Daoisms @dao-phan - Tumblr Blog

My newly sketched out gals.

2014. New year. New life.

I need not say any further of what this fresh year stands for me. The title says it all. Cheers to a non-stop personal reinvention.

Iron clad.

Quick art is good art. Design between the slivers of free time in your day.

Freedom is Here

It exists whether you believe it does so or not. There is always a gateway to some form of freedom which exists. Still, many doors yet to open.

Devotion to a Day

Hello Tumblr. I have been on hiatus for a while, but now, my big comeback arrives!!! Just joking of course. For the past four or five months, it has been, and mind my "understatement", a whirlwind of some sorts. Quite literally. Like the meandering of events that jostle you back and forth into black holes, sink holes and whatever kind of treacherous space you crawl into. But hey, I'm still alive!! And singing and dancing because today is rather an epic day. Now that I have finally escaped what seemingly was an endless summer of should have, would have, could have, I have finally found an answer to the waiting and crying of the meek and sorrow nights of being alone in Lawrence. A book, written all this time whilst I was sleeping and dispersing my tears through the pungency of the Kansas fields on a humid summer evening. I had written this book rather long before I fell asleep, at my home and it developed and built itself discreetly, underneath my consciousness. This book of mine documents every nook and cranny, every minute of my life into a compilation fit for a stranger to read. What you'll find, are rather ink drops forming words conveying amoebas of crazy encounters with the unknown. I consider myself a writer, and yet, the majority of my written work is compiled in my head, like an intangible journal, the most private of private diaries only accessible through a long, long conversation with me. The joys of life!!! Right? Ever find yourself thinking excessively about certain events and feelings? You're writing a book my friend and you don't even know it. After you reflect back and have one of those epiphany moments, you'll realize how much you remember about the minuscule things which haphazardly followed you throughout the years. Keep it and cherish it, because it'll help reveal what you truly want in your life. Not fame or fortune, but the favorable moments of love and compassion for unexpected situations. Alas, befitting enough, unravel the strain of words in your head onto your favorite social networking sites and lead a whole pack of followers who will believe and support everything that you have been bottling up this whole time.

Thought bubble of the day

Here's a quick advice for the newbie of writing and the not-so newbie. Read other blogs. On here, on Wordpress, on any given site that exists in the current web-o-sphere of social blogs. Please, I urge you to indulge in a little semiotic study in which you may learn something about your own writing style. This is a classic trick of the trades my friends! Classic scholars like Cicero remind us that, even in antiquity, reading is a must for all who desire to learn more of their own technique in writing. It's good for you. Don't be discouraged or compare your blog to others' blogs. They are not you. And you have the unequivocal power to control the language in which you communicate to others. But did you see what I did just now? I combined, much to the dismay of the Gods of rhetoric, power and communication, which never seemed to buddy up kindly, ever. So, let the world hear your story and feel great about it. Mistakes, hesitation and all. Just let it go and write another blog entry again.

The Menil Collection in Houston

After a long and arduous journey over the span of a week, through the thick mugginess of New Orleans and the broken down blueness of Memphis, I am complacent with what I was able to grasp, sense-wise, although, I could have done better visually with my eyes. Maybe my 24 year old eyes are getting old or jaded, perhaps, by my stay in New York, which made almost anything to the striking visual almost blase to indulge. But what they hey, life seems too important to eschew on those minute details over and over. My love and I drove through Houston, a pit stop on our longer route back to Lawrence (yep, entrenched in snow upon our arrival). We were fortunate enough to spend time at the Menil Collection (which was, thankfully, free!). It is a large paneled house built in the middle of a suburban casual neighborhood, quite austere and rigged with bewilderment, in a good thinking on your feet way. The Menil houses an array of art collections which, in just by observing the strangeness of the museum’s surroundings, the way in which the grass and trees were fashioned by new age art movements, one can sense the museum’s deep appreciation for the modern arts, which positions adjacent against Houston’s more conservative familiarity with American realism artwork. But even with the heart of one of Texas’s largest cities, one finds arcane myths plastered formidably against the white walls. As an admirer of the modern art movement, actually more of a lover of the simplistically elaborate mind manifestos, my jaded eyes were trembling, if only for the one second I first saw each art piece. Aside from the multiplying herd of security that surrounded me, which was off putting when trying to view the artwork without feeling criminalized (no I was not planning on kissing any paintings), there was incredible ease in my thought process as I moved from examining one work to the next in each gallery. What the Menil Collection does so superbly, and I thank the low crowd of viewers, is the placement of artists within the gallery; each work flows aesthetically with the next in the the visual and the creative process. It does so well with the layout of the galleries that, the aesthetically sound and unsound observer of the art pieces are neither withdrawn with fear from trying to analyze the work nor ostensibly provoked to indulge in the work. The Collection had me comforted in my peaceful space between the paintings and myself. It was just amazing to be away from the more obvious art scenes and remain hidden in the middle of Houston whilst gazing at some of the most well known contemporary artists of our times. I would recommend the art lover to visit this museum, even if you could care less for the insanely modern of modern art. You will receive something out of the Menil which could blow your mind. Maybe. It’s worth a try.

Placid Lawrence

This whole region in the U.S of A is one big silent mime. You know it's there. You can interpret what is going on, but you don't really sense the loudness of the fake claps eschewed in background noises. You don't get the fumes coming from the car pipes or the stampede of heels as strange shoppers finish a marathon of underground vintage rummaging. This town is in need of noise....not paid for performances in small venues dampened by the welcoming of a tiny little crowd. Big, ear drum popping, eye blinding, sick to your stomach wailing of incessant music. It's not dirty. Dirty doesn't manipulate the lonesome like the bribery of dream wave music, muddled by indecipherable notes. Placid movements with man made spur of the moment celebration. Have you noticed? The turning of the once crowded vain girls deduced to muted mid-Americans. This is what the plains were made for. Fearless rebellion of the soul channeled through the endless possibility of building and rebuilding on the wheat fields. There is a mass of land here with no visible ending. That means, a fifty mile sculpture, a fifty mile hike, a fifty mile melody or fifty miles of nothing but redundancy. It's endless when in reality there is an actual end. Why should boundaries be left untouched? What is the harm of doing no harm but to sing my personal ballad of what this life should mean to me? Whether I am here in the central lineage of America or somewhere on the hot west coast edge or the tastefully polluted east coast, placid is not a word to accept. I wish to do great things for strangers. It could be as small as making a meal for someone or help mend the patches of their lives in any way I can. Spread the word, be bold, make love, don't drink your dullness away into a frothy back of the alley visit. Be good to yourself and this land, even if this land is not how you envision yourself in. Be glad you have a chance to live even in each second that doesn't seem like it counts in the present. I've got a second to spare to try to make you happy. Duly noted. I've got plenty of seconds. So take the power of your two personal intellectual properties, the left hemisphere and the right, create a conundrum for yourself and try to Sudoku it in the next ten minutes. You might be surprised to find yourself in need of some noise.

Gypsy

I came home, early in the stages of dawn, to find myself wandering around the house like a nomad coming back to her hut after walking two miles for food. Grocery is distant here where I 'live". And the term live so often is defined as temporary in my book of words. Call my life transient at the very least. I have been moving around so much, I don't know what it feels like anymore to sink into a comfy couch and fully acknowledge my surroundings as mine. Having to endure exhausting bus trips and car drives to unfamiliar places for the past two years, I'm no more than a stranger or gypsy invading a town, observing rather than immersing myself as town after town passes by me. Getting too involved in the unknown means the possibility of parting oneself once again to something or someone you just met. I've learnt the best way to get things on the roll is through jadedness. You know, that feeling of I've never been here before, I should be amazed, but my eyes and mind says "who gives a fuck". In all likelihood, that's an inevitable solution for not pitying myself, but it's also a way of ridding distractions as I truly sense what's most important. Tampering with unnecessary b.s. is tremendously wasteful. I'm here finally, in a new town, for one purpose... to make things happen in a worldwide scale. My presence isn't for the city, my duties are committed to the strangeness of the world, where my home hides somewhere in the cross streets or swamps, whatever one calls home. I'm not a small town girl, I've never been a city slicker either, but defining my personal settlement preference statistically has been wrong. Rewind five years back, and I may be telling you a different story, but approaching my twenty fourth year of living designates a strictly goal oriented time in my life. Between this time and the day my earnings permeate through every aspect without dying out, it's business. Business, exploration, craze, ideas, books, writings; nothing clandestine but the entirety of it speculative. Showmanship is vital while I still have my true youth (bones, muscles and all). Putting myself out there for a taste of victory comes at a risk I cannot predict completely. But the cities are never big enough to hide the small things I affix to that give me a sense of stability. There's one side luck and one side will. I just have to keep perfect timing and maybe this seesaw I'm on won't teeter back and forth. As for the time being, hopefully three years, Lawrence is my new town.

Heart of Chambers

Who knew. Who knew I had aortic dispositions and unpredictable heart rushes. Not literally I mean, but emotionally, my charts have been staggering. When I was down, I thought I was WAY down. That was until a light of hope came from unexpected places and I thanked myself for being completely selfless for the past week and a half. Not that I don’t practice that virtue daily, but this week I set aside everything in hopes of saving damaged pieces of my impractical, imperfect life. This is a kind of spiritual determinism I undertake routinely. It’s the one where you revel in good thoughts while deconstructing bad ones in hopes of putting it together and making something good out of it. The two seem to play with each other and bounce around in my head simultaneously like a boxing match where there’s no apparent winner or loser. Ultimately I’m very optimistic about transcending beyond those menial thoughts and producing a life much worth living. I wouldn’t be a complete human being if my dedications were exclusively toward living in the present. Often times I have to take one step back to take two steps forward. I’m not ashamed, embarrassed or angered by my own trail of memories nor would I say I truly have no regrets. And I wouldn’t be human if I thought I was capable of living for myself only. Life is much harder when you live for others, but life also becomes richer and happier. That is to say, much of my mental quarrels stem from finding a way of living truly selfless to feel personally happy. True I enjoy a nice dinner every now and then, a beautiful jacket if money allows me to and something for myself, but it isn’t the least enjoying when I know my loved ones have to suffer as a result. All this hashing and rehashing going on in my school of thought comes down to simply sharing my ideas with others, free of any kind of selfishness. I can lead my past and present to that future if it meant all the energies floating around were channeled toward making the most of my life and others, and yours perhaps. :-)

I went through these nostalgic fields in Lawrence, Kansas on a wildly mild day. The arid atmosphere is so synonymous of Kansas that it actual felt a bit more revitalizing and appropriate than water would any day in the plains. It is not exactly a middle of nowhere escape, a college town rather but still very mid western by definition. I did manage to find a couple boutiques carrying stuff I usually find while in New York (high low styles and billowy shapes I didn't think would reach the midwest so soon.) Nonetheless, it was so comforting for a place to translate the good ol' times into modern strolls down the long and winding road. The sun beat down on my imitation leather leggings but the intentional holes scattered on my cadmium orange tank freed me from total clothing suffocation. Although my color combo wasn't bombarded with florals or soft pastels and whites which would feel more appropriate but I am a little off season on a daily basis. The insects wanted me to follow their humming tunes. The prairie hawks circled the sky above me as if to protect my sanctuary. The people who picnicked might have been Manet's Le dejeuner sur l'herbe. They stood pictoresquely still in the background. Maybe that is why they call it nostalgic because I can hardly find time to break myself from reality that times like yesterday I cherish forever.

Let's do this...

I need not to make any more excuses for myself. Everything I want to do is contingent upon my ability to make each day worth while. I'm doing this for myself, for my love, for my family and for those who matter. This is the last time I stifle my intellect and my body to do great things. This is truly it. No more taking breaths and falling back on my word, no more days of lounging around anticipating tomorrow will be better. Rather than thinking of the possible, it is more important to do the actions that will inevitably make the possible happen.

"The real issue is not talent as an independent element, but talent in relationship to will, desire, and persistence. Talent without these things vanishes and even modest talent with those characteristics grows." -Milton Glaser

Sensibility

I’ve gone sober from movie marathons for a week now, though I miss it dearly. The exploration of different films, each equated with its own inquisitive genre conjured the nerves in my brain to search and search for boundless meanings, in all the films I’ve watched. One particular film that roused my fancy was Wings of Desire. An existentially exhausting mind trip, I watched in the dark like the angel in the film eagerly waiting for, myself, a transformation into true mortality. The film strikes pleasure derived from utter spirituality with a harmonizing component, a flesh desire to be involved with life. I could go on disseminating the transcendental quality of this one film, but I won’t since countless more have also taken my breath into paradise oblivion just as well.

I find myself a sucker for laser-cut garments. The intricacies created by machinery interests me in what lies beyond human hands. But then of course, you can't create the organismic quality produced by us humans. Still, we all have a vision growing. I applaud them for taking a technological turn. On a different note, I'm still obsessed with finding the perfect sensual wrap dress. Something about the slight hint of leg and plunging neckline I feel traces the curvature of my body so well. The ease of it and the versatility from day to night places less stress on my day. I don't think of the typical wrap dress. I am thinking beyond Diane Von Furstenberg, beyond the classic staple dress. This is a newer, slinkier, come hitherto version accommodated with delicately chosen armwear and neckwear. This all reminds me to take a brief break (almost fleeting..can't help but dream) from fantasizing all too much what clothes should encapsulate the progress of my day best. Not that I can, (literally) afford that kind of expense. Goodness, I violate dreaming hardcore. I will, if I have to, become a derelict to fashion fame. God knows, I don't want to emblazon my name across screens and screens of fashion screamers. I'd like to go my own way.

Knowing what I didn't know of myself...

I'm not a lead thoroughbred in the blogging dynasty. I'm not the scathing blogger in last place. Or the ghost blogger who no one knows about. Yeah, perhaps if I am known to Tumblr, I am at least recognized to "be" there. But as I randomly scavenge through other bloggers, I find myself, at the most an amateur in this business. Not particularly the blogging business (if I could say the word one more time), but to writing in general. Writing, as I imposed it on myself, was merely an ethical way of escaping, healing and destroying old nightmares and preserving new dreams. Now it has become more for me. More of a journey of self-discovery.

As I hurriedly rummage through the timeline of my journey, the inescapable sense of void disillusions my rationale, the very thinking that tumultuously spirals up and down as my life moves up and down in rather the same manner. The more I lose myself in my own words, the more my clothing choice becomes sparse (pardon me; I place emphasis on clothes since creating it is one thing I find myself doing), in the manner as though my clothes have no meaning in itself, but what work I put behind it. A sheer mockery of a boat neck tee, a pair of shorts that seem work related but meandering between two purposes. Between the sullen lady at the computer and the woman that is ready for a stroll, a stroll in the lukewarm daylight caused by the lightly scattered clouds moving in and out of the view between my eyes and the sun.

This is a drama. A new drama. I miss those days lounging in the grass, soaking up nostalgia as it strikes the front of me as I lay thinking of nothing but myself in the present scenery. But do I really know myself? I am, I am on my way. Almost there, but not completely. It's there, on the tip of my tongue, in the footnote of my autobiography. It's there somewhere to be discovered. The value of my work is not contingent upon others' views. It is not a competition between one writer and another. What is involved in my writing is me, my experiences, my life, the people in my life, what I know and don't know, my own subjective questions, my own personal rationale, essentially the functions of my peculiar brain.

I feel like treating myself now to a one hour sunbathing session and trading in my practical clothes for: a top that will billow as I slowly fall on the grass bed, tarnished shorts with the ends parading around my thighs as if to agree with the blades of grass that my body, yes, needs nature to tickle my fancy and distract me for a little from the craziness of writing.

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