depiction

Daisy realizes, with much irony, that the easiest way to communicate is to be outright insensitive. Not insensitive in the human sense, but unaware of taboo, unable to appreciate conversational walls. Too open, painfully truthful, imploring and eager; these items of her meaning and dialogue patterns were the parts of Daisy that caused others to become defensive and often lose their cool. At least that�s how she perceives it. Maybe Daisy simply has no perimeter, no sidewalks or even fences; Daisy makes herself too comfortable in any place.

Wherever she wanders to, Daisy listens to others. She speaks to stimulate stories, she is an animated listener, asking many questions, and laughing with everyday storytellers from near and far. Yet she just can�t get past one single truth, and that truth is that although everyone tells stories they aren�t anything personal, or even predictive of personality. Very occasionally something very big slips from a small mouth; Her ears perk up and Daisy tries to draw in each shiny beam of energy, each melodic observation, or simple steady thought.

When there are colorful threads of tension webbed through a room, Daisy tries to collect each thread, so she can weave them together, it keeps her in a vulnerable position, but she is only trying to weave a beautiful tapestry of humanity. Before she ever completes a picture someone else tears it to shreds before her eyes but she is indifferent to its destruction, as she knows another opportunity will arise. Daisy recognizes that the moment she completes a tapestry, she will be sure of collective intelligence and of the ever-present connection between constructive thoughts.

Daisy understands that her appearance is anything but disarming, often even appalling. Sallow skin and swollen lips, hollows in her cheeks and circles beneath her eyes, Daisy�s arms are scarred and her hands are always dry. It seems to Daisy that her clothing is fitting to her feelings, when nobody understands each dress and every sneaker she sighs with disappointment. She thinks, �Is there no one who feels as I do?� Daisy just can�t bring herself to communicate with anyone she meets. She can talk, but she can�t exchange thoughts. In her head things seem so clear, but there are no accurate words for these expressions. Even her camera is at a loss; nothing shows up on the film as it appeared to her eyes.

Daisy has creative spurts and at times an artist�s block, it all depends on circumstance. When she is hurt or angry, Daisy can form words to express feelings. �Do I seek pain, as a means to art? Do I like being hurt so I can get that release?� She ponders these questions and becomes silent and moody. Daisy has decided that all people are moody, some people just have fewer moods than others, �I am never happy but at least I feel something most of the time.� This she explains to others but her shoulders slump when she realizes that no one understands.

Everyday objects are the most fatal weapons. A sharpened pencil or the iron base of a lamp, a plant hanger, anything at all can be death�s counterpart. Daisy knows this and sees impending doom in each item brought to her attention. A necklace becomes a possible noose, a curling iron a torturous club, even a grocery bag has the capability of killing someone. Is it human nature to look for death?

Daisy has met many people in her time, each one is remembered, only a few are taken to heart. There was a boy she knew who bussed tables at a diner, he was impressed by substances, he was appreciative of beautiful music, but all he really wanted was sex. The boy gave her some pot and sold her some acid, and Daisy didn�t understand why he expected this to cheapen her. She did not want to sleep with him she just wanted some interesting conversation (she did not even attain this). The boy was very disappointed and did not say hello to her a few weeks later when she saw him at the diner. He reminded her of another boy she knew. This other boy was dishonest and sexually frustrated, kind at first, then as he witnessed honesty and purity leaking from the cracks in Daisy�s chapped hands he became a bitter, condescending monster who loved to self-promote.

Daisy is more than worn out when it comes to boys. The first issue she raises an eyebrow to is the man thing. Men are like women; they are strong, righteous, conscientious, and sincere in one way or another. Boys are like girls, young and immature, empty cups waiting to be filled. This is expected and accepted: But no matter how many times the boys shrink themselves with actions that are equally frivolous and without regard for others, they think of themselves as men.

The sun shone brightly in the days and as it dimmed in the evening Daisy watched the Olympic Games. Although she rarely watched TV, she liked to imagine people all around the world watching the same program as she, on couches and recliners in strange and distant places, each viewer was part of a larger group, Daisy had a connection with countless others who she had not ever met. She held a common ground with a mass of people who were truly indifferent to their relationship. The great majority of these people were unaware of Daisy in a specific or individual sense, although they too realize that many others are sharing in a kind of semi-annual ritual. The ritual is not the games, it is the mindset that comes along with watching the games on television.