Self Portrait

I'm Elizabeth, I'm 21 , from NYC. Currently in Illinois for college. I blog whatever I like, what inspires me, etc... I like artsy things a lot. I don't own anything unless stated.

[arterialtrees]

Anne Carson, Nox

[naoula]

[danger]

phat by  ya.tender

[darkphotographs]

Dark

[enthusiastsoflove]

“You have dared to swim deep in the ocean of my mind, and loved every edge of my wounded soul..” ~Author Unknown

[leirelatent]

“Sunrise: Water Nymphs” (1920), Arthur Prince Spear

[theheartbreakseries-blog]

[ufansius]

Dew Drops on Peony - Hanne Lore Koehler

[stellar--stream]

Meeting an idol

The scene is set with academics and wanna-be intellectuals interspersed. Holy walls speak to us in ancient trembling sacredness that seems to match the conversation flowing out of mouths. Mouths that meet hand and cheek and speak like religiosity. A circle emerges of people who look like me, and yet, I am not one of them. They speak with sharper tongues and perfect accents mark their words. I sweat nervously because rooms of people dressed in fancy wear and small utensils remind me how out of place I feel. I am wearing worn and torn denim and athletic shoes. As I approach and wait my turn to speak to el maestro, the words of those around me slur together. The room whirls and it seems as if the pedagogic speakers mouths' are slowing down and taking on that strange sensation of trying to speak while underwater. El maestro. I have his attention. He speaks to me didactically, but truly he is just patronizing me. He mocks my attempt at trying to speak our shared language. I'm embarrassed because I can't talk it as well as they can---I revert to English, but why take French? Not even the French like French. I laugh and try to shake away the redness swelling in my face because truly I want to burst into tears as he takes away the pride I'd so carefully and painstakingly tried to maintain for a race of people who are constantly being erased. Next I ask for advice as a young writer. You aren't one, quite simply, you can't be: you have no experience. Stop trying to be an artist. I've heard this before, mainly from men, but I wonder why "experiences" are always undermined if you're young, if you're a woman. I wonder how much living I need to do before I can conceptualize some aspect of humanness and translate and code it into art. To refute his point I mention women and his slightly machismic interpretation of "experience". Youth today are afraid to live. Afraid of a narrative where there is no meaning for their lives.  I think there's merit there, but as he speaks he rubs my arm and looks at me with eyes that say: you're quite hopeless. I scuffle my feet as his words grow harsher in critique of a generation scared into submission. I feel my body, my spine, fluid, curving like the back of a spoon. This circle, this space, this room feels engulfing and another young artist takes the reigns. Flustered I walk out from the scholarly circle and abandon the sacred walls. I walk on the street as a bus driver pulls up to the bus stop and I think, there it is: maestro.

[takemetothemtn-deactivated20130]

So plant your own gardens and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

Jorge Luis Borges (via 7mayforever)

[newblogisjacindaelena]

Vivienne Gucwa

[virgin-oracle-blog]

[fernandocobelo]

[stability]

[stellar--stream]

Deconstruct femininity and remove it from under the male gaze. Then, realize that femininity doesn’t have to be performed. It doesn’t have to be a mask you wear for society to say “yes, that girl is feminine and beautiful and therefore valuable”. Deconstruct your beauty. Be critical of how the heteropatriarchy fucks with your psyche and self perception. 

[soviet]

[marci1900]