The Shoes That I Wear in the Rain

Summertime

2012-02-14T13:17:00.001-08:00

would you live your life in summertime
with golds and leaves of green filling the sky?
and throughout each true season, close your eyes,
and shut out all the cold that chills your skin.
when the bitter fruit of death we taste,
and swallow down the medicines we measure,
please hold my warm hand and pretend with me
that instead we taste the berries of July,
and although blind and dark our days may be
together we would live in summertime.

Dash Slash

2012-01-26T12:40:00.001-08:00

The strokes of my hand cannot be controlled,
the slashing, streaking that corrupts the page,
the marks of my pen, thick as blood and bold,
I am the chosen holder, I the mage.

I wield my weapon, skillfully or not,
as well as I could ever hope to fight.
Because if I don't write, I will just rot:
a decomposing mess fleeing my light.

If I could train my thinking to allow
a poem to spring, natural to my mouth,
then all my meaning would so freely flow,
along my dashes, slashes, trickling south.

It would be like a rivulet, so clean,
a waterfall, o're rocks with rhythm crash,
Oh just to say the very words I mean!
dash slash, dash slash, dash slash, dash slash, dash slash.

Bad Poetry

2012-01-25T22:50:00.001-08:00

Bad poetry
is cafeteria food.
cliches and typicality are
cheap salt to mask a weak, flavorless soup.
a forced rhyme
is stale cereal molded into a mushy marshmallow mess.
a stumble in rhythm
is fried pork pieces or pickles on pizza.
I force it down my throat,
and the aftertaste appalls me.

Equilibrium

2011-11-27T21:17:00.000-08:00

You are the unstoppable force,
And I am the Immovable object.
I'll be Yin and you be Yang,
we'll move around one another,
but we'll never mix.
I'd like to stay
at this harmonious equilibrium
forever.
but you travel north and I travel south,
Like the zax, we meet in the middle
and someone has to give,
and let the other have his way.
I am a strong city.
but you are tearing down my walls.
when you see the pieces fly,
I know that you'll stop and apologize.
but maybe you know,
and maybe you don't,
that some defenses cannot be rebuilt,
and you still win because
you're that much closer
to getting inside.

Definition of Friend

2011-11-17T18:37:00.000-08:00

According to dictionary.com, a friend is:

noun
1. a person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard.
2. a person who gives assistance; patron; supporter.
3. a person who is on good terms with another; a person who is not hostile.
4.a member of the same nation, party, etc.
5. a member of the Religious Society of Friends; a Quaker.

verb (used with object)

7. to befriend.

8. to add to one's list of contacts on a social-networking Web site.

Origin:

before 900; Middle English friend, frend, Old English frēond friend, lover, relative (cognate with Old Saxon friund, Old High German friunt ( German Freund ), Gothic frijōnds ), orig. present participle of frēogan, cognate with Gothic frijōn to love.

Brainyquote.com says that a friend is:

"One who entertains for another such sentiments of esteem, respect, and affection that he seeks his society aud welfare; a wellwisher; an intimate associate; sometimes, an attendant.

One not inimical or hostile; one not a foe or enemy; also, one of the same nation, party, kin, etc., whose friendly feelings may be assumed. The word is some times used as a term of friendly address.

One who looks propitiously on a cause, an institution, a project, and the like; a favorer; a promoter; as, a friend to commerce, to poetry, to an institution.

One of a religious sect characterized by disuse of outward rites and an ordained ministry, by simplicity of dress and speech, and esp. by opposition to war and a desire to live at peace with all men. They are popularly called Quakers.

A paramour of either sex.

To act as the friend of; to favor; to countenance; to befriend.

according to wikipedia:

"A form of interpersonal relationship generally considered to be closer than association, although there is a range of degrees of intimacy in both friendships and associations. Friendship and association are often thought of as spanning across the same continuum."

A valuable friendship supposedly demonstrates the following aspects:

The tendency to desire what is best for the other

Sympathy and empathy

Honesty, perhaps in situations where it may be difficult for others to speak the truth, especially in terms of pointing out the perceived faults of one's counterpart

Mutual understanding and compassion; ability to go to each other for emotional support

Enjoyment of each other's company

Trust in one another

Positive reciprocity — a relationship is based on equal give and take between the two parties.

The ability to be oneself, express one's feelings and make mistakes without fear of judgement.

according to the free dictionary

"Word History: A friend is a lover, literally. The relationship between Latin am cus "friend" and am "I love" is clear, as is the relationship between Greek philos"friend" and phile "I love." In English, though, we have to go back a millennium before we see the verb related to friend. At that time, fr ond, the Old English word for "friend," was simply the present participle of the verb fr on, "to love." The Germanic root behind this verb is *fr -, which meant "to like, love, be friendly to." Closely linked to these concepts is that of "peace," and in fact Germanic made a noun from this root, *frithu-, meaning exactly that. Ultimately descended from this noun are the personal names Frederick, "peaceful ruler," and Siegfried, "victory peace." The root also shows up in the name of the Germanic deity Frigg, the goddess of love, who lives on today in the word Friday, "day of Frigg," from an ancient translation of Latin Veneris di s, "day of Venus.""

the online oxford dictionary says:

"Until very recently the notion of friending someone was archaic, confined to dusty tomes or poetic musings. Now, thanks to the growth of social networking sites, the use of friend as a verb has been revived, in reference to the process of adding someone to a list of online contacts (I haven’t friended my mother on Facebook and I don’t intend to; ). This has , of course, opened up whole new realms of social anxiety, from finding those you have friended won’t friend you in return, to discovering that someone has unfriended or defriended you — removed you from their list of friends (rather than being an adult about it and telling me how he felt, he unfriended me)."

“An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast; a wild beast may wound your body, but an evil friend will wound your mind.”
~Buddha

“Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend.”
~Martin Luther King, Jr.

“Old friends pass away, new friends appear. It is just like the days. An old day passes, a new day arrives. The important thing is to make it meaningful: a meaningful friend - or a meaningful day.”
~Dalai Lama

“I desire so to conduct the affairs of this administration that if at the end... I have lost every other friend on earth, I shall at least have one friend left, and that friend shall be down inside of me.”
~Abraham Lincoln

fly

2011-11-17T16:08:00.001-08:00

There's a lonely fly
on the coffee shop footstool,
wandering around.

Two Friends

2011-11-16T22:28:00.002-08:00

Desire and Misery walk hand in hand
Like old friends too afraid to be alone.
They fill the spaces in between us.
They are what bring us together;
they are what keeps us apart.
I try to send them both away from me.
They sulk slowly, but never seperate.
They hide in the corners of myself.
They whisper and plot against me.
When I am free of them, I wonder
what will be left?

Can I ever win if I have nothing to lose?

Poems Scribbled in Notebooks.

2011-11-10T11:47:00.001-08:00

Paper

Paper is attractive.

Maybe it's the lines,
so crisp, straight, and even.
they are like rules,
laid out clearly, easy to follow.

Maybe it's the color,
so white, the light makes it glow.
it's as if purity
has been pressed out into a thin sheet.

Maybe it's the sound,
the leaves whispering as they turn.
As if they are repeating back
What you have been writing.

Maybe it's everything.

[haiku]

the fat-bodied moths
crawl around the glass lantern,
but never reach the light.

a dance of grey wings,
-neither bright nor glorious.
humble butterflies.

Hana

2011-11-07T09:21:00.001-08:00

Hana is the Japanese word that means cherry blossom, flower, and sometimes beauty or woman's beauty. In Japanese culture -especially in poetry- the cherry blossom is a symbol of something transient or temporary. It is the symbol of the deep ties between beauty and sadness; for the cherry blossom is present only for a while, and then it is gone. This is a common and significant theme in haiku poetry.

I'm thinking about doing a small series of paintings based upon the main themes and ideas that can be found in haiku and are important in Japanese culture. I share a taste for the transient and temporary things that are beautiful partly because of their mortality. I want to integrate these ideas into my writing and my artwork.

Remedium: Prologue

2011-11-04T11:12:00.001-07:00

Prologue

        Dr. Robert Ferason slammed his fist on the conference table. A gathering of over a hundred specialists from around the world looked up at him in astonishment. He was the first to object. “My point is this,” He enunciated, heat reddening his face, “This medicine has potential that you cannot even imagine. I have seen side effects of this medicine that led me to believe that it is dangerous, and I think it is irresponsible for us to release it to the public without a five year clinical trial.”
            “Dr. Ferason, if you will please sit down,” said chairwoman. “Now, really, there’s no need for physical outbursts. Let us discuss this as civil people. We have had many clinical trials on the artificial hormone, and all of them have been successful. Now I beg to differ from Dr. Ferason’s point of view. The way I see it, we have created the best medication that can be created. We have performed many clinical trials on both humans and animals, some lasting a whole year long. Now, while we sit in here, trying to decide if we should further delay the use of this miracle hormone, people are dying out there, who could be saved if this hormone were administered to them. We have taken a vow to help people, let us help them. Let us bless them with this cure. Let us give them the salvation from sickness that they have been waiting for.”
            The conference room was filled with applause.
            A reporter said, “I’m here at New Life Hospital in Washington DC where the first shipment of the new ‘Miracle Hormone’ has just arrived. With me is the Dr. Calvin Normans, who personally worked on designing the hormone with some of the world’s greatest scientific minds. Dr. Normans, what would you say is the chief goal of this new hormone?”

Dr. Normans smiled into the camera, “Well, Tiffany, like every other medicine it is meant to eliminate sickness and pain, to stop suffering. But unlike any other medicine, this hormone will cure all sickness, eliminate all pain...This medicine will cure the people of...everything.”

            Banners were hung up in front of every hospital and clinic and pharmacy in the nation. A record breaking amount of the hormone was in production. The banners posters signs, and headlines said: Be Cured. Of Everything. The new Miracle Hormone was distributed throughout the entire world. There were fundraisers to raise money to get the Hormone to the diseased children of third world countries. The people of the United States emptied their pockets for the cause.
            Dr. Ferason objected. He and a small band of doctors set to work trying to prove the medicine to be dangerous. Some people were on the edge of the fence about it. But every day, people died, and every day, the others wondered if they could have been saved if they’d taken the hormone injection. The nation’s Health care was under the control of the national government, and the national government had determined that the hormone was a valid treatment for everything. Doctors were required to treat their patients with the hormone.
            Dr. Ferason quit. His sister, who was a pharmacist, quit. His wife was a writer for the local newspapers and magazines. She wrote articles about the dangers of the artificial hormone. But her ideas seemed implausible, and she soon lost her reputation as a reliable source. Everyone else said the medicine was saving lives. There was proof.
            People who had terminal cancer were cured. People with low immunity stopped getting colds. No one bothered making flu shots that year, Because no one was going to get sick . Crime rates began to decline as mental conditions were resolved by the medication. One could achieve not only perfect health, but one could become a better person.

Dr. Ferason had a television interview with a curious talk show host who had lost her previous guest due to bad weather delaying his flight. “Dr. Ferason, I heard that you were the only person to object to the use of this new miracle hormone. Now, I’m very interested in hearing your side of the story. Can you tell me briefly, why don’t you think this medicine should be used?”
“Well, very simply, because it has not been tested for long term effects. Yes, some of the Clinical trials ran for over a year, but frankly that’s not long enough. What happens to the individual in two years? five years? We don’t know.”

“And you really think that this medicine is capable of having dangerous side effects, Dr. Ferason?”
“Yes, actually. I have personally witnessed some discouraging side effects on the animals we’ve tested the Hormone on.”’

“But not the humans.”
“Well no, not the humans. Not yet, anyways.”

“But you still insist that this medicine should not be used? If all of these other people encourage the use of this medicine, what makes you so sure that you’re right and they are wrong?”

            “It’s clear to me, first of all, that everyone wants this medicine to be their [2] savior. This is something they’ve been working on for decades, and the idea that it works is just so appealing and so beautiful to them, that they fail to see the truth about this medicine. They’re only seeing what they want to see. This is a common human error, I’m not saying these men and women aren’t wonderful scientists, but the truth is that if you place all your hope into something like a medicine or a project, you will see it in a glorified light that will hide it’s faults until it’s too late. And that’s where we are headed, I believe, I strongly suggest that people avoid this medicine-”
            “Yes, Dr. Ferason, thank you for your input,”
            “Until we can run more tests, after all imagine the disasters that could occur-“
            “Dr. Ferason, thank you for joining us today, I’m sure the public appreciates your input on this topic.”
            The Talk Show host fought for her job after that interview. The national government talked to the president about making the hormone mandatory. But instead, they offered a stimulus check to any family whose members were medicated with the hormone. The people on the edge of the fence made their decisions. It’s not every day one gets paid to have perfect health, after all.

If you are interested in reading the entire manuscript of this book, I will let interested readers view it for a limited time in exchange for giving me a review of the book. I will use these reviews only to help me with the editing process. I'd like to have some feedback by the end of November/early December. Please email me if you are interested in reading the rest of the story!

~Hannah Mathiot

write.from.the.start@gmail.com

Advising Day

2011-11-02T21:08:00.001-07:00

Advising day is nearly done,
our secret codes have now been won!
we've picked our classes for the spring,
we're so excited, we could sing.
the task is now to stay up late,
for twelve-oh-one, we must now wait!
we've chugged our coffee, double shots,
we want to get those ideal slots!
intro to writing, health and art,
early sign up! (cause we're smart).
it's twelve o clock! and to my sorrow,
i have a geology test tomorrow.

Call to Readers

2011-11-02T10:47:00.000-07:00

Attention readers,
I have just finished writing a short science fiction/ allegory/ zombie apocalypse novel. I am currently looking for people to read it over and write reviews for it so that I can judge it's quality. If you are interested in reading it within the next couple of weeks, and emailing me an honest review of it, please email me and request to read it.

The book is called Remedium, and it is about a small family of doctors who are searching for a cure for a disease that has turned most of the population into inhuman-looking, animal-like creatures who they call "the sick." Abby Corner, the seventeen-year-old daughter of the family, searches for the cure in her own unique way and makes some interesting discoveries about the sick.

Meanwhile a passionate group of survivors called "the Slayers" attempt to eliminate the existence of the sick and put the dead to rest at last. Although they are convinced that they are following the right path of action, a few encounters with the young rebel, Abby Corner, encourages a slayer named Dante Scorne to think a little more about what he is doing. He will eventually have to pick a side, and Abby's life becomes increasingly endangered as her family and her refuse to conform to the Slayers' rules.

Please email me if you are interested in reading this to write a review. I would like to have some reviews for the book by the end of November so that I can pursue the right editing paths. The novel is relatively short, about 52,000 words. My email address is

write.from.the.start@gmail.com

I hope to hear from you if you are interested!

The Bi-Polar Writing Class and The Baby Squirrel.

2011-10-03T17:22:00.000-07:00

When asked a question about class attendance, my writing teacher started talking about how she suspects some football coaches hit their players if they show enthusiasm for doing a good job, to instill the idea that doing a good job is their duty. Whether this is true or not, and how it relates to class attendance, I'm really not entirely sure.

Teacher: I'm not trying to imply that I would hit you....You look like you might bruise easily.
Student: (muttering) I might bruise you easily.
Teacher: see....Y'all heard that. If I walk in here Wednesday with bruises, you know who gave them to me.

I kind of admire this student, just for being so obnoxious and outspoken. She's not someone you want to mess with either. I love to listen to her bicker back and forth with my slightly weird and always argumentative writing teacher.

Teacher: Here's a cute baby. (shows picture)
Student: Who's baby is that?
Teacher: That's my baby, man!
Student2: I have a new baby too! It's a baby squirrel! My neighbor found him and gave him to me, and now he's my pet!
Teacher: What's his name?
Student 2: Dalorean!
Teacher: Wow...I didn't expect that. Have you been watching too many 80's movies, or what?

My writing class is kind of bipolar. You never really know what is going to happen. We could be intensely arguing about the definition of hate one minute, talking about dead bears an Obama posters, and discussing motivation behind acts of horrible violence that I won't go into. Things can get pretty serious. But other times, the class is relaxed and humerus. One can never fully know what to expect when one walks in.

Teacher: (picks up snack) This is nuts and seeds and stuff. It's not a bag of dope.
Students: Yeah, yeah....
Teacher: Ok. For you're bibliography, if I say 'cite a book with one author,' you can cite... Interview with the Vampire, cause you know I'd just curl up and die if you put Twilight on there.

Teacher: How many of you feel the need to hurt yourselves when talking about MLA?.....(no response from students)....Liars. All of you.

How to Avoid Hugs From Random Boys

2011-10-02T20:35:00.000-07:00

Boy: I'm so happy about this cheeseburger! i want to hug you.
Me: (shakes head) no.
Boy: do you have something against hugs?
Me: no.
Boy: do you have something against cheeseburgers?
me: no...
Boy: do you have something against hugs with cheeseburgers?
me:...no....
Boy: do you have something against me?
me: no...
Boy: What is it then?
me: I have a boyfriend.
Boy: well jjeeze! its just a hug. (immediately leaves me alone and makes no further attempts to hug/touch/be anywhere near me. ;)
me: I love my boyfriend.

The Ginger Tree

2011-10-01T10:11:00.000-07:00

I recently finished reading The Ginger Tree, by Oswald Wynd for my literature of culture class. This story is the journals and letters of Mary Mackenzie, a young Presbyterian Scotswoman, who travels to China to marry an English soldier she barely knows. Soon after she arrives and settles into an unhappy marriage, the Russo-Japanese war breaks out, and she gets caught in an affair with a Japanese soldier. The consequences of this bring Mary to Japan, where she begins a new life different than anything she could have foreseen. As times change, Mary changes into an independent woman who thinks for herself and becomes a successful business woman.

The book gives readers a wonderful taste of what the early 1900s were like in China and Japan. It is also a beautiful story about gain and loss, friendship, love, and change. A very satisfying read.

Home Schoolers Don't Share

2011-09-23T12:09:00.001-07:00

In college, one is assigned a surprising amount of group projects. Especially for major assignments, teachers like to divide everyone into groups and watch incompatible personalities bicker with each other. These teachers seem to think that people with vastly different minds can somehow come up with the same vision for a project, and pull it off with the same (or greater) level of skill that a single individual could.

For all I know, this may be true for many people. Perhaps a group setting in which people can share the load of the assignment helps them to make a better final projects. But I feel very sorry for those groups who get assigned to work with a home school graduate (as I am), because most of the time, this doesn't happen.

You see, home school graduates come from a very different educational background than other students, mainly because the majority of them did not have classmates. As a result of this, home school students come up with visions for their own projects, communicate what they want to do to their teachers, and then sit down and do the entire project, on their own, with little to no assistance, until they get it exactly the way they like it.

Be not surprised then, when a home school graduate takes on the largest portion of the group project voluntarily and with a deep sigh of relief, and then offers to help you with your portion. Because the fact of the matter is, that homeschoolers are control freaks when it comes to doing projects. This might be because they have had to impress their parents for their whole lives, and we all know how difficult that can be.

If you get assigned to work with a homeschooler on a group project, there are a few things you can do to make sure that the homeschooler foes not completely take your project over.

1. do not divide the project into sections. If you give a homeschooler a taste of free reign over a project, they will obsess about continuity and try to help you make your portion more like their own by stealing it from you. Do each portion of your project as a group, so that they get to voice their ideas in each section, but you get the chance to contribute as well.

2. Do not leave the homeschooler alone with the project. He or she may begin to change things or further develop ideas that do not fit your vision. Stay with the homeschooler while they work at all times and work on it with them.

3. Voice all of your ideas and opinions. If the homeschooler is the only one talking, and the only one throwing out creative and innovative ideas, he or she will feel a sense of ownership over the project.

Remember, homeschoolers don't share. They are greedy, project-loving control freaks, and can be hard to deal with if you like working as a team. If you get paired up or grouped up with one for a project, be on your guard. It could get scary.

what high school doesn't tell you

2011-09-19T20:09:00.000-07:00

In high school, they always told me, “We are giving you assignments that are going to prepare you for the academic challenges you will face in college.” Well, they get credit for trying, but they missed a few things, especially when it comes to readings and essay assignments.

The first thing they don’t teach you in high school is this thing called a “reaction paper.” These little excuses for an essay are 1-2 pages, and they are your reactions to something you read or experienced. In these essays, you’re supposed to analyze and ask questions about your reading or experience. The first three or four of these I wrote, I was a little unsure of what I was doing. The most interesting part of these essays, is that they are written in first person, where you say “I think” and “I discovered” et cetera. In high school, you’ll be taught that using first person in an essay is unprofessional and in college, you will have points deducted for such things. This is nonsense. Teachers instruct us to write certain essays in first person. That is something I wish I’d had more experience in before I arrived here.

Secondly, there is a kind of nasty trick that teachers like to pull on unsuspecting English students in college. It has happened to me twice now. First, they assign you part one of an essay, and tell you that no research is required and they want you to write from your own thoughts and opinions. When you come back for the peer editing workshop, they will reveal the “part two” of the assignment, in which they will instruct you to integrate careful, credible research into your essay to back up your opinions, or expand upon your points. Never once had I been assigned an essay like this in high school, and I wish now that I had been better prepared for it.

One more thing, you know how in high school, they tell you to have chapter this or that of Romeo and Juliet read by next class? Well, in college, they say, “you should get this book, and start reading it.” And you ask “when do we have to have it read?” and the professor says, “oh, a couple of months from now.” Well invariably, one month later, they will ask you if you’re finished with it and tell you to have it read by next class. My advice to you is that when you go to college and your professor assigns you a book to read, read it every day no matter what.

Unwound

2011-09-18T18:37:00.000-07:00

There was a poem
Wrapped in a silver star,
that she saw that night.

There was an angel,
Untangling the mess from afar,
trying to make things right.

There was chaos and hope,
There was a loop in the rope,
and somehow she reached too close.

The noose of her sin,
and the tortures therein
were all mysteries she never chose.

and a hundred bright wings,
said a hundred different things,
but there wasn't a truth to be found.

And none of them know,
-for they reap what they sew-
that the darkness is light unwound.

That's How Much I Love You.

2011-09-18T13:44:00.000-07:00

If you were cold and wet,
and I were a towel,
I would wrap around you.

If you were in the dark,
and I were a light bulb
I would light up for you.

If you were in the sun,
and I were a tree,
I would be your shade.

If you were raining,
and I were an umbrella
I would cover you.

If you were locked in a room,
and I were a key
I would let you out.

If you were a poem,
and I were a pencil,
I would write you.

Introduction to Western

2011-08-26T12:46:00.000-07:00

My first day of college, I arrived to check into my room only to find that I was not technically allowed to move in until two days later. However, my sister being in the mentoring program meant that she had to get on campus earlier than most incoming freshmen and transfers. Luckily, my room mate was a mentor as well, and so I went ahead and moved in anyways (I had not been issued a key to my room). Another inconvenience was that I had not been to orientation, and so I did not have a "Cat Card." This turned out to be problematic, because car cards were what students used to get into their dorm buildings and to buy their meals.

Haley offered to buy me dinner at the cafeteria, but unfortunately for the both of us, nothing was opened, and her cat card was useless: it had yet to be activated. so we had to make a Wal-Mart run within our first two hours on campus, simply because we needed food...

During the next couple of days, Wal-Mart would prove to be our second home. Especially because even after orientation, my cat card had not been activated and I still had to cook my own food in the commons room. That's all well and good, except for when a massive mountain thunderstorm puts out the electricity in Wal-mart, and one has to race up to the front and buy anything you have enough cold hard cash for before the batteries in the registers die. Oh, and then remember on the way home that the traffic lights are all out as well, and so pay very close attention to those traffic directors in the green neon vests.

So that's how I learned what to expect in Cullowhee. It's really a great place, as long as you don't expect anything to actually work. Teacher's insert "In case of blackboard problems, contact..." into the syllabus. The bookstore on campus sells this interesting object that I had never before seen, called an Ethernet cable. It is used to connect to the internet when -take a guess- the wireless connection doesn't work! The soda machine's have directions to the refund center in case they don't work. the campus library has printers in case your wireless printer doesn't work, but if the coin counting machine hooked up to the printers in the library don't work....well...then you've just lost a quarter.

Welcome to Western :)

The Case of The Toxic Sketcbook

2011-07-26T09:02:00.000-07:00

It was the very epitome of a quiet day at my little art store. The rain was silently falling onto the streets of a shadowed grey New Bern, and there was nothing to do up front except make reminder calls and vacuum the carpet. I cheerfully greeted an older man who wandered into the store. He asked for the manager, who was busy teahing a class.

"Well then," he said, "Can you give this to him?" He handed me his business card and an art distributor's magazine.

"Of course," I smiled.

Maybe he was feeling generous. He smiled back and said to me, "And here, have a sample!" He produced a pocket sized sketch notebook, "Give one to him too." He handed me another.

"Thank you, I will."

"Look! They have lines!" He added.

I wondered why a traveler's pocket sketch book would need to have lines on it. But I didn't bring it up.

We said our goodbyes, and he said he'd call the store sometime. When he had gone, I examined the sketch notebook more closely. It was a vibrant red color, with a dark blue ribbon bookmark, which I thought was very pretty. It was also Recycled! Imagine my surprise when I turned it over and saw the warning lable on the back.

"Warning: This product contains DEHP, a phthalate chemical known to the State of California to cause cancer, birth defects and other reproductive harm."

Great. I thought. A toxic sketchbook, that's all we need. I'm still not sure if I should keep the thing or get it as far away from me as posssible. And as much as I am greatful to the kind older man for giving me a sample, I cant help but imagine him a part of a conspiracy to somehow trake over the world with "art supply warfare."

looking ahead

2011-07-26T07:23:00.000-07:00

I've made the trip before: and I will return.
Its a long, peaceful ride up the mountian.
I've watched the sun turn orange and gold
as it carresses the lush, colorful treetops.
I've found myself there in the early morning,
watching billows of mist rise like ghosts
from in between the slopes of dark earth.
It's a place that softly calls when I go away.
It's a place that embraces me when I return.

Always

2011-07-20T18:26:00.000-07:00

You say that you love me.
you see two souls, who dance together,
hand in hand, until, together, they ascend.

There is no one who loves
who runs away
with no intention of returning.

There is only a slow drift:
like the expanding of the universe,
that pulls us into solitude.

There is only the ticking of time,
that brings our hands across one another,
and then pulls yours away from mine.

But when you say always,
so softly, so sweetly,
I hear our ghosts dancing,
and I cling to the hope that something,
something may actually be
forever.

rain

2011-07-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

our life ticks by, we are everturning gears.
tick tick tick.
we are a collection of moments
that come and go.
rising and falling waves,
that roar and hush, roar and hush.
flowers that burst into bloom,
bloom and die, and fade.
We are stars that shine brightly.
and in the morning are irrelevant.
We are temporal, everything inside of us
around us and in between us,
will dissapear like rain that hits the ground.
and dries.

The Curious Case of the Manikin-Killer Customer and the Giant Rubber Bands.

2011-07-16T12:35:00.001-07:00

I work at an Art store. Therfore, I meet all manner of interesting people. On this particular day, I think I could count on one hand the number of people who had come into our shop.

Customer: are these giant rubber bands?
Me: Yes.
Customer: That is awesome. I'm going to attack people with these.

Yes, in case you were wondering, this was a for real grown-up adult. He might have been in his mid-late 20s. The giant rubber bands were actually invented to hold huge papers onto drawing boards, and were tucked away in our drafting section with all the boring sruff like compasses and circle stencels. I never thought anyone would buy them on impulse or just for fun, but I imagined that if you had enough strength and long enough arms, you could do some serious damage with them.

Customer: I didn't know they made these magnetic manikins.
Me: Those are really fun.
Customer: I had a manikin but it broke the second day I had it. We had all kinds of fun setting up murder scenes with it at work.

I was wondering where this guy worked. And fearing for the life of the poor magnetic manikin. But there wasn't much I could do for him now except hope that he didn't become the target practice for the giant rubber band shooters.

I could almost hear the manikin wimpering in fear and the rubber bands snickering mischieviously as the curious customer left with a smile on his face.

The Story

2011-07-16T09:24:00.000-07:00

the story
is the other girl
on the other side,
Looking in the mirror,
saying her goodbyes.

the tears
are for what she leaves
in her wake,
a silent disturbance,
a whisper for her sake.

the lie
is: she's not afraid,
the world is bright,
she doesn't love,
she'll be alright.

Prologue of my Latest Story/Book Attempt

2011-07-16T06:27:00.001-07:00

Prologue

The gears of the factory had stopped turning. Measuring twenty feet high, they were red with rust and blood. A workman washed his scrub brush in a wooden bucket of water. The water turned pink. He continued his process robotically; the sound of the hog hair brush against old iron was the only sound left in the empty factory. The worker was tired and hot; sweat trickled down his neck. His coal black hair was plastered to his skin. He scrubbed the blood off of the gears; memories of the day painted pictures in his head. The old tin cup that held his tea that morning. The cracked steps of the tenement houses. The newspaper headlines crying about the coming war. The worker wondered if the unity of socialism could be preserved, or if the it would crumble to the republic of Irabia. The cruel face of the factory manager, red as melted iron. A line of children who were no older than fourteen, shoveling coal into the furnaces. The melted iron bubbling-orange, red, white, flying like the fireworks of hell-out of their pots, into the air. The men, with their muscles bulging in exertion, turning the gears, around, around, all day. The gears stealing their pain and groaning with every inch. The pots pouring the melted iron into molds. A loose bolt? Something gone wrong…a crooked pot. a ribbon of orange, a snake, hissing on its way down to the worker below. A leap to escape caused him to trip backwards. Into the gears. Shouts and the scream of a little girl who’d been close by. The mn tried to stop the gears from turning. They tried. They tried. But the gears did not stop quickly enough. The ribbon of iron splattered on the ground. And the gears were full of blood. Blood, and the remains of a man, crushed like an insect. The Worker did not forget the face of the little girl, with the shaggy short black hair and the twig-like arms and legs, whose knees had trembled while the fire of the furnace was reflected in her huge gleaming eyes. The girl with the fire in her eyes had been the man’s daughter.

The worker finished his job and hauled the bucket and bush out the back door of the factory, leaving the heat of the furnaces behind him. Here, in the outside world, the sky was brighter than the dark shadows of the factory ceiling, and there was snow on the ground. The worker dumped the red water into the snow and tossed the wooden bucket into an open supply shed. The walk to the tenement houses was but a few moments, but the cold night chilled him to the bone. Numb and frozen, he pushed through the door of the tenement house and anxiously strode down the dark hallways. The rats and roaches scattered. As a beam of light from an opening door appeared. The worker stopped as he watched a little girl run into the hallway. She had a half piece of brick in her hands. She instantly fell to her knees and crushed a fleeing roach with the piece of brick. Anger burned in her trembling figure.

She muttered to herself, choking on her own voice. She whispered as if every word hurt her, “frail,” she spat, “frail as an insect. Worthless, useless, replaceable. Delicate. What are we? What? I want to be more. More. I want to be strong.”

Questions or comments? Email me at write.from.the.start@gmail.com

living words

2011-07-15T07:40:00.000-07:00

Humans. We fight for things we can never attain, we fight for things that can never be, we look for things that we cannot ever find. Peace. Purity. Paradise. Happiness.

We look for these things but we will never find them, and not because they do not exist, but simply because we are not capable of attaining them. What is rotten cannot make itself new again. What is dead cannot make itself alive.

We are powerless to save ourselves and powerless to change. And how can we ever find Peace, Purity, paradise, happiness….if we have already died? We can fight within ourselves but our fighting will be in vain.

We must fight with the power of something outside of ourselves, something that is alive.

The Living Word. Such power lies within the scriptures that God has breathed out for us. These words give us life. These words can change the rotten into the pure, the dead will become alive again: alive with the words of Christ.

When I place my hope there, I am at peace.

"Tell Me Stories" Challenge

2011-07-11T09:43:00.000-07:00

Email me a story of yourself. Use these guidelines to describe experiences that have shaped you or describe you as a person. You do not have to follow the exact order of the guidelines. Eliminate the ones that do not apply to you. Do not send me a list. Try to make your description flow together as if these guidelines did not exist.

There are no limitations. Any length, any format. You can write a story, a description, a poem, a song. You can make a video, you can write a book, you can take pictures, you can draw.

I have no particular reaason for creating this storytelling challenge, except that I would like to see the stories that may result. I will not post or use these stories in any way without the permission of their writers.

the most futile struggle
a peaceful assurance
how you look at the rain
the sharpest contrast
when black and white become grey
an experience of silence
an overwhealming excitement
when you were breathless
when you felt love
what is fear?
when you let go
where you find joy

If you want to share your story with me, please email it to write.from.the.start@gmail.com. May I share your response to this challenge on my blog? Please let me know in the email.

forty-seven days

2011-07-01T20:38:00.000-07:00

forty-seven days left of summer:
of the hot, humid eastern NC air that chokes and sufficates me.
of the job that I've worked for seven years.
of freedom from tight class scheduals and the everpresent paper assignments.
of the frequent trips to the beach, where the waves wash purple jellyfish onto the shore.
of long days doing nothing at all with my favorite people.
of being able to look up and see them there, right there, in front of me.
of hearing their voices and seeing them respond when I say their names.
of making them laugh and laughing at them.
of being able to call out to them when I feel alone, and taking comfort in their presence.
forty-seven days beautiful days of summer.

just pretend

2011-06-28T10:46:00.000-07:00

My trading cards and origami swans:

all that's left of my room.

They're watching me pretend

that I've grown up.

Laughing to themselves as I stuff duffle bags of clothes,

and toss them in the corner...

"I'm about ready to go."

small blue chest

2011-06-27T11:15:00.000-07:00

Thunder moves and rolls over head:
over my my head.
as I pack away my life,
in a small blue chest.

i'll leave it behind when I go.
wednesday morning, 3am,
when i climb in the van and we drive.
the small blue chest, will stay behind,
and gather dust,
and hold my thoughts,
till i come back again.

the thunder warns me,
"some things left behind,
can never be recovered.
you cannot keep a heart
in a small blue chest."

i know it, i know it.
but i keep packing, and nothing will-
no one will keep me here.

the hearts will keep beating,
the thunder keep groaning,
the rain will keep falling.
in this place. in this time.

numbers fly by,
pages of my story scatter themselves
into the wind, and the hearts, and the memories
of everything i touch.

and everything that touches me,
i will keep.

stories we weave in our minds

2011-04-23T21:49:00.000-07:00

Thinking outside the tightrope
that keeps us suspended
in a precarious sense of reality,
causes us to tumble.

in our daring pursuit
of our own convoluted riddles
we fall towards our safety net,
to make sure that it exists.

"if i am caught,
I will surrender."

In the dark, we breath easily,
but the light lets us see,
what we are.
and we gag.

A Realist

2011-04-09T16:09:00.000-07:00

The funniest part about people is their absolute predictability, mixed dangerously with their complete incapability of predicting. We function by logical patters, and yet are incapable of seeing these patterns, or we refuse to believe them. Not only that, we would much rather believe one another than believe in the firm and the obvious. People can tell and promise and convince and persuade all they want but in the end, they are only people, and they will behave as people behave: according to a pattern.

The pattern itself....is far more complicated. I wont go into that now.

When I mentioned to a friend that I knew of a problem only God could fix, he replied that I might be surprised what we humans can accomplish. Now, I have serious doubts in the capability of people to accomplish more than...getting themselves into trouble. However, I do believe that some people tend to get themselves into trouble less than others. The people who get into less trouble are the people who understand other people. The people who have clear vision and see the patterns by which people behave, and expect them. they do let themselves be swayed or persuaded, they refuse to let themselves be vulnerable to the false promises of other people. they are not trusting in an individual, they are trusting in a pattern. they do not have faith in someone's character, they have faith in someone's nature.

If you don't see the pattern on your own, than you wont believe me if I disclose it to you.

Earl, and Hemoglobin, and Chocolate Chip Cookies.

2010-09-02T14:37:00.000-07:00

My Brother is so smart. Today, he couldn't do his science lesson for some reason, so we got on youtube and ended up watching some of those instructional videos for anatomy students. We learned about hemoglobin and how oxegen binds to it in the lungs and get's distributed throughout the whole body. He's Twelve. but he understood the whole thing pretty darn well! That was the best part of my morning.

weather in my city is always rather unpredictable, but that doesn't subtract from the excitement of having a major hurricane like Earl come to visit. It had to choose Labor Day weekend? Schools all over the county closed down early today, expecting heavy winds, storms and rain. Okracoke and other costal areas are evacuating, and no place is open...even the art store closed early. and I've heard tell that Walmart is quite a sight to see right now. I find it funny that we get almost exactly the same response when we're expecting two to four inches of snow. It's like people thing they're going to die.

I saw the Tryon Palace boarding up their windows.

honestly, I love storms. I want to see some branches flying down the streets. I want hail. I want lightling so close that I can see the trees bursting into nothingness. That's what I want to see. and no, it doesn't mean that I don't care about anyone who may be at risk of getting hurt, it means I love excitement.

Also, My sister is coming home from college for the weekend. Great timing, Haley. Actually I was so happy I thought I might just float away.

I'm home from work early due to out wonderful visitor, (Earl) and I think he had some influence in my parent's decision to order a pizza. and now I'm sitting at home with some homeade chocolate chip cookies, and a cold glass of almond milk and enjoying thinking about what a great afternoon I've had.

Miracles

2010-09-01T13:58:00.000-07:00

the night before my sister went to college, we went to Walgreens and bought a bunch of plain, solid colored Tshirts. we took the home and all three of us went upstairs to my art studio, where we painted them with acrylic paints and hung them over the stairwell to dry. but these were no ordinary artistic Tshirts, they were boldly painted with things like "Sold, to the Man with the Crown of Thorns," and "I am Not Ashamed of the Gospel of Christ." "Nothing but the Blood," "I'll Fly away," and last but not least, "Jesus Freak." It was on a monday when I decided to wear my Jesus Freak Shirt to school. My mother had told me to get someone in my math class's phone number. I had two issues with that idea. First of all, I am not good at making friends, Friends find me occasionally, but if no one talked to me in that whole class for the whole semester, I wouldn't be surprised, nor would I try to do anything about it. Secondly, the class has an overwhealming population of boys. Why do boys like precalculus so much? I'm compleately oblivious. but they were everywhere, and I didn't want to ask for any of their phone numbers.

So I was very glad and pleasently surprised when one out of the four girls in the class walked in, saw my T shirt and said "I love that shirt, what church do you go to?" We talked for quite a while about our families, and churches, and she told me that she had just moved back to the US from okanawa, Japan. I thought that was pretty cool.

As class was about to begin, we decided that we should meet in the student center when we can, and do homework and practice problems together. So by the power of God and my Jesus Freak Shirt, I walked in needing a phone number in case I got terribly stuck on something...and walked out with a study partner and a new friend.

Four Thirty?

2010-08-29T20:04:00.000-07:00

Potters are very intersting people. They are artists. They are obsessed with their work. But there is a difference between a potter and a painter. If a potter goes to a painting workshop, he will be focused and attentive the whole time, occasionally slipping into "the zone," which really does exist, and creating.
but when you get a bunch of potters together, it doesn't matter if they are doing a class or enjoying their membership in the studio. They get into "the zone" very easily, and they stay there. They never leave. It's like they are addicted to it. They have to have it and they don't care if it's closing time, don't even think about asking them to leave.
It gets worse. They're nice. when they are in "the zone" they are the most wonderful people to be around, and they all like each other. But when they look at the clock, and they see that it's four thirty, and it's time to leave, and you say, "Um...it's four thirty," And they say "Just finishing up..." you know it's useless. At five you leave them there. They aren't going anywhere. one of them even has a key, she'll lock up. So much for closing at four thirty.

It's 11:04, and they might still be there for all I know.

The Dedication of Chocolate Ice Cream

2010-08-29T10:53:00.000-07:00

Towards thee, familiar ice cream parlor, we sojourn!
Thou art bespotted to honor thy bovine companions,
who are the wellspring of all dairy products,
that dost supply my aching heart with joy.
But wretched pain does strike within my spirit,
when down we look to where the flavors be,
and low, behold our eyes land on thy favoite,
Tis "death by chocolate," Death for lonely we.
Oh gripping pain! thou strangles and surrounds us!
Oh night of darkest hour without thee!
We take a double portain of reminder,
in membrance of thy passion for sacred bean.
Sweet poison, filled with sugar, chocolate, nuts,
and melting now into my eagar mouth,
we will treasure its flavor in sweet sorrow,
we dedicate our ice cream to thy memory.

Christopher Columbus

2010-08-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

Columbus was best known for landing on America, and claiming to have discovered it long after Leaf Erickson had done the job for him. He is also famous for mistakingly calling the native Americans "indians" who lived on the other side of the world and looked significantly different. But it is a little known fact that He was actually a very smart man. (gasp)
When he was a little boy, he saw a moth on a peach, and he exclaimed "The world must be round if the peach can land on the moth!"* Thus, Cristopher columbus discovered gravity and centripetal force.

*he didn't really say that. or did he?

The "Be A Man" Pottery Studio Workout Tutorial

2010-08-26T16:09:00.000-07:00

If you work in a pottery studio, but spend so much time there that you don't have time to go to the gym, here are a few things that you can do at work to get you're workout.

1. First scrub the dickens out of the handbuilding tables. This is very good exercise for one's arms, especially when there is a large amount of clay smushed into the canvas.

2. Mop the floors. Don't forget that this means removing all chairs and stools and wheel petals from the floor and sweeping first. Moping will strangthen your back when done properly.

3. pull the weeds out of the drainage rocks in the yard. this involves a serious amount of bending over, which can stretch your legs to prepare them for the next task.

4. break all of the old tile flooring off the ground. Oh, you know it's been there a long time, it's brittle, but hard as a rock in a few places. brace yourself and kick your scraper under them! (and in the meantime, don't copmplain to your boss that you just mopped the floor. Pretend that you don't care about the dirty, smelly brittle tile pieces flying everywhere.)

5. Once you get blisters on your hands, let your boss take over the scraping and replace all of the old glaze lids with the new Gamaseal lids. This means pounding the gamaseal adapters onto the glaze buckets with a rubber mallet. Pound them very hard.

After this, your boss will realize that he's never worked one of his daughter's so hard, and perhaps he'll give you a pat on the back and say, "Be a man."

My Intelligent Design Series (an excuse to paint while I should be studying)

2010-08-25T13:48:00.000-07:00

I'm working on a very collorful series right now called "intelligent design," meant to inspire people to think about the complex structures of the human body, and appriciate the truth of a designer and a creator. Our bodies are art in it's most pure and logical and functional form, and the series incorperates the stucture with my joy in the asurance that there is a devine creator. There are only two editions to the series right now, with a possible third one about "hearing." but I am studying the endocrine system in Anatomy right now, and I am trying to think of a way that I can use the course to produce more inspirational work.

So I was looking at all of these tissue types for the different endocrine glands, and they are all different! The tissue in the thyroid gland is particularly beutiful, and while admiring it, I realized that it could be art. while many would see it as an abstract (in painting form) many would see it as an illustration of something that they understand. I think that I will do a small series of these tissues (2x2s) and add them to the series. I am very anxious to get started!!!

Burning (purple) Rubber

2010-08-25T13:36:00.000-07:00

Me: This is the weirdest pencil ever.
Jason: Why's that?
Me: It's made of recycled tires.
Someone else: What's made of recycled tires?
Jason: Her pencil. She's burning rubber over there.

Thanks for the laugh. actually I don't like that pencil very much, so if you ever see them at staples, don't buy them, they're a pain to sharpen, and the graphite is too hard.

My mother made coleslaw to go with our dinner last night. I usually don't like it too much, but last night it was different, namely becuase it was purple. Yes, I'm serious, it was purple. It was made with a purple cabbage, which in turn dyed the dressing purple, which glazed the craisens and red peanuts with purple as well. I tried it ...it was purple, I had to try it. And I ended up really loving it.
Moral: Purple food is delicious.

Precalculus and the waffle party.

2010-08-23T16:47:00.000-07:00

A swell of laughter explodes over the empty and meaningless prattling of people pretending to care. or maybe they do care, which would be just as sad, I think. They line up for limp soggy waffles that have been sitting out too long, and drench them in a sugary substance masquerading as syrup. For some reason, there is music everywhere. People think that music is the seed that grows enjoyment, lightheartedness, and “fun,” but the songs that they are playing were not intended to be played together. I listen to the strange mix of voices and sound, and I decide that I don’t like it here. I like it in class, where everyone is quietly paying the attention commanded of them to the wise professor, and absorbing mathematical equations that are no longer meaningless numbers and symbols.
But out here, everything is a meaningless symbol, with no connection and no intended purpose. I look out the window and see a woman spaying something yellow onto the sogg-waffles. The people near me seem oblivious to the idea that they should be enjoying themselves. They talk about small things with little direction in their conversation. I wonder if they are just talking to pass the time.
I am waiting for this moment to be over, and the next one to begin, but I don’t dare hope that the next will be any better than this. More people feign interest in the waffles, taking interest in them just because they can, and they have nothing better to do.
They’ve given up trying to look pleased.

Late night painting

2010-08-23T16:40:00.000-07:00

due to an unfortunate overdose of caffine, I lay very awake on thursday night wishing that I was addicted to coffee again so that it would not effect me so much. finally, after aproximately two hours of trying to sleep, I got up for water and hesitantly decided to hide out in my art studio till the drug wore off. I had a painting in my head, and it was definatly worth using a little 4x12 galleria to paint.
I worked from twelve thirty till two thirty, and painted a picture of a simple human figure bundled up in a coat, walking alone at night past a neverending brick wall, the light from a nearby lampost poured onto the hood of his jacket, and spread out over the crimson bricks of the mysterious building.
When I was finished for the night, I washed up my brushes, and crept back to bed, but since the caffine was still dancing around in my head, I ended up getting back up later to read about the endocrine system, and the various types of intracellular communication that take place within that realm of physiology. I love science. It's so logical.
I was scared back into bed by a roach, and finally fell asleep. My sis said that I slept through a thunderstorm that must hadve taken place around four thirty or five in the morning. I almost wished I haddn't missed it, because I love thunderstorms.
On saturday, I went to work. There was a workshop going on in one of the classrooms of my little art store, where a nationally known artist was teaching a group of eager students how to paint phenomenal watercolors of flowers. I got to be the girl who went to the farmer's market and bought six beutiful sunflowers for them. "Get some interesting ones," the teacher said, "They don't have to be perfect."
As an artist, the word "perfect" in refference to flowers means almost nothing. The more character it has, the more perfect it is. I did my best, but as I told the lady who was selling them, "I have no experiance in this realm." The teacher seemed satisfied, and when she left the workshop that eavening, she said we could keep the flowers. My co-worker and I split them up, and she also gave me some beutifull roses and carnations to take home.
Now, I'm an acrylic painter, and I'd never done a flower painting to speak of. Most of my work consists of visualizing the pictures portrayed in haiku and other poetry, and painting that, some of it comes from a poetic idea in my mind that I don't have words for, and some of my work is inspired by the Anatomy class I took in the spring. But Flowers to me didn't have any significant philosophical meaning. Flowers were beutiful plants that God created, and I apriciated them as that. I supose they could also symbolize the fading temporal beuty of a human life. "The grass withers and the flowers fade, but the word of the lord is forever." I think I quoted that right...
But since I had a bunch of bright, colorful blossoms, (which had been very difficult to get home on my bicycal) I figured I might as well try. Before I knew it, I was fussing to myself that my 11x14 wasn't big enough, and that I would just have to use the 16x20. What I had in mind that needed to be so big, I wasn't sure, but obviously I had to obey my instincts. I ripped open the packaging on the studio canvas without even drawing on the front with a dry erase marker like I usually do. Snatching the first charcole I came accross, I drew out a series of larger-than-life flowers, with a particularly bolds one staring right into the eyes of the beholder.
I'd heard about a prodigy child who saaw the world in color and shapes instead of one of objects like the rest of us. I figured if i meditated or something, I may be able to pull off the same thing. So I sat quietly in the dark for a while staring at a red carnation in the candlelight till I was pointing out the sligtly purplish shades that apeared like ripples and ruffles throughout the red mass. When the urge to paint became too strong to resist, I ditched the meditating thing and ran up to my studio. I painted late into the night, and finished the painting late the next night when I had gotten some of my homework done. The paining is color, exploading out at the beholder in a wild, energetic symphony of sight. I liked it. I dont know why, or what it meant to me to be paining it, but i really connected with that painting, and I feel that, like my others, it really does have a very valuable message, but I couldn't tell you what that was, because like I always say "if I had words for it, I wouldn't have to paint it."