern ... fuck that ... i am an artist because i do art (duh, duh) ... and i am not doing art right now! make sense out of that ... (although not totally, prof. greg, thank god is the only salvation and i will miss his guidance) i am going to go make art out of a lollipop, a mattress and a window, with ST. Marcell Duchamp as my divine intervention/immaculation ... i'll be able to read again and work on my math and logic skills, which have been decaying for years in this haze ...

to you because you asked in a way,
the danger of why, the sea sorrow of questioning the question of the questioner,
at the counter top of my kitchen, all seems a pale warm glow of normalcy (as it is not) filling my stomach with acidic melting appreciation that i could never name (or rather admit to). when your scars stare at you from across the room, in mild flirtation, beckoning at you with their promise of a numb solitude, or a harsh realization, a rehashing of all that has been left to rot with abandon in the backyard conscious peekhole, all that you needed to move out to continue … the stink lingers however hard this bleaching white will chemically change my mind, add another glass surface
this is not peace of mind, but pieces of uneaten cake, sliced in two down the middle —abdomen of this insect dormancy, birthing sporadically and a thousand times the wrong evolutions, not in needed public view. i can and do ignore, however much i do not want to, however much this flickering ideal of self will tell me this is not who i am … however much i desire to smash the window panes of translucency i stare through day after day
but feeling, testing, gravity pulling planets and stars of your hidden creations to melt into a corner and not move or twitch for days …heal these gravity cavity enclaves … reactionary to the nth cloud of a daisy-ed daydream elysium … i can never fit these social language curtails, instead i spin here silently, spider efficient and effervescently bubbling to be freed of all this controlled definition … so magneticized to the stars subconscious, i could never trust this will enough to have one anymore, wishing more that it would exist rather than completing the cyclical strands that tell me it goes no where
my spiders and my window washers are busy all day … and they taunt me with their perfected ability to wipe this surface clean, taking good care never to show me the marks…to keep these glaringly selfish intentions from peeking over the brim of id and the superego to relinquish its idealistic boundaries of definitive straight lines in reality, but this is all symbolic metaphoric semantics anyhow, inner cringing exploited to its surface tension anxiety of breaking through but never really … i do want connection, and i despise it all the same for that need, the blatant glare of denial, true independence is a child’s dream as well
ah, the reciprocals of a psychological existence … sort of like the constant flow of psychosomatic worlds, making concrete what is believed, and that dangerous unconscious power of splurged application
sometimes i think psychology is a damn good excuse, and that is all
i can do anything unfortunately, if mind will allow … which is why i do not trust it, i do not want the power because with it lies the collective responsibility of the entire world >> given the mathematical power of imagery, exponential power to infinity, loops to chaotic cyclical five dimensionality … and since i have been shown to be quite destroyable in every way, i could not face the children of my dreams, crying at me that they never should have been born …. that it is possible if thought is existence that abortion is a gift for the unwanted … that death could actually mean a kind of peace … the possibility more persuasive than its application as always …
i want to care more than anything, i want to give this to the wind and the birds of flight, i want them to take me and sing me songs and tell me stories and expand the branching dendrites and fatty brain leaves of my conscious subconscious to mathematics, science, philosophy, aesthetics, music theory, and language mystery boxes, i want to unfold those concentrations more than this constant worry of self decay before birth … but i fear it is all fucked down to the last screaming babe of a deterministic entropy, heading toward burrows’ dream annexia, atrophied asshole men take over … and that hesitation is compounded to the last sweatless, eyeless, tasteless mass of a human faulted being, that loved too much too soon, for her own good seasonings … and now sits in wondered awed silence at how everything continues to move agonizing slow-fast
mother tells me days and throughout, how when i was a child i danced dayly, ran naked willfully, never wore shoes, and loved everything more than it deserved for future’s resultant adversity of the naive girl, caught in more than her development could retain water reflection of events … but stubborn enough to insist everything must be done and experienced and known and loved now, now, now …
love is a strange word, i think is too over-used for me to really evaluate with a personal origins or rooted honesty
would you believe my own tendencies towards abstract connection, if i told you i dreamed this sensation? of writing you a dream, of prompting your own needs to connect again and again like a bee kisses each beautiful flower for its nectar and flies off gayly to seed another … i have so many decaying children of hope already you must realize … i wonder still how much you’d want to know how far these webs of language could swell my stomach to the bursting of a motherhood of creations, but i fear sickly babes will prompt too soon my instinct to kill what need not be made to suffer, what innocence need not be made to deaden, its eyes to flatten in post thought post mortem … how much i do believe, if i ever did truly believe, that children should not be made to suffer ….
i wonder if it is to cover all the unknown black holes beneath that suck this light breath straight from a warm body staring at the light shards across my kitchen counter tops
the stark determinism of the light perspective, this angle of the window, acute just so to give me a pattern of shard glowing lines of magic sunlight upon my kitchen counter top, my weaving brain can work a million different symbols and synchronocities into,
to this, and reveals everything i could never accept …
i wonder if it is more than this, i pick the associations up like grass sheaths to my ephemera tower of creations within destructions … i wonder if it is merely a spiraling i can feel so closely but never know for close proximity distance, how focus fusses when it comes too close … this feeling of absence sticks with me through and through, because i feel this other, but i do not know it, nor have the capacity to know it beyond a faint feeling, nor give any proof, and faith is always a hazy ground plain, green grass metaphor … you know all this already … you see this more than i do i believe … this other …. it is more than a material vacancy to fill, more than an awkward silence to overcome, more than missed arrows of word hesitations that must be gleaned over in someone’s goodwill and understanding that we are only, only gloriously, horribly homo sapien mutations
you know, the only thing i believe in is a paradox, and if that is god than let the tides of associations and assumptions and necessary error ratios flow to the eyes of my feet where they belong … i can only know things underneath …
so to follow with this logic of a paradoxical belief system, your mind cannot know this, it does not exist for us, we are forever removed from our own spirituality left guessing and supposing like ignorant storks caught flopping in the oil spilled coastline …
why do you insist on inciting these things within me, within anyone? to give pandora a modern name, a physicality to exist and let free with all her destructive creation, you cannot have one without the other, just as you cannot have both … and you can’t jump back once you’ve crossed the line … you know it is why i could never avoid you, why you are such a damned distraction for me, always have been to my own ignorance… you will never know, and i don’t want you to … you have the potential of being my destruction/creation, adam, and i don’t know if i will be able to handle it this time … i must keep you in this encasement outside myself if i am to retain this exterior … before i fold within myself and fly away again as i always do … this line is too blurry and i don’t want to lose you to my own destruction again …
i just want to run onto the morning horizon lines and dance my anachonistic dances to rhythms long fogotten, be stereotyped a lost hippie, born before or after my time, left in silent stupor, ignored for fear of guilt or misinterpretation or plain delayed realization, no context to continue where i left and i forgot all of it as soon as it left anyway ….
is freedom uninhibited units of anything? try to figure this shit into a psychological equation, it drives me nuts … i just wish someone would believe in me without dependecy … it seems impossible/improbable …
anyway, i just want you to be free … more than anything i could want for myself, i want you to be free … underneath all this rambling, that is what i would want for everyone because i love them all so stupidly much it hurts to live here every day, thinking these things and feeling this pain of being unplugged from the collective … and even after all i’ve done to run and experience everything and predict with the knowledge cocks of consequence, cause and effect, i still feel as if i am just a child wanting to play with adult toys …
i must wind back up now … i fear i have said too much within a desire for you to know … whatever this madness is, Annika