Quiet Mania

October 26, 2006

     I am the kid with the camera, the artist, the writer. I am the quiet girl in the corner that must remain undisturbed like a Greek statue. So many ways to express myself and yet my soulud is suppressed and isolated. I tuck it away in packages of pictures and written words. This floor is cold and bare. Ahead in my view are bars that block an abandoned hall. An empty chair stands alone in the way. This is Hecate's time of year. I feel as old as she. Should that ancient goddess release her hounds, I wold be trampled and devoured in a matter of minutes. Mother Magick, I invoke thee.

     My sister is using that sweet voice of hers while addressing a new "friend." It is completely ostentacious and utterly disgusting. Another voice captures my attention. It is deep and lacking an accent. His words show signs of intelligence. At the very least, the tone is one that cold hold someone's attention. It holds mine if only for a few minutes.

     Outside it is raining. Tomorrow it will be raining. What daemon reigns over this wretched rain?

     They're whispering again. "She's in one of her moods. What's wrong with her? Mama, she's weird." And I'm selfish. I'm selfish for wanting to get a job with anyone other than them. I'm selfish for wanting this job in order to pay for my own car with which I would provide my own transportation. They don't have time to take me to get my permit. They haven't had time since I was fifteen. Nearly three years ago. I'm selfish for locking myself in the bathroom- my one place for solitude in this weather. I'm selfish for being involved in school activities because it requires their time and transportation. I'm selfish for wanting to live away from home during college. I'm selfish for wanting to sketch or write or compose when called upon to pick up for their slack. To them I am nothing but odd and selfish. So, why would anything be bothering me?

     Life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. (They're worried about me again.) Will memorizing lines from Shakespeare insure my own greatness? Or will his cursed Macbeth's words foreshadow my own fate as Faulkner's Quentin? (Am I to fight all of my wars as the Dragon Slime of Nature, Mr. Gardner?) Quention was my favorite character in all of Faulkner's work. He was intelligent and determined to determine his own destiny no matter the cost. He reminded me much of myself. (No, I will not refer to Quentin in the academic present tense.)

     A chilled draft seeps through from under the door of this hotel room. Apparently the halls still think that it is summer and that cool air conditioning is still necessary. Or perhaps the damp Autumn air from which this hotel protects me has finally knocked down my walls. I wish someone were worthy. I wish someone could. I wish someone would try.