Post by ingrid lovisa jensen on Oct 10, 2010 20:33:51 GMT -5
ingrid lovisa jensen
character basics
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
I WANNA DARKEN IN THE SKIES, OPEN THE FLOODGATES UP.
I WANT TO CHANGE MY MIND, I WANT TO BE ENOUGH.
FULL NAME , ingrid lovisa jensen
NICKNAMES , ingy
AGE , seventeen
BIRTHDAY , april twenty-third
SEXUALITY , bisexual
GRADE , non-applicable
OCCUPATION , tourist
MEMBER GROUP , townie
hello, my name is ZIGGY. i am SEVENTEEN years young and i consider myself an INTERMEDIATE roleplayer. i found this site through ADVERTISEMENTS. so, here's an example of my average post:
Art makes fool out of us.
Each stroke, each pigment, each groove on a blank canvas makes us believe we're much more than we are — we're artists, we're creative, we're the inspirer's, the dreamers, the aberrations of society blessed with keen eye and this ability to recognize beautiful things and imitate them in false fancies which hold us superior to our peers — which makes us different, beautifully, ideally (pretentiously) different — that we must, no it's our duty to show these incompetent plebeians — who don't know Picasso from Gary Hill or whatever cliche artists we've learned in our art curriculum — what real art is because each stroke, each pigment, each grove on a blank canvas makes us artists. But we're absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing.
Standing here in the art room, alone. Staring at this utterly shit canvas half-blank. I'm realizing I'm the worst of them all. And how many times I've must of humiliated myself pretending that I know what I'm doing, when I don't have an utter clue at all. This is not art. This is the morbid doodling of an adolescent girl who has no understanding what art is. This is fake. This is due tomorrow. This is not going to work out. The theme — the theme is meant to be freedom. Spread your legs, Helene, and then you're free.
I running my fingers through my hair (my hair, I need to wash my hair), cupping my face with my hands, biting my brush like a dog — I am a dog. Let me take my clothes off, put a collar around my neck, lead me around, drink from a bowl, play with a ball, eat my own shit, rub myself along a rug, clean myself, roll in dirt, dog. I'm going as mad as Diogenes. Then, what is meant to be mad? Can I define madness with out madness itself— that itself is mad.
I'm becoming so engulfed in this, I'm beginning to lose my sense of time. My head is flashing backwards and forwards but my hand is literally frozen in place. I came here at six, I came here at six and now its eight. But was it eight an hour ago, or two hours ago? The canvas is complete. I don't know why but it make me angry. The proportions off, the colour, it's grinding into my head and the more and more I look at the more and more I realize that is a microcosm of everything that is wrong with everything to exist.
So I slash it.
I literally take the end of my brush and punch it into the canvas and slowly tear. It feels like I'm taking a knife to my arm and slid it down and everything gushes out and I feel like I'm riding out a thousand orgasms. I slide it diagonally , then I do it again. Slide it down, feels like I'm stabbing an old man. It's a ripped X. My heart is pounding. I feel like something I can't really describe; its not happiness no sadness but I want to cry but they're not tears of grief nor tears of joy but as if I'm encroaching on something I've known but have forgotten.
It's a pathetic high. I take my canvas and throw it on to the flow and stomp my foot through it. I look up. I'm in a sea of canvases. Not mine, but others. All shouting to me, "Helene, Helene, Helene, touch me. Stroke me. Slaughter me. " I am a well-raised girl, the politest of them all. So I feel its my duty to oblige. I take the one nearest to me, and I snap it. That was just a test. Now begins the Todesmarsch. I line them up. I slash them. Diagnolly. In an X. Each and every one. See? Each stroke, each pigment, each groove on a blank canvas. Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing.
Each stroke, each pigment, each groove on a blank canvas makes us believe we're much more than we are — we're artists, we're creative, we're the inspirer's, the dreamers, the aberrations of society blessed with keen eye and this ability to recognize beautiful things and imitate them in false fancies which hold us superior to our peers — which makes us different, beautifully, ideally (pretentiously) different — that we must, no it's our duty to show these incompetent plebeians — who don't know Picasso from Gary Hill or whatever cliche artists we've learned in our art curriculum — what real art is because each stroke, each pigment, each grove on a blank canvas makes us artists. But we're absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing.
Standing here in the art room, alone. Staring at this utterly shit canvas half-blank. I'm realizing I'm the worst of them all. And how many times I've must of humiliated myself pretending that I know what I'm doing, when I don't have an utter clue at all. This is not art. This is the morbid doodling of an adolescent girl who has no understanding what art is. This is fake. This is due tomorrow. This is not going to work out. The theme — the theme is meant to be freedom. Spread your legs, Helene, and then you're free.
I running my fingers through my hair (my hair, I need to wash my hair), cupping my face with my hands, biting my brush like a dog — I am a dog. Let me take my clothes off, put a collar around my neck, lead me around, drink from a bowl, play with a ball, eat my own shit, rub myself along a rug, clean myself, roll in dirt, dog. I'm going as mad as Diogenes. Then, what is meant to be mad? Can I define madness with out madness itself— that itself is mad.
I'm becoming so engulfed in this, I'm beginning to lose my sense of time. My head is flashing backwards and forwards but my hand is literally frozen in place. I came here at six, I came here at six and now its eight. But was it eight an hour ago, or two hours ago? The canvas is complete. I don't know why but it make me angry. The proportions off, the colour, it's grinding into my head and the more and more I look at the more and more I realize that is a microcosm of everything that is wrong with everything to exist.
So I slash it.
I literally take the end of my brush and punch it into the canvas and slowly tear. It feels like I'm taking a knife to my arm and slid it down and everything gushes out and I feel like I'm riding out a thousand orgasms. I slide it diagonally , then I do it again. Slide it down, feels like I'm stabbing an old man. It's a ripped X. My heart is pounding. I feel like something I can't really describe; its not happiness no sadness but I want to cry but they're not tears of grief nor tears of joy but as if I'm encroaching on something I've known but have forgotten.
It's a pathetic high. I take my canvas and throw it on to the flow and stomp my foot through it. I look up. I'm in a sea of canvases. Not mine, but others. All shouting to me, "Helene, Helene, Helene, touch me. Stroke me. Slaughter me. " I am a well-raised girl, the politest of them all. So I feel its my duty to oblige. I take the one nearest to me, and I snap it. That was just a test. Now begins the Todesmarsch. I line them up. I slash them. Diagnolly. In an X. Each and every one. See? Each stroke, each pigment, each groove on a blank canvas. Absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing.