the agony of the unknown

I got deeper into the darkness, chasing after that multicolored light. I basked myself in its warm and finally tangible embrace. I was safe from the cries of the misconstrued, Ol’ Bat, Teenybopper, The Specialist, and the whole fucking lot of them. I hid under a blanket of roses for awhile and refused to appear despite their calls to come out and play. When I was eventually found, all I could do was listen to what they had to say. The longer I laid under that blanket of roses, the harder it became to move – I knew I was slowly paralyzing myself. I gnawed my way through the increasingly tightening vines, blood dripping from my thorn bitten lips. I stood up.

“Nice to see you again!” they all shouted earnestly.

I was an emotional wreck that was behaving true to form but I silently chided myself because they all were too. They were giggling and puking and talking too much and not talking enough and crying and dying and living and learning and loving and dying…

The Specialist threw me a basketball and apologized for hitting me in the face with it multiple times before.

“You must think I’m the most gullible person here!” I shouted.

the horror of anticipation

He threw himself on the ground and showed me his belly, as a sign of his vulnerability. I sighed. We played War, we played Manhunt, we played Hide-N’-Go-Seek , we played Poker, we played Chess. The Specialist had an arsenal of people and/or props and a tool-kit that dated back before I was even a prayer in my mother’s throat. I had just myself to rely on towards winning these games. Now, naturally it would be assumed that he would win for he had the advantage of premeditation, scholastic connections, and a penchant for hazing the new kid. But call it beginner’s luck because I held my own. When our final game was finished we looked towards the sky for our score cards. We looked back down and slowly met each other’s gaze upon the realization and the absolute horror of a stalemate.

back to the drawing board

 

 

identitycrisis_woods_5

Your likeness doesn’t belong to you. I like to play around with my own image from time to time, between banging my head against the proverbial wall, in the hopes that I’ll get to know myself a little better. The #selfie is the new form of self-portraiture and its potential goes beyond glamour shots of celebrity ass. Eliminating the gate between public and private, we’re all just consuming each other from afar. We’re all just singing into hairbrushes in front of a vast mirror that doesn’t exist while the occasional audience looks back at us. I suppose this sort of thing is right up my alley as discovering my own identity has always been a challenge.

I’ve never really discussed race as much as I probably should have in my writings, but I feel this has something to do with some of the displacement I’ve felt in my life. I am of that “ambiguously mixed race” where people come up to me speaking in different languages, expecting a response back that I can’t give. If I straighten my hair or if it gets curly and my skin changes tone in the summer heat, I wreck all kinds of assumptions. Some people actually get really upset when they “can’t place (me).” Others enjoy sizing me up, for them it is an intellectual smorgasbord. With an “olive complexion” and wide eyes, I look like everything and nothing all at once. As a child, I walked around with my mother and people would question the authenticity of our relationship, (i.e. the paternal genes won on physicality). This used to really bother me but I’ve come to embrace belonging to the world, even if I haven’t seen that much of yet.

But we all know that the world is getting smaller everyday! Technology connects and distances and no one knows who the fuck they are anymore and so we dream of a pastoral landscape, where freedom will reign in the trees and not in the wires. With our bodies, our pixelated selves, this is perhaps an oversimplification because it’s 2015 and technology will only become more invasive before it somehow devours itself. The hunter-gatherer days are over, but it’s a dream nonetheless.

Who am I? Who are you?

identitycrisis_woods_1 identitycrisis_woods_2  identitycrisis_woods_3

identitycrisis_woods_4

eye see you

To those who envy my youth, I must apologize for it’s sticking around for just a little bit longer. Perhaps another four, five years at tops though, right? I’m sorry that I exist – even though I haven’t really ever used it (i.e. youth) properly; I know it’s difficult. It’s difficult especially when I don’t (and never will be able to) have crowning glory and/or fading beauty to cling on to. It’s scary to think that I still have life lessons to learn, new experiences to obtain, and skin to shed. It’s absolutely terrifying that I may know things that my elders don’t. It’s sickening to think I know things about myself but haven’t the experience yet to fix them. It’s a drag to acknowledge that I may still have “potential.”

Now, any friend can tell you that my hope is to be a life-long-learner, continuously absorbing things like a sponge with child-like enthusiasm, (and I won’t even have to go to grad school). So yes, youth in this sense, is a state of mind. But lest we forget it’s also hidden in the blood and expressed around the mouth too. Let the generations collapse and buckle, we needn’t fight because frankly, it’s beneath us.

girl with a work shirt on

The Universal Language isn’t music, math, or Esperanto – it’s the Internet. What about those in “third world countries,” you ask? Well, they’re not missing much and they’re missing a lot. Also, your neighbors across the street may not have access to this technicolored multi-speak either and ya know what (?!), I think they’ll survive. For now. If you can read this, just give me a wave – but wait, actually, no…keep your digits to yourself. K, thanx!