Sunday, November 1, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
... ... ...
Thursday, October 15, 2009
To create is to release. It can be both recreational and therapeutic. Why are pastimes like painting and poetry becoming such common tools for therapists and psychologists trying to reach their most troubled patients? To make art can be relieving, even euphoric, to be able to cleanse yourself of whatever emotion, good or bad, that you have had screaming inside of yourself. It can offer a form of closure and no one is qualified to judge that. Which is why I try not to, a piece of art is always hard for me to separate from its creator. However abstract, it is a piece of them. To reject it is to reject a part of another human being, and should not be taken lightly. Any art that meets the needs of its artist is good art in that respect. Everything comes from some place, and having never been to that place, I try not to judge it as good or bad, but rather, as appealing to me or not.
To see good art, or as I have tried to define, art that is appealing to me on a personal level, is to view something that stirs my emotions. Whether that means it has made me sad, happy, or even angry, it has forced me to take the moment to appreciate or at least acknowledge the feelings I experience and the meanings behind them. I believe art can be a very personal thing and is best experienced when viewed as so. I believe in Ms. [my Art History teacher]'s assessment, original or no, that if you feel drawn to a work and you don’t know why, it is because you either don’t know enough about the piece or you don’t know enough about yourself.
When I was eight years old, I had one of those old Jumpstart computer-learning games. I spent hours on it and always on the same level, never moving forward. It was not that I could not go forward; I just did not want to. The game level was home to a fictional museum that you had to explore looking for the painting that corresponded with the question given for the round. Instead of looking for it, I just looked at the artwork. The most famous works scattered in museums and galleries around the world, in one place. I have always loved the French Impressionists, particularly Claude Monet. I used to joke that it was because his world looked just like mine, sans glasses or contacts. Still, I kept returning to A Bar at the Folies- Bergere by Edouard Manet. I would study it repeatedly, looking deep into those girl’s eyes, like points in space, black holes, taking in all that was in their path, returning almost nothing. It was not until hearing a lecture on one interpretation of the painting that it hit me why I felt such a connection to it.
I think we find our own meaning, through words and pictures. Those meanings change, altering with our moods and perceptions as we garner more experience or fracture our images of the world, gaining room for more openness or sometimes less. Sometimes art allows us a meaning that is wholly are own, completely separate from that of its designer. In the same way that we give the opportunity for someone else to see something in our efforts that we did not or could not see ourselves. That does not make either opinion any more or less important, just different. Art is like that: never better or worse based on our views of it, just different. That is what makes it art, at least, to me.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I was only supposed to be at my parents for the weekend, but due to some unforseen family crisis it has been made neccessary for me to stay longer. I should be returning to Tampa tomorrow and while I feel no need to hash out details to the interwebs it has been a very stressful and uselessly dramatic week and will probably continue to be so.
I have some postings in mind, mostly about things on my mind with no particular personal relevance, regardless I should be back and bloggy in not time.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
The last couple weeks have been super busy. I'm *finally* completely moved in to my new place. When reading that sentence don't make the mistake of reading that I'm unpacked, or clean, or have a working kitchen sink, just that I, and all my possessions, are here.
I then came down with the flu. Then my roommate came down with a staff infection in her nose. Between the two of us I've been to the emergency room six times in the last two weeks. Luckily that seems to be behind us. Thank Jesus.
I was better in time to make it to Orlando on the 17th to see Kill Hannah open for She Wants Revenge at the HOB. I had a lovely time, too bad my roomie couldn't go. Megan was still too sick so I tried unsuccessfully to scalp her ticket. I'm a good friend like that.
Turned out better in the end actually because when I got home around 2ish my roommate desperately needed a ride to the emergency room so if I had stayed for the "over 21" bit who knows what would have happened to her poor, massively swollen face.
There will be other shows, it's taken me 14 years to break in this friendship just the way I want it.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
I am not an angry person. I am not a hateful person. Even at my lowest, self loathing has always been sufficient enough. So blind hatred has always been a hard concept for me. How can I possibly hate someone I don't know based on some abstract concept of irreconcilability that in the scheme of things is really insignificant? I can never understand why we can't just accept that we are individuals, that we come with varying ideals, moralities, philosophies, wrapped in varying colors, features, etc. We're so busy judging the rest of the world that we are unable to see just how precariously we perch ourselves on our higher ground.
How can someone believe they are better than someone else because they're a member of a particular race, a religion, from a certain country, neighborhood, "clique"? How can someone hurt an innocent person, a stranger, a lover, a child? Life is too short to let hate and fear be our dominant emotions, but look around. Our entire culture is saturated with it. I can't wrap my head around it and I start to feel like I'm the only one, like an outsider that is missing something vital in the translation. I think about the future and there's times when the prospect is terrifying to me. All I've ever wanted was to live a life full of love, laughter, happiness with family and friends who care about each other and accept each other, whether they always agree or not. They need not be numerous, just... there. Dreams can seem impossible, love obsolete in a world that's become blind to it. I know that there are good people in this world, people who do their best to be genuine, but they seem so hard to find sometimes, so few and far between.
I don't understand this world and the more thought I give it the more I don't ever want to start, no matter how cold it leaves me, even if it means that from time to time I have to feel this way, forever. Because the minute I find that I can understand it, then it might mean I'm starting to accept it and I never want to find myself doing that.
Friday, September 4, 2009
...I remember your thread-thin arms
I remember your hands
And how easily it seemed to me
They could rip me open
Baby I`m fallin` away
Baby I`m fallin` away
Wasted my September
With you stuck up in my head
Raced the days closed
In the hopes that the mornings would swell again...
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
10 Things That I Learned From District 9 That I Pretty Much Knew Already Or Would Have At Least Guessed At...
Friday, August 14, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
*the above image was found on stock.xchng, a great site to find free stock images if your conscience is getting tired of stealing copyrighted ones from Google Image Search.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
El Orfanato (The Orphanage) - I've been meaning to watch this one for a while and it turned out to be really good. I officially get why Bloody Disgusting called it a feel good horror movie. It was really enjoyable and had that old horror feel, where the need isn't felt to just unleash a fire hose of blood and gore on the audience. Nothing against that really, just sometimes it's nice to have a little, you know, plot? Also, the visuals are great. The kind of movie where you just want to stop and look around for a moment. Don't let the fact that it's completely in Spanish stop anyone from seeing it. That's why God invented subtitles and the acting is so well done you'll sort of forget about that anyway. I completely recommend it. This movie is a genuinely creepy ghost story that at times is down right beautiful.
Toybox - Don't do it, kids. When my friends insisted on watching it through to the end I had to leave for a few minutes and check my email. Otherwise, my head may very well have caved in. All these little seeds of plot, going in a thousand different directions, there has to be a point, there just has to be, this is all going to make sense any minute now it's all going to add up.... any minute.... any....
Nope. Never did. And let me say, I love bad horror movies, but there are two types of really bad horror movies. The kind where you can giggle yourself into a state of uncontrolled muscle spasm and the kind where you are just sort of left staring at a blank screen asking why Jesus would let something so stupid exist. This is the latter. Just don't. You probably never would have, but let me tell you now. Don't.
The Gingerdead Man - Gary Busey. That's all I needed to know. I didn't even realize that instead of the gingerbread man it was in fact the gingerdead man until Nikki and I got back to Megan's house. Blatantly stealing from Child's Play this thing is a pile of crap, but they knew it. Unlike Toybox, this thing never intended to be something it was not. It was suppossed to be horrible. The killer is a 12 inch tall Gingerbread cookie with the voice stylings of Gary Busey. It succeeded, complete with stupid kid who accidently releases ancient curse, drunken "mama" stock character, people trying to fix the power outtage when the lights are obviously on whereas the flashlights are obviously off, and a whip cream body suit complete with cherry pasties. I suggest watching it with friends. It's worth the two bucks from Blockbuster if you enjoy that sort of thing.
I think I'm going to go wake them up now, their sleepyness is way less important than my loneliness and I'm bored.