more than paint
I read that the purpose of art
is not to create something beautiful.
(Suddenly Modern Art makes sense
Rather art is an objective expression
coming from within the belly of the artist.
Art is not a product, rather an action
of humans. Attempting to display
their brains, hearts, and lungs,
in acrylic, string, and clay.
It is the only form that can remain pure.
It can’t easily be corrupted.
I read that poetry is giving expression
to the beautiful through words.
But that beautiful didn’t mean aesthetic.
Or that it has to be good.
It is only means to unravel the
knots in my fingers and heart.
-Cynthia J. Zapata
Where’s my hair? Undercuts. Because…impulse.
❝ If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth it’s riches; because for a creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place.
— Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
I am a half year from being twenty. I have lived in two centuries and three decades. There are days where this age feels right. It feels like my favorite pair of jeans after I have worn them twice. The age just makes me look good no matter which way I turn. When almost twenty feels pretty on me, I can say that up until that moment I have lived a great life. I could kiss everyone I know goodbye and walk into the afterlife confidant that there is nothing I am missing out on.
There are other days where I feel like I am twenty years above my twenty. These are the mornings when I wake up and feel a calloused pain in my knees. The same mornings when just one cup of coffee is not enough. It’s during my second cup that I wring my hands together and notice they feel dry. When I look down for a split second I see scars of battles I have yet to fight. It’s just an illusion, and maybe I won’t even make it to see my twentieth birthday so I shouldn’t scare myself like that. Then I think of my parents and realize with sadness that they are getting old. Apropos I don’t know if they are growing anymore. They seem to have stopped concerning themselves with their growth after my birth.
On some nights I feel like I am seven. These are the nights that I curl myself into my sleeping bag and hold my knees to my chest. These are the nights I breathe in real heavy like to make sure I don’t drown under my emotions. These are the nights that I tell myself that everyone would be sorry if I were gone. These are the nights that I dance with ideas of running away; starting over in a town big enough not to notice me, but small enough to not be overwhelmed by the people. If I can’t see people then people can’t see me. Yes, I know that sounds naïve, but who do I turn to? These are the nights I wish I could trust my mom with the truth. That my dad would still think of me the same if he only knew. Somewhere between my prescribed bedtime and the time I fall asleep my tears evaporate. With them an incense of prayer rises up to have the strength to forge ahead. “Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.”
There are afternoons when I feel seventeen again. I am in limbo of being old enough, but at the same time not old enough. I have responsibility but I am not in charge of myself. I have problems with authority and I am the authority. It’s like a Charles Dickens’ book; it can’t make up its mind. Is this the best of times? Or is it the worst? Or is it somehow the best place to be for growth? I mean, this is a moment where I have to make a choice. My feet are learning to feel for a firm ground. It’s like following a yellow brick road without a goal in the end. I don’t even know what I would ask the wizard for. I just know I want to get somewhere that isn’t where I am now.
I guess if I had to guess how old I was, I would say twenty. It is old enough that I can claim to have pain in my bones. It’s old enough that I have responsibility and am in charge, but still on the verge of making choices. It is still young enough that I can cry and mom and dad are still there. I can still rebel against the system. I can still argue with God before He wins. I can be stupid and smart all rolled into one. Maybe twenty is like my jeans right out of the dryer, they just need to be stretched and worn.
-Cynthia J. Zapata
Caroline - Noah Gundersen
Miracles of Modern Science.
❝ Time spent in bookshops is time spent wisely
Fineshrine - Purity Ring
"The rain to the wind said,
‘You push and I’ll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
that the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged — though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.”
Bringing pretties home. Florist life.
I Heart it Through the Grapevine - Marvin Gaye
I want paper and pens.
I want coffee and tea.
I want time for books.
I want to eat
poems for breakfast,
articles for lunch,
and novels for dinner.
I want to whittle the tips
of my fingers into pencils.
I want to scribble my existence
all over the world.
-Cynthia J. Zapata
Come on Eileen - Dexys Midnight Runners