Friday, December 16, 2011

How The Office Hit Home and Hooked Our Hearts

01 December 2011
BY ALIYA SMITH Future Doctor Who Companion
Steve Carell's nose is like a dorsal fin. John Krasinski's nose is like a Ninja Turtle's head. Rainn Wilson's nose is too small for his face. Oscar Nunez's nose is Cuban. Notwithstanding the shape, size or ethnicity of their noses, these actors--along with a handful of others--have used their entireties to win our hearts through almost-too-believable acting on one of NBC's remaining hit shows, The Office.

This mockumentary that first aired 24 March 2005 immediately became and has been [up until 19 May 2011 (the end of the seventh season)] one of the single most hilarious, lovable shows on television since the technological invention's origin. It has introduced to America the world of the workplace--the everyday, so to speak, of middle class workers from a variety of backgrounds. "The camera, [however], not only follows everyone around the office but also follows the cast in their personal lives on screen," says Grant's World writer of "The Office TV show review info & where to watch online." That's one thing that draws so many people in - how personal the show can trick us into believing that it is. Being a spawn of the popular British show, The Office, it was tough to say how successful the American "version" would be. Lucky enough for the cast, however, star of The Office (UK) is one of the two creators of The Office (US).

As Michael Scott (Carell), who is the regional manager of Dunder Mifflin Paper Company - Scranton branch, says throughout the series, the employees of the office are like a family to one another. A lot of the time, he says so in delusion, but it most definitely ended up being true. Michael's frequent assumptions that anyone who is nice to him is his "best friend" expose a great trait of his - desire for closeness to everyone around him. Michael Scott is truly the quality that The Office requires in order to remain a hysterical show. States Alan Sepinwell in his "Review: 'The Office' struggles to find its center post-Steve Carell" on hitfix.com, "During the Carell years, Michael not only generated most of the stories, but most of the comedy. Even if a joke wasn't about something Michael was doing, it was frequently about how others were reacting to him."

Who knew that someone so conceited, so stupid and so needy could be as lovable as Michael Gary Scott? No other character could fit Carell more perfectly.

Although Michael is really la crème de la crème as far as cast members go, the show has so many great qualities to it that make it so addictive.

One of the fans' favorite aspects is Jim Halpert's (Krasinski) and Pam Beesley's (Fischer) feelings for each other throughout the first three seasons, which finally end up in a sweet romance that develops throughout the rest of the series. The two characters are the most "normal" employees at the Scranton branch of Dunder Mifflin. They are fun, all-American W.A.S.P.s who find more joy in pretending to be the CIA contacting a co-worker about some secret mission than they do in... well, just about anything else in the world (aside from spending any time with each other, really).

Their relationship isn't the only one, though. There is the awful back-and-forth between Kelly Kapoor (Kaling) and Ryan Howard (Novak). There is Meredith's terrible lack of self-respect which brings on her addiction to porn (viewing and participating) - but we only get hints that she participates in such festivities. There is Stanley Hudson (Baker) with his wife and his mistress. Then, of course, there is Michael with his attachment issues that arise in each of his relationships. Finally, though, when he gets together with Holly Flax (Ryan) for a second time, they fall madly in love and that's that.

Their falling in love in the seventh season leads to Michael's eventual proposal to Holly, which is absolutely fantastic but it also brings on an inevitable sadness. Holly has to go back to Colorado and, of course, Michael agrees to go home with her because her father is sick and she is his life now. He would do anything for her, even if it means leaving his family.

Everyone has known since the beginning that if Michael ever had to leave, that would have to be the end of The Office. "For so many years, Carell was The Office, and it was easy to understand the sentiment from those who insisted the show should end when he left, even as it was clear that struggling NBC wouldn't cancel one of its few remaining hits," says Sepinwell.

He makes the show worth watching, which is why now, with his absence, the eighth (and final) season of The Office has been so drastically different... and not in a positive way. Andy Bernard (Helms) is the new manager, which simply isn't right because he plays the quirky, preppy, awkward salesman who can't actually make a sale so much better than he plays any form of authority. Even though Michael in a roll of authority makes little to no sense, his charisma and his authenticity made him the man for the job because everyone who worked under him--no matter how much they may have hated him at times for his not uncommon stupidity--absolutely loved him in the long run.

One can only hope that Michael will miss his family at Dunder Mifflin and come back for, at the very least, a visit for the length of an episode or two. He made too much of an impact on that place to completely leave it in the dust. Nineteen years, he worked there. Those years don't just abandon your memory once you leave. And Michael's too sensitive to forget.

The show has only gone downhill since Michael's departure. As a diehard The Office (US) fan, I actually pray that maybe the producers will decide it'd be wise to bring Steve Carell back on set for at least a small appearance. He made the show, he is the show. And we love what it was with him on it.

The World Wants People Pleasers

Society strives for, thrives on, and is yet deprived of a certain authenticity in the fine arts. Nowadays more than ever do we, as creativity-seeking, criticism-spitting human beings, long to see an artist--a fine artist--step up and prove that he is true to himself in the creation of his work. How can such an artist prove himself, though, when our society has set such unreachable prerequisites that an aspiring artist must attain, brandish and expose to the world before he may be dubbed a true artist? There is a list (one that varies in what it comprises depending on who you ask) of requirements for someone to become a successful artist. Even when following the to-do list, though, countless contestants either get booted out of the competition because they don't exceed the presentation of a select few or they simply drop out due to sheer frustration toward the art world and its ambiguity.

Not only is there a great ambiguity in the field of fine art, but there is also the factor of where we are in time. It is the twenty-first century. So much art has come and gone through the ages and because of our records of such art, we know what has already been accomplished. We know the true artists of history. From the great Michelangelo Caravaggio and his Captivating David with the Head of Goliath in the early 1600s, to the eventually blind Claude Monet with his subtly beautiful Water Lilies in 1906, to the fantastic (and my all-time favorite) Salvador Dali with his enthralling Temptation of St. Anthony in 1946, the fame has been claimed and rightly so. Our world, however, cannot function properly without art, so the aspiring artists scattered across the globe have reason for hope. It's all a matter of coming up with something that pushes the definition of art. It's a matter of the artist finding something deep within himself that differs from others' views and to expose that inner self to the world, because the world needs art to give meaning to our surroundings. Andrew Potter, in his book The Authenticity Hoax: How We Get Lost Finding Ourselves, speaks of Western culture and its obsession with authenticity as of late and how that obsession came to life:

"We have followed the turn in Western culture that began with an initial, visceral reaction against the three pillars of the modern world: spiritual disenchantment, political liberalism, and the growth of the market economy. As we traced it through the thought of Jean-Jacques Rousseau, this reaction gave rise to the ideal of authenticity, which culminated in a celebration of spontaneity, emotional transparency, and a fixation on the creative powers of the individual to provide meaning in a world that otherwise offers none" (Potter 78).

Potter distinguishes between two types of authenticity in the art world; there is authenticity-as-provenance and authenticity-as-artistic-expression (79). Although society cringes at mock-artists (those who can recreate a work of art without any differences detectable to the naked eye), the real concern, surprisingly, is the "discrepancy between what the artist seems to be doing and what he or she is actually up to. That is, we look at a work and wonder whether the work is a true expression of the artist's self, her vision, her ideals, or perhaps her community, culture, or 'scene'" (Potter 78). Society wants to know that what an artist expresses through his art is what he feels inside.

So one may think it would be pretty easy for an aspiring artist who believes in himself and what he aims to express to become a world-renowned legend, some day destined to sit on a cloud with da Vinci, Picasso, et cetera. The difficulty, though, lies with producing something new, novelty. We want nouveau art, but not art nouveau because that's been done. Sure, we love to see a true artist who creates mainly for himself, but that matters not one bit if his stuff looks exactly like everything else being pushed in our faces by commercialized artists. This is where the to-do list comes into play, and Charles Pearson has laid out that list for us in six steps. An aspiring artist must have an artistic style and he must choose a related medium that makes delving into the style more accessible. He must then practice the medium, which includes studying other successful artists in that medium. After essentially "perfecting" the first combination, he must choose an audience that would most likely appreciate his work. Choosing the audience is not enough on its own, though; the artist needs exposure. He must find ways to push his art in view of his intended audience as much as possible without shoving it down unwilling throats. After (supposedly) appealing to his intended audience, the artist must find a way to sell his art. Marketing is key if someone intends to make a living off of his art. The trickiest part is the final step, though. An artist is not protected from the shifting market. What people like--trends--change and transform far too quickly for an artist to keep up with it all, but if he decides to stand stagnant as a one hit wonder, he risks boring his clients and losing publicity, thus losing popularity, thus losing his livelihood (Pearson).

I've asked myself in the past, "How, in our currently kitsch-infatuated world, could someone stand out as an up-and-coming promising, authentic artist?" First, there needs to be an understanding that not everyone who produces this recent kitschy form of art is a sell-out. Many of the artists who create such work thoroughly enjoy it and believe that they are expressing themselves through it. The problem is that so many people have jumped on the bandwagon that in order to prove himself to be great, an aspiring artist must show that he is multi-faceted. This, in no way, means that he must copy an artist and show that he can produce what the public loves along with what he loves. Nominal authenticity--"defined simply as the correct identification of origins, authorship, or provenance of an object" (Dutton around pg. 265)--still counts for something, and society doesn't like a copycat, no matter how talented he is. According to Dennis Dutton:

"Establishing nominal authenticity serves purposes more important than maintaining the market value of an art object; it enables us to understand the practice and history of art as an intelligible history of the expression of values, beliefs, and ideas, both for artists and their audiences - and herein lies its link to expressive authenticity" (Dutton 269 or 270).

So if an artist can replicate a Vermeer to perfection, that shows craftsmanship but explains nothing of his own beliefs and values. And those beliefs and values are really what society longs to catch, hold onto and preserve for as long as possible. The task is for an aspiring artist to both showcase his craftsmanship as well as expose his deeper self through visual expression. If at all possible, the artist should make himself recognizable in some form or fashion. Hans Abbing states that authentic artists often times do possess that elusive trait of individuality:

"A work of art and its maker are said to be authentic. In a formal sense, they are authentic if the artist in question is the only one who could have made the particular work of art. A unique fingerprint of the artist somehow manages to creep into the work of art, its style, the signature or some other quality. In expressionist works of art the personal touch is very visible; people 'recognize' the artist in the work of art. In other works of art this quality seems more hidden; in fact, so much so that sometimes only the artist's signature can be verified as genuine" (Abbing 25).

What Abbing is saying, then, is that it sort of is up to the artist, as an individual, to decide whether or not he wants to make a mark on his work that is more prominent than a scribble that represents his name. An artist must decide how he wants the world to perceive his art versus how he wants the world to perceive him.

Knowing that authenticity is entirely possible and that people appreciate it, aspiring artists must also know that although "the arts is all very exciting stuff, you have to earn a living as well," states Brennan in "Selling Art Without Selling Out" in the Irish Times. So many people believe that artists create art merely for themselves or as gifts for others, but those many people are entirely wrong. Although artists get great joy out of the completion of a wonderful piece, they--just like everyone else on Earth--require money in order to function in society. Sadly enough, in order to make money, sometimes an artist must push his authenticity aside and create for the masses what they desire in general. Abbing brings up the point that "art is what people call art" but that "contradicting views exist on what art is, and this does not help in the construction of a timeless definition of art" (Abbing 19). So an artist who wants to make a living off of his art must a least slightly bend to please the crowd. This issue is that one can never be entirely sure of what the crowd wants. An artist kind of has to give in and create pieces that he may not necessarily like or enjoy creating because he has to find a way to a) make money and b) broaden his audience so that he gains the popularity that he needs in order to survive as an artist.

This, however, is where the vicious downward spiral begins. An artist creates art because it's what he loves to do--it's his passion. People want to pursue careers that they will enjoy, so naturally an artist wants to make money off of his art because not only does he get the monetary compensation for his hard work, but he also receives gratitude from those who can't produce the magnificence that he can. To stay in business, though, he must please a certain amount of clients and that almost always means having to produce work that doesn't really speak for who the artist is. He has to do it, though, so he can make money to buy supplies for the work he holds so dear to his heart. Eventually, however, he becomes tired of making pieces that everyone enjoys except for him, and his motivation to truly create begins to diminish. In the end, it's very possible and today, even plausible, that he ends up solely producing people pleaser pieces and abandons where his heart used to be. This sort of series of events can lead to not only sadness, but to a complete contempt for the art world, when that world used to be such a beautiful, open place. The more that artists force themselves into this sort of slavery that requires them to produce copies of what already exists, the less likely we are to find that authentic artist who speaks to us by speaking for himself. The most recent gem in the world of the arts is masked street artist, Banksy, who happens to feel just as strongly about this issue as I do. He is a brilliant British artist who masks himself so that he doesn't undermine his art by showing the world the face of the creator. He believes in the truth that should be in art. He believes in the meaning of art and the expression through it, but he understands that art has lately lost its meaning in so many cases. "I used to encourage everyone I knew to make art; I don't do that so much any more" (Banksy 2010). His recent lack of faith in people is proof that even the artists notice the loss of originality, the abandonment of deeper meaning in the arts.

It turns out that the problem isn't whether or not an artist is capable of exuding authenticity today--it is difficult due to the fact that so much has already been done--but rather the problem is whether or not the world will let artists BE ARTISTS. There are so many sources, especially on the internet, that prove that true artists most definitely still exist today and that they are able to make a living for themselves off of what they love to do, but they are the lucky ones. For the most part, it's a sad bunch of kids whose dreams are sure to die sooner rather than later because they understand that for most of the candidates, there isn't a chance in Hell that they will make it as a big artist. The world is too constricting. The world doesn't know what it's losing.

If the artists could see the snake that the world has turned itself into and if they could see how it (the world) is tightly squeezing the life out of all of them, they could look around and maybe try to find some poppies to feed to this soul-destroying serpent to get it to relax and let the artists do their thing. The aspiring artists so desperately need to be able to perform even the smallest deeds that show originality and authenticity, and they need to pat themselves on the back every time they're able to accomplish such a thing because of how rare that is nowadays. As Ralph Waldo Emerson suggested, I too implore the artists of today: "Adhere to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age."

The world needs to let artists have some room to breathe, because their air has been so clouded by outside, extraneous sources that they've lost sight of what art is supposed to be and what it's supposed to do. It needs its meaning back.

Social Commentary Found in the Twilight Zone

The 1950s and the 1960s: a time of war, technological advancement, music, film, art, racial issues, and political insanity; there wasn't much that the United States in the 1950s and 1960s didn't take on in a full-force manner. From standing as a major superpower and taking control of various countries around the world as proxies in the Cold War all the way to bringing forth the biggest music craze to sweep the world (rock-n-roll), the United States made the most of the fifties and sixties. The great thing about all that went on in this era of hype and variety is that there was one show, better than any, that came along at the transition of the two decades and captured the essence of the time in not only a disguised accuracy, but also in a mind-provoking, entertaining manner that no other television program has done since. The wonderful creation is known as The Twilight Zone.

The Twilight Zone, created in 1959 by Rod Serling, was a deep-seated show that, better than any other show on the air, took its time of residence and commentated any social changes that seemed relevant--whether minuscule or maximum. Meredith Brenner (2004) stated:

Imagine a nation under whose seemingly conformist and conservative surface dramatic social changes were brewing, changes as obvious as integration and as subtle as fast food. And imagine, if you will, a radical television show that scrutinized, criticized, and most importantly, publicized these changes, making the social turmoil of a nation apparent to its post-world war, self-contented middle-class citizens. But what if this television show was not as it appeared? Let us examine how such a television program can become a defining force in the culture of a nation, a force that remains just as powerful almost forty-five years after it first appeared. Let us investigate the secrets of... The Twilight Zone (Brenner, 2004, P. 1).

The show, with its myriad of impressive special effects (for its time) and never-fail-to-amaze twist endings, caught America's attention and held onto it with complete ease through episodes that not only entertained (and still do entertain) the general public while hitting on a variety of emotions, but that also touched upon serious matters throughout the fifties and sixties. First, for example, one of Serling's most blatant speculations on racial issues shines through when the sun fails to do as such in the episode "I Am the Night--Color Me Black." The episode shows the story of a man, Jagger, who is supposed to die by hanging after he has been mistakenly convicted of, in self defense, killing a man who exhibits bigotry. On the day of his execution, the sun refuses to shine in the morning. Thus, the sky is black, and Jagger hands despite the lack of a conclusion as to whether or not he is guilty of the murder. After Jagger's hanging, the reverend of the town puts in his own view and says that the sky has become black due to all of the hatred in the world, especially such surrounding Jagger's death.

Another episode--ever popular amongst almost every fan of The Twilight Zone--that more subtly deals with social issues is "Eye of the Beholder" (originally aired 11/11/60). The episode shows a woman (we are allowed to assume due to the character's voice and the way that the other characters address her) who has her whole head bandaged (as though she has just undergone major surgery). Throughout the episode, she remains in one hospital room and doctors and nurses pass in and out to check on her, but she never seems to make improvements or take to the surgery in the way that the doctors expect. So they continue to operate on this poor girl whose self-esteem has surely hit the ground and dug itself a grave. The entire episode is harshly lit with great contrast of black and white, so there is a sense of limits and boundaries. There is some speculation that the episode actually goes as far as hitting racial prejudice on the head with a view on beauty as a major component in how we view one another.

With its theme of bodily identity in conflict with dominant social standards of beauty, the story might be taken as a closeted meditation on racial prejudice, the most important domestic political issue of the early '60s, and one that several Twilight Zone scripts directly evoked (Worland, 1996, P. 106).

Another example of true historical relevance in an episode is easily found in "The Monsters are due on Maple Street." The story presents an all-American suburban community--the residents of "Maple Street, USA"--on a nice Saturday afternoon when, all of the sudden, all of the power ceases to work. Immediately, the great, friendly bunch of people transition into a mob/gag mentality and completely portray the attitude of society during the Red Scare. The people of Maple Street take all of their energy and waste it on trying to figure out whether or not the "strange" man on the street is an alien and if he's causing all of the issues. Notwithstanding the apparent relationship to political fear during the time, "The Twilight Zone often [pointed] out that perhaps the greatest thing we have to fear is ourselves" (Telotte, 2011, P. 117). The characters in the episode all become so obsessed with putting the blame on some sort of "monster" that they, themselves, turn into monsters.

There were other episodes, a well, that hinted on the idea of communism and how terrifying the idea of it encroaching on our society was back during the fifties and sixties especially (due to the Red Scare). "Several episodes of The Twilight Zone capture the essential anxieties of the Cold War period. 'Third From the Sun,' which originally aired on January 8, 1960, perfectly articulated the angst and desperation caused by the widespread fear of nuclear annihilation" (Wright, Jr., 2010, P. 13). The episode "Third From the Sun" is about a scientist, Will Sturka, who works at a government-run military base. Sturka was producing a large amount of hydrogen bombs to prepare for nuclear war that was just around the corner. Due to the impending doom, Sturka and a fellow employee, Jerry Riden, plan to take their families on a ship to another planet in order to escape their awaiting deaths. The end of the episode has a happy twist because the group escapes its fate, but the planet that was 11 million miles way (to which they were traveling) is the third from the sun - Earth.

What the members on the shuttle didn't know--obviously--was that the same problem was present on Earth at the exact same time. One episode of The Twilight Zone in particular, "Time Enough at Last," presents more of how drastic of an effect the H-bomb would have on the world rather than the terror that said bomb struck in the people of that time. The episode shows Henry Bemis, a bank teller and enthusiastic bookworm, constantly trying to find time for his books but he has to deal with everyone around him criticizing his love for the written word. One day, he decides to take his lunch break in the bank's vault in order to read in peace. Almost as soon as he lays eyes on his newspaper, which reads: "H-Bomb Capable of Total Destruction," a huge explosion goes off outside of the vault. As soon as he gets the courage to leave the vault, Bemis finds himself in a barren wasteland--or so it appears--left with no one else around. The H-bomb had completely destroyed everything... except a plethora, a myriad, an abundance or books, books, and more books. Bemis spent plenty of time organizing the books so he knew when to read what. At the end of the episode, however, he drops and breaks his glasses and is left with nothing but sheer loneliness. The bomb may as well have taken him anyway.

More than anything else, The Twilight Zone provided a charming, intelligent, entertaining presentation of events through the fifties and sixties, and "Serling used the show to critique society, reflecting the fear and paranoia that existed in the 1950s and 1960s as a result of the Cold War" (Wright, Jr., 2010, P. 9) as well as the existent prejudice against differences in people as a whole. The prevalent theme in the most popular episodes of this captivating show was and is fear of difference, whether that difference be physical, metal or emotional. In one way or another, the differences between people that showed in their interactions with one another in the series put a frame around society's skepticism of everyone around them. It's sad that society had (and still has) such fears of differences in their peers, but that's the truth.

Monday, November 28, 2011

I remember.

I remember so much of what is us
I remember you and me, before we existed.
I remember days upon days of longing and
I remember days upon days of unfulfilling.
I remember wanting,
I remember needing.
I remember wanting and needing to find a way to meet you.
I remember not existing.
I remember being invisible to your feet-focused eyes
as you walked, every day, on the sidewalk nearby
with your head turned downward and you not seeing me.
I remember us passing, brushing shoulder against shoulder and
I remember wishing you'd noticed and said sorry to me so
I (could) remember us talking and me meeting you.
I remember feeling silly and stupid for hoping we'd speak,
I remember trying to ignore that that wouldn't ever happen so
I tried to forget you.
I remember I forgot you.

I remember a summer gone by,
I remember seeing you for what felt like the first time and
I remember I was sad because I didn't know you.
I remember you looked almost the same but a little grown up -
you were handsome and quiet and I wished I'd known you.
I remember passing you often
I remember pretending not to see
I remember not feeling as weird as I do as I write this.
I remember putting you aside but still admiring you.

I remember an invitation to a party I got from a girl I didn't know very well.
I remember reluctantly going to the party and hoping I'd know someone there
but I had next to no luck, but
I remember seeing you.
I remember wanting,
I remember needing.
I remember wanting and needing to find a way to meet you
and this was the way I was going to meet you.
I remember taking a chance, unafraid of shame because
I remember how much I wanted to speak to you.
I remember us talking and how easy it was,
I remember thanking God and that's uncommon for me.
I remember being silly, and you were silly too and
I remember how happy I was.

I remember you and me, we could exist.
I remember time after time of us and it was nice to not miss
any more time going by without knowing you.
I remember how great it was, my time knowing you.
I remember you being grown up; you were handsome, smart, fun.
I remember you taking time to know me.
I remember falling for you.
I remember more fear than I'd ever felt before.
I remember, though, the thrill so I didn't care.
I remember giving up on my hopes to be more but then
I remember(ed) how stubborn I was and how I kept going forth.
I remember writing for you.
I remember how you liked it.
I remember putting it all out there and being nervous and bashful,
I remember how you responded and there were sparks in the air.

I remember you and me, how we started to exist.

I remember happiness, laughter,
I remember it ending so fast.
I remember you were confused, then you were sorry.
I was so confused, you were so sorry.
I remember being us and how we were together.
I remember hoping my second chance wouldn't be over too soon.
I remember happiness, laughter, fast-falls into love.
I remember.
I remember we fall in love.
I remember dancing in your living room to the tunes in our head and
I loved it.
I loved it.
I remember I loved it.
I remember laughing until we cried, walking on your feet in the park because my
shoes were gone, (kind of) surfing at the beach, watching Cinderella Story 'cause
nothing else was on.
I remember dreaming of you, but waking up was much better and
I remember how much love we've had since we've been together.
I remember every day of my life why I wanted to meet you.
I remember every day of my life why I always need to keep you.
I remember every day and every night why I keep on loving you.
I'm going to remember for the rest of my life, 'cause we are going to make it through.
Please give me more days to remember you.

Scary house memory from New Jersey

I didn't know what time it was, but I knew I was supposed to be home earlier, 'cause I usually got home before trees turned to wraiths and wind turned to whispers chasing after me, but we were having so much fun—my friend and I—on the ready-to-give, old trampoline that was always covered in beetles who had an apparent craving to bounce with us, so I lost track of time and I was sorry for that. I was sorry for that because I hated the walk home 'cause I needed two faces to know where I was going but to know no one was following. At least I got back before mom and dad noticed but the sound of the back door slamming behind me as I rushed inside the house shot me what must have been a foot off the ground in a quick burst because it was dark all around me and I wasn't sure what to expect of this place—where I had lived for three years—that always made me a little uneasy. Maybe the trampoline hadn't taken all my bounce away, so I was still sort of weightless in my steps as I crept across tiles in the entrance and I'd memorized the path to take to avoid the half broken one that had cut my foot twice before. Blood didn't make me cringe back then; I just didn't like the incessant itchiness of a healing wound on the bottom of my foot. What came next, however, wasn't much better. The living room, though vast in size and space—a complete mansion in my childhood eyes, was a terror to tread through without the proper coverage on the soles of my feet due to the scratches, the tickles and the fuzzies—I was sure that was the technical term for them—that the kelly green carpet let climb to my ankles every time I passed through what was otherwise a wonderful room.

I walked on through the miniature forest, though, and tripped over sketch books, markers, colored pencils and a glue gun I thought I would need—things I had left out hours before that I was supposed to pick up before I went to my friend’s house to nearly break all my bones on a bouncing machine. The absence of light throughout the house still kept me clumsy and reluctant to get close to things that changed forms when days ended. Our new TV was taller than me and I was scared to go near it for fear of a girl taking hold of me and dragging me down a well in her scary black and white freaky TV world. I tried to avoid looking at the plants that hung low and sad, draping over their pots. I tried to not touch any furniture where someone I didn’t see might have been sitting. I tried to keep to myself but I felt un-alone. In my quick impulsive thought that a ghost was “going to get me,” I flew up the thirty or so stairs to my safe-haven—my room. I felt like a track star and a pilot had a god of a baby that could run so fast she could fly when she wanted and I was that baby and I was really good at flying. But I needed to learn to focus on more than one thing at a time, because I realized when I fell onto my bed that no slamming door sent me hitting my head on my popcorn-esque ceiling. I looked to my right with apprehension because I swore I’d seen a man standing in my doorway only a few nights before. He was grey and vague and tall and seemed harmless but it was still pretty eerie to see a half-human “being” staring into my bedroom and then having vanished when I blinked my eyes. But this time, he wasn’t standing there. It was a one-time thing and I wasn’t as scared but I didn’t want to get out from under my covers because I was no different—and still am no different—from every other child who knows that nothing can get you when you’re covered by a blanket and curled up on your bed.

I looked around my room and it wasn’t as scary as the rest of the house. It was big, spacious, safe. I kept darting my eyes, jerking my neck in all directions to make sure there weren’t any spots I had possibly missed where someone was hiding and waiting for me. My dark wood walls allowed no shadows to grow and my cream-colored carpet had no footprints to show. I saw a figure swiftly move as I jerked my head and I let out a squeal that probably woke up my brothers, but when I looked in the corner where my desk and mirror stood, I realized I had only copied myself and my reflection was scared too. So I excused her rapid movements as irrational reactions to an old house that made noises and looked different at night. It was scary at times, but she was safe in my room and nothing could get her and she was ok and nothing could get me and I was ok. I was always ok.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Haiku

This won't be easy.
I've never hoped so big and
never felt so small.

Sunday, September 25, 2011

I wanna dance with you

I miss dancing in your bedroom
with all the noises having slipped away.
Nothing but your breath discovering my skin
and my body draping over you.
Creaks in the wooden floors underneath us
as we scurry around,
neither of us completely sure
how to move with rhythm.
But I miss our bodies--
the way they knew how to sway together--
and I wish we could just
go dance around the world,
barefoot and to the tunes that the
wind makes when it whistles in a heavy storm,
rain hitting concrete and making a
sweet kinda beat.
We'd hear leaves crunch beneath our feet
and foot steps and drain spouts
and pipes clanking,
us yanking each other all sorts of ways
just to move together.
Just to move together like we used to.
I wanna dance with you.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Makes no sense whatsoever

I fell so fast in love
with a boy I'd never known.
It was a first-sight thing;
I was ready for our lives to change
'cause I knew he'd be mine
and we'd fall so fast in love
to a beat he'd never known.

Friday, September 16, 2011

So...

I hope that you really take the time to read the love I put into this stuff.
It's all for you.
Every bit of my heart, it beats for you.
My mind works around the thought of you.
I can't help it.

I want to know it means something to you.

I love you.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Memoir

“If you’ve ever done anything at all, ever, that required some sort of physical or mental exertion, some would say that you have experienced work” is the first thought that comes to mind as I attempt to write my first memoir for my first college English course, and this is my first time thinking about the work I’ve done. I continue from that initial sentence, but twelve hundred words later, I’ve lost my point. So I take my first thought and restart from there.

I’m eighteen years old and I’ve never held a waged job, so I’ve never been hired in an official manner and I’ve never been fired on a credential matter, but I’m eighteen years old and I’ve devoted myself to a passion of mine. I’ve taken time—countless hours upon days of my life—and tears, tangled thoughts, endless troubles of mine and forced them through inexperienced, unenlightened hands until they were carpal-tunnel-esque, un-frightened hands.

“I’m eighteen years old and my life has been about (art) work,” I say to myself as I struggle with the words creating wars in my head. I’m eighteen years old and my life has been about (art) work and my art takes time, patience, effort, struggle, joy; I have worked.

“I have worked.” I think back through all the work that I’ve done and there’s a rush of memories and experiences that flood this thought train that keeps splitting between tracks. I’m five years old, in a kindergarten class full of gazing glue-eaters who try to take my supplies during snack time while I draw a horse for a friend who says I’m a good artist. I smile and maintain my composure as I internally bask in the glory of the compliment, but I don’t yet know that not everyone will love the things I create. I’m sixteen years old and it’s the beginning of my junior year of high school. I’m in Art III and my teacher coats me in her diet-coke-breath as she sighs bitter criticisms in my ear, but I ask for direction and it’s as if she’s gone deaf as she walks to her desktop with her arthritis acting up. I need feedback, suggestions; I’m asking for help. I’m seventeen and it’s the last month of summer before my senior year starts. Philadelphia is perfect at this time of year because the humidity is low but the sun proudly shines on a day-to-day basis, so each morning I’m ready and willing to start class. University of the Arts is the remedy for, the cure to, and the savior of my worries; I’m getting the help I’ve been asking for.

“I’m going to teach you how to see,” exclaims my advanced drawing teacher, and in the blink of an eye, all this work is worthwhile. I remember the times that my work was a job and when doing what I love turned to attempts at loving what I do. Now I’m learning how to see and though it’s easier than before, my mind continues to expand and it’s working for me. I’m eighteen and it’s May in Charlotte. I’m sitting up late, cutting mat board with my mom because I just graduated from high school and I’m framing prints of my art for an All Arts Market tomorrow. If I don’t start now, I’ll never make a living off of what I live for. This is a lot of work and I’m crying now because I’m scared that it’s pointless.

“There are so many artists out there and I think I’ll be one of them who’s considered to be great,” I whimper as tears stream down my face.

“You’re right, there are tons but why not take your place?” asks my supportive, strong-for-me mom. “You’ve got talent and drive and you’ve worked your whole life because this is a passion of yours and you’re ready to fly. It’s ok to be scared, ‘cause the world is a monster but I know you can take it. You’ve fought mountains before.” I’m eighteen years old and my mom tells me I’m good enough for what I’ve worked for. I’ve spent year after year taking thought upon thought to create pieces of life and I know it’s been hard, but I’ve loved every moment of this hard-to-get-into industry. I’m eighteen years old and last night, I spent hours getting ready to sell art and I hope that it works, but I’ve got two days so I’m not worried yet. I’ve sold nothing this first night but tomorrow holds hope. It’s the second night and I’ve made an impression on customers around. Thus I’m earning (the start of) a living and I think that it’s starting to work for me because I’ve earned my place and I’m still working on moving on up.

I’m eighteen years old, in my first year of college, and today I got scared of pursuing this kind of work. People trash-talk the arts, people look down on the artists but they have no idea the work it takes. I’ve spent eighteen years (give or take a few months) spending my time and my love trying to create for the world what it can’t make on its own; I’ve made pieces of art out of pleasure and pain, I’ve made downright disasters because I hated the game, I’ve made money for creations that someone loved, I’ve made aches in my fingers and hands and brain because I exert myself and I’ve gained a sort of wealth from the work I’ve done.

Notwithstanding the times I’ve been put down, pushed around by either know-nothing critics or all-knowing clowns, I have memories of times I believed in myself and they keep my heart lifted as I climb from the ground up. I can’t see the top of this ladder, so more work is on its way, but at least I know now, without a shadow of a doubt, that every day, I have worked.

I’m seven years old and I’m in first grade. Everyone in my art class is drawing a vase full of flowers, straight from his mind. We’re almost done and our teacher is collecting our work, but I’m nervous now because tomorrow he’ll hang up the pieces all down the hall and only three will be winners. I’m scared. I want to get first place. I’m seven years old and I’m walking down the hall with the rest of the kids in my art class. I look for my drawing, but it’s hard to find. I see a blue ribbon with #1 written on it in bold black marker. It’s mine. I’m going to be an artist one day.

Rambling for Ted

Someone asked me, today, if I’d rather be deaf or blind. Without thought, I said deaf, because that’s always been my answer. But then, without fail, you came to mind—as you always do, regardless of the situation—and I thought of the ways you weave about my thoughts from memory to memory but I couldn’t recall one where every one of my senses wasn’t heightened with excitement because that’s what you do to me. You make me senseless, but my senses go crazy and are at their strongest when I’m with you.

That scent that sits so sweetly on your soft, sunny skin slides through my mind and sends me spinning. I remember one night when we were watching a movie and I lied across your lap and leaned into you, and you smelled like yourself—clean, cool and warm. I miss that so much.

That feeling you give me when our skins caress each other leaves my body like a spot where lightning has struck twice; I get hot, electric, feel beautiful and transparent with your touch. I remember one night, we laid in the back of your car, doing nothing but holding one another; I was in your arms. I was safe, un-scared, falling more in love with you.

That long-lasting luster when your lips lock with mine leaves me clinging to the moment, gripping to the passion that soaks me every second you share your love with me.

And that voice, those looks. That tone, those glances of desire, trust, truth, readiness, love. The thought to not hear, to not see what you mean to show me through each stomach-dropping sigh and heart-stopping gaze scares me. I hate the idea of not knowing you to the fullest; you’re the world to me and to miss out on any piece would push me to a low I’ve never known. The first time we met, I looked you straight in the eyes and I didn’t know what to say because I’d been waiting for that instant since the first time I saw you three years before. I finally opened my mouth (but I forget what I said) and when you answered my utterances with your mesmerizing voice, my knees nearly yanked me to the ground; I was weak. You were a work of art to me and you’ve continued to be through this time we’ve been together and I can’t even imagine what my life would be if you couldn’t sweep me off my feet every time you look at me or if I wouldn’t tremble in my seat when you whisper something sweet. To picture missing out on one of the two last things paints me a picture, incomplete. I hope to always hear and to always see. I need every bit of you, so I guess I need every bit of me.