Of Vinci

( This was my psychology final for Psychology of Art and Creativity)

The room I stood in was carpeted and silent, books lining the walls from top to bottom. They were old books, leather-bound and I could smell the musk on them. In the center of the room were three deep, crimson, leather high-backed chairs that you would see in some sort of old home or movie. I cocked my head to the side. Rollo May, Sigmund Freud and Leonardo da Vinci sat in those chairs, quietly looking at me as if waiting for something. Alright, I thought, this has to be a dream.

‘Come and sit young lady,’ May said, pointing to another chair directly behind me. ‘We were just about to discuss with Signore Leonardo here his process behind his work.’

‘I still think that you are repressing your emotions towards your sexuality, Signore,’ Freud spoke, his accent thick. ‘I mean, look at the paintings that you have done. All of them contain a woman, either with or without a child. Not to mention the fact that the way the woman is positioned is very sexual in nature. Your childhood must have been repressed. You have a strong connection with your mother, wanting to have the comfort of the womb once more.’

Freud nodded his head as if he had just explained everything and the discussion need not happen. Both Leonardo and May stared at him, silent. May laughed first, breaking the awkward pause.

‘So, Sigmund, you think you have me all figured out, eh?’ Leonardo chuckled, shaking his old head. ‘Maybe it is that simple, maybe it isn’t. Yet, I am sure this young woman here has a few words to say.’

The three men gazed at me again and I panicked.

‘You’ve been studying psychology, yes?’

This from Freud.

‘Yes, sir,’ I felt awkward. ‘I am currently enrolled in Psychology of Art and Creativity.’

This had to be a dream. You don’t talk with three dead men, two of whom are psychologists, and not feel you’ll need to go to a therapy afterwards.

‘Well,’ May said, smirking, ‘What have you studied?’

Silence.

‘Here is an easier request then,’ Leonardo said, ‘Tell me what you know of me and use what you learned to psycho-analyze me.’

May was smirking and Freud crossed his leg, holding his knee.

‘Alright, well…Your full name is Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci and you were born April 15, 1452 and died on May 2, 1519. You were sixty-seven years of age. You were an illegitimate son of Piero and Caterina both from Vinci, I think it was said your mother was a woman of…ill-repute.’

‘You mean a whore,’ Leonardo chided.

‘To put it nicely,’ I replied.

‘You see?’ Freud barked excitedly. ‘He does have repressed feelings for his mother due to her prostitution.’

‘It isn’t a solid fact though,’ I retorted, ‘So your theory isn’t valid in this point.’

May let out a laugh as Freud huffed at me, glowering. When did psychologists huff? I snickered at my own thoughts; Freud was known to use cocaine as a prescribed drug to his patients.

‘Let the girl continue, gentlemen,’ May said.

‘Um, Leonardo was educated by Verricchio, a painter in Florence. You worked in Rome, Bologna and Venice and the
last years of your life were spent in France.’

‘Hated the weather there.’

The men laughed.

‘Right…your best known pieces are The Mona Lisa, The Last Supper, and The Vitruvian Man.’

The old Italian nodded at me, smiling.

‘Sounds about right.’

The three of them sat there in silence for another minute.

I twitched.

‘Leonardo certainly shows the Ego in his work,’ Freud nodded. ‘Take for example, The Vitruvian Man. The image shows a man with after images of his limbs about him in a circle. Now, the Ego, as you well know, is a balance between the Id and the Super –Ego. The Id being the childish portion of the psyche and the Super-Ego is the moral code of the psyche. From the image you have the sense of the impulse there from the stroke, yet, because of the tightness of the piece, the Super-Ego comes forth. Combined, the Ego balances out the image, allowing the viewer to accept the piece as it is.’

‘You make a valid point, Sigmund,’ May replied, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘But what of good old Mona Lisa? I must commend you, Leonard, for the courage that you showed the viewer in that painting.’

Leonardo waved his hand in dismissal, but May continued.

‘Honestly man. The creative courage that you show in the painting of Mona is fantastic. Take, for example, the horizon line in the painting. The right hand side is slightly higher than the left hand side. So much symbolism comes from this minute detail alone. The right hand of God, good and evil, right and wrong.’

‘Well, according to you, May, isn’t creative courage the discovering of new forms, symbols and patterns?’ I asked curiously.

‘Yes, exactly. From these new ideals a brand new society can be built and expanded.’

‘But how can a new society be built on an old painting?’

May stopped talking for a moment, Freud snickering.

‘That is the girl’s Id, my friend,’ the old Austrian said.

May snorted in annoyance but continued on.

‘Mona shows an innocence about her that causes the viewer to stop and stare. Now, Innocence is the pre-egoic part of the mind. Let us say the infant stage of the mind. The painting shows a woman, yes, but look at the way she gazes at the viewer. Her eyes are looking directly on, giving the illusion of watching the viewer as they move from side to side. The Innocence that Leonardo displays here is only what he must do. Yet, there is a will there as well, the sense of drive that the Innocence portrays at times.’

‘So,’ Leonardo said, ‘What can be told of her smile then, on a psychological stand point.’

‘Ah, the smile of a woman holds many secrets,’ May said, nodding.

‘In the case of Mona,’ Freud replied, ‘The smile can be seen as seduction. I believe Leonardo here was expressing the Life drive, or the Libido. The Libido would be survival, propagation, hunger thirst and, of course, sex.’

‘It’s always sex with you, Freud,’ I replied to him.

Leonardo and May laughed as Freud rolled his eyes and ignored me as well as them.

‘As I was saying, Mona’s smile can be seen as a seduction, which in turn can be tied in with the fact that Leonardo’s mother was a prostitute.’

‘Still yet to be proven.’

‘Hush child, let the Austrian finish.’

Freud sat for a minute, eyes closed as he pressed his fingers together, lost in thought.

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I have lost my thought.’

A clocked chimed somewhere in the distance catching my attention. One, two, three chimes I heard.

‘Is that an a.m. chime or a p.m. chime?’

May listened for a minute and nodded.

‘That, my dear,’ he said rising, ‘Would be three a.m. Shouldn’t you be in bed?’

Leonardo stood and stretched his old bones.

‘Come along gentlemen, let us return to our bed pans,’ Freud said, catching a chuckle before turning to me. ‘Next time you come, we shall talk more about the instincts of Life and Death.’

‘Oh, don’t forget the dreams, Sigmund,’ Rollo May called from the door that I hadn’t noticed before as he escorted Leonard from the room.

‘Wait a minute,’ I said as Freud turned to leave. ‘Isn’t this a dream?’

‘Of course it is. How else would you be talking to three dead men?’

Good Rising

It clicks in deaf ears.
Hearing eyes stare at pixels
That shimmer and shine.
Rushing, rushing, rushing.
Always zipping on.

Click, click, click.
Slam. Vroom. Sssss.
Mindless chatter to pass the time.
Stars pass overhead, watching.
Waiting.

Vroom. Sssss. Slam.
Whispering softly in the darkness.
Kali Anastasi.
Shhh, no louder than the beating
Of a dove's heart.

Twilight covers sacred Byzantine icons
All holding holy breath
Watching, waiting, wondering.
Kali Anastasi.
Again, whispered in the night.

Hearts rise, souls uplifted.
A single flame appearing in
Utter darkness.
Light fills the holy house.
Filling hearts, filling minds, souls.

Kali Anastasi.
It trembles on the lips of the faithful.
Kali Anastasi.
Two words metamorphosis to a new phrase.
Christos Anesti. Alithos Anesti.

Christ is risen.
Truly he is risen.
Many times repeated in a single night.
Many lips speaking as one.
Serenity is forever.

Click, click, click.
Ssss. Slam. Vroom.
Mindless chatter to pass the time.
Hope flickering before hearing eyes.
I didn't want to leave.

Sun Shone Down Happy

What a nightmare of the past couple of weeks. Breaking up with someone you love has to be the hardest thing in the world, especially when you know that you have to do it so that you can both grow. So yes, broke up with someone I loved and still love dearly, who I think I will love for a long time.

After that, broke out into a fever of 100.6 degrees and it kept fluctuating between that and normal body temperature for a couple of days. Then, I thought I was safe. Things were going okay, happiness was going on once more and then, suddenly, my stress levels rise a bit and I have a sore throat. Well, that isnt too bad, right? Drank fluids, took vitamins, drank more fluids...wasnt really eating due to depression spells... Sore throat seemed to be getting worse, so, upon waking up last Wednesday I opened my mouth and what do I find nesting on the back of my tonsils?

WHITE SPOTS.

FUCKING SWEET.

And it wasnt just white spots, my friends. It was left hand side spotty, right hand side...looked like white picket fence with no missed spots. Right hand side was COVERED in white.

A-FUCKING-MAZING.

For those of you playing the home game, I am being facetious.

Lo and behold I contracted Strep Throat for the first time in my life. I suddenly feel like an asshole when I have to be excused from class, but got a little humor out of watching people take a GINORMOUS step back when I said "Well, I have white spots on the back of my throat, might be Strep."

A quick drive to the hospital and three antibiotics later, I am bedridden for the rest of the weekend, unable to really do anything but sleep and not talk due to severe throat pain. It was like I was hibernating for winter, I hardly left my room.

GO ME!!

Again...facetious...

After a few days of sleeping and repeating medical treatments, my wonderful friend Jamie takes a look at the back of my throat with a flashlight and says, "Well...it's not a picket fence anymore. But you have barnacles now." That's good, right? Sure Paulina... Barnacles? What am I? A fucking ship?

However, there is a happy ending. Barnacles have now faded to small spots and only a slight minor pain and I go to face my doom with teachers and hope they understand that sometimes real life gets in the way, no matter how hard you try to keep the psychotic life at bay with a locked door and a screwdriver.

I am Leaving

Monday: April 7th, 2008

I had no idea the human heart could break like this. I watched mine do that very thing today. It shattered into tiny little pieces, and, I am still picking them up. Among the shards, I am finding pieces of his. They look the same, almost; his are a little redder than mine. I wanted so badly to keep it together, to stay with him, but, in order for him to become more than what he is, I had to leave him. Being a pillar for someone, it is hard. It hurts. In the end, you crumble.

God, it hurts so fucking much.

I did the hardest thing that anyone could do in his or her lives.

I don’t know if I can survive it…

In the end, I know things will get better. The sun will shine again. Everything will be warm once more, but, for now, the clouds and pale winter fields will suite me just fine.

Lost A-Way Waves

I didn't expect it
To Hurt
This much

Something Like It

At twenty-two, you think you know everything about life. Especially love. All the twists and turns. All the circular paths that lead you right back where you started. That knowledge is right there, but, it's not true. You don't know a thing about the heart. When you lay down at night, next to the person you profess to love, questions enter the mind.

Is this right?

What if there is something better?

What happens next?

When it is over, is it really over?

A shiver runs through you and you turn over, your lover cuddling in behind you. Maybe cheating will make it easier? That way, you won't have to feed them the "It's not you it's me" line. Or you could really let them know, it IS really you. Somewhere along the way, you lost that interest. The roaring, living flame turned into smoldering coals, embers glowing to a dull dim.

Teeth bite lower lip. Even the sex isn't what it used to be. Just a repetitive action that you find yourself thinking about other things just to make the time pass a little quicker.

You turn again, restless mind reeling. You're choking back tears, knowing that you will be listening to the saddest songs on your play-list come morning. The tears stream down the side of your face, dying quietly into the pillow. The same pillow that cradled both your faces after a day of play; a day of exploring the world and each other.

You're on your back now, staring at the ceiling, deep breaths entering your chest cavity. These damn tears just won't stop. Finally, you turn one last time, facing your lover. They look so beautiful, sleeping soundly as you find yourself in a personal turmoil, knowing that giving them up would be the worst thing in the world. For the both of you.

At twenty-two, you think you know everything about life.

Especially love.

Stop kidding yourself.

In the end, all that knowledge you think you have about love and life, hardly means anything. The love dies. It all becomes a memory. Those days of joy, even hardship, drift and fade, leaving behind silken webs that flutter weakly in your mind. Until, one day, when you least expect it, you find yourself crying and you wonder why. The thing is though, you know the reason, and you regret. Your heart pains you for a time, then…nothing. The memory is gone once more lost within your mind.

Regrets

This was written for my Creative Class in the Spring of 07 and then later was published in my school's writing magazine Word/Image in 07

"Hello Paulina. You've gotten bigger since last I saw you."

I smiled at my theia, but I knew the smile didn't reach my eyes. This one time, my theia forgave me. My yaya walked into the living room. She was dressed in all black, like it had already happened. The stark white of her hair seemed unreal, whiter than I remembered, almost as if it were the dot of an exclamation point. I examined her face and was startled by all the wrinkles that made her skin sag with an unseen weight. Yaya's eyes were sunken in, black circles framing them. Even though her hair had turned a brighter shade of white, her eyes frightened me the most. Once full of life and happiness, yaya's chocolate orbs gave me a dead stare. My gaze slipped a little but she didn't notice. Yaya smiled at me, her body shifted as if it was remembering familiar motions, and her eyes were empty. I forgave her this one time.

Mama walked into the room, going straight to her mother and embracing her. I turned my head, avoiding the daughter-mother moment between the two women, and let my sight take in the surroundings. I had been in this room a hundred times before. Behind me was a couch, relatively small by American standards, with just two royal blue cushions and a deep cherry wooden frame. The fabric was thick and scratchy. Not something that you would want to sit on during the summer months but perfect for winter. There was a second one, it had three cushions, and sat along the right hand wall and in front of that was the kitchen table. Five chairs positioned themselves around the thick wooden table. Flashes of memory struck me as I thought of how we would drink fresh boiled cow's milk with cocoa when we woke up. I allowed myself a smile. I never did like the milk.

Yaya and mama were speaking in hushed tones as I walked past them into the dining room. This had to be my favorite room in the entire house. Soft turquoise painted the walls, with a pale white design all along the roof and edges. Whenever I looked up at the ceiling, my imagination made me believe that was what the sky was really like. As I looked up my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting in the room. I noticed the small cracks. They crept their way along the paint making little roads and paths to unknown places, which I couldn't see with my naked sight. One crack caught my interest. I think it was because it was so deep and traveled from one side of the room to the other. It was hollow and empty. I never remembered it ever being there. Walking over to where yaya had a display of pictures, I picked up one of the images. My fingers traced the intricate design of the wooden frame; I could feel the way the wood twisted and turned. They tiptoed their way across the edges before resting on the glass that protected the old picture. It was of my papou in his fishing gear, holding a bucket and rod in his hands while smiling at the camera. He was younger here, the image in a fading sepia tone.

I couldn't stop the chuckle that left my lips. A few years ago, papou had gone out fishing, like he always did, and he brought home a bucket full of small to large fish. Inside the bucket, buried beneath the fish was a small crab waiting for an unwary hand to snap at. Papou laughed as he scooped the crab up and out of the bucket, letting it scuttle across the porch and into my sandal. I had jumped up into my chair, shouting out in alarm. Yaya came out of the kitchen and scolded papou, who was holding his sides with laughter. There wasn't a time when he wasn't laughing.

"Paulina, we're going in to see papou. Come on now."

My baba's voice cut through the memory, waking me from my stupor. Placing the picture down, I followed my parents into my yaya's bedroom. The footfalls echoed in the hallway when they never did before. My heart pounded in my ears. Why did we have to do this? I don't want to go in, please don't make me go in. The door was pushed open and we piled into the tiny room. The window was open, emitting a small breeze that made the sheer fabric of the curtains flutter close to the bed. I stared at the metal frame of the tiny bed that was big enough to hold just two. My eyes were down, not willing to look at anything but that metal frame. Mama gave my back a small push and I stumbled over to the small stool that was next to the bed. Yaya had been using it so she could sit next to papou to keep him company. My parents' voices floated over me like the breeze at my back. They murmured my name and I had to look up. At him. My heart stopped beating.

Papou looked at me with glazed over eyes.

They were no longer brown to me but black pits.

They were empty.

He had no idea who I was.

Time stopped for me in that instance and all I could do was sit next to this dying man who had once been my papou. We sat looking at one another. His brow furrowed as he struggled to remember who I was and what I meant to him. His skin was pale yellow, lips cracking with dryness. His normally black hair was now a salt and pepper color. Even through the thin bed sheet that was covering his slight body I could make out each rib that he had in his chest. Yaya walked in at that point, drawing his attention away from me. A breath I didn't know I was holding left my lungs. Papou started to cough and yaya covered his mouth with a handkerchief, one of her own, as he struggled to catch a breath. My head was down so I never knew if there was blood on the white cloth or not. I didn't want to know either. Baba started to have a conversation with papou, no doubt to pass the time, to make him feel comfortable. Or maybe baba was trying to settle himself. His mama had suffered a similar effect when she lay dying in her bed as well. It must have been hard to see the same thing happen again.

Silence passed between all of us. I got up, the stool scraping across the linoleum floor and left the room. My feet took me back down the hall, past the dining room and back into the room with the couches. It took me a while to realize that my body sat itself onto the larger couch. My elbows rested on my knees, my head was down. The shaking took me a little faster than I expected. Tears streamed down my face. The noise of my sobs were stopped only by the tightness of my sealed lips. I didn’t want anyone to hear me cry. I didn’t want to be seen by anyone. A hand on my head startled me. I looked up and saw my theio smiling sadly down at me. I stared at him for a long while before I lowered my head once more. He walked away, his feet dragging across the wooden panels of the floor, making a soft hiss.