I could've done that

I never really did art for anything or anyone but myself. Not for money, not even to give as gifts. Well, that's not completely true.

When my dad got laid off about a year ago, he had a small mid-life crisis episode. He bought a new car and ran away to France. When he came back, he was a little sad that he wasn't able to get pretty souvenirs for us or himself because everything was so expensive. So for Father's Day, I made him a black and white and gold nightscape of Paris. I wrapped it up with a card, and gave it to him at breakfast.

"You can use this in your new place in San Antonio!"

"Oh, thank you, honey! It's very well done! It must've been very meticulous." He put it on the shelf behind the breakfast table for the time being. It's still there.

I finished my project, and am a little disappointed. It's nothing special and nothing talented. There's this one area that I can't seem to get right. It's not the right shade. Not even after the 4 shades I put on it. And it's just water, just friggin' water. It happens with every piece of work, and when you point it out to someone else to get an opinion, they say "I think it looks fine. I don't see anything wrong with it." Of course not, but to my eyes, my painting looks all wrong. You just gotta accept it. I guess I do, and the imperfections make it mine.

I don't think I'd ever be able to call myself an artist. I don't work out of inspiration or appreciation of beauty. I draw sometimes to feel the grainy resistance of paper against my pencil. And I paint for the therapeutic silence of concentration. I hope that is some kind of beauty in itself.

What are you, dumb?

I spent kindergarten and first grade at Quartz Hill Elementary, but then went to Rancho Vista the next year because of some fight between my mom and my friend's mom. My friend's mom thought I was too "aggressive" on the playground, and almost always overruled her precious daughter. Well that was a bunch of bull, because on the playground, her angel was terribly vicious to other kids. Of course my mom defended me, and the other mom stayed by her daughter, but when mom's fight, it gets ugly. When we all had a sit down, I noticed my friend was prim and proper, sugary and sickly sweet. I was confused as to why she turned so rude to me during that hour with our mom's in the room. Wasn't she my friend?

I quickly learned that people are just dirty cameleons. They blend according to who they're with and it's a little disappointing. You don't really know if they're "real" with you or just trying to gain your approval for the time being. Doesn't that make everything false? You think you've made a true friendship and are able to share quality thoughts with each other, but when there's another person's influence around, your friend turns out to be a completely different person. Sometimes meaner, sometimes quieter, and sometimes more cheerful....So which side is truly how your friend feels about you? The sincere I'm-here-to-listen one, or the I-actually-think-you're-poo friend?

Of course, that makes me self reflect and self-conscious about my multiple faces also. It makes me sad. Oh well. I guess that's how our nature is meant to be. Although I think she was just jealous that I always got to be Pocahontas and she was stuck playing my sister.

Onions, ogres, and parfaits.

I started a project today. It reminded me how many layers there are to complete one picture.

Lots of "How well do you know_____" quizzes on Facebook nowadays, and it's obviously hard to get a good score for anyone. This started because people want trick others into thinking they know them well. And people take the quiz to try and prove themselves as good friends. Everyone wants to know how deep their friendships really are, and it's pretty impossible to prove anything of the sort. Especially by a 10 question quiz.

I think even shallow people have many layers. They obviously do because they cover themselves by superficiality. I can't decide whether making friends and figuring them out makes things interesting or irksome. Or if it is even necessary.

I sometimes question how well people know me, and I know its always "not very well." But I don't mind too much. I don't like talking about myself very much, and people never really ask anyway. I don't know how I can help that.

Oh, how artsy. NOT!

When we started moving around so much, I left behind so many of my interests and talents. I never came back to band, and I also stopped painting. It's a shame that I was only able to continue what my parents forced me to do, but not what I enjoyed doing.

I learned to appreciate painting when I was about 10. I was already a pianist and my mom could tell that that route was hopeless for my brother. So she put him in art classes instead. The first piece he brought home was an acrylic landscape of mountains with a log cabin in the foreground at one third. It actually looked good for his first time. In fact, it looked like an adult helped him, because he was only 6 at the time. But my parents gushed, praised, and showed off that log cabin to anyone with eyes. One day, we came to pick him up and went into the studio to see his progress. I found the chubby teacher painting for him while talking to him in a high pitched cooey voice. When we approached her, she told my mom that "learning how to paint is like learning how to drive a car". No it isn't. So we stopped going there.

My piano teacher referred us to a beautiful little Indian lady that painted masterpieces in the pool house behind her mansion. Her name was Mrs. Sri. Just remembering the place gives me the feeling of euphoria. Everything was slow and silent in her studio and it always smelled like art. I marveled at what she can do and asked my mom if I can have just one class with her.

That day, we did pastels and my first piece was pandas in a bamboo jungle. Art was so delicate and slight. Every movement of your hand was evidence on canvas. Every shade had to be blended according to your eyes. I was hooked. I came back for acrylics, and then she said that my hand was steady enough to try watercolors. I learned how to "float" watercolor and thought it was the coolest thing.

My brother stopped taking lessons at some point in all this, but I didn't notice.

Dancing Nancies

It's sad to think about who you are, who you are not, and what you're pretending to be. Maybe it's the weight of finals right now, but when I sit at my desk and think about how fake I am, it brings me close to tears. Where I'm going is an okay plan, but man it's such a long and horrid way to live. You won't meet anyone who is there or was there that will tell you they didn't tear their hair out or beat their heads against books.

What's even sadder is not being able to decide anymore. The decision was made 2 years ago. It's a waste of time and effort to do anything but. I'm such a damn average Jane, and they're not looking for average Janes to save lives. I'll probably happy in the end, but I'll be suffering on the way. I'll just be waiting for that gratitude and appreciation for what I do, mingled with faces of despair. Something will make everything worth it, right?

I realize I'm not in my Kimberly suit anymore. I don't even remember what color it was.

This roadmap is in no correlation with the geography!

Things have changed, I think. For the better, but it confuses me even more. When I think in the long scheme of things, I think where I am now is the best way. I can never tell if the good out weighs the bad, and sometimes the bad really really is heavy.

I haven't been physically feeling well either. I don't know what it is, but I feel weaker and less energetic. I can tell my strength isn't what it used to be. Like right now, as I type, my fingers hardly press the keys, and my carpals ache. Sauce is weak.

I applied for a lot of jobs last week and really wanted one to start during summer. The first one I applied to was for a medical assistant position at a gynecologist's office. It was a great opportunity to boost my resume for med school. I got a phone call the day after I sent in my resume, but didn't get the job. I then applied to work as a peer advisor at the College of Natural Sciences office and got an interview that Friday. It went well, and I'll hear from them Monday or Tuesday. But they're all staffed for summer. I really need summer money. I really didn't want to go there, but I might end up being a gymnastics coach. Again. It's my best bet. I'm more than qualified, and they're really in need for people, but it is a little far and the pay isn't fantastic for all the energy and pseudo-enthusiasm I have to put in. I also sent my resume to a botox, skin, lipo, whatever doctor's office but haven't heard back.

I also realize more and more that I need an estrogenous friend. Someone who will go shopping with me in the girls section without complaining. And someone I can confide in without hesitance. My mom complains about it all the time. "Why are all your friends guys? Doesn't John get mad?" I don't even know, man.