Chapter 2

I get up every morning and look at my face in the mirror. The tired lines are still there, and I accept that they are there to stay. Even on a promising day like today, where it's supposed to be 75 degrees on the first day to my last year of college.

BFA.

Bachelor of Fine Arts.

I whisper it to myself some days, reminding me that I am soon ending and silencing schooling forever. But then there is the fact that now, seemingly in today's economy and status, that MFA's are the new BFA's. Thus I am wrecked again. But then, I also remind myself that I am an artist, and I can do whatever the fuck I want. So I have no more worries.

Rub tired lines, brush teeth, take off clothes, check self in the mirror, be aware of new unwanted areas and take note to take care of them later. Take a shower, put on comfort robe, put on comfort clothes, get wallet, get bag, and get OUT.

The morning after we finally came to our resolution of ending it, I didn't stay in bed. I didn't eat the last gallon of ice cream in the freezer, no. I got out. I went into my little garage, pulled out my old blue Schwinn bicycle from it's dirty corner, and began to ride. I rode in the hazy mist between night and dawn. That's what I remember, the hard haziness. The feeling of freezing wet kisses hitting fast on my face. I didn't really know where I was going, but I had never seen the city so quiet. Portland was like a vast cascading blanket of black. The sky was dissapearing from space, and becoming something new. I remember that that was the only piece of serenity I had held in my mind for a long time. Knowing that there was something new, and bright, even if it was morning. That I had one small glimmer of hope for my pathetic excuse of life for the past four years.

Yes.

We lasted four years.
I don't even know how we went on that long. I do remember though, that there was a point where we would fiercely make out instead of walk the other way. Which, if you ask me, is the nicer but not necessarily the right alternative to a hopeless romance, and hopeless it was.

Now, mornings are still my favorite times. When I ride the street car to my early classes, I purposely arrive a little earlier so I can sit in the back. This allows me to view the early commuters who reign at the hour of eight a.m. Interesting people they are, even more interesting than television, which I don't watch.

One, for example, is the always fashionable old lady with white striking hair, blouse, and sandals with stockings. She is reading a light and fascinating history of the Scottish brigade. Another, the nervous wreck that is always checking his watch and holding his briefcase close like a time bomb. They say security blankets come in all shapes and sizes now, I think they are right. Then, my favorite. The new pretentious art students. I say pretentious because most new art students come in as flawed. This is, thinking that they are better than the world. I thought this too once, and realized I was dead wrong.

I think I chose art because, well, without sounding stupid, art chose me. I never felt like I needed to do something as much as I needed to do art. It was like an escape world, a dream world. When I first started college though, I never knew it was an entirely different world in itself.

If you ever see these people,

Art people,
the people who have the stink eye through thick black rimmed glasses,

then you must understand, they are the way they are because of what they know. It's almost like if you were to be with Sigmund Freud himself. He probably would always analyze you, and treat you like an idiot every time you spoke. This isn't only because Sigmund was a sexist asshole, but because of how much he really knew. And he knew a lot.

The world is Huge.

The Art world is a HUGE world.

There is almost too much to contain in the brain once you are stained into it's newness. The first time I was exposed, and had week to week, day to day, and hour to hour mind epiphanies, I wanted to shoot myself. I knew too much, and I knew too little at the same time. I had knowledge hunger, which is the worst. The power of knowledge, and knowledge is a scary thing. It's powerful, but scary. You can either use it wisely, or become a pretentious jerk.

This scared me, and still scares me.

I am still undecided as to what I AM.

Sometimes, I realize the things I say, but even more the things I think, and I am scared for myself. It's almost like I am spiraling down the rabbit hole of the art world, or even worse,

bitterness.

If I let it affect me, better or for worse, it's up to me I guess. It doesn't help that my heart is broken, and every day becomes a tiresome challenge of bettering myself, and then at the end of the day just not caring.

I think I like to look at people on the street car because they are someone else other than me. They are inspiring. Almost like a cataloger of people who I could end up being. I get to observe, then decide.
It's very amusing.

I watch them get on, fiddle, then I exit. Almost all of us get off at the same stop near the Pearl District, the cleanest part of Portland itself. We walk together, then scatter apart. I am almost a little more heart broken when they leave, because I know I wont see them for the rest of the day, nor take on the opportunity to get to know them, rather than just observing.

I walk to my 8 am class. All classes at this time, are the best times. Not because of what they are, but because of how fast they fly. Something about the morning, or getting up early is like a high. You are drunk on the tiredness of night before, and stay drunk until late afternoon.

I draw, I write, I listen. Now it's all routine really.

So the faster it goes, the better.

My first class though, for this day, is another Illustration class. My final one.

Am I sad?

I don't know, I don't know how I feel most days.

Chapter 1: Molly's Diary

I'm not one to give a damn about giving a homeless man money.
More importantly, I see them when I walk through the streets. Ignoring their signs, I see their helpless worn faces, and sometimes they stare back at me. Their braveness scares me. I think about how they got there, wondering who it was that dumped them there, who broke their heart. Then I realize,
they probably look like me.

I look everyday in the mirror, and I'm beginning to not recognize myself. Not that I look completely different, but that every new 24 hours brings on a new phase of tiredness to certain facial areas. I am aging, but not in the way i should be. My hair is getting increasingly duller, since I haven't died it for three, maybe four months, and a new birth of ash brown grow out is adding a rather nice contrast.

Green eyes, brown hair, and a rather simple face. I know it all fairly well. I sketch it almost weekly. Sometimes I wished I didn't, not because I don't like myself, but because I am getting tired of being so familiar with the way I look now. Frida Kahlo said, "I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best." Sadly, I cannot say we are alike, because even Frida had someone. A real lover. Someone who understood her, and cared for her more than a convenient win win situation.

I lost a person. I wish I could of said that they died, but unfortunately they are still alive. Still breathing stench like breath in a far away place, as a matter a fact, Massachusetts. His name was, and is still I suppose, Daniel. When we first met, we were young and in love from the start. Giddy, but now when I look back on it, I realize that maybe I was really in love with the 'idea of being in love'. Maybe he just happened to be the first one to come along. Or would he be the last? The end was the beginning to endless amounts of questions. Both valid and nonsensical.

I don't remember when we first met, it was too long ago, but I keep one memory now that keeps on polluting my mind like a paint splatter you didn't plan.

We used to drive around a lot, with out a destination. This habit occupied both our time and amusement together. We did it often, and found it to be a great time to talk, or just be alone together.

We were both in his beat up Volvo wagon, listening to music. That's the one thing we did most often, listen to music. I don't really give a damn about television, another thing. But music, I think it is extremely relevant to have the jones's with. Music is my soul. Berthold Auerbach said, "Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." I don't exactly know who that is, but I have this book of knowledgeable quotes I pull out every time I feel stupid, or call my mother, but whatever he she said she knows her shit. Most of TV is complete bull, but as Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche also said, "Without music life would be a mistake."

In this case, I was happening to be listening to music with my one BIG mistake. I had happened to get this new CD of this really good blues alternative band, so I put it in his car for a listen. That's another thing we did, exchange music. We mainly shared the same taste, I remember, but every once in a while mine would wander off a bit. I don't like to be close minded to new music, unless it's complete crap. So I put the CD in, and the music starts. He continues to drive. He asks what band it is, I tell him. Nothing. The song goes on. Nothing. I look at his face, and Nothing. The song ends. I wait for a reply, but nothing comes. He continues to drive and his face looks completely blank. Finally, I ask,

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

He says.

"Well, did you like it?"

Silence.

"It was OK."

Normally, in the beginning I would of dismissed this. But now, after going through this routine often, I slowly realized that when he was dissing my music, he was dissing my musical taste, this also meant that he was dissing my intellect that inspired the musical taste to select the music. He was dissing my intellect, thus he was dissing the chemical impulses that created my feelings.

He was dissing ME.

It took me a while to calculate all of this together. I even drew a diagram of it out in my daily sketchbook required for class. When my teacher saw it for end of term, she congratulated me for finally seeing her views as a feminist. I shyly smiled, then ripped it up later.

"What do you mean, 'it's Ok'?"

He did another thing I remember, a slow in-one-motion hair flip that always touched his eyes. He could of been resemblant to a St. Bernard. It couldn't of been a second, but the annoying tick seemed to last forever.

"I just mean it's OK, OK?"

"So you don't like it?"
"I didn't say that."
"But you don't, right?"
"Dammit, Molly."
"You, don't. Just say you don't."
"OK, I don't."
"You don't, what?"
"Like it. I don't like it."
"Why?"
"Molly!"
"Just answer me."

His sighs were longer now.

"It's just, I don't know. I just don't like it, OK?"
"That's your reason why?"
"Yes!"

1) Moments of silence.

This is key, Moments of silence are dangerous. Most people would say otherwise, but in my case, in the relationship case, this means death. It's almost like a symptom to an even bigger disease. I started noticing this in our last year, we had become that couple that people stare at in restaurants. The worst kind nobody wants around, and the reason is is because they don't want the same fate to happen to them. When this moment of silence hit, my mind began to race, and we continued to drive. Normally I would of held all of the thoughts in, but this time my jar was full.

"Why do you have to be so damn stingy?"
"What?"
"You and your tastes, you act like a know-it-all half the time. Like I'm some appending member to some prestigious club! You should be happy anyone wants to share anything with you at all, after acting like a complete snob."

I couldn't stop. I couldn't contain myself. My sudden bursts of slandering babble held a breakthrough that had too much of an affect on my nerves.

"pull the fuck over."

The car came to a reveling stop. I jumped out at my first chance to run away from the words that I knew would follow. I didn't even care where we were. I just didn't want to see the look I knew was on his face. I just kept on walking.

In all my life, I had never been so dramatic, but with him, I was learning how to be a good spot in a melo-drama, but this time there was no music.

"So that's what you think?!"

He was following me now, slamming his car door shut. After hearing this, I had to stop my marathon-like treading.

"Yes, that's what I think, and you want to know my reason why? You are a jerk, Daniel. A real fake intellectual jerk. You don't give a damn about my feelings, unless it helps you. So please, this time think of me, and leave me alone."

"Where are you going to go?"

"Wherever the fuck I want."

"I can't just leave you here."

"Yes you can, just like you will in three months, so take this as practice."

I finally got through to him, only after, I realized not in the way I wanted.