Something I wrote a long while ago...sad and not so.
She doesn't think I love her. She thinks it is fake. Does she think I am fake? Well she is right. I don't really exist. I am my image. She fell in awe of an image. Most do. But she is not most. She is a true artist. She is a writer, one of passion, an artist of thought. Her palette is ink smattered, her smock dusty with ideas, pencil erasings, crumbs really, of "once thought". Me, my smock is always clean. My palette, impeccable. My lipstick, perfect. Perfect on my pencilled on lips. Even my rosy feminine hues are bottled genius. My muse:Clariol, Clinique, Chanel. "Look at the beautiful, strange woman She must be an arteeste!" Forget not the eee "Are you an arteeste, mademoiselle?" I add the mademoiselle to attest to my own pretension. Je m'adore: l'egoiste. C'est moi! Speaking a foreign language when you know you have not, and can not grasp the passions, the intonations, the mystere behind the words, the accents, the sensual fluttering of the tongue against the teeth...is Ludicrous. And yet convincing with regard to the general American populace.
I used to be so obsessed with my looks. Sad, but fun at the time. Maybe not though...consideirng this was a less than happy jotting. So much self-loathing. I wonder if that has changed at all...I fear it hasn't gone away...just become hard little knots in my psyche.
I don't know how this makes me feel. Especially since two seconds ago I was writing in bad french to an SG boy...and today a make-up artist at work gave us like $800 in free Lancome makeup. The Irony.
I came home and spent an hour with the bag of shit. Smearing and blotting and pouting and posing. I looked at my old mascara, eyeliner and one lipstick and felt somehow less feminine. i looked in the mirror and kind of felt garish, but kinda felt beautiful too. Then I washed my face and saw my roots and the zit on my chin and my buck teeth and my little belly peeking out from over my damned awful low rise jeans. and just now I remember my prayer...
"Tell them that you know that your shoes are broken and that there are pimples on your face, yes and that you have buck teeth and a club foot, but that you don't care, for tomarrow they are playing Beethoven's last quartets in Carnegie hall and at home you have Shakespeare's plays in one volume."
-Nathaniel West
I think I feel better.
No, not really.
God I wish I had a beer.
She doesn't think I love her. She thinks it is fake. Does she think I am fake? Well she is right. I don't really exist. I am my image. She fell in awe of an image. Most do. But she is not most. She is a true artist. She is a writer, one of passion, an artist of thought. Her palette is ink smattered, her smock dusty with ideas, pencil erasings, crumbs really, of "once thought". Me, my smock is always clean. My palette, impeccable. My lipstick, perfect. Perfect on my pencilled on lips. Even my rosy feminine hues are bottled genius. My muse:Clariol, Clinique, Chanel. "Look at the beautiful, strange woman She must be an arteeste!" Forget not the eee "Are you an arteeste, mademoiselle?" I add the mademoiselle to attest to my own pretension. Je m'adore: l'egoiste. C'est moi! Speaking a foreign language when you know you have not, and can not grasp the passions, the intonations, the mystere behind the words, the accents, the sensual fluttering of the tongue against the teeth...is Ludicrous. And yet convincing with regard to the general American populace.
I used to be so obsessed with my looks. Sad, but fun at the time. Maybe not though...consideirng this was a less than happy jotting. So much self-loathing. I wonder if that has changed at all...I fear it hasn't gone away...just become hard little knots in my psyche.
I don't know how this makes me feel. Especially since two seconds ago I was writing in bad french to an SG boy...and today a make-up artist at work gave us like $800 in free Lancome makeup. The Irony.
I came home and spent an hour with the bag of shit. Smearing and blotting and pouting and posing. I looked at my old mascara, eyeliner and one lipstick and felt somehow less feminine. i looked in the mirror and kind of felt garish, but kinda felt beautiful too. Then I washed my face and saw my roots and the zit on my chin and my buck teeth and my little belly peeking out from over my damned awful low rise jeans. and just now I remember my prayer...
"Tell them that you know that your shoes are broken and that there are pimples on your face, yes and that you have buck teeth and a club foot, but that you don't care, for tomarrow they are playing Beethoven's last quartets in Carnegie hall and at home you have Shakespeare's plays in one volume."
-Nathaniel West
I think I feel better.
No, not really.
God I wish I had a beer.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
That was. . .God I don't want to sound cheezee or ridiculous by saying, 'oh it was so beautiful! ah i'm enraptured......*sigh*'
seriously, you express yourself so eloquently and my god I know how you feel and i thought i was the only freak who felt like a 'dike'
my friend dee always has her nails and toenails beautifully painted in reds and light pinks. and allen's sister is such a girly girl sometimes, her brows are so manicured and perfect and her nails are always painted with outrageous colors. sometimes i feel this horrible self-consciousness like when i see people look my way and they smirk or grin, or laugh or whisper to others, i think they "must" be talking about me. i must be so hideous and strange.
i don't know what growing up for you was like, but school and church *when i went* was the worst! i hate those damned cliques and snobs and the stupid people not just in the south, but everywhere, when they gossip and mock and sneer, and say immature and ridiculous things!
oh my! sorry. i know that wasn't what your writing was really about. i mean i find myself trying to tidy up my perpetually dissheveled hair and looking in a mirror every chance i get (well not that obsessively, but you know) critiqueing my body's shape, my pimple, my hair, which i'm trying to grow out, and sometimes i just have to throw my hands in the air and say, "ahhh fuck it charlie brown!"
but so this is how artists are, we're self-conscious, introspective, and freaks sometimes. i sometimes feel shunned and liked. but i do have a tendency for the ludicrous and the craziest things flow from my mouth and fingers.
you're the loveliest colette