Keith Haring (Photo credit: Simonetta Di Zanutto)
I’ve just come up for air after completing a few major projects over the previous weeks. Yesterday was an especially difficult day, and now I sit here resurrected turning to the words in Keith Haring’s journals for new breath.
I am comforted by written words. The very nature of their existence is sweet to me: that they are there… In order. In print. For me to see, for you to see. Plain evidence of thought.
I’ve felt a little isolated the past few days. The wave hit me strong, possibly because I am not completely accustomed to the culture that surrounds me. Or perhaps it is the culture that is just not accustomed to me. I guess that’s normal. I’ve never really been accustomed anywhere, but I feel a little homesick, even though I am supposedly “home.” It’s something I struggle with–the concept of home. Fiona Apple’s words come to mind: “Home is where my habits have a habitat.” I think that home is somewhere inside of me. People peek through the windows when the curtains are drawn. Few have their own key.
Miami is a very emotional city and sometimes it seems I can’t do a darn thing without upsetting the natural order of someone’s life. It’s too much responsibility and at the same time, utter nonsense. It puzzles me, but it happens often, so I’ve stopped caring. I combat this frustration by seeking the company of books. It’s the only thing that makes sense today. A few hours ago I felt like a freak, and now I find comfort in a passage written 35 years ago.
Haring writes:
I am me. I may look like you, but if you take a closer look you will realize that I am nothing like you at all. I am very different. I see things through a completely different perspective because in my life I had experiences that you didn’t have, and I’ve lived places and seen places and experienced life from a completely different point of view than you have. I may be wearing the same shoes and the same haircut, but that gives you no right to have any preconceived notions about what I am or who I am.
You don’t even know me.
You never will.
Lisa Diakova 