Arts Community
Ok, so, it isn't a final draft review... But, its an excerpt from my book.
Sorry for the MIA ladies and gents, no internet at home, no G1, not much in my life except work, sleep, chaos, and the sporadic bit of writing... And a wicked ankle injury, still pending a specialist appointment. My three times too large immobilization boot is SEXY.
Copyright, Cheri Antoinette... First edit, April 22nd 2010.
....................
Tis all for now <3
Copyright, Cheri Antoinette... First edit, April 22nd 2010.
....................
I
am reading a book that has torn open my sternum, left the bleeding pieces of my
heart bare, and stolen the air from the world around me. It was written decades
ago, taken from diaries of experience. It is beautiful, and it breaks my heart
somehow. Life, and all that it contains, is something different for the mind of
a writer. Love is especially different, and inevitably does not live up to the
impassioned, grandiose standards that I, we, are cursed with.
I finish that line after discarding my stockings and stilettos, donning
pajamas, and cracking a bottle of cheap red wine. Daylight is beaming through
my bedroom window like a Puritan, determined to show me the wrong of my
almost-doings. It all works out for a reason, blah, blah, blah. I tell people
this as I calmly let life carry me towards a better job, living situation,
media side projects.
I am felled as a monster of speed and
charisma in modeling by an ever-increasingly painful ankle injury that has
effortlessly fucked me out of involvement with a conniving, backstabbing,
childish industry. Darn. This is my Third Time is a Charm, of course. Less than three months ago, a fire consumed
the top half of the old building housing my gorgeous little one bedroom
apartment that had been my liberation from fear, located ten minutes walk from
all the bars I could wish to drown myself in. Three months before that, a simple mistake had gotten me
fired from a job where I had been under a miserable pressure to over-perform
for no reward, working nine shifts in six days each week to scrape together my
rent and keep something in my poorly functioning fridge.
As horrific and panic inspiring as these things have been, I have been able to
sit back and let my life write itself like a poorly contrived self-help book.
My new job is wonderful and provides for my every need. I pay my bills, chip
away at debts, eat well and often, and finally have a manicure again. My
insurance has covered a few grand in catching up, and will pay for the
podiatrist I see next month about my awful ankle and it’s attempts to undo me.
My co-workers and roommates supply me with the friendship I was desperately
missing after my Three Knights (more on them, later) all got girlfriends, and
lives away from our summer shenanigans. I live surrounded by constant reminders
of my own youth, and exposure to a piece of that youth that I had never
realized that I missed out on. I am under no pressure to be the perfect
homemaker, the perfect girlfriend slash wife slash stand in mommy, the perfect
support system for parasitic human skin-bags.
I look at where I was last summer, and where I am now, and am grateful. Yet
love… oh, love. Love and lust, desire and indulgence, intimacy and unrestrained
hedonism. It is not enough to go out and play the rockstar- never enough to
satiate my cravings to live something I could write. I dress to the nines, I
dress the bad girl, I dress shy and quiet just to experiment. Manipulation,
shock value, oh, I call it all research and development for this book I want to
write. Perhaps this is the paragraph that will finally kick it off and let it
run wild. In a way, of course, this is a poorly contrived self help novel. Some
will read it and feel reassured. Some will live vicariously through my hazily
recalled adventures and blatant disregard for the rules of society. Some will
emulate it. Some will read and smile knowingly to themselves, and reminisce
over their own unrestrained youth of discovery. Some will read it and slam me
as a tramp, and a hundred other derogatory words. Some will read it and say I
got just what I deserved. For the latter two, I invite you to some quality time
in the mirror. You are miserable, because you have not lived, and some part of
you will always scorn the conventionality of what-ifs left unanswered. For the
rest of my hopefully attentive audience, I can only say that if you gain
nothing else from anything I could ever write… Find your freedom, or you will
never taste the fruition of the evolution of the soul.
I click away, starting and stopping, flinging around adjectives, and deleting,
trying to make some sense of this turmoil for you. It is not especially bad,
nein, it is simply a tangled mass of actions, feelings, situations,
conclusions, and my own unmistakable flair for fantasy and misconception. I
make all the people in my life into characters, and they are constantly
resisting the natural flow of the story. Jerks.
heart bare, and stolen the air from the world around me. It was written decades
ago, taken from diaries of experience. It is beautiful, and it breaks my heart
somehow. Life, and all that it contains, is something different for the mind of
a writer. Love is especially different, and inevitably does not live up to the
impassioned, grandiose standards that I, we, are cursed with.
I finish that line after discarding my stockings and stilettos, donning
pajamas, and cracking a bottle of cheap red wine. Daylight is beaming through
my bedroom window like a Puritan, determined to show me the wrong of my
almost-doings. It all works out for a reason, blah, blah, blah. I tell people
this as I calmly let life carry me towards a better job, living situation,
media side projects.
I am felled as a monster of speed and
charisma in modeling by an ever-increasingly painful ankle injury that has
effortlessly fucked me out of involvement with a conniving, backstabbing,
childish industry. Darn. This is my Third Time is a Charm, of course. Less than three months ago, a fire consumed
the top half of the old building housing my gorgeous little one bedroom
apartment that had been my liberation from fear, located ten minutes walk from
all the bars I could wish to drown myself in. Three months before that, a simple mistake had gotten me
fired from a job where I had been under a miserable pressure to over-perform
for no reward, working nine shifts in six days each week to scrape together my
rent and keep something in my poorly functioning fridge.
As horrific and panic inspiring as these things have been, I have been able to
sit back and let my life write itself like a poorly contrived self-help book.
My new job is wonderful and provides for my every need. I pay my bills, chip
away at debts, eat well and often, and finally have a manicure again. My
insurance has covered a few grand in catching up, and will pay for the
podiatrist I see next month about my awful ankle and it’s attempts to undo me.
My co-workers and roommates supply me with the friendship I was desperately
missing after my Three Knights (more on them, later) all got girlfriends, and
lives away from our summer shenanigans. I live surrounded by constant reminders
of my own youth, and exposure to a piece of that youth that I had never
realized that I missed out on. I am under no pressure to be the perfect
homemaker, the perfect girlfriend slash wife slash stand in mommy, the perfect
support system for parasitic human skin-bags.
I look at where I was last summer, and where I am now, and am grateful. Yet
love… oh, love. Love and lust, desire and indulgence, intimacy and unrestrained
hedonism. It is not enough to go out and play the rockstar- never enough to
satiate my cravings to live something I could write. I dress to the nines, I
dress the bad girl, I dress shy and quiet just to experiment. Manipulation,
shock value, oh, I call it all research and development for this book I want to
write. Perhaps this is the paragraph that will finally kick it off and let it
run wild. In a way, of course, this is a poorly contrived self help novel. Some
will read it and feel reassured. Some will live vicariously through my hazily
recalled adventures and blatant disregard for the rules of society. Some will
emulate it. Some will read and smile knowingly to themselves, and reminisce
over their own unrestrained youth of discovery. Some will read it and slam me
as a tramp, and a hundred other derogatory words. Some will read it and say I
got just what I deserved. For the latter two, I invite you to some quality time
in the mirror. You are miserable, because you have not lived, and some part of
you will always scorn the conventionality of what-ifs left unanswered. For the
rest of my hopefully attentive audience, I can only say that if you gain
nothing else from anything I could ever write… Find your freedom, or you will
never taste the fruition of the evolution of the soul.
I click away, starting and stopping, flinging around adjectives, and deleting,
trying to make some sense of this turmoil for you. It is not especially bad,
nein, it is simply a tangled mass of actions, feelings, situations,
conclusions, and my own unmistakable flair for fantasy and misconception. I
make all the people in my life into characters, and they are constantly
resisting the natural flow of the story. Jerks.
Tis all for now <3
Comment
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Comment by Mike Donohoe on January 9, 2012 at 7:59am -
Interesting Cheri. I completed my autobiography not long ago and have been working toward getting some publisher or other to realize it's inherent brilliance. lol. Look for Waking From the American Dream at a bookstore near you! Hopefully. =^) Mike.
© 2012 Created by Nicholas D. Ward.
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