hues and tattoos

I can’t paint.

Or draw.

Or create anything pretty at all.

In fact, I suspect I am wildly untalented despite my penchant for convincing myself otherwise and my daydreams to rival [insert icon here] in their respective fields.

Yes, I fancy myself wildly talented, enormously multi-faceted, and naturally gifted, but please, those are cupcake induced delusions of grandeur that get me through 45 minutes on the treadmill. In reality, properly clothing a stick figure escapes me as I CAN. NOT. SEEM. TO. DRAW. THEIR. PANTS. BELOW. THEIR. CROTCH.

So yes, my doodles are mildly pornographic through no fault of my own, but do in fact include vaginas represented by triangles that I SWEAR are supposed to be legs.

So no, I’m not looking for sympathy when I lament that I am neither gifted nor talented in any discernable way, rather I’m stating a fact.

I kinda suck.

Moving on, as there was a purpose to this bagfest that had nothing to do with self pity but rather the artistic expression OF MY VERY SOUL.

Or something.

Because while I may not be able to draw the whimsical mermaids that swim in my streams of consciousness, or whistle the melodies that muddle my thoughts (fuck, I can’t whistle. period.), nor can I paint an emotional masterpiece, a bowl of fruit, or perhaps even articulate the confusion/ joy/ wanderlust/ frustration/ empathy/ epiphanies that make living in my head so much fun (and when I say fun I mean THE OPPOSITE OF FUN), and obviously I can hardly string together a sentence TO SAVE MY LIFE, despite my predisposition to suburban mediocrity, I have told my innate inabilities to FUCK OFF.

No, I can’t paint a canvas.

But I can use my body as one.

So while I am admittedly vain and perhaps slightly (hugely) appearance aware (obsessed), the Freudian analysis of my fondness for hair hues and proclivity to pierce and tattoo myself, the psychological underpinnings of my need to wear outfits more fit for unicorns/4 year old boys/gothic school girls/ pinups/ 16th century zombie queens/strawberries, is, if you’ll allow me to diagnose myself, a manifestation of my inability to create self expressive art outside my body.

It’s also surely a symptom of my ADD wherein I JUST CAN’T FOCUS ON ONE THING NEED CHANGE RIGHT NOW and my OCD in which when I love something I SO MUCH MUST HAVE IT CLOSER TO ME NO CLOSER… CLOSER!

And well, FULL DISCLOSURE: it’s a symptom and sure sign of my insanity and predilection for addiction as well. Because while artists paint, and smokers smoke, and runners run, and shoppers shop, cutters cut, and overeaters overeat, and anas starve, I, use myself as a coloring book.

To express myself.

To save myself.

To entertain myself.

And no, you don’t have to like it, but, that’s why you have your own body to play with. Or not.

It’s YOUR choice.

It’s your canvas.


~ by rubylocks on June 10, 2010.

One Response to “hues and tattoos”

  1. Rock on, Rainbow!

    I love reading your writing — it’s so refreshing from the drivel found around the web (thanks to yours truly) because there’s voice and passion behind each word.

    Same goes for your body — aside from being an absolute bombshell (giving everyone in sight shell-shock ninja turtle style), you’ve really let go of any pre-dispositions holding you back from becoming yourself, which is something we all need to learn to do in order to find ourselves and our canvas.

    Can’t wait to see what you do next.


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