sketchablepaperfold

an aiming to be designer, with the soul of a writer

Tag: writing

And Time Went By [The Year of The Change]

I can hardly believe that three months went by since my last post; that one year went by since my last Christmas messages; that so many things changed in so many different ways. I just don’t seem to grasp that. Even having heard a few “Happy Holidays”, I just don’t feel like it’s the end of 2011.

These days always led me to think about the ones of the previous year. So, nowadays, I’m thinking about my last reflections on 2010, and my hopes for 2011.

I considered 2010 the best year of my life, and only wished that 2011 was as good as 2010. I hoped that me and B. could, finally, become a couple; that my friendship with D. could be strong as it was; and that my college life could be, at least, nice.

Yet, as usual, 2011 was the year of the change. B and D went, oddly, away. My college life definitely improved, I got closer to my college friends, worked a lot, talked a lot, had a lot of fun. In a unlikely scenario, I met R., the one I subtly mentioned on The Quote, and started to think that it could actually work. Then, I thought that it was a terrible idea, that I should be alone, bla, bla, bla… And, lately, I’ve been thinking that if I don’t do something, I will, definitely, loose him – that’s a cloud I’m decided to avoid. Well, to be honest, soon I’ll be celebrating my two and a half years of loneliness, and I don’t seem to like it. R. seems to be a pretty nice guy, a little older, reliable, so sweet and he doesn’t seem to have an avalanche of issues I’d like to solve! I mean, I always feel interested for complicated guys that I’d love to fix and, for a change, this one seems to be able to give me the peace and the stability that I need, the embrace that will always make me feel at home, the love, the care and the joy that will, without a doubt, keep my heart warmer.

Oh, and in this last months, I’ve been missing my writing so much, but I just don’t seem to find the time to do it. This year, college is demanding much more work and effort, and my mind is always on Fashion Design. Still, even though I’ve improved my drawings, and actually feel that I’m better, it doesn’t seem to be enough. I maintain my insecurity, my insane fear of failure and of showing my drawings [since I always think they’re not good]. Everyone outside college almost gets hysterical when we’re talking about something related to my course, but I always think it’s normal and that I don’t need to be that excited. So, in the end of day, I love fashion – I simply don’t think I deserve to make it. Well, I guess I just need to keep working and pushing myself to the edge, and take every chance I’m given.

Oh well, the almost farewell to 2011, the year of the change. Again, I can only hope 2012 can be as fun as this one has been.

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Reflecting On “Becoming Jane”

 

I accidentally stumbled on a movie I’ve never heard of. An old look I could easily grasp for the clothes. The british accent I’ve loved my entire existence. A gently lightened wood. It was only after seeing it that I decided to read the title.

But no, I’d never guess it would be about Jane Austen, until I read the resume.

I forgot the time and, of course, of everything I should and had to do. I simply continued to watch.

Being a complete stranger to her own life, I shall think that most of the events portrayed in the movie have, indeed, occurred. Of course I heard a mention to Jane’s “Persuasion” at “The Lake House” [a 2006 movie with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves that I simply adore] and to her “Pride and Prejudice”, whose movie I haven’t watched yet.

And being, myself, the truest type of the lonely romantic creature, I just couldn’t bear that she gave up the love of her life, Tom. Yes, yes, I completely understand her choice, her position – indeed, despite being here, with the truest indignation in my heart and fingers, if I were her, I might have done the exact same thing.

Yet, it seems so painful to live with that sort of loneliness, specially when Tom has said I’m yours, heart and soul and sacrificed everything and everyone who relied on him to be with her. I know that would, at some point, affect them and that she’d always feel worried – and, worse, guilty – for putting someone else’s life at risk. And I also know that knowing that would destroy her and keep her from being entirely happy.

Yet, being on the outside, having never heard a sincere “I’m yours”, and standing two centuries after her, I think I can provide myself the joy [I wonder if I can, even, consider it a joy] of saying that I’d also never forgive myself for letting him go away.

As a mere XXI century watcher, I felt so relieved when he came back and proposed an escape. I truly felt everything would be solved and relatively good.

She ended up not having great things, loosing her beloved one and staying with almost nothing but her writing. “I will live by my pen”, she said and, well, she still does. Even being dead to the world, Jane is still truly alive in her words, in her books.

Again, as a mere and solitary XXI century observer, I can only wonder how everything would be if she hadn’t found the letter, if she actually got married to Tom and they went to Scotland, as they wanted. I can only wonder how life would have been if, along with her characters, she could actually have accomplished what she wanted.

[Obviously, I can’t avoid thinking what if it was me?, what would I do, as a single young woman who had to write to live. She lost love but she kept writing. Well, of course she did. And, I guess, she actually wrote even more, to compensate her inner sorrow.

Oh writers, so predictable, aren’t we?! Creatures who live – or try to – and end up so confused and overwhelmed that they have to write. And no, it’s not just a will, an evidence of being spoiled. Writing is, indeed, for people like us – who have loved a lot, but also suffered a lot – a need.

A need that is, truly, equivalent to the need that everyone who doesn’t write has to breathe.]

Living Between Several Passions

I often wonder if it’s enough. Drawing to earn my life, while living, in so many ways, for writing.

I wonder if I chose the right way, if it’s the right thing for me, if it’s really what I want to do.

I’m not trying to say I don’t love fashion, drawing, design, art in general – that would be the ultimate lie, and I’m simply not able to say it. Yet, writing is like breathing to me. It’s the thing that catches my breath, that prevents my heart from beating, the only thing I want and need to do when my thoughts are overwhelmed.

I always remember passing by my college – without having the smallest idea of what it was – and wonder about it. Thinking something like what are those two grey buildings over there? I never got the answer, until the day I actually went there. After a long while of tears, pain and suffering, I’ve actually felt home there. I felt like I was really supposed to be there, and wouldn’t picture my life in a different way.

I read college programs, many abroad, and I dream about seeing my collection in a catwalk, waving at the end of a show; about casually finding one of my pieces on a magazine, or reading my very own interviews as a designer. But I can’t help wondering if it’s enough.

In the other hand, if I had chosen a writing related course, everything would have been so different. I wouldn’t have lived half of the things I lived, wouldn’t have met none of the people I met – and who mean so much to me – ; probably, would have kept sat at the bottom of the mainstream, and wouldn’t have turned in the person I am today.

I don’t regret my choice, but sometimes, I find myself feeling my heart tighten, and this particular anguish whose provenance hasn’t been released – at least, not for me. I don’t know if I’m deceiving myself, and that doubt, that absence of answers [and also of ways to find them] destroys me, piece by piece.

As I’ve already made clear, I do love fashion and design, but I also love photography [the magic of the moment you keep safe in your memory for an entire eternity is something that I just can’t explain properly. It’s like I could go back in time, whenever I wanted. As if someone could actually stop the time, and have it as one wishes] and, of course, I’m so devoted to writing, painting scenes, pictures, entire exhibitions in my mind, and describing them with my very own words, without getting close to an end.

In a certain way, writing and drawing have always been together in my life. When working on actual projects, like novels, I always draw the places where my story happens. I carefully draw the houses and plan their inside, placing objects in order to give more reality to my scenes, and to allow everyone to imagine the actual place without problems. Of course, I also think about the way the characters are dressed, and even research – when writing a period romance – , to find out how was life in that time.

Surely, design has a strong connection with writing, since the entire history of design was built by designers and architects, people who worked with design… But the authentic question is: will it work for me? Will I be happy just devoting a part of my existence to words, while devoting the other part to fashion design? Will I be able to manage my love for photography, too? Will I ever feel complete, living like that, without having one passion – like everyone else does – but several meaningful ones? Will I find the time, the willingness, the strength to dedicate myself, with all of my heart to design, so that I can sincerely improve, and still do everything else? Will I ever manage my time correctly, so that I can do everything I love?

In the end, it all comes to one question: who the hell am I? What do I want? 

Will I ever find those answers, the real ones? And will I ever cease the anguish I have, exactly because I don’t know them?

So many things, so little time. Gosh, I often feel like my head is a few minutes to blow. I keep thinking, and don’t seem to find a thing. Soon, September will arrive and I’ll need to prove that I deserve the place I have in that Fashion Design class. I have to be stunningly great, yes, I do. Yet, I wonder where will I find the strength to do it; what is, in the end, my carrot, the goal I want to achieve and will make me fight , no matter what, to get it.

Gosh, Amy, take a breath. Or, better, start acting. You can’t stay like this any longer. You can’t wait anymore. You need to do something. 

My Very Own Hard Way to Self-Forgiveness

I’m concluding that self-forgiveness is quite the hardest way to forgive. I mean, when someone you love does something “wrong”, you scream, you cry, you feel disappointed; but then, you get over it, you forgive the person and life goes on. You know that people do not act according to your own principles, you try to grasp that concept and try to reach the stage of acceptance.

Nevertheless, when it comes to self-forgiveness, the whole picture becomes worse. You have no one to blame, but yourself. You can’t use the strategy of understanding and accepting differences. You just can’t.

Yesterday, I was wandering through my ancient journals, trying to find any words, reflections about the reason that led me to choose the Arts field, instead of another one. I truly believed that, at some point, I would have written something about it. I’ve read 6th and 7th grade ones – which had five pages, each – and found nothing. Then, I started reading the 8th grade journal, the most complete one.

It was my final hope, since I haven’t found anything before, and I just returned to journaling during the summer after 9th grade (time when the choice was already made, and which I relatively remember). After reading a few pages and finding nothing on the subject, I decided to use the finder, and search the word Art. Again, I found nothing.

In the end, all I could read were silly things. No reflection, no thoughts on the future, no writing about stuff worth reading years later. All of those pages were filled with nonsense according to the following scheme:

Day 1 – I’m so in love with Subject A. I truly hope that we’re meant to be!

Day 2 – I’ve been talking a lot with Subject B. I think I might have a crush on him.

Day 3 – OMG, I’m so into Subject A!

Day 4Subject C asked me on a date. I don’t know if I should go, since I’m completely into Subject B!

Day 5 – Date with Subject C was great! I think I’m in love with him.

And this crap goes on and on and on during… let’s say: four years, I guess.

The world can’t have the smallest idea of how bad I felt when I read those pages. I had the vague idea that my life had been relatively normal, and that I had written something worth my own reading. After all, it couldn’t be further from what I thought!

This is actually my point with self-forgiveness. It’s been four years since I left 9th grade and all it implied. Now, I had no idea of who I was, back then. In the end, my idea of myself was completely wrong.

My current idea involved the existence of a brain, and not such hideous stuff! I had no idea that I was so confuse, always changing my “feelings” [honestly think they were only sensations, but ok]. I would never think that I was so in and out of love that easily.

Honestly, it all made me think about the present. I’ve recently found out that I wasn’t trying to do the right thing. I’ve already introduced you to B, the one I’ve been liking since almost two years ago.

To make to long story short, I had a massive heartbreak a few months before meeting B [and when I say massive, I really mean it. I’m totally aware that it’s not exaggeration] . For that exact reason, I spent half-year denying my feeling, saying that I was only trying to get him back. After a long time of reflection, I concluded that I was ready to start over.

Yet, recently I started to feel nostalgic, and missing all the things I had with him [despite he was not even close to be the right person for me]. It took a while to figure out that I was, truly, missing all the concept I had given him, since I was completely devoted to him. Of course, it’s hard to heal from that sort of injury. And that was the moment when I noticed that besides liking B, I was actually trying to replace what I had lost, and to find someone who could actually be my home again.

Wrong, wrong move. Silly Amy. You’re so silly!

In spite of trying to be fine on my own, I was willing to head back to a relationship [with someone who doesn’t deserve to be mistaken and broken by me, let’s say. Just thinking about hurting him breaks my heart]  Now, just imagine how insane I felt when I finally realized that’s exactly what I’ve done my entire life. It simply ruined the image I had of myself. Worse, I could even try to accept doing this at 12 or 13. But doing this at my age, nowadays, even in an unconscious way [which is the case] makes me sick.

Forgiveness of our very own mistakes. Self-forgiveness. Gosh, it is hard. The only thing I can do now it’s to accept that, and stop feeling “attracted” to everyone that’s nice to me. It’s so sick, and I don’t like it. Not at all. I wonder how I spent so long doing that, without even noticing. Sometimes ignorance is considered a blessing. This time, I’m absolutely sure it was awful.

Hurray, Amy. You really screwed up. You’ve finally hit the guilt course, and the collision was a lot harder than you expected.

[I wonder how will I cope]

The Unsent Letter

[This will be a different sort of post. I confess that it’s stuck on my throat, and I don’t seem to be able to handle it anymore without writing. I believe it’s called addiction, right?!]

Diane,

I don’t even know exactly how I should start this, which words should I use to say everything that’s been compressed in my throat for a while.

I have no idea how we’ve come this far. It’s been almost a month since the last time we spoke. A month, you know?! An entire month.

I got worried, I wrote you. Short sentences, few words, I know, but that’s all I could do. If you were really trying to be away, or if something was actually happening, you wouldn’t feel like talking or writing for hours – I know that. I tried to reach you in different ways, different days, so that you didn’t feel pressured. You never replied.

I would try to go to your place, but I know that also wouldn’t work. So, I was just left with staying here. Nothing to say, nothing to do but to wait. Wait, without knowing how long it would take for you to even mention that you were alive. Without knowing what was happening, after all.

I wish you would, at least, give me some answers. Some real answers, you know?! At least, once.

Yes, I wish I had them. Because being here, without having the smallest idea of what’s going on in your head to be away for so long really stinks. You’ve no idea of how much.

Where the hell are you, Di? Where did you go? Where the hell is my best friend?

Really, where is she?! I haven’t seen her in a long, long while. And, to say the truth, I’m tired. Extremely tired of waiting. Waiting for you to give me a word, an answer. Waiting, at least, for you to have the smallest hint of how much I care, and how much this bothers me.

You know, sometimes I feel like screaming at you, so that you could, at least, try to grasp how tired I am of being the second in line, the one who gives it all, and doesn’t seem to get a single thing in return. I wish I could scream you a WAKE UP!, so that you could understand what you’re doing, and how angry and frustrated I feel.

Go ahead, tell me that you’ve got a busy life [just like you actually did, a few minutes ago]. Ask me again why the hell am I asking you to send an invitation for a meeting through an old-style train. Grasp the differences within my words, and ask me again why am I saying that sort of thing. Yeah, you’ve seen it. You noticed that it was slightly different from my usual, didn’t you? Ask again. Do it, just ask.

And in that very moment, I would only wish you were in front of me so that I could explain it. So that I could put everything in the simplest words, once and for all, with all the almost raw emotions I never allowed you to see. So that you could finally see that, after all, I’m made of flesh and bone, and my blood is still running. Just like my best friend in college said [yes, best friend] “People tend to think I’m too calm the like, but then, they cross their limits and just get shocked when I react.” I subscribe each and every single word he said.

You crossed the limit of the line I drew a long, long time ago. You were always worried about being with those creatures that weren’t even your friends. I have to spend time with them, you used to say, in a guilty expression. On the inside, I only laughed. A lot, actually. You had to spend time with those whores. And what about me?! The one who was always around when you needed anything, anything at all. No, I was a decent, reasonable person and I was completely able to understand how hard your life was.

I never said I had a busy life. Ever. And, probably, most of the times you tried to reach me, I was busy, and deeling with a huge amount of things at the same time. But I would quit whatever I was doing, and give my full attention to you.

See, that’s exactly why you thought it was weird for me not to say the usual it’s all right, darling. You are used to have the passive Amy, the one that’s always waiting for the chance to help, and then, to be left. Forget that, I’m just tired of it.

Ask me, ask me why I said that. And I’ll only say that you were never able to express gratitude for any of my words, attitudes, and the like. I was always worried about you, while you were worried about not letting anyone else down but me.

It’d be a whole new world if you actually read this, wouldn’t? You probably blame me for being fake, wouldn’t you? But try to think the other way around: did you ever give me the space, the opportunity to say it? To tell Hell, I don’t agree! No, you didn’t, right?

So, just don’t get shocked. Sooner or later, I’d lose it. Everyone knows that. I’ve handled it while I could, more than what I could. Yet, now, I couldn’t do it. Not anymore.

Personal Thoughts About A Girl Named Amy

There are things that I, honestly, can’t avoid.

It’s obvious that no one needed me to come here and read an entire post just to grasp something that’s being broadcast, all over the world, about another girl named Amy [and I’m saying another, since I’m not talking about myself]

I absolutely won’t try to build a replica of an episode of biography channel, since I don’t even know much about her story.

All I know – and it is not much – I’ve learnt from her songs and, I must confess, I’m only familiar with a few.

She was the kind of person that actually felt what she sang, and anyone with just a bit of sensibility would understand it. Amy, I think, didn’t write just to make money, but because she needed to write. And she had the sort of song that everyone sings along, even with the radio.

It takes a lot of courage to tell the world what she said on Rehab. Honestly, I’m quite sure I wouldn’t be brave enough, if I was in her place. In the end, she put the entire world singing Rehab, which was, clearly, her story.

I must confess that I enjoyed her songs, and loved the “happy” ones, like Valerie. There was this almost childish smile that caught everyone that heard or sang Valerie, and I got that smile over and over again.

Yet, something really, really different came to me when I heard Back To Black. Not the first time I heard it – since, then, I didn’t get half of her words – but after reading the lyrics. The moment I heard that song knowing exactly what she was saying, I felt a different, particular emotion.

I truly knew what she sang and, again, I must confess that Back To Black was my song, the one that could have been, easily, written by me. Not because I liked it, but because I knew exactly what those words meant – I had been there. She sang my life too, in that song.

And that feeling made me say what I’ve already said: that she needed to write, just the way that every writer needs. We live for writing, we only live with writing, we can’t even think properly without writing [because, without knowing exactly how, this huge lump installs itself in the throat, in the heart, in each and every single part of our being, until we write]

When a person truly feels something, and writes about it, the reader gets the whole thing, the whole feeling. And that happened to me with Back To Black. It only takes a few words, a few notes to give me goose bumps and, quite often, to lead me to tears.

A song! it’s only a song!, would those blessed [or not] insensitive creatures say. Yet, for me, it’s not a song. It’s a story, a statement, just like every other thing that wasn’t written with hands and/or brain, but which every letter that was given to the world came from the heart.

And yes, it was simply a personal review that a supposed Amy made about another Amy. Blame me for not researching at wikipedia, and not googling a single thing I wrote.

Decisions, Decisions

I shouldn’t be here, writing. Instead, I should be drawing.
Still, I don’t feel like doing none of them, and I know that if I allow myself to write more than just a few lines, I’ll just spend another day without drawing.

Let’s just face the facts while we can: I can’t be here. I have to draw and I’m 100% sure that if I don’t do it, I’ll feel a tremendous amount of guilt tomorrow. I know it.

Still, why is it so hard to choose?!

I guess I’ll just have to do as if I were still a kid: sweetheart, if you draw, you’ll be allowed to write, ok?! I’m only afraid it won’t work, since I’m feeling sleepy.

Amy, get ready. You’re in the guilt course, and it will hit you as soon as you wake up, tomorrow. The countdown starts now.