“Being comfortable to be read like an open book.”

What a scary thought…. At least that is what I said to myself after an old friend said that to me about three years ago. “To be read like an open book,” meant someone seeing right through me. Someone that could see all my imperfections, point at them, laugh and insult. But now, I look back at how being a closed book or rather only showing the preface and the first couple chapters of my book, somehow slows down my growth. I guess my hesitance to share rooted from my belief that no one would really care what I have to say, write, paint, or photograph. My opinions aren’t valid. But the beauty of art and communication is that it isn’t necessarily there to please others’ taste, but rather art is self-expression. Whether through any medium, the artist/writer/painter/photographer/musician, is creating. And with that creation, it takes a life of its own --- to reach people, to inspire, to spark discussions and ideas, to branch off to another form of art, etc.

For about most of my college career, I could say that I have been more a sponge than a mirror. I love to learn, read, watch movies, go to museums, have conversations with perfect strangers—soaking every bit of inspiration I could get. Only to write about it in my journal, somehow have it subconsciously come out in my work and life, or sadly let it slip away. A moment of inspiration, and only that….

But I could only do so much absorbing, without reciprocation. We are all teachers and students. And there is a time to be a student and absorb, and there is a time to be a teacher to pass on what you have learned or at least what you are in the process of learning. Because we are always in the process of learning.

There needs to be a balance with the two within ourselves…learning and teaching. A better world = better understanding… and better understanding comes with learning from eachother.

So here is me opening up: Literally...



That’s my heart. My lungs. And you see that white stuff on my left lung, (your right), that’s pnemonia.

I thought it was going to be a passing cold, fever, or bug, but after a week of the symptoms getting worse, sleepless nights, and continuous coughing spells, I had to make an appointment.

Now I am bed-stricken for ten days. It’s not bad for some, but for a restless wandering soul, I try to find things to do that aren’t so energy consuming. In between my coughing spells, and my groggy state of mind, I find time to read---- and now blog. Maybe I need this…. Maybe it’s my body telling me to slow down…Always on the go Diana…. Maybe this alone time with my thoughts will help me evaluate what I want to do, what my next move is, what, when, how, etc…. Crazy. Even in my sickly state, I am still planning out my agenda.

I just finished reading Saul Williams’ “, said the shotgun to the head.” It’s a poem that touches issues that are political, social, spiritual, emotional, and everything personal.

Here is an exerpt

And it smelled like teen spirit
Angst driven insecure
A country in puberty
A country at war
Wet dreams
Cotton mouth
Blood thirsty
Oily hair
Fast cars
Movie stars
Earn 20 mill…
To instill fear

This is one of my favorites:

I have found the library
Where all the dreams deferred
Were stored

Catalogues of cultures
Indexed by communal disappearance

Mayans are metaphors
For astral doors
Left cracked
By children afraid
To sleep in utter darkness

Inspiration comes in many forms—whether its through a poem, a photograph, a conversation, a website, an article, a movie, etc. Whatever the medium, I will try to share my moments of inspiration within this blog.

And hopefully this blog will have a lifespan beyond the 10 days of confinement.