Thursday, October 21, 2010


In an ideal world, I would have known what I would be reading the moment I made the decision to hold the reading. But what kind of artist would I be if that were so?! So true to nature, I have not yet finished sorting through the pages that my work fills. It is not the amount; it is the content and the fact that despite how narcissistic I am, I try to avoid rereading my work at all costs. It seems a little too much to do so. Plus, whenever I have reread any piece, it has always felt unfinished, which is not exactly very rewarding. It is perhaps the curse of a writer: the ever lasting need to continue modifying every piece as time allows for the author's evolution. Regardless of the initial work-in-progress feeling whenever I have reread anything, the piece in question has never failed to provoke chills as it makes me recall the reasons which caused me to write it. There are so many reasons why specific pieces were produced as irrationally fantastic as they might be. There is another important element to each piece which differs from the reasons that lead me to write it: intention. The intention with which any given piece was written is always oblivious to the reasons and seems to surpass them. Intentions are vague, however, as they seem to mutate whenever someone reads my writings. Every person always takes from it something different and that is perhaps what makes writing -and art in a more general sense- so special. It adapts to everyone's sensibility. It accommodates everyone's needs. It molds without actually changing. In doing so, intention completely disregards the reasons behind any piece. Intention is selfishly charitable as necessary. 
Nevertheless, consider the following: when my parents moved last year, my dad was desperately trying to find the charger for his cell phone while he kept repeating that he definitely remembered putting it in a box. Soon enough, everyone in the family was looking for it, but it was not anywhere to be found. Then, my dad said, “I know I intended to bring it. I need it, why would I leave it behind?” To which my sister replied, “I guess the intention is not what counts after all.” As you might have guessed, this caused a debate among the family as to whether intention really counts as opposed to or parallel to actually doing what one was supposed to. Now, I find myself knowing that my intentions for Saturday are to do my best at sharing some of my work. I would like to promise that it would be an amazing experience, but I cannot. My arrogance seems to have a limit. Yet, not so much as to become completely humble because I do intend for it to be fabulous! I cannot deny who I am or why I hope my writing to accomplish. So do not expect me to hide behind a mask, I can only wait and keep writing with the same evolving intentions as always. 

Are you kids ready for this?! (I am not yet, but I will be.) 


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