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Art Colony: haterade
Thursday, May 19, 2005
› by victoria
I don't want to do it anymore. Not at any price.
The conflicting advice has caught me between a whirlwind and a hard place.
I now remember why my mother always told me to be scared of the disposal in the sink,
the gnawing blades that spin so fast
last night i dreamed that there was a bus, parked in the alps
I was living in the bus
It was de-luxe inside
we parked it on a steep mountainside
the bus rolled off the hill
The nazis came to interrogate me about the bus's crashing
they spat in my face
i understood what it all meant
when i woke up
libras hate disagreements
hate disappointing people
but i moved out of my house to avoid conflicts like this
there's got to be someplace better than milwaukee
i know there's someplace better than milwaukee
this isn't the whole world in a nutshell
"value your work"
"never underestimate the value of your work"
Is that different from "never underestimate the value in yourself"?
I don't think so.
This one is for my 8th grade math teacher who slapped me for no reason during an assembly.
For the woman at the Milwaukee Art Museum who publicly humiliated me and my family and told me that I was in the wrong seat, that I had only won a silver key award, not a gold key, when it was her mistake.
This one is for the sixth grader who pushed me in the mud puddle when I was in first grade.
This one is for the girl who said I was so "fucking ugly that my own mother was ashamed of me."
This one is for the cracked-out ho who threatened my life when I was in Italy and scared me so bad that I left the hotel at four a.m.
This one is for the people who demand that I draw something for them.
This one is for every single person who said "You draw so good. I hate you!"
This one is for the choir leader who said that I lied when I said he was an emotional and physical abuser (*not sexual though).
This one is for my kindergarten teacher who yelled at me because i read too fast.
This one is for all the people who hated my guts and made my life a living hell in fifth grade and seventh grade and before that and after that.
I don't think I should censor myself any more.
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