*non dream* "sometimes you regret not doing something"

Things that I regret itch me on the inside That soft under side of the flesh aches from a perpetual bother Things said and actions passed Just little nuances – knats in my face The worst part might be the fact that I’m the one to notice An unnecessary addition, just a little too far I push the subject over the edge and try desperately to pull it back up But that catch is on a rope too long to see and my arms give out before it’s even worth it I should just drop it, try again later But if I knew what I was doing I wouldn’t be here writing Somehow if I write, the mental bother ceases That scratching on the inside becomes the scratching of this pen I haven’t written in a while. Not like this, not with a mean But something struck an old chord and I’ve picked it up again Just like dancing without eyes, I practice lyric without judgment It’s inevitable that my mind will wander It grows on fantasies and I don’t care to cut them down It may be harmful but it keeps me occupied Someday I’ll realize what I never knew and I’ll receive what I did not ask for

*non dream* babies in mom's shoes

(The Chop House) These two girls, they came in and they sat on table 31 - The girl with the blond hair, green dress, the smooth poof of hair on the top of the head, and perfect golden highlights; The girl with the brown hair lining her face, just fitting into her dress, heavy brown eye shadow - a sexy look she found in a magazine.

Finding their feet on the bar stool, their heels slope around the rim. They look comfortable to feel all eyes on them. They don’t touch the bread. (Save room for all the courses.) Talking, she moves her hands and tilts her head. She just graduated high school, now imitating the adults. ‘They wear this, but I‘m younger so this will be mine.’ ‘They talk like this but what about that voice inflection, was the emphasis on the – or the - ?’

These men gobble them up. Are they only attractive because they’ve painted themselves appropriate? Brunette does most of the talking. I can see her trying not to eat. (Always leave leftovers; that’s what the sexy women do.)

The blond slowly consumes. “Perhaps she’s only slacking because she’s talking. But I don’t want to be the fat one. I’m the blond one.”

Skin so soft, no sign of age. I thought they were 17 or 18. Not 22. I still have my doubts. Two girls are playing dress up, baby soft and naive to this world. But this is the crowd in which they want to belong, so they’ll keep on talking – a sure sign they’ve done this before. Along with the leftovers, like ‘I eat this well all the time.’

Old man whitey will suck up the conversation. Does he actually hope to accomplish something or is their company, the touch of her hand, the gaze of her eye, this moment he can call his - is that enough? She graces him hers because ‘Look how sweet, he thinks he can get some.’ No, that’s not it at all. ‘Oh, what a sweet man, I’ll entertain him – my duty as a beautiful girl.’

Then there were the men who shared their whiskey. It goes great with dessert. But they coughed and giggled at their embarrassment. And then the men commented to Steve - behind her back in a pow wow of sorts. Could have taken them. “Sleeping on the job,” is how they phrased it. On the job eh? My skin crawls as I imagine him cheating on his wife, fantasizing about girls half his age. He has two boys that he adores. An example. He needs to be an example.

I’m imagining fitting into their roles at school (the girls’). Among their friends and their boyfriends do they do all that’s expected of them? I hope not, but it’s the only way they can survive. Anything else and they wouldn’t know what to do. It’s not like they can be themselves. Don’t even know what that would mean.

As they leave, she looks at me twice to see if I look at her. She’ll try to read my thoughts but she’ll only think what she wants. Secretly, she wants me to approve. Why? Because I know something she doesn’t. She can see it in my confidence.

*non dream* Holiday smARTshow 2008

My first public showing at the Flat Iron Arts Building in Wicker Park These won't be the official photos or documentation but they'll suffice until I get better ones. I am now in the process of securing and designing a website specifically for the preview and sales of my work.

This series stemmed from a much needed liberation of color. I was practicing formal training of representational imagery. I painted tentatively and was not truly excited about my work. Through the help and encouragement of my professor this semester I have found a new obsession with color and a desire to effect people in positive ways with their energy and vibrancy.

It's been interesting taking a Positive Psychology course along side my this painting studio this semester. This too has become a new passion and I wish to spread my knowledge by example and stimuli so that others may learn to enjoy life at every level of poverty, tragedy, or luxury.

Continuing with this series I will be studying more color theory and experimenting with different effects of color and paint use. Ultimately I want people to become absorbed in these works, even if just for a brief moment shutting everything else out, only seeing the mesmerizing colors before them. That's what it's become - painting color; painting positive energy.

When the official photos are posted I will include more detailed information concerning sizing and pricing. Please contact me via email for commissions: akindl@saic.edu

paper in the bathtub

titles for this show (uncensored)

"on its head the world tipped over silk sheets thinner than paper (spilling slipping gliding) over this naked body"

"hang yellow curtains to watch them leak sunshine when this lonely feeling grows too cold"

just suck it up don't rip it open

you're gonna fucking rip it open

staring straight; a mesmerized face

don't let go don't sit down don't miss this or be found

staring straight; a mesmerized face

don't give up or let down you're here now on this ground

(don't finish. they're never finished.)

“Therefore our whole consciousness is hardly anything more than the medium through which the perceived object appears in the world as representation.”

but then i decided that i didn't want ya'll to think too hard.

*non dream* initial pleasure

The first bite is delectable. The cake is firm and moist, dense with carrots and walnuts, nutmeg and cinnamon. My fork gently pierces the cream-cheese frosting before slicing through the deep orange sponge beneath. I pull the fork away to lift the sliver to my now salivating mouth and place the treat on my tongue. Before chewing I push the sweetness to the roof of my mouth and savor its effect on my taste buds. Now the desire is too strong so I chew it in order to dissolve all the flavor and disperse it evenly. I swallow slowly.

The next bite is already anticipated, but totally predictable. The texture and flavor is the same, no longer a delightful surprise. I realize that every bite proceeding the first diminishes the quality of this dessert. I put the fork down and stare. I want to eat this because it's in front of me, but the motion will be automatic. I no longer will savor the taste, but rather I'll expect it, repeat it, degrade it, and kill it.

One piece of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting, made by my mother.

Two home-made chocolate chip oatmeal cookies, also from my mother.

Three home-made regular chocolate chip cookies shipped from Oregon, courtesy of Hannah's family.

Quarter cup vanilla ice cream with chocolate and caramel syrup.

One hand-full chocolate chips.

One cup vanilla soy milk.

Say it to yourself, "Just don't."

Death's Goodbye (Will be elaborated)

Death just becomes this casual gesture

Leaving without saying goodbye

Yes, "Death just becomes this cruel gesture - like a nod and no goodbye"

*non dream* lonely indulgence

6 oz. red wine

7 dripping candles

I'm listening to Loreena McKennitt, waiting for sleep to steal me away.

I did not get done today all that I had wished, so I stopped trying. I'm working on not being an all or nothing girl, but I'm sick of making excuses. So for now, I indulge.

I float down the hall, away from the incessant picture box, and imagine what I'd be doing if I lived alone. My eyes are droopy because I let them droop. I like this feeling. Every once in a while. I used to think it was depression, and I suppose if I let it go on for too long, it would be. But in small, sweet doses it's just peaceful. It's okay to be sad - dreamy and sorry. Alone, so no one asks me what's wrong, making me feel like there's something wrong. Wrong with me.

This, right now, is happiness. I wish I had delicate curtains to watch blowing in the wind; a tall window to gaze upon the mourning, snow laden branches of trees hugging my house, looking for comfort. They too have a story, and tonight we share our stories with one another. Silently.

lethargic endurance

I'm sitting here in the living room on a not-so-comfortable lounge chair covered in a hand-made quilt. My room mate is next to me on the couch with the over-stuffed cushions. Her neck has sunken into her clavicle and her forehead reaches towards her belly. Every once in a while she'll jump with a snort and rearrange her limbs for a more comfortable snooze. Sex and the City plays on the small TV screen across the room. It just keeps on going.

Since I've lived here I've become way too familiar with the characters on this show. I've actually come to think of them as mentors (mainly of what NOT to do). They teach me the ways of the secular dating world. But they also keep me glued to my seat, my head slightly tilted. I cannot do anything when the TV is on, let alone when Carrie is narrating. I hate this feeling of lethargy. I've spent the past five hours writing a final term paper for school. All I want to do right now is tap dance, and damn it I don't know how to tap dance.

So I went for a walk. That lethargic feeling is only booted with a good dose of physical exertion. Unfortunately, the weather outside gives me good reason to stay leisurely. So instead my thoughts drift to a sedated meditation. My mind wanders up towards the moon and revels in the mastery of the sky. How is it that we can feel so large and so unbelievably tiny at the same time? I used to have these dreams when I was little. They're hard to describe even though I've had them continuously for years. For the first time a couple months ago I experienced the odd sensation during waking hours. I can try to induce it now, as the last show of the DVD has ended and all is silent.

Stay exactly where you are whether it's seated, lying down, standing up, leaning on the counter, whatever - and don't move a muscle. Your eyes won't even move; they are concentrated on a single point of non interest. Let each limb fall limp. They are made of lead and weigh too heavy on the surface to move. They are weightless, the blood in the veins floats through its passage and you feel a contradiction. The spirit pulsing inside of you, that life that keeps you conscious, is lifting, but the body that encapsulates it is grounded. As your eyes stay fixed and your internal drive battles with peace, your head begins to sway; your head becomes too heavy for the neck that holds it straight.

You can stay here as long as you please. It'll take great effort to break out of your trance, as I suppose it may be called. In my dreams my mom would always be present - some personal psychology I have yet to crack open. The objects in the room would always be very large and appeared extremely heavy - often made of steel. I was smaller than everyone else, but I was approached as a normal person. I felt helpless perhaps, but engaged none-the-less. Writing it out now I'd say I felt like a child in a very pure sense. I was a new creature in an already established world. I was being educated in things I did not yet understand.

They weren't scary dreams, but they may have been a uncomfortable. I didn't recognize the feeling, but in a weird, almost morbid way, I enjoyed it.

When I found myself in this state while awake I realized I couldn't move. I would tell myself to move, but my mind played tricks on me and wouldn't allow my muscles to respond to the message. I would even feel the muscles twitch in preparation, but I would stop them. Nothing else is controlling our minds but ourselves. The mind and the brain and the body, are they all separate things will separate wills?

Jerk the head. Make a loud noise. Anything that distracts the mind from thinking. All it's doing is thinking - ruminating. The pen and paper our my saviors.

*non dream* first snow

White and crisp. Gazing out my kitchen window, I get tingles down my spine. This picture makes me swoon. I step outside of myself and see me grin. I sway slightly as my solidity has evaporated; I am standing in joy. This miracle covers all dirt, all the grime of the city, all the garbage strewn about. The early light of day, that pink and periwinkle glow preceding the hustle, captures this image in my mind, before the cars plow through the innocence and turn over these white sheets. Ephemeral is this state. The bite of cold steals the joy of snow. The pressure of culture bars my pleasure in nature. But standing here in the light of this window, I am ahead of everybody else. Ceramic in my hands is heated with tar I am not ready sip. It's the warmth held close to my body and the aroma steaming through my nose that savor this moment. As I walk through my day, when I sit down to study, when I miss the bus this morning, I will close my eyes just once and recall that static feeling of not existing - just touching a distant feeling.