Maybe there’s a movement. Or maybe we should start one.

Maybe, what we all (the young, us, ‘young adults’ especially it seems) have to remember (constantly, everyday, around every corner and conversation and expectation) is that no body really knows what they’re doing.

Maybe we are all anxious, and OCD, and self conscious.

Maybe we’re all floundering for some kind of sensibility in the chaos that is our perception of the world and each other and everything. Each of us and our thoughts and the words that come out right and wrong and sideways and poetically, they all get tangled like a fly in the web of a very tricky spider called life. And we’re trapped here, stuck somewhere between can’t escape the hold and loving this sweet venum.

Maybe we both wish for happiness, and pretend we know how to find it (or keep it, or stay happy in one place for very long).

Maybe we want to be travellers, lovers, artists and bohemians because to us that means we’re finding our own way with a little bit more joie de vie than the average american teen and,

and and and, we want to beleive that something somewhere, well anything actually, will ever really make us happy at all.

And in the search of this idea, this utopia far away behind (what we’re told will be) a stable income and true (ever lasting, in Christ our lord amen) love, our lives are filled with so much beauty, so much laughter, and care, and chaos, and coincedences that we will never be able to hold it all. Never tell, or write, or take enough photographs to capture the true (cheesy quote worthy) happiness that comes in the everyday crazy; somewhere between sneezing with your mouthfull and that snarky glisten in your best friends eye.

And they, the opressers and the pessimists and the scientists, they say, that our brains aren’t done developing, and that our horemones drive our actions and that one day, when we’re 32, our motabolizims will have stabalized and then we can go on to live our “real” lives. And maybe they’re right, (or just for some; the boring, sensible, lazy, brainwashed, scared and ‘faux’ depressed) or maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the unstable, unpredicatble nature of our brains and trusting what all those funny biological chemicals are telling us in the form of libidos and emotions and personal tastes.

Maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the messy, and the scary (taking chances on people and places and dreams) and the not so simple complexities and intimacies in a whole spectrum of relationships.

Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that we can cultivate lives worth sustaining. Making homes into recording studios and hosting the parties we’d like to go to in our own backyards.

Maybe, there’s a movement towards appreciating community;
to appreciate living in a world filled with people just as fucked up and depressed and confused as you are (probably, and if you’re not, get out of my house) and to realizing that often, people with the biggest hearts, with the most incredible minds and coolest portfolios have been around the self doubting, depressed for days, haunt at least a few times and that some are probably on it right now.

Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that there’s no happily ever finish line decorated with suburban home floor plans and wedding bands dripping in white white (pure) white and comfortable retirement funds.

Maybe we’re on a parasol in a web of uncertainty and maybe there’s a movement towards accepting that that’s okay (and that ‘true happiness’ makes a better post it note quote than a life goal) (and that happiness is best homemade, self made, and probably different for everybody, and found in as many different ways as there are people).

Maybe there’s a  movement. Or maybe we should start one.

We have been talking, in one of my classes about art that makes you feel uncomfortable.

Art that transports you.
Art that puts you on edge.
Art that makes you shudder.
Art that makes you squirm but you still want to look.

And what the value is of this type of work.

The art I make is often incredibly personal.
Often what most people would call, too much, too close, too raw, too intimate.
too too too.

But maybe this means it’s “working”,
because I want to make people feel the way that I feel.
Like so much, so close, so raw, so intimate.
so so so.

Required (preferred) Readings.

Especially interesting exerts from ‘Am I Normal? The Questions of Sex’
– which I just read for my ‘Intro to Sexuality Research’ class…

Required (preferred) Readings. | This is (not) Romance..

A run on rant about meeting boys at bars, taking chances and one night stands. | This is (not) Romance.

He seemed lovely and we had a lot of fun dancing and he’s a photo-journalist who’ll be interning at Vice. So these are all excellent qualities, and we smoked cigarettes outside and he was friends with everybody and… continued here.

Heartbreaking and Hilarious Things Said to Me This Week:

“Madeleine, do you wear red lipstick when you walk down the street?”

“Madeleine, I’m trying to learn patience, and you’re really helping me with that.”

“Madeleine, certain colors are separating themselves from other colors and that’s all I know.”

“Madeleine, there wont be any fish left to eat in ten years, d’you really think my beer can will make a difference?”

“Madeline, you have so many feelings.”

“Madeleine, did you graffiti tag the mens outhouse?”
(apparently everyone knows I’d be the one to write quotes from Lolita with a fuschia sharpie)

“Madeleine, lets take the disco light inside the spaceship, if we dance we’ll sound like a chip bag.”

“Madeleine, you’re my new best friend, I knew it was official when we both said that we’re sporadically poly.”

“Madeleine, I don’t feel beautiful anymore.”

“Madeleine, do you want to learn about why the Galaxy is expanding or just continue doing your girl power super moon dance?”

Sitting on the rooftop of the pub and,

unable to think about anything,
except how easily it is that we could die.

and that,
yesterday,
or what was today,
in another world,
while I was sitting on a rooftop drinking bottled beers,
named ‘dead guy’
my dad would be turning 61 years old.

but not in this universe,
not in my world,
where I am a singular pro-noun,
sitting on rooftops.

and remembering that lately,
I’ve been so sad.
and
angry,
without a knowledge of why.

and,
without a knowing of why lately,
I have never remembered these such landmarks,
until they’ve passed me by.

happy birthday dad.