PaperBagMistakes

I rewrote the entry that I lost...

...go me.

San Francisco was a blast. Our class went to the deYoung Museum, and it was exciting for me because I haven’t been to a museum in a while, unless you count the Crocker, and unfortunately I don’t count it. The main reason why I don’t was because I once had a small painting featured there…when I was in kindergarten. Some kid exhibit thing. And I don’t really consider that black ink painting (whatever it was, all I can remember was that it was a cat) high art.

 

Once there, I understood why a teacher of mine said you either hate it or love it. Fortunately for me, I loved it. But I could see how someone could hate it. Unconventionality is discomforting. Plus, this particular friend apparently loathes nudity in art. Which is annoying, but okay. Opinions are opinions.

 

I want to live in San Francisco, I think. It could be those squished multi-colored townhouses that for some inexplicable reason all jump out at the eye (all at once), making the entire pattern of random blues and tans and pinks and oranges and purples an okay thing. It could be the fact that art can be found with every turn of the corner, here, there, high or low. It could be that walking on the Golden Gate Bridge and looking down at the ocean makes your knees wobbly. Or the observation deck on the ninth floor of the deYoung museum that makes you feel invincible. Or the graffiti on the side of a junky store done by some reckless teenager who thinks he’s cool or maybe wants to feel like he’s cool. It is one of these, or maybe all of these reasons that make me want to live there. Actually, I could only want to get away. Go anywhere. Doesn’t have to be San Francisco. Being an only child is sort of like washing in your own filth. You know that every immature decision made in the house is yours. All of that self-blaming takes a toll at times.

 

I wonder if anyone’s ever felt like they were a fixed routine in someone’s day. A bead on a necklace. It’s crucial that you stay on the string, because filling that specific spot matters, but you’re just one bead identical to the next, to the next, clones of one another. And it goes ‘round and ‘round. Until it stops and starts again. He comes and he goes. The next day, it’s all the same. You don’t know whether to revel in your own importance, the fact that you’re now a permanent thing in a schedule with openings that everyone clamors to fill. Or to feel disappointed in that there’s nothing to separate you from the next and the rest. I wonder if that’s how Bond girls feel, when they’re dumped by Bond for the next mission and the newer fuck. Abandoned, only to be visited again, because don’t these stereotypes repeat? Damsel in distress, intelligent but dependent, female spy with a stick up her ass, destructive beauty, and so on and so forth. I wonder if they know that the memory of the sex they and Bond shared has long dimmed in Bond’s mind, long before it ever dimmed (probably) in their own. Because they only meet him at the middle every so often, but he has to meet himself, always. I wonder how that would feel, knowing you’ve made something extraordinary mediocre in the eyes of everyone but themselves, because they’re cluelessly hoping and hopelessly clueless.

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