Saturday, October 31, 2009


This piece is called "Through Ice." Really enjoyable project, and wasn't even messy. Sometimes there's so much cutting and pasting and such, that I want to die when I'm finished because I see the huge mess i've left behind. All my stuff.

Thursday, October 29, 2009


Realization. All my stuff... :)

Drive

Taking a drive, ripping up the road, the driver is going somewhere, somewhere. The driver is unaware of his destination, but he hopes it will be beautiful. When all is said and done, it will be peace, if all is said and done right, he thinks. Nay, he hopes. Because that is all he has done on this ride, is hope, but the source dwindles with every mile. He has used speed to overcome frailty, the driver only feels right when he is shooting off into the distance, so fast that the open top whips air in, making it hard to breathe. When the air cuts out of his throat, his mouth shooting open from shock, he feels alright. These diversions take him away from the curving and sickening road, from the fears that slowly corrode him, like salt to his convertible. The driver felt uneasy of the lack of a destination and the nearness of the end, all at once. He has hit some nasty bumps on this road, especially since he hits them at such a velocity. His car shows some of the marks to remind him, and so does he. Yes, some of these marks have changed him. He drives quite recklessly at this point. If the driver were to send another driver off the road, he would not feel guilty. There had been a time, when it would have upset him, but now it was just a minor oversight. This happened on the road. If they did not make it to the destination, all the better, for the road was perilous and altered the driver, better to be unchanged, better to stay off the road. Sometimes the droning of the engine has tired the driver, he has wished to slow, but felt that he couldn’t. There was no tiring on this road, and in fear has stepped on the gas. If he had slowed, the driver, wondered, would I have seen something else? Did I miss something? He has left beautiful paradises to enter hellish dumps. Sometimes the driver fears that he has hastened to get to nothing; that there is no true end, that it is truly just a parking lot, or a cliff. What if I am not prepared when the end comes, what if it’s not what I wanted? Then I have hurried, have left everything behind for nothing. What if I find that I rushed through the best part? His hand gripped the steering wheel at this thought, and he pushed on the gas, gunning it down a hill and up a steep incline. The scenery has changed so vastly, but all on the same pavement, all to the same end, no matter what roads he takes. So he drives; the wind whipping about his head, a maddeningly high whistle circling and spiraling around his head. He has sometimes listened closely to the wind, heard voices in it. The driver prays there is someone watching out for him, that protects and ensures a fitting end. The driver implores for someone to see his intentions, to remember what the road has done to him; but most, for the destination to be worth driving to. Taking a drive, ripping up the road, the driver is going somewhere, somewhere.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009









This would be the best fifteen minutes I have ever spent in Target! Bobo seemed to not understand that the objective was to NOT look good. While I was picking out the most ridiculous head-gear, she was getting the flattering stuff, and I was in most of the pictures, which usually doesn't happen. It was hilarious... we also tried on awful clothing ensembles. Mine was gold leggings, a purple and pink plaid skirt and a grey and black ghost shirt... sounds harmless, doesn't it? You don't need to see THOSE photos, though. :)

Imagine a day when nothing goes right and you decide to punish some cardboard for the irrational humor of life. Meet Sel, my little alien friend... I was going to give her a body and go for the old poster styles with little girls in pink dresses and flowers in her hair... but it's not finished quite.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009


This is for my dear friend Tricia... I have been working on more of an Art Nouveu kind of style... which you can see needs work... but lovely Tricia helps a lot. :)

Monday, October 26, 2009

Another Story Unnamed.

Here's another little bit of writing. It doesn't feel complete, I might add more to it if I am compelled to do so. :)

There was something about the waves that crashed in on Rialto Beach that set it apart. Perhaps it was because it had been the first beach she had set her eyes on, perhaps the nostalgia tainted her view of all beaches. But whatever it was, it consumed Veronica body and soul. When she dreamed, she could hear the waves thundering to the shore. In stressful times she imagined the rocks that adorned the beach; each of them worn to be perfectly rounded, soft and cold circular objects. As she stood on Realto, the wind knocked against her, stealing her breath. Terse screams could be heard in the gasping air, high pitched like a banshee. It must have been the cries of gulls high above, Veronica told herself. Despite how the wind blew, its distinct smell curled thickly around her. The scent of the life living below that was left behind in each wave to decompose filled her head. The view of thick woods surrounded her senses. It reminded Veronica of the fairy tales that told of the black forest. So dense, light was scarce to come by, and fiendish, evildoers found refuge in the shadows and corners of this crooked dimension. The waves came in with a dramatic flourish, ripping and roaring into the rocks, a crescendo of the senses as the spray shot into the air. Veronica’s gaze shifted over the mound in the distance. She knew its shape well, just as she did with the entire beach. Although she could not remember the legend that was told by Native Americans about that rocky silhouette not more than two hundred yards away, she still had the insatiable craving to swim to its rough façade, to climb the imposing figure. There was something wonderful about swimming in the ocean, a complete surrender to the willful waves as they sloshed heavily over you. A total reneging of commitments except one to the water, to know your place, vulnerable. If it wanted you, it would take you; like all things wild it had powerful, dark secrets that only came to you via the embrace of death. Veronica shivered from something she was unable to identify as she watched the water being pushed away as the waves passed, turning and twisting in green spirals.

Friday, October 23, 2009

A Clockwork Orange

Just a couple things to aid in unlocking A Clockwork Orange

1. The extra chapter
2. The language
3. The point

First of all, when beginning A Clockwork Orange, I had no idea what it was truly about. A lot of the books I read are classics widely publicized. This one was different. All I had was a raw interpretation on the back of the book, and the knowledge that Stanley Kubrick had made a movie based off of it with aids in style by Andy Warhol. So thus, a clean slate was there when I read the book. When I read a book, I like to read up on the author and background. It may seem silly, but I have found you truly find the center of a piece when you see what time period the book was written, the author’s life and personality, and such information. It truly gives you a glimpse into why it was written, why it is a classic, its purpose and true meaning. So naturally, with my lack of knowledge on all things A Clockwork Orange, I read the introduction. It was blatantly stated by the author, Anthony Burgess, that he truly did not favor this piece of work, whatsoever. It had been merely an artistic experiment that had gained world recognition. Yes, there are other pieces that he put much more time and passion into that are hardly acknowledged. He also stated that when he wished to get it published it returned with a chapter less. The publisher had cut off the last chapter, it ended on the sixth, leaving the seventh to not even be mentioned. A Clockwork Orange is designed to have 3 parts, which Burgess planned on selling separately. Each part was comprised of 7 chapters. Anyone that can do simple math can see this makes twenty-one chapters. Instead, Burgess found the revised copy was 1 book with twenty chapters. He had chosen the number twenty-one specifically with thoughts of numerology. It represented adulthood, maturity. Burgess was not pleased about the new structure, but noted it being a dark time in his life, and took the money. But due to his laments for the past approximately forty years, the publisher has added the last chapter. That was not before he had it published also in Europe, which did end with twenty-one from the very beginning. Now this all may seem pointless, but Kubrick read the American version, which ends on a very different note, being that there is a chapter less. Many people in Europe were extremely confused at the end because of this. One may wonder, “What could have been so dramatic to completely change the book?” Well, you’ll just have to read it won’t you, now?

Second thing to keep in mind when choosing A Clockwork Orange is the lingo. The main reason this book took so long for me to read was the language, and not the subject matter. Burgess has created his own slang language, so when you first pick up this book, it could be a little overwhelming. My general quote while reading this book was, “What the HELL?!” This book got a good thrashing because after a chapter or so I’d throw it across the room. This is not a comical exaggeration. I acted this way due to frustration in lack of understanding, that is, until about the first third chapter. An epiphany bashed me on the side of the head. It’s not about completely comprehending ever last word, but the imagery that comes from the word. It is difficult to explain, only one could truly comprehend by picking it up and sticking you nose into the pages. And that is when I saw that this was an enormous feat in creative literature. A whole new slang language that was so graphic you understood it. Words began making complete sense just due to the words he used. Still don’t understand? Here’s one of my favorite quotes illustrating his visually powerful new language:

“Then, brothers, it came. Oh bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets three-wise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder.”

Yeah, I know. It makes you just want to take your rookers and shove them in your ookos so that you can’t slooshy any more, just creech all bezoomy like. Ta-dah! I am now fluent!

Third thing to acknowledge is the point of the book. I’m not going to out anything, because I felt it was much more powerful, being that I had no clue what this was truly about. But let me ask you a question: how are we, as a people, fit to punish others? How are we to make all peaceful and loving? What does it take to make somebody naturally good? Should it be something of consent or of force? These are all questions acknowledged by this book, and handled in a very different manner. This book is violent, this must be stated Expect “ultra-violence” as the main character, Alex, calls it. But it is a very passionate, mind opening book. And despite all the frustration, I am glad I read it. I hope this helps anyone who has ever thought of reading it and couldn’t decide. But I don’t ask about the movie. I don’t think that one’s for me.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

I enjoy writing quite a bit, in fact I am attempting to write a book. Please, you don't want to even know how it's going... but I find a certain sense o therapy in writing and have decided to not only do it for myself, but shove it down everybody else's throat. Here's a little something I wrote today, I call it "Unlocking Clenched Knuckles."

“I’m here for you,” those had been the words that were always wished to be spoken, were screaming through my eyes. There were no caresses, no sweet talk, but solid, stout speech, as if we were already at a later stage in our lives. Like we understood each other on the basest levels and irreversibly loved each other for them. I knew you put me on a pedestal and that you got caught up in our emotional miscommunication. You knew I was still piecing together myself from recent spills and haphazard battles, you saw that I was hot-headed and stubborn, but you were too. But, nevertheless, “I’m here for you,” was all that came to mind when we silently and resolutely sat next to each other. I’m sure there were things in me you never fully comprehended, as am I positive in those regards to you. You see, when we spoke, when we were together, it was as if I spoke to a part of myself, that I was truly complete. But I cannot be here any longer. When you left, I promised to stay and wait, to be here. I knew it was the harder side of you leaving, with choosing leaving being your lot. I acknowledged that it ran a narrow line with being a fool, but I was a fool when it came to all things considering you. But what do you do when half of the one is nowhere to be seen, no sign of showing. My greatest fear is that someone has filled my place. Am I was so easily replaced? While I feel, with great certainty, that you will never be substituted. So my question is, what did you wish to say, those unspoken words between us when I tried to utter my complete and total surrender to us, where you trying to claw your way away from me?