Rarely do quotes or scenes from movies stay embedded in my mind. Considering my lack of a TV and visits to the movie theater, there is not much content to be derived from for that to occur more frequently. Perhaps that is false and that is just evidence of the sheer power or quality of a film. Maybe, it's both!

In the American drama film Infamous, writer Truman Capote conducts a research over a murder in Kansas for his book In Cold Blood. As a result, he establishes a close relationship with the convicted murderers, Dick Hickock and Perry Smith.

Later in the storyline, Capote and Smith develop a romantic connection, which then becomes an emotional journey that is both complex and heartbreaking. In Cold Blood is published after Hickock and Smith's executions, leaving Capote with a bittersweet aftermath, a masterpiece that became an automatic success and Smith's belongings (his artwork and a recording of him singing). Seeing physical evidence of Smith's presence of his life devastates and brings Capote into utter tears.

One of the characters stated a profound truth about artists: "I read an interview with Frank Sinatra in which he says about Judy Garland, 'Every time she sings, she dies a little. That's how much she gave.' It's true for writers, too, who hope to create something lasting. They die a little getting it right."

Ande Parks, the author of the graphic novel Capote in Kansas, crafted a biography, addressing a particular period in Capote's life and reintroduced the story of the Kansas murder. In an interview, Parks states that "[Capote] loved Perry [...] but desperately wanted to finish his book… something that could not happen until Perry was dead." It is also mentioned that "For Capote, the relationship with Smith was devastating. Although he did return to Kansas to see the men die, he was unable to watch Smith hang and fled from the prison. Also, although In Cold Blood brought him enormous fame and elevated his celebrity status into the stratosphere, Capote was crushed, to a certain degree, creatively."

To create a piece of art and experience the loss of love... that is a high cost. Hardship often translates into an artist's greatest works. I often find myself thinking about about that quote and how I would like be an artist of that caliber. My obsession with art tends to depress and motivate me. I want to vomit out the emotional essence of me, my pain, sadness, and happiness, and craft something so aesthetically beautiful that I do not believe I am capable...

Movement

No movement

Just a falling bird

Cold as it hits the bleeding ground

He lived and died

Catch sight

Cover me with earth

Draped in black

Static

White sound

A day without substance

A change of thought

An atmosphere that rots with time

Colors that flicker in water

A short term effect

Scream

As she tries to push him over

Helpless and sick

With teeth of madness

Jump jump dance and sing

Sideways across the desert

A charcoal face

Bites my hand

Time is sweet

Derange and disengage everything

A day without substance

A change of thought

The atmosphere rots with time

Colors that flicker in water

A short term effect

A short term effect

A short term effect

An echo

And a stranger's hand

A short term effect

An echo

And a stranger's hand

A short term effect

Apathetic best describes my mood today–dullness of feeling, no high, no lows.

Suddenly, my thought process goes: "My life is going to be one endless stretch of dissatisfaction, punctuated by occasional crises, morbid obesity, and an odd curiosity for pop culture." So many sour faces out there, trapped in permanent scowls and racked by sorrow. It is often said that a woman's tragedy is that she becomes her mother. A genetic destiny. Of all things, that is what I fear most: becoming her shadow, following in the same footsteps toward a life marked by ill-feeling and emptiness.

Random Post

I would like to get this for my dog.

Dresses I Find Beautiful

Why do I waste so much of my time looking at dresses that I will never have or wear?

Songs that usually leave deep emotional impressions on us are attached to recycled memories. Loss is funny; when it occurs, life seems to make a 360 flip and changes from the inside out. Perception of the future must be reestablished. Eventually grief becomes acceptance and past memories then become useless. Healing seems like a slow extinction of your memories. The hurt is no longer raw as you forget that person's existence, their voice... so you do whatever you can to seize your memories, like calling out their name, but attempts fall short. It seems as though there is a misery to overcoming a depressive state in life or maybe it is all a part of being sentimental. Recovery proves how that person was nothing more than a phase in your life. Nothing important, yet when you listen to a certain song, you are sad, not because of that person, but because of the pain of that memory.

Laying on the soft piece of carpet left over from our recent flooring change, I spent a few minutes in the backyard in deep introspection. I laid there, as the hollow husk of a human being that I am, thinking about my childhood. My family has always had a fragmented infrastructure.

Concepts such as warmth and happiness that are normally associated with family do not exist for me. Growing up, I was always surrounded in an incredibly discordant atmosphere. Consistent tension and arguing, I wonder how my family ever fell into this pathetic state. I cannot name how many times my parents have kicked me or my older brother out of the house. Looking back, I realize my upbringing was truly the opposite of stable with the constant verbal and physical threats.

My parents and older brother's relationship reached a breaking point some time when I was in 8th grade. It was a stressful time. Every time he was out of the house was a chance for them to kick him out. They locked him out numerous times. To let him inside was a physical act of defiance. If I were to do so, I would be kicked out. Imagine how frightened I was, since I was only a child and torn between my loyalty to my brother, moral beliefs, and fears for my well-being.

One night, my brother returned home after spending his afternoon with a group of friends. Not allowed to let him inside, especially with my parents' presence there, I waited until 12 AM and placed a pink stool outside of our fence. He stood outside in the rain for me to give him that chance. If I opened the front door or garage, my parents would know that he was home. Along with that, the noise would wake them up.

Over time, my anger has subsided, becoming a dull ache embedded between my chest. Sometimes, I no longer think I am angry at my parents, but upset at my powerlessness, and when I cry, I do not know if I am angry, but I DO know I am frustrated because this is how it has always been and it will forever remain this way.