waltz for pony

tumblr_oiresb4Woz1ugp61po1_1280time is such a hungry beast / it swallows all my memories

twenty years on a planet is a short long time. so is twenty-two, and twenty-three, and all the other twenties that come with a second decade on this spinny ball. this isn’t the point. the point i’m trying to make is that no matter how much time you spend here, time always wins by stealing some of the things you hold dearest. memories, people, places – time is hungry and swallows them all.

you are my wildest witch come true / i love the way you love and move me

if you’re lucky, maybe two or three times in a lifetime, you get to experience an all encompassing type of love that shocks you more than the last one did. while i’ve been all sorts of unbearable on all the other parts of the internet, i’d like tot take this friday afternoon to be unbearable here. i am in the midst of the most splendid of loves, and i’d like to write about it because there’s nothing i do like write about my feelings.

my love is a wonder in himself; he is brave and caring, kind and understanding, and smart and free flowing. he believes in time and patience, and believes in love. he believes in love and believes in me, and friends, what a joy it is to have love itself believe in loving you.

he is the closest thing to purity that i’ve ever had the good fortune of coming across. see, purity as a blank slate is overrated. a purity born from experiences and mistakes, from a flawed person keen on a self understanding – this is the purity i’m interested in. i love him for his multitude of selves, for the ones he’s come to resent and the ones he wishes he could have back. i love him because he is purely himself, and because he is always changing to be better.

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like anyone, i love being loved. i crave the close touch of another, the tenderness that comes with the touch of pinkies. i would trade very little for the two a.m whisper of “i love you,” and even less for reruns of that 70s show with him. with him is my favorite place to be, which is a lot to say for a girl who makes a drastic move every two years (check my record). i love the soft sound that tells me that i’m beautiful, not because i don’t believe it otherwise but because i love the goosebumps i get from believing it. i love how my whole body reacts to words coming out of my favorite person. i love him.

it’s not just two of us, we’re three / you, the hungry beast and me

in this vingette of my life, it is me, my love, and time. and for the first time, i am not afraid of its passing. for the first time, i am excited to grow older. for the first time, i am excited to be here for longer. this time, the time is ours, and i love it. i love him.

love and light,
shalom xo

‘tortured artists’: a note

“The myth of ‘You have to be a tortured artist’ is a myth. You can have a happy, healthy life and still go to all these crazy dark places in your writing, and then go home then go play with your child and hug your wife.”

– Dr Lin-Manuel Miranda

The year is 1870. Vincent van Gogh is  a crazily talented man who is terribly troubled and misunderstood. Nobody buys his work. Nobody cares to read his letters, and he spends much time in isolation. Time passes, and he grows more and more lonely. 1890 rolls around, and he (allegedly)* commits suicide. He dies in the arms of his brother. People start to notice him once he’s died. “His work – it’s almost as if you can see his pain!” It’s believed by many that he wouldn’t have been able to produce any his best works had he not been in such dark places so often. His work becomes a hit, and he accrues posthumous fame. The tortured artist trope is born.

Following his death, and long after, many people subscribe to the idea that those suffering will create the most beautiful things. This idea is affirmed by tragic losses such as Sylvia Plath and Ernest Hemingway. The question: does mental illness make for better art?

I study English at university, along with my other three subjects. In the literary field, you’ll come across countless artists who were mentally ill, and claimed that the mental illness enabled them to write as well as they did. Some pseudo-scientific studies have shown a clear link between depression and good poetry, but I disagree with them almost entirely. Unfortunately, mental illness is romanticised to the nth degree, thanks to the likes of tumblr, and the idea that you need to endure some form of affliction to be great is frequently taken to be gospel truth. to  I’m saying what Lin-Manuel Miranda is saying – that the myth that you have to be tortured to make good art is a myth.

I’m certain that mental illness can inspire art. My experience has inspired my writing and my choices when performing on stage. I don’t, however, believe that a poem written about heartbreak by a happily engaged person, would pale in comparison to that of a heartbroken person.

I’m of the opinion that the ability to transcend your own experience in your artform is one of the highest forms of art. To get into another’s frame of mind without being in that frame of mind yourself takes a massive amount of skill, and the idea that your work would be inferior because of your transcendence sounds highly unlikely to me.

love and light,
shalom xo

*there is speculation that good ol’ vanny may have been murdered,but it’s all a bit sketchy.