Luna Faccia Cicatrici Di Battaglia (Moon Face Battle Scars)

I have been wanting to write a post about this for quite a while now. No better time than 7:30 in the morning when you have been trying to sleep unsuccessfully for the past 4 hours.

I have acne scars on my face. I suffered from acne for almost all my pubertal life. I remember having a phase of clear skin once in between, after a really bad outbreak. And then it sprouted up again. Needless to say, acne has been a huge part of my life.

Here is the thing about acne scars - if you see someone with them, know that they have experienced the hurt of being constantly reminded that hey are imperfect in a society which emphasizes on perfection at all costs. Know that they have full knowledge of the fact that society held something against them that they had no control over.

For me personally, I have been told numerous times, to my acne ridden face, that I am ugly; that I am not attractive enough or "who would be attracted to me?". It would have been fine if it was just the h8ers h8ing but it wasn't. This was coming from people who I considered my friends at that time (they seemed to have changed now so some hard feelings, but not completely all hard feelings). Now when I look back at it, it feels strange. I feel a mixture of bitterness over the fact that people (more importantly, my "friends") didn't understand that I did not ask for this, and relief because this experience was extremely character building.

I realized early on, that my acne became a very good people-filter. It was a sieve which separated those who were inconsiderate in their remarks and put looks above character. It was so easy to separate the kind ones from ones who did not have an inch of consideration for someone else in their hearts; the ones who could not see that I was in obvious discomfort and pain and only chose to see "an ugly girl".

Another important outcome of acne was that once I realized that it was completely out of my hands and that there was simply nothing I can do to fulfill the society set standards of "beauty", I started focusing on other things. I prided myself in being good at studies, in being responsible, in being more practical in my approach to maturity and maybe in a sense of being different (we all feel that no doubt). But most importantly, I love how having acne myself gave me an insight into what it feels like to be objectified and that helps me connect with people who might be going through a similar ordeal.

Ugly Betty S04E17: "All right, having braces is hard, right? People make fun of you, and it hurts your feelings, which made you comapassionate

However, despite all my achievements which I am extremely proud of, having acne did actually effect my self-esteem (even though I hate to admit it). The strange part is that it personally never bothered me that I had a few pimples on my face. What bothered me were the words thrown at me as a result of that. It took me the longest time to accept the fact that someone else's actions and words had negatively impacted my self esteem. I was in denial because I did not want to give anyone enough power to hurt me. I recently realized that it is only human to be hurt especially if it was coming from people who I considered my friends. I realized that when someone told me that I looked nice, I did not believe them because I had been told that I wasn't for so long

Here I would like to mention an interaction I had with my therapist. So in one of the sessions with her, we reached the conclusion that I had low self esteem when it came to my looks which was quite true. What happened next was pretty surprising. My therapist and I started arguing over how I should be using make-up to hide my acne scars because as far she she could she, my acne scars were the only anomaly and otherwise I was pretty good looking. Needless to say, I never went to her again. I reached two conclusions that day:
1. My therapist, more like ex-therapist, was extremely stubborn and felt the need to dictate to her patients to conform to the rules of the society in order to attract male species. She didn't even bother to explore the actual reason why my self esteem was low (years of being told that I wasn't pretty enough) and condemn the actions and words of those who had said those things to me in the past. No, instead it was me who needed to cover up my acne scars so I could appear more "attractive".
2. The idea of using make up to hide my acne scars absolutely disgusted me. It felt like deception. Trying to hide under the coats of make up to try and fit into the society's flawed standards of beauty? To achieve what goal? To get praises from people who focused on outer beauty only?
Now don't get me wrong. I am NOT implying that beauty doesn't matter. It matters. But trying to hide yourself and put on a facade for acceptance, that didn't seem right to me.

If there was one thing that this meeting made me realize it was how much I hated the idea of trying to hide who I am. I started feeling like my acne scars aren't just ordinary scars. They are battle scars. They make me a survivor of wounds inflicted by words. And if anything, I need to be extremely proud of them. Because honestly, scars are beautiful because they have a story of bravery and courage associated with them. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Besides, corny as it sounds, it's what is underneath that matters. And now that I think about it, all the people in my life that I love, I find all of them beautiful to look at. They are just such a pleasant sight to my eyes and mind. That, I say, is what beautiful truly is and I hope that I am that kind of beautiful for some people too.

This bit of The Twits by Roald Dhal is still the most beautiful thing I have ever read. 

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1065820430176002&set=p.1065820430176002&type=3&theater

YES YES YES YES!

Post Its. Painters. And POW WOW!

Following Tom Rosenthal's work took me to Marcel Duchamp (pron, Marcel Du-sha) and that made me wonder: What exactly is it that makes painted art so important? Why do certain pieces of art become really famous? What is the cryptic meaning behind, say, a brush on canvas, that I don't understand, yet, is sold for millions? So I started reading articles and from what I understand, this is how it work:

A painter paints

Displays painting in a gallery

Gallery determines the price of the painting

Sells the painting to a buyer

Critics decipher the painting and the painter and determine a meaning

The meaning deciphered can change the course of history 

Initial main goal: to turn painter into a well known brand OR make his painting really famous (which in turn will turn the painter into a well known brand)

 

Increased controversy = increased popularity of painting = increased selling price for the painting = increased chances of painter's name becoming the "Brand" = increased chances of his future paintings/art work being recognized successfully = increased critique = increased chances of it being "revolutionary"

To prove this equation, we have

Exhibit # 1:

Painting of Mona Lisa. Hung in Louvre. Unknown until it was stolen in 1911 and then all of a sudden, it was everywhere. It became a master piece due to the fact that it became so well known.

Once the artist has established themselves as a renowned painter, anything they do might be considered a form of art.

Exhibit # 2: 

Marcel Duchamp's Bicycle Wheel. About this work of art, Duchamp said "Please note that I didn't want to make a work of art out of [Bicycle Wheel]. The word 'Readymade' did not appear until 1915, when I went to the United States. It was an interesting word, but when I put a bicycle wheel on a stool, the fork down, there was no idea of a 'readymade,' or anything else. It was just a distraction. I didn't have any special reason to do it, or any intention of showing it, or describing anything. No nothing like that..."

And yet, when he displayed this bicycle wheel, it was revolutionary enough to create a new art movement "Readymade" 

Exhibit # 3

Marcel Duchamp's "Fountain". To layman's eye, it is nothing but a urinal with "R. Mutt 1917" scribbled on it's side. But in the world of art, putting up a urinal in an art exhibition was a way Duchamp criticized certain aspects of art. The more I read about it, the more interpretations I come across: It was a practical joke; it represented sexuality and eroticism (men's urinal having features of masculinity and yet, has the feminine property of "receiving men's fluid") and so many more. The list is never ending. 

The fascinating part is that a common urinal had the power to evoke so much criticism, so many interpretations and an artistic revolution. It just made me wonder. What is the difference between Marcel's urinal and this:

Because this piece of art (which is basically a black line drawn on a paper) could be interpreted as:

The Line: Rejection of Modern Education

In "The Line", the artist subtly rejects modern forms of education and highlights the negative impact it has had on people. She used a lined paper, ordinary for all uses and purposes, because she wanted to emphasize and hint at the quality of media that reaches us and adds to our knowledge (I used it because it was easier to reach). The use of black color indicates a gloom that has set over the never ending race to achieve more and more in the fields of education, without much attention given to the use and importance of what is being learned (I used a black pen because that was closest to me). The break in the stroke of the line represents how contemporary education is bound to falter and lose it's momentum once it is understood that these modern methods do nothing but hinder progress and motivation of the mind (The pen stopped working so I had to draw the line again).

Am I right? No. Wrong.

For one, these artist have put their minds and souls into their paintings. It might be a representation of something which feels tiny to me, but they put a part of their whole selves - their ideas and imagination and efforts into one idea. And people can connect to that idea. Art is a form of connection and it's the connection that people look for. 

I do have to say that I find it quite fascinating, how one person got so much power that their choice of displaying a urinal could invoke such a momentous response. What makes Duchamp's urinal so different from all the urinals around the world? Why is it that my "The Line" can't be used for revolutionary purposes to re-evaluate and change methods of education? I would say the difference was fame and location. This urinal wasn't an ordinary urinal because it was Marcel Duchamp's urinal and it wasn't displayed in a toilet. It was displayed in a gallery. My "The Line" is strictly restricted to the reach of my imaginary fan base. Art, in any form, thrives on the "celebrity effect". 

However, the thing that fascinates me the most is how I started writing this post a bit critical of artists and painters, but during the process of writing, I have realized that it is a strange, yet beautiful phenomenon. How maybe just a stroke of brush can make someone somewhere feel like they understand what someone so far away from them did. Or maybe it made them want to understand the artist - the desire to seek what another person might be thinking. It is such an integral part of being human. The desire to express, understand, feel and connect. So maybe paintings and poetry might not be my cup of tea, but I do understand it's purpose now - connection. We might over do it at times, but the sentiment persists.

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2016/05/25/prankster-puts-glasses-on-gallery-floor---and-visitors-mistake-t/

Of Saturday like Sardines

Room lights dimmed to the minimum I have.

I started watching "By The Sea" but it felt so forced and weird. I like how I am sitting on my study table and typing this out. My back is straight and it is easy to type it all out. I'm in a comfortable posture.

I want to start doing that thing again where I listen to songs and just write.

TOM ROSENTHAL: random songs

What do I know,
Of love and lies
What do I know
Of heart breaks and goodbyes

What do I know
Of life's infathomable spirit
What do I know
Of when one dies

What do I know
Of all the lows and highs
What do I know
Of when the heart dies

What do I know
For all the knowing
That I could know
For life I would still say

What do I know

I can never be alone when all the gods keep calling me out

So there are these movies that you watch after which you just get up and live your life. And then there are ones resonate with something deep inside your heart. Like a familiar cord that was waiting to be struck and once it's struck you feel understood. Somewhere out there made something that became a channel for that feeling buried deep within to rear it's head and show itself. It's a connection that is as rare and exclusive in it's character as it is beautiful. Of all the movies that I have watched in my life these are the ones which made me feel like that:

1. August Osage County
2. Big Fish
3. Louder Than Bombs

These are the ones I can think of at the moment. I have a special inexplainable connection with these movies. It's a sentiment that no one seems to be able to share with me, which is understandable because these movies won't resonate with people for the same reasons they resonate with me. I wish I could find someone who would understand the way I feel about these movies because I don't  have words to explain these feelings so there has to be more of a silent connection of understanding. Ah well.

Reading my old posts. Kind of embarrassing. It's so out there in the world. All my flaws, all that I was and all I believed in even if it was terribly wrong. It's weird but a great reflection of how much I have changed.

If some one were to ask me the time when I stopped feeling like a kid, it would be summers of 2015 - my first year in medical college. Ah. What a summers it was. Filled with excruciating physical pain, mental agony and most unexpected tales of betrayal and loss of friendships. See, the thing about not feeling like a kid anymore is that no one would ever want to stop living in a world painted with rosy colors. "Coming of age" usually involves a brutal experience of something of a negative sort. Kind of like a punch to the face which knocks out your sunglasses so you are left squinting in the extreme sunlight, blinded, in pain and in shock of the suddenness with which it all happened. But eventually your eyes adjust to the sunlight and you grow accustomed to seeing without your glasses which are now broken. This realization is followed by a frantic attempt to fix the glasses, trying to regain the protection you once had but no matter what you do and how much you struggle, the cracks will always remain. There is no way you can repair your glasses. And then, comes the beautiful part - acceptance. You just accept that this is what it is like. What protects you will be forcefully snatched from you, one by one, and that's okay. Because you learn how to survive better. You get the peace that comes with acceptance. So you look at your broken glasses wistfully, thinking back in time when they used to protect you from the glare that you now have to live with. But it's okay. Maybe the glare isn't so bad. Maybe your eyes actually craved the glare. Maybe you needed to see the world in a different color. I know it was for me. It changed my life for good. I don't know if I should give myself credit for changing my life like this or I was incredibly lucky to have been in such a good situation. Maybe it's both. Anyways. I am happy, content and I feel good. I am content with my life.

Toodles

Bronchioles and Ink Pens

I wandered here. Okay I don't know how to start again. It's been quite a while and during this "while" I have come to believe that writing is not my strong suite so I am kind of discouraged. Plus there is this thing where my friends have started joking about my english which has had a counter productive effect on me (will communicate it to them and [it makes me happy to know that I now have friends who can understand my dilemmas and be kind to me instead of making me feel weak about feeling feels and not understanding]). But reading my previous posts has made me realize how I am not that bad. Plus it reminded me of the joy of blogging so I might start again.

A few random things in my head right now:

1. The friends I have made in Aku are so much better than any friendship I have had all my life. I was reading my old blog posts and it made me realize how my old friends made me feel so unattractive and unwanted. Plus they never really understood the peculiar situation I was in because of my family problems. The worst part - they never really made much of an effort to understand. I attribute that to the fact that everyone was immature back then, I see that they might have changed now. Or is it me who has changed? I don't know. But it wasn't pleasant reading about the effects my old friends had on me.

2. I'm thankful beyond words for the friends I have now. They mean the universe to me. I am so lucky to have people around me who have had such a positive impact on me.

3. I made a few racist jokes in a few of my previous posts. I am extremely sorry about that. I did not have an understanding of the impact these things have because I did live in a tiny world of my own. Now that I do, I realize how absolutely not right it is to make such jokes. I wanted to delete to those but now I have decided against it because they were an outcome of the limited knowledge I had and now that I know it's not cool AT ALL. So maybe at least it is one way of knowing that I have evolved.

4. The unfulfilled life I used to write about and how it frustrated me? I am finally living the fulfilling life

5. Lots and lots of love to my two special babies who just told me that they are two of my most avid readers and that they got really really excited about reading my blog. That encouraged me alot. (Baby # 1 Lara Baby # 2 Fatfats). I'm writing this one hoping that you guys will read it: YOU THERE. YES YOU. I LOVE YOU.

Feeling satisfied and happy. Will eventually start writing more from now on. It's A LOT of fun. I had my own "coming of age story" now. Can't wait to tell it to my "avid" readers. (I'm slightly disappointed that I can't use the term "imaginary fan base" now because two real humans told me that they read my blog.)

Toodaloo Gubsies.