spit

My heart sunk a little after reading an excerpt about Woodrow Wilson in Lies My Teacher Told Me by James Loewen. I read the book for a humanities essay I wrote yesterday for my US History class. Though Loewen did regard Wilson as a heroic president who reluctantly did lead our country through World War I and establish the League of Nations as well, he assessed a side of Wilson that I have not yet been taught by any history teacher of mine. After praising Wilson's heroic efforts, Loewen did go on to mention his racism and his constant desire to intervene in Latin America. I've never heard about any of this. He apparently took the "white" side of the Russian Revolution, and though many people associate him with progressing the country towards a day of women's suffrage, he had many feminists arrested, and his wife happened to indeed despise the women's effort. Back then, apparently, many women agreed with society's norms of staying at home, cooking, cleaning, etc. It makes me kind of sad that Wilson had all these hidden agendas, all the while trying to put on a democratic face for American citizens. I've certainly been decieved. I don't know how I feel about him any more. Then again, I did go far enough to develop a crush on a dead president.

Anywho, yesterday afternoon I decided to drive up to UNCG to visit the Weatherspoon Art Gallery. Some of the college students were showcasing their own work. I always feel so sticky and restrained going to events like that, but I love the art, so I go anyway. I pointed at something particular about a piece on the ground (with my foot) and was very quickly scolded with furrowed brows by the fellow gallery spectators. I wanted to spit on them. I was trying to appreciate the art and point something out, for heaven's sake. Whatever. Stupid yuppies. I'm such an idiot at places like that anyway; most people stand and (seriously) stare at the same painting or sculpture for thirty minutes. By all means, I love art and I appreciate it. I wouldn't have driven all the way to Greensboro if not. I'm just saying, it's a slab of wax molded into a human heart. What more is there to analyze about it? My favorite, I would have to say, was the "Dark Cozy Corner" by an art major at UNCG. He literally built a fort commemorating his comfy childhood antics. It was craftily compiled of bedsheets, books, pillows, ambient lighting, records, paintings, and modern furniture. Outside of his "fort" a small white sign with neon pink stenciled words read, "Come in, I trust you." It was different, and I loved it. It did get a little drab at some stops, but I made a point to look at every piece in the gallery. If not I would feel very sad and sorry for the artists I left out. I would carefully look at each title, especially the "unititled" pieces to see if Unititled was spelled wrong. None. Not even one. No untittled, unittled, unleitid, nothing. Oh well. At our student art show here in Lexington, they spelled my name wrong on every piece of my work. Welcome to Davidson County.

I didn't get to go see For the Fallen Dreams like I anticipated yesterday. It would have been over too late. The show was supposed to start at two, but Club Rain is never on time. That was a big reason why I went to UNCG. I was bummed out because everyone got to go to the show except for me, and I didn't want to be sitting at home bored outta my gourd. But on the way home, I really did think about a lot of things. I realized some pretty important stuff. For one, I'm completely anti-social. I'm a complete homebody and would much rather be reading at home on the weekends than partying and getting shitfaced like my dense high school classmates. I'm so comfortable with Julie and Kayla, my only close friends, and Richie, my best friend and boyfriend. I'm not really aiming to meet anyone right now. I also realized that I don't have everything figured out. I'd like to think I do a good amount of the time, but I know good and well that I don't. I'm young and I still have a lot to learn. The world is not mine, although some days that defines my entire persona. It was a very humbling and self-identifying ride home (with Nirvana as the soundtrack).

I took my gauges out. I'm seriously trying to get a job. I want to have enough money for gas, shows, clothes, and going to visit my dad. Now my ear lobes are gaping, cavernous holes. They're so beautiful.