Magdalena O!

Einstein said:“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, then what are we to think of an empty desk?”

There he is sitting at his desk, just like I do, but with my back way more twisted. There are papers everywhere surrounding him and his genius. I am not cluttered, but merely complex and thorough.

These images of Albert Einstein’s desk in his office at Princeton were published by Life magazine in 1955, just months before his death. They can contemplate a blackboard full of equations, a pile of old magazines and even his own pipe momentarily abandoned on one of the notebooks.

I think I’ve been listening to the wrong people. I think I’ve also been paying too much attention to distractions(ers) that keep my desired life away from me.

&

When white people say,
“I can’t stand that area. It’s so white.”

I wonder if they realize they are the ones that help make the neighbourhoods that way. Perhaps they aren’t aware that their habitation brings more white people and so on until, the neighbourhood “is so white.”

I wrote this on a forum today in response to someone who excused their poor execution of a project,

Regardless of marks or the tools you are given, if you want to be a designer, you have a certain aesthetic that comes out of you and whether it’s a 15 minute assignment like this probably was, or a month long project, it makes no difference. You put in the effort, because it’s an extension of you, and your passion. That’s all.

Nothing irritates me more then excuses for not having your heart behind something. I am me in everything I do, or else why would I do it? Would I give to an experience only a small part of me because I was too lazy or couldn’t make use of what I was given? Because then I should expect that in return, and I want nothing than everything, all the time.  I don’t want any experience to leave me underwhelmed. Ever.

The more I think about all these art and design programs I am applying to, the more I think about which ones I really actually want to go to and then I start thinking about why I am so stubborn about going through more schooling. I could just take a certificate program and probably end up with a similar or even better paying job. But I don’t want to do that, I want to go to art school and experience that environment. I want to experience it in Europe. What is it exactly that I want to accomplish? What do I really want to do? I know what I love and what inspires me and makes me feel alive in this grandiose way, but is graphic design the way I want to give back to myself? Am I just nervous about being rejected? What if all the schools reject me? Design has been my life. My life? The more I think about moving and doing something so full of risk (something that never pans out well for me) the more I think about death. What if I die struggling for this? Should I even bother? Would I even know if I died?

My desire for new experiences moves me, because I am so afraid of dying. Instantly. How would I know this has all ended and I am not Magda as I know to be in my physical body? How do I die? Not in the sense of a physical death, but how do we die? Our nerves just pop? Our experiences cease to exist? I guess that’s what faith is for. Sometimes I wonder if there is an alternate consciousness to me and I don’t even know it, but it knows me. How can it be that I can experience a totally different physical reality on salvia while being restricted by my body in this reality? I should take note if any temporal changes happen next time I take lsd. I should be sleeping, but the worry of death has taken over me. For years I had terrors as a child that I would be killed in my 20′s. Actually, the night terrors have never stopped, but the crying has. The anxiety that I won’t wake up. That tomorrow I will not be able to experience whatever it is that I want. That, as I now understand it to be, sex won’t be there, orgasms won’t be there or music or my legs taking me across the city. The biggest life change so far is coming up. I am expecting a slew of anxiety – my stomach has already warned me with its relentless knots.

[02:47] MUSICS GOT ME FEELIN SO FREE

[02:50] music is lying to you

MP3: gorfadrianmiroslav_v6.mp3

(This is what happens when boys interact!)

It’s past 1am. It’s late if I have to wake up at 7am for an all day conference on Adobe Creative Suite. It’s late if I want to have energy for tomorrow. It’s always late. There’s pomegranate juice all over my laptop screen and there’s seeds flung all over the floor. They never stay in place. Eating a pomegranate takes work and I like that. Picking apart the juicy tart seeds from between the bitter flesh to pop a few in your mouth to crunch on. I think I’m tired. I started watching Murmur of The Heart tonight but I need to sleep. Creative Writing class was overwhelming. Elizabeth Ruth inspires me in such a direct way, I can’t imagine doing myself the injustice and not continuing to write. I workshopped a poem I initially wrote years ago and everyone enjoyed it and she loved it. She enjoyed my style and the heaviness of the politics in it. She went on to tell me that all of my work has political undertones/social commentary and that some of my more love/lust writing hides it too much. The class discussed the poem at length and I am glad she forced me to bring a poem rather than a longer piece of fiction. Elizabeth also told me that these pieces remind her of Anais Nin and Erica Jong, in a good way, but she’s more interested in my crass political way of writing fiction/poetry. During the course, she’s always pushed me to bring in more poetry.

“Magda, does the world need another Anais Nin, or does the world need you?”

And I got it. I got that she was complimenting my writing style, but that I should push myself beyond the ease of self-absorbed writings of my life, my loves, my engagements with people. I think that living in myself too much is a hinderance. My roommate Steve said tonight, “The best writers write outside themselves yet incorporate themselves and their heart into each work.” I agree.

ASS ON CHAIR. I’m gonna write motherfuckers. I am going to rinse out. I will not start new stories, new ideas, I will write that first draft and write and write. I can’t give up something I haven’t even started yet.

Here is the poem: (still needs work)

I heard Charlton Heston’s daughter shot herself
while playing in her daddy’s room
listening to Metallica trying to brand the
word
metal
a TV was on in the
background, a Jenny Jones ‘Help Abused Kids’
special that exploits children to new levels
Nike hasn’t even though of
yet
The nanny was also home, flipping through
the newspaper trying to understand her assuringly
fixed position at the bottom of the middle class
scale while being taxed for services that never
make it to those who
need them
I think the brother was home too,
no one sees him anymore
ever since high speed was installed
strange noises come out of his room, the mom
suspects
porn
The dog was the only one to hear the shot.