Final

.At the beginning of this year I had an extremely difficult time losing someone I was never prepared to go without. Although I didn't technically know him, a good portion of my thoughts and writing tended to circulate around that particular event and similar things we must have experienced. Many of my pieces have an edge of art and memory to them. Usually when I have time to read, and I mean really read, I can adopt the writing style of the authors I'm involving myself with. So far this year, Patti Smith has made the biggest impact on what I write about. I'll admit my writing completely pales in comparison, but the subjects touch base in the same ways. My posts "Comfort at the Bottom of a Swimming Pool" and "It's a Small World but Complicated" are Smith influenced in some way or another. An in-class writing activity I really enjoyed was the paint chip poems and the old photograph activity. It reminded me of how much I enjoy character construction and how I must get back into it, whether I utilize it in drawing or my writing. My personal journal contains a lot of my feelings about the end of a day or week. If I have a fear of forgetting something small and sweet that happened, then it'll be put on the page.

A classmate's piece I can distinctly remember is Dakoda's "Boy With Twig" poem. For unknown reasons it filled me with plenty of images of a renaissance peasant boy becoming a renowned entertainer in his village. Magdelaine's "Eight Elvises" was like a song that got stuck in my head even though it isn't even a song...yet. Everyone and their dog knows what books I was obsessed with at the beginning of the year, but recently I finished a book called The Wander Society and it was filled with enough encouragement and adventure to last me the whole summer. A few days ago I began Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell, a recommendation from Korah. Around midnight last night I opened up a scavenged copy of On The Road that I found for $4 at Relics on my last day of high school. The Wander Society provided me with a nice book list I'll blaze through this summer if all goes well.

I've never had a writing blog before, but I've had a picture-centric blog for years. I remember I made the blog on David Bowie's birthday, January 8th, and named it after that. Dad to the Bone is just something that was silly and pretty much describes the core of my sense of humor. I knew my class mates would be reading through my blog occasionally, and that wasn't too intimidating for me. Hopefully most of them know that writing is just another creative outlet for what I can't express in painting.

Journaling has always been a huge part of my life. Documenting things/thoughts/people/experiences/dreams in general is something that I have always done and will always do. I even keep a memory box along with a personal journal and have several other friends who do the same. Every time we go out and have a good time somewhere we always find a small memento and say, "this is for the memory box." My journals are full of thoughts, concerns, and feelings I have about people I know and sometimes about people who don't know me. It all depends. 

Straight from my personal journal, no editing: 7 days ago last night marked one week and its just unbelievable still. Waking up is a lot harder. But yesterday Niki took me to the Mudhouse for dinner. It was probably about 10 degrees and we walked from the Moxie to the dinner spot where we sat for a few hours drawing each other. We met this girl who didn't have a place to sit, a theater student at MSU. I simultaneously made and broke the ice all at once. I said something really awkward and I thought it was funny until I saw Niki's face. I can't remember what I'd said but it must've been funny. She sat for a while, left and then Tinnelly came by. Then we hit the Moxie. Niki took a really good picture of me and we waited for seating to start. There were lots of people there. I got the same seat in theater 2 that I saw Snowpiercer in, so that was kind of full circle. They played Heroes before the actual movie and I had a hard time being sad. There was only gratitude and a warm feeling all around. I sang along to all the songs quietly and laughed with everyone else. After the movie, we all sprinted in the cold to the car and yelled. Niki enjoyed the movie and we listened to some of his songs on the way home while laughing.

From a previous post: "He said things like "I was always kind of different from everyone I met," and "working at Burger King was my 5 a.m. punishment for dropping out of high school." and so on. The way Dominique described his reminiscent car trip was something I'll always be able to visualize perfectly in my mind. He said, “It’s like shards of in-congruent memories coming together.” When I think of that sentence I can see myself driving through town with a friend in about 15 years time. We'll pass certain places in town and they'll look completely different, but I'll still be able to make out the small fragments of what it used to be. Maybe when that happens there'll be someone young sitting in the back seat like me.
It's nice to be able to sit in the back seat and relive someone's stories like a phantom. There's no outstanding expectation to say anything meaningful or poignant. You just have to open your notebook and know how to make it look like you're not writing down everything they say."

For me, writing is a back-brace if  I can't find another way to say what I need to. Most of the time I stick to personal journaling and creating art, but a lot of my "critical thinking" when it comes to my art is solved on paper with writing first. When I was a lot younger, I always had a notebook with me. I was always writing fantasy stories and making characters out of everything I saw. Back then, I wanted to be a writer. I don't exactly remember what changed my mind, but naturally I eased into visual art and that's where I have stayed. In the future, I have plans for more characters in my art and I might even make a graphic novel of sorts and I can't do that without creative writing. I just have to find the right inspiration to set that cog into motion.

Photos of the Millennium

I have tallies for every photo in the collection relating to warfare and violence and they exceed 30. There will always be war so long as mankind continues to have differences, but I'm reaching a point where I just yearn for peace from all sides. Private wars are waged inside my head most days, and seeing so much exterior worldly turmoil makes it difficult to find peace. I've been learning to balance. I was beyond happy to see the pleasant, benevolence of humanity in most of the photos, but as soon as I realized the primary common thread of many I felt a sinking in my chest. I have to wonder if the current state of affairs has worsened since the site was last updated, or if it's always been this hectic. Every week it's another public shooting, there are fresh victims of hate crimes, terrorist attacks, and new additions to the list of deaths in the name of police brutality. There are even forms of organized hatred sprouting in legislatures across the country. It's this group of people against that group over seemingly fickle reasons and it's shrouded in a shadowy cloak of misunderstanding. Amidst all this frenzied turbulence, one must remain rooted in nothing but good intention and love for the living things we share the Earth with. I want to hate corrupt leaders and see them get what they ultimately deserve, but a small voice inside of me always asks where they went wrong. "What if they thought they had good intentions?" The stitching on the black and white morality become frayed and come apart. It is a blessing to be able to see both sides of a situation, but it is a curse sometimes to be unable to pick a side for yourself. There will always be a, "but wait...", "hang on a second..." or the famous, "what if..." to everything that continues to happen. It's the morality kaleidoscope.

MSU Student Visit Reaction

I met Helen and Tiffany, both very lovely lively people. Both of them liked the movie Zootopia and enjoyed the open sky and the weather in Springfield. Helen has a dog named Blackbean, and Tiffany has a boyfriend named D.J. They really seemed to pay attention to how hospitable Americans have been to them, and that really didn't surprise me. Many people are just curious when they meet people from places that are so far away, usually when they're mean it's on accident or they just don't realize it. I told the girls that my favorite color is green and that I feel like a cloud most of the time because I float around and change constantly. Neither of them have ever been to Hurt's before, which honestly surprised me. A lot of college kids show up at the downtown location. I also told them that I like drinking coffee all the time and that the t.v. show Hannibal has my attention right now. 

As Dakoda and I showed them around the school, they mostly looked around with big, curious eyes. I had to wonder if there had ever been an equivalent experience of pure wonder in my catalog of memories. They got to see the new commons area, the theater, the lunch line, Mrs. Dunn, Mrs. Nance, Mrs. Stephen's rooms, and both of the gyms. I was so fun to find the common ground we could communicate on. Their reaction to certain slang terms with a little tilt of the head got my attention the most. I've been so used to these words all my life, I never actually thought about how they might sound to someone who hasn't grown up in the same culture. I would have loved to show them Blackburn and Declue's room along with the work that they do in there. 

Love Letter on the Back of a Photograph 1938

"Everyone can hear you laughing and I'm not at the slightest embarrassed to be the one across the table from the center of attention. Surely they can see the sparkle in your eye from across the room. I hope that they know, single handedly, this girl has managed to tip the world on it's head the exact way you hear about in storybooks. you've managed to grab me by the elbow and tote me headlong into exciting situations I would stress to be in at any other given time. I'm so glad it's been you. It was always you at the beginning and it will continue to be you beyond human capacity. 
I want to shout it from rooftops and share it with people I pass in the street and whisper it to the cashier at the market.
I can think of a thousand situations each time we're together where I find the sides of my face aching because smiling is the only thing I can do. We seem to come from the same origin, like the colors of our souls coming together make impossibly great works of art. All in all, I think you are magical. The good parts of your day will always be the best parts of my own. If you tap your feet to a rhythm, I'll snap my fingers and when you cross your eyes, I'll stick my out my tongue. Our time together so far has been only a small drop in the ocean of the hope I have for our future, no matter the ending."

Movie Quotes

Up

Fantastic Mr. Fox

Only Lovers Left Alive

Pan's Labyrinth

Harold and Maude

Reel Life

There are two questions that make me freeze up on the spot.

What is your favorite song?

and

What is your favorite movie?

I've narrowed it down to under ten, excluding documentaries, and they are...

Only Lovers Left Alive

Short Term 12

The Pianist

Detachment

Harold and Maude

Frances Ha 

We Are the Best

Rocky Horror Picture Show

Goodnight Mommy

I usually try not to judge a movie by the trailer even thought they give everything away anyway, but I usually know if I'll like a movie or not. My family finds it nearly impossible to get me to sit through a James Bond or Jason Bourne movie. Those kinds of movies are okay, they just don't keep my eyes glued to the right screen. If I'm watching a movie on my own, and I usually am, it has some some substance that I'll end up using later. I have to see some kind of artistic value in it and that might sound pretentious, but it doesn't always come from the same source and I'm not always looking for the same thing. 

I like to watch movies in groups of people who know how to act while it's on and you can't always get that in the theater. If none of my friends are available for a massive watching party then I like the house to be completely empty and tidied up. My room is an absolute disaster, but when it comes to watching movies in the living room everything has to be to my standard otherwise I find it hard to ignore. I'm extremely picky when it comes to my own house.

My quiz results:

YOU ARE 33% EXTROVERTED.
You are moderate in activity and enthusiasm. You enjoy the company of others but you also value your privacy.

YOU ARE 83% AGREEABLE.
You are generally warm, trusting, and agreeable, but you can sometimes be stubborn and competitive.

YOU ARE 58% CONSCIENTIOUS.
You are dependable and moderately well-organised. You generally have clear goals and are able to set goals aside.

YOU ARE 8% EMOTIONALLY STABLE.
You are sensitive, emotional and prone to experience feelings that are upsetting.

YOU ARE 100% OPEN TO NEW EXPERIENCES.
You are open to new experiences. You have broad interests and are very imaginative.

This doesn't relate back to movies by much and the questions were very difficult for me to find one answer for, but that's the fun in it I guess. I also think that saying I'm even 8% emotionally stable is a bit of an overstatement.

Not to be vain, but I'd really enjoy seeing my life as a movie. Someone told me once that I remind them of Ellen Page, so I think that could be really interesting. Vital events to include somewhere in the film would have to be my time at St. Jude's, the trips to the major U.S. cities, the day I found out David passed away, and when I sold my first painting. There's plenty of fun stuff in between and I'm confident there's even more to come, but I hope the movie has a happy ending even though I secretly hate it when movies have those.

"It's a small world, but complicated..."

Sometimes when I meet someone for the first time, I know it's been aligned to be that way. I don't know what it is, but the encounter will feel perfectly congruent with my own life in that moment. Most of the time, I don't bother recording those experiences because I wouldn't want to restrict the feelings to just words on paper.
On an early Sunday morning I woke up from a night of tossing and turning. I forgot to eat the day before, which isn't unusual for the evenings that I work. I remember my legs being shaky and Space Cadet was a fitting title for the way I carried on conversation, worse than usual. I would start a sentence and completely forget that I was even talking halfway through, like my brain was in orbit away from my physical body. Before I even got out of bed I could hear people making plans for the day.

"Dominique is in town from Quebec, he want's to hang out and get lunch."

 by this time, it was about 10 a.m. I had fallen asleep around 3 and woken up at 8. I used the 2 hours difference desperately hiding from the sun. I'm not someone who can function well on 5 hours of rest. I can do exceptionally well with anything less than 3, and anything past 7, but the four hour gap between those render me absolutely useless when it comes to acting like a normal person. It's truly a sight to behold when I try and carry on with tasks as a sleep deprived shell of a person. I'm usually way to tired to be existential.
We got to the restaurant and my eagerness to eat a wholesome meal was overpowering the irritation I felt from skipping coffee. The waitress took my mom's order and then mine. I could have folded myself up and fallen asleep right at the chipped dining table if Dominique hadn't walked in.  Just by looking at the way he carried himself, I could tell he was someone my family would have had connections to; with his neat silver streaked hair combed back, ratty black hoodie and skate shoes. We exchanged hello's and a decent handshake. He gave the waitress his order and then it was up to us to find our way in conversation. I stayed quiet, only saying thank you when he complimented my favorite shirt and haircut (both he said he had in the past.) During the silent gaps in conversation, he would tug his neatly groomed salt and pepper beard and look at the art on the walls. The food arrived and as we ate I could see his utensils shaking slightly after we made a small toast with plastic cups. I thought it was really endearing that he was scared to talk to us, of all people. I was the one putting my glasses on and then removing them again for no reason at all, a telltale sign of nervousness. As the meal continued, I let my guard down. I began to find little parts of myself in the way Dominique spoke about Springfield. He went on and on about the places he wants to remember and it was through the same filter I've always hoped to be able to see my home through after I've left. We finished our food, left a generous tip, and went on our way. My mom offered to take him around to old haunts even after he insisted he'd already seen the only important place: the downtown curb where he used to sit and daydream about leaving Springfield. There was no sign of reluctance in his steely eyes when he finally folded and hopped into our car. By the way our trip was going and how his childlike enthusiasm grew, I could tell that he had more important places to see. There’s something about looking at things and places people treasure as memories, especially when they want you to experience the trip of nostalgia with them. There was one house that we searched high and low for, and in the end we found it along with all of its cryptic sentimental value. Dominique was really shaken up at seeing it in it's present state and Mom asked if everything was alright. He just kept repeating, "It's okay, it's okay...just an old friend's place is all. It's just so crazy..." He said this over and over to himself. Even though I craned for further explanation, I never pried at the meaning.
The car trip continued around town. From Pershing to Parkview to Phelp's Grove and smaller back road nooks. He said things like "I was always kind of different from everyone I met," and "working at Burger King was my 5 a.m. punishment for dropping out of high school." and so on. The way Dominique described his reminiscent car trip was something I'll always be able to visualize perfectly in my mind. He said, “It’s like shards of in-congruent memories coming together.” When I think of that sentence I can see myself driving through town with a friend in about 15 years time. We'll pass certain places in town and they'll look completely different, but I'll still be able to make out the small fragments of what it used to be. Maybe when that happens there'll be someone young sitting in the back seat like me.

It's nice to be able to sit in the back seat and relive someone's stories like a phantom. There's no outstanding expectation to say anything meaningful or poignant. You just have to open your notebook and know how to make it look like you're not writing down everything they say.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h_JfN9Wm7fg

Dan In Real Life responses

I think when my parents say, “do as I say, not as I do” it’s mostly because in the best case scenario, they’d want me to not have to learn something the hard way like they did. Most of the time, the only reason my parents go back on their own word is because it’s not an issue that can easily be adjusted by that point in their lives.

Dating is such a different thing for everyone, especially at the rate people mature. I can’t really speak for anyone else, but my own experiences with dating have been really interesting. It took me a while to realize the kinds of people that are best for me to be around, but high school really helped with that. From 8th grade to the present, my idea of dating has been on the approach of, “I really like to spend time with you and I want to grow with you and be involved with your life more than anyone else because I think you’re just that stellar to be around.”


Whether or not someone can fall in love with someone in three days or three minutes is solely based on the way each person’s presences interact together. The balance between love and infatuation is such a difficult place to be because most people will sign off their love for someone as infatuation at the drop of the dime. Does infatuation turn to love? Is it the other way around? Is it actually something with a concrete answer?


I’m definitely a sucker for freckles and big ears when it comes to being physically attracted to someone.


When I was a kid, I was always hiding under the bathroom sink behind the cabinet doors. That was a solid spot to be in, but the very best has always been just hiding under a blanket. Even as a 6 year old I was small enough and knew how to contort my body to make any of my pointy elbows and knees just look like folds in the blanket.


Well-traveled people certainly have seen more and have absorbed more of the world we share. Small bits of their knowledge has a way of leaking into every conversation whether they mean to or not. I’ve met few boring people who have traveled all over. Even if I don’t always like what they have to say, there’s no doubt that their stories are attention grabbing saviors that add to the magic of going places.


I like the idea of there being different soulmates for different things. For some there might just be friendship soulmates, and then there are people who are THE soulmate. Whether or not it has romantic intentions varies. I have people that I know I belong around. It’s hard to explain, but in these moments I’ve never been more sure of anything in the world. The warm, pulling feeling I get when I’m around them is on a much deeper level than just enjoying someone’s company. When I share space with “the soulmate people,” there seems to be a blank space in time where everything is the way it should be. Every moment in my life has led me up to this perfect oasis moment with these people I’ve invested so much of myself into.


My perfect day happened a little earlier this week and I’ve been begging for another one ever since. It was nothing extravagant, but it had been a good end note on the day as a whole. My friend and I drove to her house, not too far from my own. From there we piled into the car with her family, including the dog, and we went to the Seoul Market. That place is it’s own little adventure as it is, and the people I was with just made it even more enjoyable. It’s hard for me to be close friends with people who don’t know how to have a good time in a grocery store. We picked up the uncommon ingredients and hit a few more stores. Joni Mitchell played on the radio and the windows were down. I sat quietly in the backseat while mother and daughter discussed whatever they could pick from thin air. We got home, my friend showed me one of her favorite movies and I was completely invested in it while she fell asleep, completely at ease with knowing I don’t require her constant attention. Pretty soon I found myself dozing off under a knitted blanket right next to my best friend. The way their ceiling skylight let the shafts of sunshine into the wood paneled living room has some kind of sentimental effect on me. That moment was like being in a painting or a valued photograph and I’ll never forget it even though it was so plain. We woke up at the same time and it was dark out. The smells of dinner flooded the room and the only time I’d ever felt that same amount of comfort was in my own home.


“If you were words on a page, you’d be fine print.” Is my pickup line of choice.


My getaway vacation home would definitely have to be isolated somewhere. I love to be cut off from the hectic everyday life. I’d love to see the Outer Banks in North Carolina again, but I’d like to be somewhere with lots of trees and a forest. Upstate New York comes to mind.


Bowling is a sport that I loathe with a passion. I’m not horrible at it, but it’s definitely something I would never spend a dime on. My old neighborhood friends and I like to get together every few months or so and they get a good laugh when they see the look on my face when they suggest bowling...for fun...

American Culture to Chinese Students

An American response to American culture to a Chinese pen-pal:

"When I first heard I was going to be watching "Wife Swap" in my writing class, my immediate reaction was a groan. Most shows like that in America are only good for mild entertainment. Families like mine watch those and think "I'm glad that isn't us!" It's all very dramatic and exploitative, but there are small amounts of value in what happens in the end. "What Would You Do" is a way better example of the American people in my eyes. They show the good and the bad along with the unexpected. The gay adoption video must have been such a unique experience for you and I'm curious at what your reactions might have been. I'm aware that in China, marriage between a man and a woman is the only thing allowed. Just last year the American government announced that it was legal for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people to marry whatever gender they want. This had been a very long battle for the gay community and the news brought me to tears I was so happy. Gay and lesbian people still face many extreme, hate filled reactions on a regular basis but we are making progress. I've actually faced some of these issues myself and sometimes everything seems really scary even though I know there are always people who love me. Around here, even having your hair too short as a girl can get some mean glances. My personal struggle has been trying to do what's best for me and not caring about what my family has to say. Deep in my heart I know that they don't care and that they'll always love me, but I really just don't know what I want right now. Being a teenager in America is really strange because everyone has so many options available to them, but sometimes no matter what you pick, there will always be someone who has some kind of an issue with it.
On a more positive note: tne really good thing about my country is the support the outcast groups of people receive from others who think they don't belong. If one thinks they are all alone in liking something, there is usually a group of people who will gladly enjoy it as much as they do. Even among the crazy politics and differences we always find kinship and unity."

Jean-Michel Basquiat

"This is a song for the genius child.

Sing it softly, for the song is wild.

Sing it softly as ever you can -

Lest the song get out of hand.

Nobody loves a genius child.

Can you love an eagle,

Tame or wild?

Can you love an eagle,

Wild or tame?

Can you love a monster

Of frightening name?

Nobody loves a genius child.

Kill him - and let his soul run wild."

--Langston Hughes

There's a cemetery in Brooklyn bearing the name of a gone-too-soon visionary of his time. Toward the end of 1988, Gerard Basquiat held a closed casket service for his 27 year old son. Only a handful of the dead artist's friends were invited to the ceremony , but word had spread to greedy art dealers. They were the carrion eaters, ready to pick and pry on the 2,000 plus pieces of art left behind. Jean-Michel Basquiat was born at the tail end of 1960. As a child, he started out scribbling on the scraps of paper his father brought home from his accounting job. By age 17, Jean was making comics with his friend Al Diaz and skipping class. Their famed pseudonym "SAMO" sprang forth from a school assignment and became the beginning of the underground graffiti movement in New York. Odd phrases were punctuated with a copyright symbol and found on scattered buildings around the downtown Manhattan. This was the beginning of Jean's entrance into the art world.

Jean grew up educated in various private schools before dropping out in 1978. He was multilingual with his parents' languages: French, English, Creole, and Spanish. After his parents divorced, he resided with his father while his beloved mother lived between mental health facilities. After he quit school, it was the beginning of a life long struggle to regain his father's respect for his chosen "field of study". His first big break came in 1980 with the groundbreaking exhibition entitled The Times Square Show. The rich and brutal history of African Americans as well as the present issues he witnessed as a young black artist living in Manhattan were used as fuel for his artistic purpose. He borrowed visual cues from artists like Cy Twombly and William de Kooning.

Twombly

de Kooning

With the growing pressure on the New York art scene, Jean-Michel was faced with a dilemma. He was "outsider art" suddenly on the forefront of "high art" and for a blossoming artist, the expectation set upon his shoulders was crushing. He had never been rich before and often just hid thousands of dollars between books, under mattresses, and in any nook he could find. Who to trust and what to do with himself added to the mounting issues. On top of everything else, he had an evolving drug addiction. In high school, it was no secret that Jean smoked marijuana with Al Diaz. Later in his art career, he claimed that heroin helped him focus on making more paintings. It can be argued that pressure from his dealers drove him to take attention enhancing drugs, but the unfortunate end result remains the same. He hopped on a rocket of fame, and in August of 1988 it exploded under him. A fatal heroin overdose brought an end to Jean-Michel Basquiat's life.

When he was alive and thriving, Jean found himself in the company of legendary greats in the circuit of underground clubs. People like Andy Warhol and Keith Haring had very close companionship with the neo-expressionist. The singer Debbie Harry was the first person he ever sold a painting to.

Keith and Jean

William Burroughs, Jean, Debbie

Jean's work ethic comes as no surprise given the excessive amounts of work he produced in his short career. He would go out and cavort in the hallmark underground 80's clubs (CBGB, Mudd club, Club 57, Studio 54, etc) and then isolate himself for days at a time to paint and "makeup for lost time." People who hung around to watch him paint say that he allowed himself to be completely overloaded with information as he made work. Books, television, and music. Grey's anatomy, the news, and Charlie Parker. All of it filtered into his head and ended up as output onto a canvas in the form of acrylic paint or oil stick. As his drug addiction grew worse, his paintings became sparse and barren.

1988

1981

First and Last Lines

"It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen."

1984 (published 1949)
George Orwell
Born: June 25, 1903, Motihari, India
Died: January 21, 1950, London, United Kingdom

Orwell was educated in England and joined the Indian Imperial force in Burma when he completed school. After he quit the military in the late 1920's he moved to Paris to be an unsuccessful writer. From 1930's onward, he considered himself a socialist and a devout anti-Stalinist. His best known works are Animal Farm (1945) and 1984 (1949).

1984 is about a character named Winston living under repressive government ultimately ruled by Big Brother. He experiences a brief rebellion with another civilian named Julia even while Big Brother and his minions are monitoring their every move.

I read this book at around 13 or 14 years old, admittedly only because I knew that David Bowie had written a concept album based off of his admiration for the novel. The album itself becomes much more dimensional with the context of the book. The book remains one of the better, poignant dystopian novels I've read. I probably wouldn't reread it, but I remember the excitement of wanting Julia and Winston to escape and work out somewhere new. I remember the sad ending, as well. Everyone needs to read this book, even if they end up hating it.

"She sat staring with her eyes shut, into his eyes, and felt as if she had finally got to the beginning of something she couldn't begin, and she saw him moving further and further away, further and further into the darkness until he was the pin point of light."

Wise Blood (published 1952)

Flannery O'Connor

Born: March 25, 1925, Savannah, Georgia

Died: August 3, 1964, Milledgeville, Georgia

O'Connor was a southern essayist and writer and mainly stuck to her Southern Gothic style. It is said that many of her characters are grotesque in nature and reflect her Catholic views as well as southern issues regarding race and morality. 

Wise Blood is about Hazel Motes, a 22 year-old war veteran struggling with his faith. He meets an array of off kilter characters like a self-blinded street preacher and his daughter (Asa Hawkes and Lily Sabbath), a crazy 18 year old zookeeper with "wise blood", and a mummified holy child. Hazel encounters false prophets, redemption, and retribution. 

I don't personally foresee this book being one that I would particularly enjoy. Characters based around the absurd spectrum of religion have a way of stressing me out to the point of not being able to read the book for what it is. 

Future Legend

A few interesting things I picked up from the 417 trip was their willingness to collaborate with each other as colleagues and that is always something I enjoy seeing. Although, I noticed how restrained the look of their magazine was, so that makes me wonder about their separate personal approaches to the elements of design. How different are their ideas about the design of different pages? 
As they grow along with the city of Springfield, I hope their diversity of subjects expands to meet the needs of the larger crowd of people who are interested in the life of this town.

A few magazines I would take pride in working for...

• Aesthetica
• Juxtapoz
• Art News

All three are centered in art and culture on the edges of the norm and I would love to be the person that gets to search people out and communicate with the genius behind the featured work. The whole industry is a little too fast paced for me personally, so I'll just follow my nose.

Ideally...

In one year, I'm rooming in Kansas City with my best friend and going to a school that works with our creative energy. The state of our home is an artist's kind of tidy with the smell of coffee grounds and open bottles of paint. There are scattered school projects in various spaces, open sketchbooks, and a book shelf with our respectable libraries combined. Most of my possessions are still at my parent's house that I visit a few times a month. I have a job somewhere on the Plaza making just enough to scrape by. Paintbrushes are all around the house and I always have some kind of art supplies under my nails. We have a dog and a cat. I still communicate with a handful of teachers from High School and send them snail mail with Polaroids of my adventures (if I have the money for film) and cheesy stickers.


In 5 years, I will know another language and have piles of stories to share with the people I meet through the job that I have. I work in the community through my social practice certificate. I'm still in Kansas City with Niki and the friends I made in college but we are all wondering about other possibilities in other locations. We have more pets and a garden that produces more vegetables than we can handle. Our house has lots of windows that are open as much as possible in the summer. The library is bigger, I have a few tattoos.

In 10 years, I will live in a different country where I know the language and culture. It's exactly the kind of place that I need to be and I get to support myself and the person I'm married to/plan on marrying. My family visits me once a year and I get to show them tons of exciting places and the people who know me.

In 50 years, my student debt is payed. I support young artists and buy their work regularly to add to my private collection. I'm married and have the space for a lot of shelter animals. I live somewhere near mountains and it's very green. I still paint and share music with people.

It's hard for me to plan so far ahead into the future, but these are the fun possibilities.

Six Word Memiors

"There is so much unfinished work"

(work space of John Kurtz)

"You can't have too many dogs"

"let's get coffee and go longboarding"

"...but would Brian Eno like it?"


"There's a whole lot to notice"

" Quotations "

"Just do your work. And if the world needs your work it will come and get you. And if it doesn't, do your work anyway. You can have fantasies about having control over the world, but I know I can barely control my kitchen sink. That is the grace I'm given. Because when one can control things, one is limited to one's own vision." --Kiki Smith

"Fear is a manipulative emotion that can trick us into a boring life" --Donald Miller

"I have been made so you can use me again and again." --a plastic bag

"I know for an honest to goodness fact that life can kick you to pieces, break you into a thousand little shards, and that you can get up again and mend yourself. I promise." --Nick Lake

"I guess I even feel more freewheeling these days. I definitely feel more philosophically freewheeling. I’m just not so certain that anything I learned or was taught is right. I think experience has made me really scared of absolutes – absolute systems of government, absolute religions, absolute life – all these things I’m incredibly wary of now...I’m just a curious old sod. I just want to know how everything works. I’m a nosy old bastard. I just have to know about things, and I can’t see how anybody can live on this planet and not want to. I get so despondent when people seem to curl up and die. They just don’t have any interest in living anymore. I want to shake them and say, “Look, it’s still great out there!” Every day is great. And to let these days just go by you is a waste of a gift you’ve been given. Life is a gift from God, and to waste it is a great sin. Go do something for somebody else, if you’re bored. Just don’t sit there being a lump." --David Bowie

"Of course, play is equally as important to your education as work. And in the fine arts, play is work, isn’t it? What other field allows you to deduct as business expenses from your taxes gangsta rap, Gaspar Noé’s movies, even vintage porn as long as you use it for research? Remember: You must participate in the creative world you want to become part of. So what if you have talent? Then what? You have to figure out how to work your way inside. Keep up with what’s causing chaos in your own field.
If you’re a visual artist, go see the shows in the galleries that are frantically competing to find the one bad neighborhood left in Manhattan to open up in.
Watch every movie that gets a negative review in the New York Times and figure out what the director did wrong.
Read, read, read!
Watch people on the streets. Spy, be nosy, eavesdrop." --John Waters (read the rest of his commencement address here.

Memorable Passage

"My mother said it was like a cassette tape you could never rewind. But it was hard to remember you couldn't rewind it while you were listening to it. And so you'd forget and fall into the music and listen and then, without you even knowing it, the tape would suddenly end." --Tell the Wolves I'm Home.

Yet, another passage from this book that has its roots so deeply plunged into my every day life. I've always had such a hard time staying in the present. It's really not much of a surprise since I'm at such a transitional point in my life, but when I'm caught up in the past or future it makes me wonder what I'm missing out on in the present moment. I worry about not being able to look back on something the way I'd like to, and while I'm worrying about that I'm absent from what's happening around me. I always like to make sure that I can enjoy details of a memorable event with crystal clarity when it's possible, but while I'm worried about what I'm going to remember, the present will be flying past me like a train that I have hop onto. Over the summer I learned that creating and analyzing are two separate processes. While that is certainly true for making anything in the fine arts, I'm starting to realize it's the same for memories in a way. I just wonder if it helps to be completely saturated in the moment and then go back and remember what you think affected you whether its seconds, days, or years. Is there even a way, an algorithm, to remember things the way you'd like to or is each and every second different than the last?

Writers as Readers

My ideal reading spot is on a blanket in the shade when the weather allows. If that's not possible or I'm not feeling up to going outside, I can manage to accidentally read half of a book just stretched out on the couch with a particular blanket and my cat tucked away in the crook of my leg. Candles are usually lit and it's mid morning on a lazy day. Ideally, the house is empty and the blinds are open, but I enjoy it just as much listening to my family cook. I would seriously not complain about a hammock on the beach though...

My sophomore year I went to New York City in the springtime. I returned a week later with half of my suitcase loaded with books. One is from St. Mark's (How Music Works by David Byrne) and the others are from McNally Jackson. 

 When I came back from my trip, I was having a pretty rough time with anxiety and the usual residual PTSD junk, so I would just finish up my useless geometry homework and run out to the yard to try and hastily throw myself into the hundred dollars worth of books. Since then my best reading days have been spent in my house alone on Saturday mornings. I'll wake up at 9 a.m., read until 2 p.m., get to work by 3, and come back at 11:30 p.m. to pick up where I left off until I fall asleep. 

Tell the Wolves I'm Home by Carol Rifka Brunt and The Price of Salt by Patricia Highsmith were the recent page-turners for me. It's a magical thing for a book to keep my attention longer than half an hour because I usually skip around and dip into two or three different worlds at a time. I invested so much of my interest into the characters in The Price of Salt, I just wanted to see what trouble they would find next and the way Highsmith writes is like shopping for little romantic snippets. Every page is an isle. Tell the Wolves is the same way but it was something I could closely relate to. The main character is going through the day to day function/cycles of loss and happiness just like I am. It was just nice to read that I'm not just being a big baby.

I haven't had a chance to invest my soul into a book series since I was around 12-14, but there are two that remain with me. The Warrior Cats  series by Erin Hunter really kept me reading from 5th grade up until I was supposed to start high school. I really had a thing for wild animal books back then. Warriors led me to The Sight and the sequel Fell, by David Clement-Davies. I never actually finished Fell, and I don't think I ever will because that's something I never wanted to end even though I skipped around in the first book. But I mean really, what could be cooler than prophetic wolves with scary paranormal powers? Talking deer, which is why I also became obsessed with Fire bringer, and could be part of the reason I have such an affinity with antlers.


When I finished reading The Price of Salt I was thrilled that I'd finally found a romance novel about elegant women that didn't end in tragedy or something enforced by the publishing company. I don't want to give too much away, but this book had a very satisfying ending that can probably never be topped, in my opinion. 

Comfort at the Bottom of a Swimming Pool

If you lay on your back and gaze up from the bottom of a swimming pool, the real world appears to bleed away. It's the kind of dream you don't have to go to sleep for. It hardly qualifies as tangible, so time turns soft and slow. The fragments of the sky and the shapes of the clouds will make the underwater world almost too comfortable. You can't stay here, your lungs will remind you. Whenever your head surfaces and you gasp for breath it's like you'd never even been away at all. The kiddy pool is still calm and empty. Your mom is still talking on the phone in the shade while your brother dives for pebbles in the deep end. Each time you dip under the ripples, it's a comfortable 51 second trip to a different planet. muffled surface noises cannot penetrate the solid intent of getting lost again. What is there to think about at the bottom of a pool? For the time being, you're not being asked to think certain things or throw your time away for something else like the next load of laundry or polite, thoughtless conversation with a boxy stranger. You are undisturbed and not pressed for anything except a quick breath of air. The sun rays break into pieces and roll against the marbled cyaneous ceiling that you admire so well. Something about that makes you wonder about nothing and everything all at the same time. On the car ride home, aside from memory, the only sign that the underwater daydreams actually happened was the puddle of water leaking from your ears and the stinging high up in your nose. It's nigh on impossible to find that kind of physical escape in many other places, but that's the best thing about it.

blue feathered bird

That blue feathered bird
was making a song,
but they uttered no word
when something was wrong.

"I'm leaving soon," they said,
with a suitcase half packed.
"Atropos wields her shears to my thread
and the odds are quite stacked!"

their fragile pen shook
the door was closing
as they strained for a look, 
they carried on composing

their feathers fell dull
but their body was light
the suitcase is full
it's their time to take flight.

if i were in charge of the world

If I were in charge of the world
I'd cancel hot dogs
I'd cancel head colds
I'd cancel gym class
and I'd cancel Sarah Palin, too.

If I were in charge of the world
there'd be longer naps
there'd be bigger clouds and
there'd be brighter stars in the city.

If I were in charge of the world
you wouldn't have "wisdom" teeth
you wouldn't have paper cuts
you wouldn't have tuition
or "only six months left to live"
you wouldn't even have Fox "News"

If I were in charge of the world
a donut milkshake would be a vegetable
all math tests would be a form of cruelty
and a person who sometimes forgot to sleep
and sometimes forgot to eat
would still be allowed to be
in charge of this world.

Writers Dreaming

Talking about any issue is an important part of getting through it. At the very least, communicating to some extent is the next best step. For me, it's purely a matter of whether I let myself dwell on it and let it swallow me up. The significance of the matter also needs to be put into perspective. Validation of certain negative feelings is the first step of getting over them, after all. I've recently been battling with this concept over the past few weeks. Recently losing someone that I felt very close to has been excruciating on certain days, but more than often those feelings are beaten back best with a baseball bat made of only the happiest memories you have, even if they're unrelated to the issue at hand. Giving in to a bad day and getting into a rut can certainly give the negativity the power it requires to keep beating you. I certainly hate the numb days that could have been well spent feeling every single emotion that climbs aboard the train of thought.

The unconscious imagination tells very little of me (at least to my knowledge) and more about other people in my life. It always creates images in technicolor realness like a Salvador Dali painting. Sometimes they are so lifelike that I often confront people about something that they did in my dream thinking that it had actually happened. Symbols and very real feelings and sensory details, mostly of dread, are a substantial thread weaving through my dream world. I've had nightmares of teeth falling out, of huge decrepit mansions, getting shot, and dead animals hung on walls. I can recall the events and reasoning as to why I might have dreamed up such a dark, peculiar concoction for someone who's so positive in their waking life. The majority of the time, I wake up feeling more exhausted than I was when my head hit the pillow, but it's just something I've learned how to get used to.

I enjoy talking to people so much I don't know if I would be extremely happy living without being able to speak, but if I had to then I would certainly make the best of it. Conversation and observation are on the same level of importance with me, but usually I'm doing a fraction too much of one over the other. 'Enjoy' is kind of an odd word to use to describe my feelings about talking to people. I guess I just know who to talk to in order to get that enjoyment. I've made my rounds through the people who don't particularly like to talk about anything beneficial so they're the ones that I never seem to speak around unless it's sarcastic.

When it comes to taking an exam, I can seem to have total recall of every place that I've ever been. This is nice, except for the fact that I'll never really be graded on my ability to remember what the Metropolitan Museum smells like. I can only seem to remember the most vivid memories at inconvenient times. The rest is either "filled in" with what I prefer to remember, or just glazed over. Memory recollection comes fairly easy for me, but the ages of around four to eleven are crystal clear. I only vaguely remember the year 2014, but can seem to totally relive 2005 in my imagination. 

paint chips

Haiku

A colorful scene

Picnic blanket folded out

No shoes required

Cacti bob and weave

They play in Arizona

Until the sun slips

Orange poppy fields

On a blue sky kind of day

Nothing else is planned

Acrostic 

So what happens when

Everything stops?

Rude and abrupt or otherwise.

Everyone wants to know eventually.

Nobody can cheat it or

Escape with a

Houdini kind of vanishing

Act.

Vultures sly in the air won't always be there to

Even the score and make

Nothing of their actions.

Scenery

A gleaming copper kettle has been abandoned on the table cloth

It politely rubs shoulders with the tubes of oil and the turpentine cup.

Paintings on the wall flaunt their gallery gold frames

And sit like old friends with their musky confidence.

There are hollow frames stacked in a corner,

gathering dust on weathered barn wood.

They are tired and retired.

They are ready for sleep.

Narrative

With his head leaned against the window,

With the train's melodic rickety clattering,

With the empty paper cup,

With the yellow fields of corn running alongside the window,

He lets the pen slide from his fingertips.

He lets his eyes get lost in the landscape blur.

He lets his eyelids sink lower and lower.

He lets his tunnel of dreams lift him away.