Category: Junior Literary

Oppression is key.

Expression is key is what I actually meant to say but I kept oppression because it just seemed more telling of the computers mental state. 

O p p r e s s i o n  vs. E x p r e s s i o n 

Oppression: prolonged cruel or unjust treatment or control.

Expression : the process of making known one’s thoughts or feelings.

It’s weird how the computer decided to change my words. Technically I did spell expression wrong, but it was only a letter difference. Something meant almost as a creative spew became the line between physical and mental. Right or wrong. 

This may not be anything that odd. Sometimes auto-correct gets its wrong. Sometimes you have to fix it yourself.

Yeah….. but what if I didn’t?

What if I continued my original direction of this blog and instead of putting  Expression I somehow skipped over the word Oppression and kept it. I know I have a habit of repeating words so  I would have put Expression instead of Oppression eventually but the damage would have already been done. No one could say that it was a mistake because I could have intended that to be like that. There is no outside force that could prove I didn’t mean it beside someone walking up and asking me what I actually meant. Because it wouldn’t have made sense. It wouldn’t have had the same message. Even then I technically could have noticed when I proof read my thing later on, but still. It’s a matter of if.

“If” is that small little word that can mean so much and I hate that. It’s always a guessing game a gamble at best and that sucks. There is no stable there is no 100% guarantee.  Just brief message of assurance we give ourselves as if something can’t change that in a matter of seconds because apparently screw the thought of not having anything certain. 

Anyway this blog go out of hand fast. What I mean to say was that sometimes things don’t go as planned and that can be frustrating and difficult to deal with if you are a person who hates things getting out of hand. This was more of a ramble of sorts because I lost my plan for this blog because my computer shut down. That in a way proved my point because how was I supposed to know my computer would shut down a minute before I finished this blog? I didn’t. This didn’t go as planned and neither does life. 

Sometimes your Expression can turn into Oppression and sometimes Oppression is the only way you can show Expression.

 

 

 

 

 

I am feeling so okay about everything, and I think it is only because I have been desensitized to all of the terrible things that have happened recently, or better yet, that I have just grown accustomed to it. I am swallowing myself whole and becoming another, just you watch me. After summer, when I come back (hopefully), things will not be like this. I am changing, and I will change. I will swallow myself whole. Just you guys watch.

There is a small piece of me that wants to fix old homes I’ve lived in- then, there is the rest of me. the rest of me is light and hollow and winged, and old me is not here anymore and it is anything but easy. It is brutally bruised into the side of my skull ( like that glass that cut into my scalp climbing from the window).

Things are going to be okay, they just, they have to. There is no questioning it anymore.

Guys, were about to start another chapter.  And it doesn’t matter how anyone feels about me, because I know how I feel about me. I don’t feel as uncomfortable, and I am starting to understand why things happen. Ill probably become religious over the summer, or read every book on my list, or go on trips by myself in search of nothing. I am different.

Life has this beautiful way of screwing us over every time we become complacent. I love it. Shaking things up in this fishbowl of a high school career is always needed. I am so ready to be shaken like the plates of the earth hand have to jump to the next great adventure in my life.

People come and go and change and writhe and blend and become, and it is beautiful. There is a lot of love and hate in that.

Love is peculiar and comes in different forms; sometimes it is not always approachable or tangible. Sometimes you just feel it. I’ve maybe not done everything right this year, but at least I did something. That is more than I can say for every year behind me combined. I have lived t his year, I have taken and given and learned and hurt along the way; I’ve never been more thankful for my let downs and mistakes, because it has taught me to believe in myself even when no one else does. To stay true and follow my arrow. To just, Be.

This life is a giving and taking thing.

Right now, all I know is, you just have to take it easy.

My mom told me something last year when I was hating my situation, she said: Grow where you are planted.

I think I finally understand that now.

A comic I’ve been working on this past month for my mix media final. This is the first comic I’ve made that is larger than a comic strip so it’s not super great, but yeah. Click on the images to read. The pages are captioned because my handwriting is a mess. Content warnings: Hints of underage substance abuse and mentions of self harm.

I never really realized how many incredible organisms there are that live on the seafloor.  Sea slugs are so beautiful.  They come in extraordinary colors that I never even realized occurred in nature.  When you hear the word “sea slug” unpleasant imagery comes to mind.  Past interactions with diarrhea-green slugs squirming over cement, leaving slimy trails and drying up like raisins on driveways, make one think of similarly revolting creatures that are only different in that they live underwater as opposed to in your garden.  Seeing these animals as they actually are after having built an expectation for them is completely shocking because they are almost the complete opposite of what you’d expect.  Regular slugs that you’d often see are pretty uniform; all of them fall on a spectrum of green-brown to orange-brown with less common banana slugs being the only thing to break up the dull pallet of land slug colors.  Sea slugs have very little in common with this, coming in technicolor blues, pinks, yellows, and greens.  I don’t know why all of these beautiful animals would be put somewhere where they can’t be easily seen by humans.

I started this blog a long time ago but never finished it.  I’m not sure why, but I looked up sea slugs on google images, and I was stunned by how beautiful they were and thought that they would make a really interesting blog topic.  It turns out it kind of did but only for about half a blog.  I could not stretch it out any further for the life of me, and as I let time pass, I only became less interested in the topic over time.  I am honestly terrified of this happening to me as an artist.  I don’t want to begin a million projects and lose interest in each of them before finishing any of them.  I have started so many things that I’ve chosen to abandon rather than revise as I have changed and they stayed the same.  I really want to change that about myself.  I know that if I don’t, I will never be able to be a productive writer, but that doesn’t make it any easier.  It is something that I will have to push myself to do.  I am working on a book now that I will force myself to finish, and if I get halfway through and rereading the earlier parts has become painful, I will rewrite them so that they meet my new standards.  I will do whatever it takes to make myself do this because I need to prove to myself that I can.

they say time flies when you’re having fun (i guess that means msa was fun)

last semester was… a lot, to say the least. some of yall know what i’m talking about, others don’t, and those others are either gonna be nosy and ask around or they’re gonna mind their business. i don’t think i care either way.

we’ve already established my disdain for astrology, but sometimes coincidences just really get the best of you. i was having just a genuinely horrible time, and i came across an astrology post i don’t remember the name of, probably some bs about ~what the signs need to hear~, but what really got me was that little blurb of text next to aquarius:

“coming home is not a defeat. you did something most people only dream of. sometimes all you can do is grab on to plan b and make it work. doesn’t mean that you are a failure because plan a failed. you tried your absolute hardest. you still won. so come back. enjoy the sanctuary while we still have it.”

this is the first and only time i ever considered leaving, coming home, admitting defeat. i’d actually considered resigning to the fact that this thing that i’d been wanting since i was 14 years old wasn’t what i wanted it to be – what i needed it to be.

but an even stronger voice said no. that little eighth grader who wanted nothing more than to find her people and do what she loved stood up and said resignation isn’t an option.

i was not giving up. we were not giving up. i wasn’t betraying every single thing i’d believed in and fought for since 2015.

so i stayed, but things still changed. they had to.

i was in a situation before that wasn’t good for me, and i’ll be the first to admit it. i had to get out of an environment that surrounded me with heaviness. i had to get out of an environment that tied bags of bricks to my ankles and threw me to the sea. i cut the rope and floated back up. the first breath i took was the strongest relief i’ve ever felt in my life.

there was a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to turning 16, and a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to going to msa, and a point in time i didn’t think i’d make it to finishing my first year of art school.

but i did. i made it to all of these. and i’m really glad i did.

There is a wire cord holding my wrist and plugged into my ears.  I hear nothing.  The computer screen in front of me begs me not to do my work.  I am three days behind and it is 4:26.  There is no time to do it now.  So I make my way to the bathroom after deciding to waste my time for the twenty-sixth time today.  I ask the cord to let go.  She complies reluctantly.  There is a caterpillar on my left eyebrow inching its way to my ear to ask me, once again, why I can’t be selfish.  “I’m not sure.” I reply.  The caterpillar swells in my right ear and I can no longer hear my own thoughts.  “I have gout,” the caterpillar replies.  I come back to my computer and the cord returns to my wrist, gripping tighter because I’ve forgotten to plug in my ears.

The girl beside me speaks but all I hear is the boy who cried rape and a metaphor of cookies and sheep.  I’ve been told I only hear what I want to hear.  No.  I just misheard.  She spoke of sexual assault and how it never stopped.  Chocolate runs from her mouth and I rush to lick it up.  I wish to speak so freely.  The chocolate is so sweet and saturated and it burns my throat like molasses until it spills over and out from the ducts of my eyes.  I have been penetrated and re-solidified in sweet chocolate.

Gilded, one might say.  That’s what I have been living in, they say, and I agree.  From the air, all I see is gold, but it is dirty and diseased below the surface.  A pile of rotting horses have been stacked on my heart.  My heart sinks.  He is not meant to hold that weight.  My first love dove down my throat to save what survived of my heart.  He rebuilt what was lost, but he took half to where he lives in England.  “Count my toes again,” I say.  He tries to teach me how to do it myself and I only remember how for a day or two.

Three things.  I have three things in the skin pocket sewed into my back:  a phone, a candy bar, and the absence of a chain I can’t find because my roommate cleaned again.

Oh my God, I ate.  I ate and I ate, and I ate all of the platters until I was ripe and full, and therefore I was EATEN, but I’ll keep throwing up in this toilet out of nervousness and misery as if it will change what I have eaten.

And the belly of the beast is lonely when it is a friend who has put you here.

It’s sad, you know?  I sat there on Sunday, and I felt it coming.  I stood beside Red Bluff with the love of my life, and I cried.  I sat on a hill, and I cried, and then I laid in the road, and I cried.  I didn’t know it was going to happen.  But have you ever gotten… a feeling?  And I took the rock from the side of the cliff, and it crumbled in my hand.  And it was dust.  Everything is dust, and we all fall down, wE ALL FALL DOWN, WEALLFALLDOWN, AND EVERYTHING IS DUST AND NONE OF IT MATTERS

When we had gotten there, we heard about a woman who had fallen off the edge of the cliff.  Maybe it was an omen.

Oh my God, I just wanted to be.  I wanted to be something for once in my life, I wanted to BE SO MUCH.

,MAYBE I SHOULD GIVE UP, BUT MAYBE I SHOULD BE UNTIL THE VERY END,

If it wasn’t May, then it would be okay.  But April showers can’t fix what flowers died in May.

I ate; therefore I was eaten.  Perhaps I should let it be.  Don’t touch the stomach acid any longer.

But it’s 11:25 am & lunch is coming.  Perhaps I should eat once again.

I have other people who depend on me that I need to do this for, other people that need me there, so maybe I should not starve myself.

Perhaps I should eat.  Eat all of their heads right off.

(This piece is inspired by Mallori’s ‘things i miss’ post)

When I was 12 years old, I wore the same size shoe as my Aunt Maudell. Hers were pointy and old-lady looking, and I usually just made fun of them. She absolutely loved my shoes. The only problem was she always refused to wear closed-toed shoes, so the only shoes of mine she would care to ‘borrow’ would be my sandals. This all sounds fine and dandy, but at the time, I had and even more prevalent hatred for shoes, and if I had to wear something, it would have been sandals.  I would constantly have to go to her house to reclaim my shoes. I hated it. I secretly loved it. I loved that someone took the time to notice something about me that they liked and would love to do for themselves.

Maudell was a dancer. She grew up in the Roaring Twenties and knew exactly which way to twist and turn to get everyone’s attention. By the time I was old enough to be taught her moves, she was almost 90. Her jiggy hips turned to shuffled little steps across the dance floor. She couldn’t swing her arms without falling, so her windmill arms hopelessly grasped the person in front of her.

People say that you start to die as soon as you’re born, but science says you only start to regress after about 25. Maudie started to die the second she couldn’t dance anymore. Or better, when she couldn’t dance on her own. She wanted to twist and turn and sweat and have all eyes on her. Her old joints couldn’t do it anymore, and neither could she.

She told me she would have rather died on the dance floor than in a hospital bed, losing her fight with cancer.

“If I can’t dance Little Charlotte, should I even bother to stay alive?”

She was straight-forward like that.

(She, with the help of my grandmother, had me addicted to coffee at the ripe age of 10.)

There was a point when I had started taking dance lessons in an attempt to impress Maudie, but we both knew dancing wasn’t my thing. It wasn’t that I wasn’t good at it, but it did not hold my lifeline and she could tell. I gave up dance when I was 10.

Instead, I started writing. I dedicate all of my writing to my grandmother because she is my bestfriend and my greatest muse, but between the lines I can hear Aunt Maudell’s voice and creaky hips.

And the sound of my sandals tapping the floor.

I like clothes.  I like the comfy kind that stretch and dangle.  I drop to my knees in baggy pants and over-sized shirts.  (my first true love is baggy clothes)

I don’t like the pants that fit at the ankles.  (I never have.)  They always made me feel exposed, like not even my ankles were safe.)  Neither did I like tight shirts.  (and as I grew, I liked for them to cover to my thighs as a form of security.)

And then I became aware.  The guys in school (who never talked to me) began to talk and look (they still never approached me.)  I didn’t think anything of it.  I only ever talked to my friends (a group of 4, mostly) anyway.

Then I got to high-school.  9th grade took so much adjusting.  (I think I’m scarred from it.)  Guys noticed too much.  They said too many things.  Did too many things.  I became so paranoid.  (This is where I gained my sharp-shooting eyes.)  I never stopped walking.  (Daily procedure: keep your head down; smile if something is said, but keep walking, fast; make it to class but stay seated as much as possible)

I joined the cross-country team that year.  And choir, track, and soccer.  (I was already in band.)  Walking was HELL.  It was actual, living, breathing hell.  I couldn’t get from Point A to Point B without some boy spitting what he thought was game.  (I just wonder how any girl ever fell for them)

Soon I met a guy who did know how to charm, and yada yada yada, we got together.  Nothing changed.  One group of guys even went as far as to threaten me and my relationship.  (I didn’t tell my boyfriend because I couldn’t have him going to jail.  He was 18 and they would’ve sent him)

Track was always bad with the football boys there.  (Track boys were at least a little more respectful.)  Long story short, I got told to bend over.  (I bought more baggy pants for the next week, which are harder to run in.)  I loved to run, but it became miserably angry. (Yes, I became the angry _____girl. (no one knew what ethnicity I was.))

Soccer wasn’t too bad.  I was pretty comfortable besides the persistent flirting and commenting from Megan’s boyfriend.  (He was no good and now has another baby on the way.)

Cross-country was (for the most part) a safe place.  One guy got mighty close to me smacking the testosterone off of him.)

Oh, and those tight pants with the tight ankles, those became my regular my tenth grade year.  I succumbed to the fact that what had happened the previous year was normal.  Although, i will say that my tenth grade year was a lot better.  I had earned quite the reputation the previous year despite what I told you above.  Everyone knew not to mess with me.  (Most everyone)  That’s when I started wearing tight things and showing off more (still not too much, I wasn’t about that.) I was still the angry ___ girl.   It was all just a front though, it think.  (i’m truly not sure.  I think this attitude melded with my previous identity)  I only became tough because I had to.

Now, I’m here and I feel safe.  I show off.  (this is too safe.)  The other day, I was reminded of the real world.  I was reminded that MSA can only guarantee that safety until graduation.  (soon, this bubble should burst.)  This scares me.

here is a compiled list of organized songs that help me be a real human: (if you listen in order, you end up strange, i think)

 

(Also, hey! The pictures kind of represent how each song makes me feel!)

New Year’s Eve, Mal Blum

Emptiness is Like a Closet Full of Your Old Clothes, Wishing

Memento Mori, Crywank

Be Your Own 3am, Adult Mom

Baby, Born Without Bones

Holy Forest, PInkshinyultrabast

Sleep Talk, Diet Cig

For A Girl in Rhinelander, Washington, Wingnut Dishwashers Union

Wolves,  Phosphorescent

Just Like Honey, The Jesus and Mary Chain

How Simple, Hop Along

Phase, Hovvdy

No One is Ever Going to Want Me, Giles Corey

Heart Sunk Hank, Johnny Flynn

The Gun Song– no trigger version, Car Seat Headrest

Codeine, Trampled By Turtles

Brave as a Noun, AJJ

Bloodhail, Have a Nice Life

 

i was all over her, salvia plath

It’s So Nice, I Tried to Run Away When I Was 6, (But Got too Scared to Cross the Street)