Beautiful Mistakes (short story)
March 30th 2009 08:08
Category: No Category
"We're a song that's out of tune / Full of beautiful mistakes" - Christina Aguilera in You Are What You Are (Beautiful).
She made being strung out an art form... she plunged into repetitive patterns with great enthusiasm, almost didn't notice how the hours passed. She got a look in her eyes; idealised the scent of desperation she knew how to give off; waited out her deflection from her pain, and rediscovered it all over again. Her pain, that is. That was all she wanted. All she wanted was... to be like everybody else. She would go insane if it was required - why not? Anything to wade out of the delicious defeat that was felt in residing where she was.
She needed new places to move into... she needed new ways of emoting... new ways of relating... she was tantalised by the prospect of renouncing the old constraints, seeking radically new ones.
She didn't mind having failed, because she had done so with style. Every tear of disappointment was a pinnacle of achievement, a pain solely hers and uniquely acquired. Not that she cried much over those years... that was part of her abstinence from her emotional coherence - she was determined to move quickly and resolutely from one opportunity to another, and nothing would sting her eyes but the air blowing in her face as she dashed from one place to the next.
She was now in the position to reflect on all the movements that she had created, and while her body felt distorted at the stomach and her soul felt compressed as a result, her mind was very agile and shapely. As such, she was now able to unwind the tangle of her soul, brings its wilderness back into civilisation.
As much as she hated to admit it, home had become a sanctuary. A troubled sanctuary from which she daily hoped for reprieve, but a place that somehow ultimately provided her with the most hope in the world. Her erratic ability to appreciate her surroundings as enabling was petering out - she was becoming more accustomed to it, just as she was becoming more responsible for her well-being.
When she came back from Italy she dreamt of escaping the boxed confines of the apartment in her dreams - she opened trap doors in the ceiling and crawled through, emerging onto a higher floor where scores of doors faced her, and she eventually opened one to find a woman at a desk (probably representing the bureaucratic approach of her parents and the systems around her).
So many overwhelming things had happened to her that she didn't know where to begin, except with the startling conviction that all these mistakes, no matter how calculated, no matter how out of control they had made her feel, no matter even their longevity, were somehow beautiful.
Or so she was trying to believe... her sense of herself being in a state of stasis was welcome at the moment, for she recounted a quote to the tune of 'The moment you can accept who you are is the moment you can change.'
For all of the last few years, she had attempted to thrust herself into a position of recognition of an overwhelming forward momentum of hers, and she was finally accepting that there were parts of her that were stuck and that she needed help. She didn't know how exactly to summon up the courage to battle the onslaught of suggestive thoughts that peppered her otherwise bright and cheery conscience into a state of oblivion. She supposed that, with enough time, these things would become easier to deal with. That the grime hovering over her mentality would dissipate/wash off.
It didn't bother her that she couldn't discriminate between metaphors - the option to pursue a dual mentality through creative word positioning was constantly jostling her in and out of the serene elegance she composed.
Every sentence was a battle, every apostrophe a divine crime, every dull-stop a tenacious dulling of expression. Every new beginning was seething with energy, and every sentence had some kind of raw rhythmic quality, waiting to be lovingly corrupted. She wondered if she was putting enough thought into it all? Her writing was so important and yet so unimportant. It was almost mechanical - generating lines and lines of English, if you could call it that. The realms she had strayed into she sometimes reclaimed more quickly than she was aware of...
I guess she knew it was English... (Horrors, the horrors she's experienced...) After all, it was not Spanish. It was followable, at least from a strictly linguistic point of view. She supposed someone could make sense of it, but she didn't really believe that anyone would offer her an interpretation she could take to. She longed to be surrounded by helpful, supportive friends, but none were to be found.
She knew that the world was full of people who could help her save the day. Just live each day at a time in a balanced, exuberant, joyous way.
Most of the time she had only writing to stimulate this kind of state, recounting past joys and the potential of the future to surprise and amaze her.
She had many friends who were suicidal, but she was not. The world offered so much variety and hope; she wanted to keep living, live forever, in fact... be like an elf from Rivendell or some other fictional being.
Would life be long enough for her to find her balance? For her to transfer/graduate from one adventure into another, flailing in the winter wind, full of warmth and joy on the inside?
There was only one way to find out, and that was to embrace it eagerly... the beautiful mistakes, the ugly successes, the neutral filler material that sometimes seemed overwhelmingly "omnipresent"... she would cherish it all, every day. It was time to embrace the latest version of her stasis, just that little bit more informed by change.
She was within range of another mistake... her lust for beauty would keep her free from the darker of the atrocities identified within herself. But when it came to festivals of the soul, her vocabulary was constantly growing, her potential for creative visualisation was exploding sweetly, fragrantly, and her muscles were building. She wouldn't accept just any wise bandwagon, lurid elegance, shifty integrity.
She would, however, accept herself, and her willingness to change. More than ever, she was feeling like nothing could dissuade her from getting better. She was shining brighter every day, due to her belief that she was.
A fitting state of affairs, and one she could only improve upon.
"And it keeps getting better," - Christina Aguilera, Keeps Getting Better.
She made being strung out an art form... she plunged into repetitive patterns with great enthusiasm, almost didn't notice how the hours passed. She got a look in her eyes; idealised the scent of desperation she knew how to give off; waited out her deflection from her pain, and rediscovered it all over again. Her pain, that is. That was all she wanted. All she wanted was... to be like everybody else. She would go insane if it was required - why not? Anything to wade out of the delicious defeat that was felt in residing where she was.
She needed new places to move into... she needed new ways of emoting... new ways of relating... she was tantalised by the prospect of renouncing the old constraints, seeking radically new ones.
She didn't mind having failed, because she had done so with style. Every tear of disappointment was a pinnacle of achievement, a pain solely hers and uniquely acquired. Not that she cried much over those years... that was part of her abstinence from her emotional coherence - she was determined to move quickly and resolutely from one opportunity to another, and nothing would sting her eyes but the air blowing in her face as she dashed from one place to the next.
She was now in the position to reflect on all the movements that she had created, and while her body felt distorted at the stomach and her soul felt compressed as a result, her mind was very agile and shapely. As such, she was now able to unwind the tangle of her soul, brings its wilderness back into civilisation.
As much as she hated to admit it, home had become a sanctuary. A troubled sanctuary from which she daily hoped for reprieve, but a place that somehow ultimately provided her with the most hope in the world. Her erratic ability to appreciate her surroundings as enabling was petering out - she was becoming more accustomed to it, just as she was becoming more responsible for her well-being.
When she came back from Italy she dreamt of escaping the boxed confines of the apartment in her dreams - she opened trap doors in the ceiling and crawled through, emerging onto a higher floor where scores of doors faced her, and she eventually opened one to find a woman at a desk (probably representing the bureaucratic approach of her parents and the systems around her).
So many overwhelming things had happened to her that she didn't know where to begin, except with the startling conviction that all these mistakes, no matter how calculated, no matter how out of control they had made her feel, no matter even their longevity, were somehow beautiful.
Or so she was trying to believe... her sense of herself being in a state of stasis was welcome at the moment, for she recounted a quote to the tune of 'The moment you can accept who you are is the moment you can change.'
For all of the last few years, she had attempted to thrust herself into a position of recognition of an overwhelming forward momentum of hers, and she was finally accepting that there were parts of her that were stuck and that she needed help. She didn't know how exactly to summon up the courage to battle the onslaught of suggestive thoughts that peppered her otherwise bright and cheery conscience into a state of oblivion. She supposed that, with enough time, these things would become easier to deal with. That the grime hovering over her mentality would dissipate/wash off.
It didn't bother her that she couldn't discriminate between metaphors - the option to pursue a dual mentality through creative word positioning was constantly jostling her in and out of the serene elegance she composed.
Every sentence was a battle, every apostrophe a divine crime, every dull-stop a tenacious dulling of expression. Every new beginning was seething with energy, and every sentence had some kind of raw rhythmic quality, waiting to be lovingly corrupted. She wondered if she was putting enough thought into it all? Her writing was so important and yet so unimportant. It was almost mechanical - generating lines and lines of English, if you could call it that. The realms she had strayed into she sometimes reclaimed more quickly than she was aware of...
I guess she knew it was English... (Horrors, the horrors she's experienced...) After all, it was not Spanish. It was followable, at least from a strictly linguistic point of view. She supposed someone could make sense of it, but she didn't really believe that anyone would offer her an interpretation she could take to. She longed to be surrounded by helpful, supportive friends, but none were to be found.
She knew that the world was full of people who could help her save the day. Just live each day at a time in a balanced, exuberant, joyous way.
Most of the time she had only writing to stimulate this kind of state, recounting past joys and the potential of the future to surprise and amaze her.
She had many friends who were suicidal, but she was not. The world offered so much variety and hope; she wanted to keep living, live forever, in fact... be like an elf from Rivendell or some other fictional being.
Would life be long enough for her to find her balance? For her to transfer/graduate from one adventure into another, flailing in the winter wind, full of warmth and joy on the inside?
There was only one way to find out, and that was to embrace it eagerly... the beautiful mistakes, the ugly successes, the neutral filler material that sometimes seemed overwhelmingly "omnipresent"... she would cherish it all, every day. It was time to embrace the latest version of her stasis, just that little bit more informed by change.
She was within range of another mistake... her lust for beauty would keep her free from the darker of the atrocities identified within herself. But when it came to festivals of the soul, her vocabulary was constantly growing, her potential for creative visualisation was exploding sweetly, fragrantly, and her muscles were building. She wouldn't accept just any wise bandwagon, lurid elegance, shifty integrity.
She would, however, accept herself, and her willingness to change. More than ever, she was feeling like nothing could dissuade her from getting better. She was shining brighter every day, due to her belief that she was.
A fitting state of affairs, and one she could only improve upon.
"And it keeps getting better," - Christina Aguilera, Keeps Getting Better.
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Comment by Janet Collins
Acceptable Etiquette
The Social Critic
Janet Collins Blog
I agree, Christina Aguilera keeps getting better.
Comment by Postmodern Critic
Postmodern Critic
Relativity Watch
Padsoc
I'm glad to hear you're a fan of hers - she's one of my favourite artists!
Comment by Morgan Bell
Science News
Deep Pencil
Business News
Movie Train
Artist Quirk
great to read something so original!
Comment by Postmodern Critic
Postmodern Critic
Relativity Watch
Padsoc
There must be something in the air... one of my non-Orble blogging friends wrote fiction for her latest entry, and then you had the Raven poem, and so I was thinking of creative writing a lot!