Abby Westover

I just read a bunch of crappy poetry written by another someone who is hailed as a profound writer; a true artist. How did this person reach this dignified status? By putting on their art face, of course. Seem moody. Seem dark. Use obscure words to mask a story that isn’t there. If you can transmit a thin veil of depth, you’re in. Ever cracked shells between your teeth only to discover there’s no seed inside? It’s disappointing, isn’t it? That’s what it’s like, and in both situations you’re left spitting it out with a sort of impatient contempt.

How I grimaced upon reading the words “soul”, “abyss”, “darkness”, and “despair” in the same sentence.

You go to art class when you’re young and fiddle with sequins and glue, glitter and safety scissors. Later on you learn to recognize art as a field wider than pastel drawings. It is for this reason that I get embarrassed upon viewing some people’s cliché productions, which of course outweigh all the original work in the world. Why, when they have so much more to work with, so much empty space to fill, do people recycle expressive staples? It’s a waste of precious resources!

Do you want to say something or do you want to be spoken of? I see the difference being the artist caring about others versus caring about his or herself. If you truly want to change the world, it shows in what you do. If you just want the stamp of elite rank smacked upon your forehead, it shows in what you do. However, that isn’t to say that art must necessarily be made for other people rather than just your own personal satisfaction.

Poetry is one of those realms I have difficulty embracing anyway. It’s a love-hate relationship, really. While I love words to be masterfully matched, I also can’t stand poetry for its expectant, overacted face. Therefore I am picky with my poets and songwriters. I’m cynical of a poem’s worth if it relies on rehashed tactics. I’m highly critical because I know that anyone can pass for a writer as long as they get the technique down. Technique is nothing but a skirt. If you don’t have anything to say, your words don’t hit me. I hate seeing a made-up face with no meaning. I hate to witness the art that oozes that predictable cheese.

As of late this topic is holding my interest because I’ve been dabbling in poetry myself. I used to shudder at the thought because I’ve twisted everything into something funny. Poetry is not so pretty when someone laughs at it, and I’ve always hated my poetry because that someone was me. Being serious always seemed like a good idea at the time, but later I’ve found myself slamming my head on my desk to alleviate the shame of letting that side surface. I don’t know if it shows or not, but I’m gradually growing out of that mindset. It’s tough because those who know me identify me as a comic, especially in the field of writing. I think I’ve always been one-dimensional and I hate that. By no means do I want to suppress the comedy, but I’m feeling a heavy itch to be more straightforward. Funny stuff portrays a lot of emotion, albeit sneakily done. It’s sly to lay the truth on the table and avoid the consequences by distracting your audience with laughter. It’s fun and it’s pain-free. People underestimate the depth of that which is hilarious. However, this is necessary for it to maintain its effectiveness.

It’s been an interesting feat, this poetic venting. It feels good but it looks bad. I’m at a stand-off with art that can probably only be soothed by…uh…more art. It’s a torturous cycle, and a highly spiritual one at that.

While I’m going off about arty things, I might as well throw something else out there: I hate photography. Yeah, I said it. Don’t get me wrong, I like taking pictures. I like looking at pictures. I find immense satisfaction in a crisp, eye-catching photograph. But photography, as an art, is a disheartening endeavor. It’s far too reachable. Everybody’s a photographer. Be in the right place at the right time, adjust your wrist to get the desired angle, fiddle with settings, and tap a button. Congratulations, here’s your badge of artistry. Bonus points for having a cheating camera that makes your pictures look sharp. You can say that it takes artful skill to compose a scene, but is that really the photography part of it? You can say that someone has a talent for manipulating the camera’s effects and settings to alter the catch, but I do that when I’m playing Pokemon. I feel like photography doesn’t have enough room for creation. Those pixilated brushstrokes never change. Despite all this, it’s an addictive hobby I still enjoy.

And henceforth abruptly ends my wandering rant.

If you’re deep, you’re a sad sorry sap. You must be consistently serious. If you saturate your perception with humor, you’re blissfully ignorant and you have nothing valuable to say. Can’t we mix it up a bit, people? Intensity and playfulness are not mutually exclusive.

There’s been a stack of questions I’ve been facing for a few years now. Questions that make me cringe.

“So what are you doing after high school?”

“What are you going to do with your life?”

“What do you want to be?”

They would be easy to answer if I could drone the standard answers. “I’m going to [prestige university] where I plan on majoring in [something useful]. Then I’ll travel to [somewhere awesome] and ultimately end up being a successful hotshot with the perfect spouse and 4 kids in a humble suburban neighborhood.

Guess what I say to people? “I dunno.” That’s not the answer I was trained to give. I was supposed to do well in school, find something that suited me and excel in it, and interact with the world. I was supposed to be designing my personal blueprint long ago.

Needless to say, I’m feeling rather behind right about now. Everyone around me is moving forward and I don’t have anything going for me.

While I feel guilty, I can’t help but also feel like it doesn’t matter. For the most part, “grown-ups” end up all the same. No offense. You’re pretty boring. You work at jobs you hate and you live under a government you hate and you all want to lose 40 pounds and you all want to organize your pantries one of these days and you all can’t wait to retire and die. You know why this turns me off? Because it’s me right now. I feel like I’ve leapt past the filler straight to the bitter old lady stage, and I want to break out of it before it’s too late.

In case anyone’s still wondering what my plans for the future are, I’m going to try to put a good picture in your head. It might be easier to start by telling you what I DON’T want to do with my life.

I don’t want to stay in one place. I don’t want to cling to familiar surroundings. I don’t want a strict schedule. I don’t want to go at a fast pace, but I don’t want to lack energy. I don’t want to isolate myself, but I don’t want to be dependent on others for my happiness. I don’t want to be part of the corporate world. I don’t want quick and easy meals. I don’t want weeknights in front of a TV. I don’t want to be distant from nature. I don’t want a cat. I don’t want a church. I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t want family to take over my life. I don’t want to be too reminded of society, but I want to help make a difference in the world. I don’t want a daily routine at the gym. I don’t want a big house with lots of stuff. I don’t want IKEA furniture. I don’t want cable. Most of all, I don’t want an exact map for my life. I want some surprises.

The list goes on. What I do want is a life full of learning, expression, freedom, and enjoying other people and their work. That’s not special. What kind of idiot would be opposed to that? I can’t think of anything in particular that separates me from other people, although I may be just a bit more resistant to go the conventional path. Right now that means college and getting a degree and being generally awesome. In the future that might mean spending my last days playing Friday night Bingo and mini-golf. Whatever it is, I’ve always wanted something more interesting.

So, it’s hard to give someone a simple answer when they ask me what I’m going to do. They ask that little question and I foresee hundreds of possibilities that add up to a life’s work. The only question that is worse goes like “What are you going to be?” Bug off, I want to be lots of things.

Oh hai, I’m making an appearance in this blog thing again.

Initially I set this up so I would have a place to write. I don’t know why I thought it would work out. I do write a lot, but I feel a need to keep it all to myself. There’s something about putting my words on display that makes me feel vulnerable. There’s something about MY words that I hate. Every time I write something, I end up wanting to cram it down the shredder. I’ve always had this attitude about all of my creative discharge. The drawings, the photographs, the rhymes, the music. I make it, then I look at it, then I cringe. It’s never what I want it to be. It doesn’t communicate the way I intend it to. I try to elicit a smile; I’m compensated with blank stares. I try to be serious; I get laughed at. I try to teach; I sound arrogant. I try to make something beautiful; it’s average. I aim for clarity; I churn out dull simplicity. I go for honesty; I’m dark and twisted. Knowing that these are the reactions I’d get, I reserve myself. I do what I have to do then I protect it from other people. I keep telling myself I don’t need anyone else. It’s my work, and I’ll get the most out of it, even if I have to do it alone. I see this not as an act of selfishness or pride. It’s just a product of my insecurities and negativity. I argue with myself over this. “Hey, I should share this. No, I don’t WANT to share it; it’s a piece of garbage. Well, perhaps it’s not. But nobody’s going to give a schmidt about it either way. Ugh, what have I done? This IS a piece of garbage. I want it off of this paper and out of my memory forever.” Ripped to sixteenths with my hands and chucked in the trash.

What is this, then? Whatever I’m saying right now, it hasn’t been discarded (yet). Congratulations, you’re sampling a slice of my head! Is it scrumptious? Is it a letdown? Would you recommend me to your friends? ABBY STOP TALKING AND LET ME THINK ABOUT IT

Well people, I feel different now. Lately I’ve been thinking about exporting my mind. I’m sure a few of you think I already do this, but I’m sad to say I haven’t even skimmed the surface that froths my standards. I have worlds of thoughts and visions that I want to make real. I’m having a hard time actually making anything, but the dreams, distant they may be, are alive. I have stories, poetry, songs, sculptures, paintings, and ideas stored within this little cave I have inside me that JUST WON’T ACTIVATE. How do you activate a cave? Well, I have an idea for that too, but it’s currently sitting on its arse with no sign of blooming! Whatever I’m writing right now, I’m struggling to even manifest, so let me simplify: CREATIVE COMA. NO DRIVE. BATTERIES NOT INCLUDED. Get the picture? NO, I’m too stiffened to draw it! My skull is sound proof! My brain is soup! In the society of art, I’m on welfare for the expressively challenged! All that I take in from life will never gain anything in return as long as this continues. Nothing would make me happier than to create, and create well. But I haven’t been able to do this, at least not by my specification of what is good. I can think things but I can’t project them into reality. I feel as though I can’t tangibly produce something of worth. The only thing I’ve ever been good at is imagining. I may have shown potential in a few mediums before, but I haven’t had the discipline or the talent to become proficient at them. I haven’t had the will.

I’M HIBERNATING.

Why? Because I’m exhausted. Because there’s too much to do. Because I don’t know where to start. Because I don’t know if I should bother, because every time I’ve tried to do something great, I’ve failed, given up halfway through, or realized it was never actually that great in the first place. I can dribble excuses like a losing argument, but if I had to give a singular root explanation, I couldn’t. I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what to tell myself. But I still want to punch you in the face, and I probably will. I’m increasingly aggressive about this. I have to do something. I’ve only got one life to manipulate.

Oh yeah, so anyway, the blog. What the crap. I consider it a training wheel. Perhaps it can aid me on my quest to coax out all these bad ideas.

Also, it’s a nice alternative to failbook and whatever. I’m going to move photos and videos here. If anyone cares about what I’m doing, they can check me out on their own will instead of having my irrelevant business invading their news feed. Good deal, huh?

And it came to pass that my blog was born, and I did stumble upon it and seek the site editor. And I looked at my front page and witnessed many retarded links of which held no relevance to me or my site. I wandered in the vast wilderness that was the admin page or something and discovered the source of my grief. I proceeded to obliterate it with my almighty web skillz. I was listening to Radiohead, who is an exceedingly awesome band and an excellent source of potassium. And I looked at my improved page and saw that it was good. Except for the part at the top right that says “Howdy! Welcome to Abby Westover!” And I did think amongst my many brains how I would never say something like that. Ever. “Off with it’s head!” I bellowed in anguish. Only I can’t figure out how to get rid of that crap, and so it remains there like an annoying Boy Scout trying to sell things that nobody really needs, like straw containers, WTF? So I made a mental note to inquire of my sagely father who can heal a web page with one flick of his scholarly hand. I then realized that mental notes become void when you forget about them. So I whipped out my handy dandy cell phone, a cell phone envied and admired throughout all the land because of it’s radiance and awesomeness. And I looked it in the retina and said unto it, “Let a reminder be engraved into my organizer to seek my father’s help.” And so it was done. And I threw chicken pot pies into the air because of my exceeding joy.

And I did skim over the previous paragraph and grew ashamed at the fact that most of my sentences began with “And”, which according to some grammar books is a deadly sin. And I foresaw that my future blog entries would cause me much entertainment as this one has done.

Well brothers and girl brothers, I must leave you at this time to listen to Megadeth and pursue employment opportunities, lest I dwindle and perish in poverty and irresponsibility, when I’d much rather dwindle and perish in large piles of money.

So I leave you with this awesome picture.