Friday, December 16, 2011
How The Office Hit Home and Hooked Our Hearts
The World Wants People Pleasers
Social Commentary Found in the Twilight Zone
Monday, November 28, 2011
I remember.
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
Sunday, September 25, 2011
I wanna dance with you
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Makes no sense whatsoever
Friday, September 16, 2011
So...
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.