When I was in high school, I loved making art (Most Artistic Superlative, in fact!) Pencil and charcoal were my favorites and I was quite good at still life or copying things. The process of breaking down an object’s structure, form, texture, and patterns and recreating them was so satisfying.

Something drawn with a pencil or pen yeilds a precise and defined line. It has edges, a beginning and an end, and its structure is clear. In a way, a line drawn in ink or pencil is permanent – a mark of the past.

Painting was another story. While I ultimately made a few works I am proud of (they hang in my parents house), it was always an arduous project.

I hated waiting for the paint to dry.

In my mind, I saw a clean straight line like the ones my pencil would make. I visualized the whole picture all at once and wanted the process of getting it on the paper to be immediate, but the colors kept bleeding together. My efforts for order were constantly tested.  The edges blurred and smudged to transform something so concrete and precise into undefined chaos. Every brushstroke held the past, present, and possibility to be influenced by the next. It got messy.

Before there was a chance for things to settle, life had already begun adding to the picture and what seemed simple and defined became a brilliant mixture of past, present, and what is still to come.

Lately, my formal art is limited to the watercolor set I bought at a convenience store and tattoo ink, but in my unfolding, I’ve found joy in the chaos of paint. It teaches patience. Encourages me to find form in the abstract, or to let the picture remain undefined. Its volatile nature challenges me to explore the things I am uncomfortable with.

It’s nice to know where edges lie and to rely on something staying as it was, but that’s not really realistic.

On the other hand, we can approach the art of our life with a paintbrush and palette, knowing that the color of one event may not dry before the next is added. Watch the lines blend and become messy, yet still see the beauty in the imperfection. Understand the patience required to let the paint dry before we try cleaning up the lines.

Life gets messy. We don’t always have the opportunity, tools, time, or patience to let things fully settle and make sense before something else is added in.

When it looks like nondescript chaos, remember that blurred lines are places of possibility and opportunities to shift perception.

Our lives are beautiful works of art.

Sometimes I write something that I’m not sure I want my parents to read, but I feel it needs to be shared anyway. Honest and bare, even if it’s hard to swallow. Uncomfortably candid.

Bitch isn’t really about me. It’s your problem. It’s the way you feel, not the way I am. It’s your reaction, not my action.
Bitch is the title you placed on me because I didn’t meet your expectations. You wanted a version of me that didn’t fit into the mold you’d crafted. In my shattering of the image you twisted, your hurt/fear/anger was reassigned to me.

Here we have an unfortunately common situation:

I can smile and be polite, but that doesn’t mean I have a crush on you. We can go to the beach together, or even out to lunch, but that doesn’t mean I want to go home with you. It may seem surprising, but I can even invite you to come out with my friends and it doesn’t imply I am “down to fuck”.

In fact, there are so many ways I can simply be a decent person and it gets interpreted as something you make up in your mind. Implications of grey created between black and white lines. Condemned by my decorum.

Your expectations
Perceptions of me, shattered
Assigned Title: Bitch
 
I’ll embrace it.

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred  
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear  
without saying hello. In the restaurant  
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,  
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.  
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,  
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line  
and listen to each other breathe.