Don't watch this space.

Those immortal words.

They have been spoken.

AND I HAVE SWITCHED TO WORDPRESS.

findmehere and relinkmenowplease

lindseak.wordpress.com

How to say goodbye without ever saying hello.

Your words make me cry. When the moon rises and the soft glow lights my room, I see your face behind the pixelated ink. I fall in love with your words, and yours, and yours, and you. So elegantly they rise in the fall of the world, the fall onto gray cement. Cement that has plowed through mountains, giant trees, and tumbling rivers. But they forgot the foothills. You didn't. You wander in foothills, covering yourself in daisies and misty dew.

When we finally meet, I predict 75% humidity at 32 degrees Celsius. We will sit Indian style across from each other and paint secret symbols on our patches of bare skin.

I'll never meet you because it would ruin the surprise. I'll never talk to you because it's better to imagine.

Cult blogs make me feel

OB


SES


SED

I got google reader! I got google reader! (spoken as an Indian warcry)

ANYWAYS! I have been inspired, my friends.

Two things that I must do in the coming week:

1. Random boroughs, inspired by Diamond Geezer

2. Get someone to indulge my V-day wishes: buy me Vagina Monologues ("DAD! CAN YOU BUY ME THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES?"...silence) It's on my Amazon wishlist by the way... *cough*nopressure*cough*

3. Sign out that beautiful digital SLR that I love so much and go on a photo spree this weekend (Carnival pictures, Frist Friday pictures, Hell Camino's zombie music video shoot)


Damn I thought I only had two. It has made a liar out of me!

you can swallow a pint of blood before you throw up

cold, hardened shrimp
for dinner
pealing away the shell and the legs
as the screen flashes
eyes glass over
so easily they break in my fingers
one by one, the juice
falling onto my red lips
drip drip till i'm finished
a pile of broken exoskeletons

i see my fridge full of
condiments,
my closet filled with
close knit cotton,
polyester, and
silk embroidered jeans
that i think i own
but that actually
own me

now i spend my time
browsing online
looking for the
scented candle
that best describes
my
personality
it takes up all my time

and my fingers still
smell like the
broken
bodies, miniature in their
composure compared
to me
i'll have to wash myself
off before i've
shaken free the
rotting seaweed smell, fishy
to the core
using my oil free
epidermis scrub ($20),
of course

Untitled

What this blog has brought to me is really unimaginable. It literally changed the course of my life. What would my life be without it? How many gifts would I have missed if I never continued to publish on this glorious site?

The short answer: I would have been myself, probably doing many of the activities that I do now. My spirit would be roaming the foggy lands of uncertainty (as it is now), and I would still be looking for my place in life. But it would be without a reference point that this place has provided.

***

One click. One click to self discovery, to writing [nonsense] everyday, to finding out a little bit more of who I am and what this world means to me. The internet has brought me wealth. Not the type of wealth that buys tickets to France, but the type of wealth that makes a person shine from the inside. Wealth in happiness, wealth in growth, wealth in knowledge. I am still the utterly helpless ungeek trying to survive in this geek eat geek flat world, but I am alive. Social Darwinism proves that I am strong. The funny thing, though, is that the competition for survival on this space wasn't between other people, but between myself.

I'm not a creature of habit, and I flit through the world like a butterfly, landing on whatever beautiful flower attracts me at the moment. To some, writing in a blog semi-regularly is easy and it comes naturally, but to me it didn't. I had to fight myself on many levels. On one level, just writing something in here and trying to keep it up tolerably well was a challenge. On another level, there was the hurtle of publishing myself to a world of strangers reading my words that, because I have no internal edit, come out dripping in sticky personal truth.

I know that hardly anyone reads this. Unlike the stats whores out there (*cough* you know who you are), I am comfortable with my low reader counts. But it lulls me into a false sense of security, because then I think that I'm the only one who reads it. So why not get rid of whatever is left of my dignity?

Then someone posts a comment, or I read a link to my blog in someone else's post, and I freak. First thought "They love me, they really love me!". Second thought "Oh my God, they read that post. And that. Jesus, what was I on [and where can I get more of it...joking]?". But seriously, screw dignity. I have pride in myself and who I am, so why hide anything?

That's one of the most important things this blog has done. It has forced me to show myself, and left me with no other choice than to be proud of it or go insane. Since the second choice was already taken, I decided to take pride in my work (however amateurish it is). It's like John Lennon and Yoko Ono, posing naked for photos. They had nothing to hide, they were expressing themselves fully. "I don't believe in -isms, I just believe in me. Yoko and me." Once you believe in yourself completely, and are unafraid to be yourself, there is nothing that can hurt you. If I am always being myself, there is nothing to be ashamed of, because I am not ashamed of who I am (all the foolishness included). I don't discourage my own individuality, though it is looked down upon by some people. I don't snub out whatever flame might be burning in me. Eccentric is not a bad thing, like Ray Johnson.

One thing I can say for this blog is that it has always been my ideas and thoughts flowingly through my fingers onto this space. Never have I compromised that. The result has been an eclectic, unorganized (and untagged) mass expression of a mistake making, playful, crazy human being called Lindsea. This is me at my best, and at my worst. Some can see it as ugly, some can see it as beautiful. But there is ugly and beautiful in us all and I am against self censorship.

"So, I was talking to my dad about his jail time..."

This line was used at the dinner table last night, and it brought tears of laughter to my family's eyes.

Looking back on my dad's jail time, I really am proud of him. For some twisted reason, it makes me happy to see people who are so devoted to their convictions (his, not bowing to authority--I guess in short it would be called anarchy), that they are willing to go to jail for them. Sure, it's not like he was protesting something hugely important, like my Nonna was when she went to jail, but he was still trying to speak his own truth to power.

Ok, I can see myself reaching to explain this. All I'm trying to say is that I appreciate his character and morals(ish). I also am pleased by his going to jail, because it provides me with endless jokes.

My mind fades into imagination:

large brawny polynesian: "PICK UP THE SOAP."

my dad: "But it's powder!!!"

Just kidding.


But something funny did happen on the way home. We were debating which route was faster, because my dad always takes this obscure path through the neighborhood. I told him the direct way would be faster. His reply: "But it's near the police station, and I'm a little bit sensitive still." Cue hysterical laughter from me.

I think I'm going to record his adventure in a podcast interview type thing. It really is quite amusing and informative. How many times do you get to hear first hand about what jail is like?

I found a new musician

and I love her.

I found a new blog

and I love it.

Recent Headlines in Hawaii

WOMAN BEATEN TO DEATH BY ANGRY BOYFRIEND WITH A GUN

This is just plain sad and disturbing. Again, according to the news, "helpless" neighbors watched this woman get beaten to death. This is just like that New York rape in the 1920's where a woman was raped in the middle of the street while the neighbors watched "helplessly" because they thought someone else could help them. People need to take responsibility and help their fellow humans out. I mean, if we can't stop something like this from happening when we're looking directly at it, how can we stop something like Darfur?

MAN DROPPED TODDLER OFF OF A HIGHWAY OVERPASS

I was writing wizard rock songs at my friend Emily's house when I first heard about this. Her mom heard about it on the radio, and we were all shocked that something like this would happen. According to the newspaper, a man dressed in hospital scrubs looking "distressed" dropped a toddler off of a highway overpass. The baby died, and the man ran from the scene. After closing off the area, the police were able to find and incarcerate him.

I was supposed to be taking the bus into town from Kailua to work on Ka Wai Ola, but the highways were closed down. I missed the meeting, but, as my friend so eloquently stated, "It's not your fault the freaking highway was blocked because some psycho dropped a baby on it." Which despite the tragedy of it all, seemed pretty funny. The same conversation also produced this gem: "I mean, people are always like 'Dead babies, dead babies, hahahaha,' but then when an actual dead baby comes along, everybody's all like 'Oh...'".

MAN ARRESTED FRIDAY MORNING WITH THE MOST OUTSTANDING TRAFFIC TICKETS IN THE STATE

I'm sitting alone in my room right now, after searching all yesterday afternoon for my dad.

I started worrying around 5:00 pm, when I needed to be picked up, and I still hadn't heard back from him.

"I think my dad's been hit by a car," I said jokingly to Carrie (we were working on the Ka Wai Ola layout).

"Really?" She said.

"No, I just had this dream last night where he walked into the road and got hit by a car in front of my face. Then I had this really funny Harry Potter dream."

I walked out onto the curb by my school, waiting for my step-dad, Mark, to pick me up. My dad still wasn't answering his phone, and so I decided to start looking for him. I called the two main hospitals in Hawaii. The first one said that no John Wilbur had checked in. The next one said no, and then asked if he would have come in today. When I said yes, they connected me to the ER operator. A John Wilbur had come into the ER today, and then checked out. This is when I began to feel worried. Something inside of me clicked, though, and I knew that I had to be strong and tenacious if I was going to make it through tonight, and hopefully find him.

Mark picked me up. He knew what was going on because my mom had called him and told him (I called my mom as soon as I found out from the hospital). Mark and I called my dad's regular doctor, and told him what had happened, and to try and find out more information from the hospital. Then we drove straight to his apartment: nothing. We left a note. Then we drove to the Outrigger Canoe Club (his haunt): nothing. We left a note. I called my brother, and found out dad had called him last night at 2:00 am, but that he'd hung up on my dad because it was so early. I called my dad's best friend, and talked to his wife, who said she'd call her husband and find out what she could.

It turns out that my dad's best friend had talked to him yesterday morning, but had not been able to get a hold of him the rest of the day. This was unusual.

My brother called me back and told me that my dad and him had this system where they would bail each other out of jail if either of them needed it. Nathan (my brother) said this might have happened, and that maybe the phone call at 2:00 am might have been a bail call. I understood where he was coming from because my dad has no respect for authority (something that I respect him for), and he doesn't follow the rules. So stuff like driving tickets are...well, let's just say they make for really good napkins.

At this point, I had no blood sugar (I hadn't eaten all day), and was starving. Mark and I got stuff to eat, so that we could relax, and try and stop imagining my dad hunched over some steering wheel, bleeding to death.

We had a good lunch/dinner and then called some people. We called the hospital again, but we still couldn't get anymore information.

So we went home and I felt numb and I listened to the Shins really loudly because I wanted to drown out my thoughts and I felt sad.

I came home, and talked to some great people, heard some stories, felt better. My mom continued to make calls while I drank tea in my room.

Around 9:00 pm, we got a call from the jail. He had been in jail for a day and a half, and his bail was $3,000.

Get this: he was in jail for thirty years of unpaid traffic violation tickets. The best part, though, is that they had to consolidate all of the charges because sometimes he would tell a different name to the police officer (because he doesn't carry his license), or give his social security number one digit off.

Damn, though. It was so good to know my dad was in jail. My mom told me that things were going to change, because before this he would drive me everywhere. She said that I would have to take the bus because dad probably wouldn't be able to drive me.

Today, during French class, dad called me, and I asked to step out of the classroom to take the call because it was an emergency. The first thing he asked me was whether I needed to be picked up (guess my mom was wrong--oh I love my stubborn dad!). I didn't, but I told him thanks anyways. I said maybe a movie later tonight?

When I got home, he called me:

"Do you still want to go see a movie? Because I'm kind of tired..." He chuckled as he said the words "tired".

"Yeah, I hear the beds in jail are not what they used to be."

"No, I had a pretty nice bunk bed. But you know, the guys in jail--they're really good guys actually. They all really liked me. They're good guys. I mean, they did some bad stuff, but they're pretty upstanding. They said they'd miss me."

I treasure this man.

Lindsea’s Laconic but mentally Loquacious Questions:

1. How does growing older, and learning more, change a person?

This is a question I’ve thought about for a while, because as I grow older, I see myself changing, but I haven’t been able to see a pattern in the change. I know that there is one, and I know that if I do enough research I can find one. I want to study the effects of experience (“wisdom”?) on people.

2. What are coincidences and how do they affect us?

In my day-to-day life, I see strange things happen that I know can’t be coincidences. For example, I might think something one day, and the next day something in the form of my thought will come to me in a surprising way. I want to explore the possibility that the mind controls reality.

3. Do I need to have a specific goal in my life in order to achieve something?

This is important to me, because, traditionally, people have always had goals and they have accomplished them and...queue the music...they've overcome. So what I'm wondering is: in order for my life to be validated, do I need to have a dogma of sorts?
One that I follow strictly and end up with some sort of result?

4. How does a thought form (what are its sources and what shapes it)?

I recently reread 1984, and there is this one idea that keeps popping up in my head. It’s the idea that the words that we learn, and the things that people teach us (i.e. you), directly shape our thoughts and ideas. In 1984, they attempt to integrate Newspeak into Oceania, with the purpose of limiting people’s vocabulary so that Big Brother can control their thoughts. What are my limitations? If I recognize them, is that action alone enough to get rid of them?

5. How can I become more conscious of my reality and myself?

Like the model of the eye looking at the brain, I want to learn how to zoom out, and look at my own thought processes, and eventually my whole world. I want to become in tune with my higher Self (or subconscious, or whatever name you chose to give it). I want to get to know myself so thoroughly that I will never question another decision in my life because I will know without a doubt that it is the right one for me.

Sorry.

I planned on writing a nice long post tonight about the book I'm currently reading, the wonderfully inspirational speaker we had today in school, and life in general.

But family issues came up. Huge family issues. I can't get into detail, but let's just say it was very bad. Practically my worst nightmare: not knowing. Anyways, it's over. And it's late, and I have a headache (blinding pain from low blood sugar, then rush of adrenaline). Expect a juicy long one soon.

I knew it

Which fucked-up genius composer are you?

Nick Cave... dark and creepy. You're a bi-polar genius, with equal passion for the most degrading aspects of humanity, as well as the beauty & wonder of God and Heaven.
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Quick and Dirty Facts: Art School

As the first semester of school passes, college is starting to frequent the mind of more and more students. We’re wondering about what college we’d like to go to…Harvard, Princeton, NYU, Yale, UCLA, Stanford, Berkeley, California Institute of the Arts… or maybe not. There are colleges for everybody, depending on what they want to do when we all grow up. For some, it’s easy; they’ve already picked out their school, and all they have to do is apply and hope for the best. For others, college is as big a mystery as the meaning of life. Whatever your attitude, it is ok. We have time, and a lot to choose from. There are thousands of colleges in the United States, but we’ve only heard of a relatively small margin of them, and only a few of us have explored the possibilities of an art-focused school.

I wanted to explore and learn more about art school because I love to do art. It's as simple as that. I feel happy when I do it, and I think that I would enjoy deep focused learning in that area. So, before I made any decisions, I set out to defines art school, and learn what the applying process is like. I also wanted to know what my options are after college graduation.

Art schools, I discovered, differ from regular schools in a couple of ways. Right now, the most important difference would be the application. Instead of the typical college application, filled with letters of rec, essays, transcripts, and SAT scores; the art schools require a more appropriate representations. They still require an essay, a letter of rec, a transcript, and sometimes SAT scores, but they mostly look at an art portfolio. The art portfolio is the most important factor in the application process. Some colleges, such as the California Institute of the Arts, say that “admission is based totally on talent. [They] need to see a portfolio of recent work. Test scores, GPA and class rank are not considered.”

But there are art colleges that require strong academics. The idea is that each college has a unique set of requirements, so I should chose the school first, and then make their needs, my needs. Despite the requirement for solid scores, the portfolio remains the key aspect of the application, and it should show strong technical skill, creativity, and a variety of media (meaning I use different types of paints, charcoal, graphite, etc).

But I can’t get in on skill alone. I must be extremely motivated and passionate as an artist, and I must be very committed to my art. Art cannot just be a recreational activity. Carole Schaffer, the Associate Dean at Parsons School of Design in New York says she looks for "discipline, drive and seriousness about the hard-work involved in becoming a designer." Art school shouldn’t be a back up school if I end up getting lower grades than I expected. I need to be ready to make art my life.

So, what do I do once I get in? The majors range from fashion design, to art history, to film, to fine arts, to graphic design, to interior design, to medical illustration…and the list goes on and on. Currently, I'm interested in fine arts, film, or graphic design. But anything a person can imagine doing is covered, and if it isn’t the colleges will usually allow you to create your own. So I go to college, hone my skillz until I think I'm ready to go out into world, and then make some $$.


This is where the problems come up. Depending on my major, I can either work for a salary, or I can become a self-employed freelance artist. About 63 percent of artists and related workers are self- employed. If I want to become an art director, expect about $35,500 a year to start with. If I'm aiming to be a fine artist, I should be prepared to live off of $17,390 a year for a while. Though I may become successful while I'm still alive, the chances are slim. The most expensive painting by a living artist ever sold was $81.5 million dollars. The talented artist was Jasper Johns (the art is on the right). I wouldn’t be too optimistic.

If being an artist is my true calling, none of this will matter much. It is a path that has many trials, like all others, but it will absolutely be worth it if it’s what I know I absolutely love. I'm not sure what I want to do with this. It's hard to consciously box myself in like this. If I go to art school, I am going to improve my art skills. I will come out of there accomplished and ready to start my life as a very talented artist, to follow my dream in that area.

But what if, true to my personality, I switch gears and decide to do something else completely different? Will it be easy to transfer? Can I even do that? I have to know that art is what I want to do with the rest of my life. At this point, to be honest with myself, art is not the only thing I want to do. I want to write. I want to make music. I want to travel. I want to learn more about Environmental Science.

After doing this research, I decided that making a portfolio isn't a bad thing, whether I want to go to art school or not. My plan of action will include making a kick ass portfolio, and taking AP Art senior year. Who knows? Maybe it will help me get into regular colleges too.

BeyondPassion (a rough draft)

passions to be
remembered, not just
forgotten in the rat
race, this one big face
of society
don’t play with me
don’t hate me
fake me
sexually harass me
cause I am you and you
are
me
there are no boundaries

when you raped me
did you remember
you have a mother who birthed
me
did you remember where
you came from
hearing the drum
of adrenaline
fight it, friend
cause I am you and you
are
me
when you hurt
me
you
hurt your
sanity

did you pay for me?
paid for the minutes
of ecstasy
in between me
dollar bills don’t
fulfill me
but I can’t leave this
it will follow me
and all I have left
are wasted passions
stained white on the
newest fashions
emptiness
inside
cause I am you and you
are me
when you pay for me
you bring hatred to the he
and cheapen the sacred she

I’ve joined the cult of
domesticity
swearing on chastity
before you marry me
cleaning the pantry
before you have sex
with me
raising the children
becoming the anti villain
becoming what you dream for
when you’re work-bored
what you cheat on when your
passion’s bored
feeling these binds on my hands
when I’m stuck at home and
I can’t vote
I can only hope
we don’t have a voice
we don’t have a choice
but speak, sister speak
cause I am you and
you are me
and you have made
my history

we volunteer to stop the violence
hone the campaigns
of more than abstinence
giving voice to the
silence
binding ourselves in an
alliance
of humanity
of men-and-women affinity
leaving behind golden vanity
sexist racist
profanity
and battling anti-organity
holding to truth,
love, and integrity
finding peace above the piles of grimy
blood soaked history
cause I am you and you
are
me
there are no boundaries



The stanzas are different points of view of women and their experiences. None of them are mine directly, but they are from stories that I've heard from friends and family. Some of them are historical, like the stanza about the Cult of Domesticity. They were inspired by books I'm reading about women's suffrage. I haven't been raped or sexually abused or entered into prostitution. But these things exists, and if I feel compelled to write about them, both to spread awareness, and to express pent up sadness and frustration, then that's my choice.

This is just a rough draft. I wanted to try out the slam poetry style. I'm probably going to come back and hack away/change a whole bunch of stuff. It's me tonight wanting to speak up about some things I've been thinking about. I originally recorded a podcast telling the story of the women in my family, but it got too personal and I didn't want to publish private business of people other than myself.

So, allegorically yours,
Lindsea