I wasn't spawned from a computer, just raised by one.



Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Okay, Now You've Done It!

I finished my project for digital layout. All I have to do now is print and assemble it for next week.

I did all my errands.

I put gas in my car before it hit E.

I talked to my mother on the phone today.

I made a freakin' "To-Do List". And then I used it.

All I wanted was to sit back in my computer chair, siphon through Megavideo links until I found something entertaining to watch, and eat some Edy's Slow Churned Rich and Creamy French Silk Ice Cream.



But no. I opened it to find this!:




That whiteness isn't vanilla swirl, peeps. It's the bottom of the tub.

Who does that, by the way? There's two spoonfuls in there. At least if you had emptied it and put it in the trash I wouldn't of had that moment of discovery: snuggled up in my rolly chair, feet up, ready for sci fi adventures. Spoon at the ready.

I'll get you for this, Megan. Some things are sacred. You DO NOT come between me and chocolatey, slow churned goodness. Not now. Not ever.

I asked you. I asked you. Do you want me to pick you up anything from the store while I'm gone? You said no.

There will be retribution... Mark my words, I'll find other uses for that spoon:




... ... ...

That is all.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

What is Art, to Me?

(Short Essay for Post Modernism and Contemporary Art class)

Dictionary.com defines art as “the quality, production, expression, or realm, according to aesthetic principles, of what is beautiful, appealing, or of more than ordinary significance.” But what is an aesthetic principle? Who decides what criteria forms the terms of being above “ordinary significance”, or feels qualified to judge work significantly based on the expression of the artist or artists in question? On the first night of class, the statement was made about “bad art” being something that we are willing to reject, but I have never felt particularly comfortable rejecting another’s efforts. There are things that I like, and there are things that I do not like, but I do not believe that makes the latter “bad art”. I think “good art” is art that has served its purpose, whatever that purpose is, if done justice, quality remains opinion and strictly relative. For example, to me, the definition of making good art and viewing good art are two very different creatures.

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 was such a lonely kid. I spent much of my time alone, or in my mother’s hospital room. I never felt any real connection to the other kids my age, and they sensed that, too, and as some kids do, fed on it as a weakness. All those years, meeting those same large, sad eyes again and again, surrounded by all those other people, had I sensed myself in her? The slight burning in the back of my throat the last time I saw her says yes.

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

Wake Up The Sleepers

I finally received my pre-order of Kill Hannah's new album Wake Up The Sleepers, In stores as of October 29th.

It's UHHmazing, but of course I didn't expect anything less.

*cough* Buy it. *cough*

The CD, the signed Pre-Invasion Letter to The Troops, and the individual song art covers.

Having learned that Eve is a Kill Hannah fan I have decided to make her jealous. Just kidding... mostly I just wanted an excuse to post these as well as take a moment to jog down memory lane.

My Curse of Kill Hannah CD signed in '06 & my Hope for the Hopeless Tour DVD signed '09.



These are the only two band photos I can find of the last time I saw them live. (Still kicking myself for not being able to catch them during the Hope for the Hopeless Tour last year.) Consequences of the move, I guess.

That second picture not only houses a very rare documentation of my natural hair color, but a funny story as well.

Notice the face? For the longest time I hated this picture. You see, this was my second Kill Hannah show in as many days and when I asked Mat for a photo, being the genuinely sweet person he seems to be, he of course agreed. What I didn't count on was him asking me if I'd be coming to their next show, too.

I've never been the girl who holds onto the idea that someone will remember me two seconds after I've left their presence. I've been in line with "that girl" for shows and I've never really understood the idea that the guys are supposed to remember me. They see hundreds of girls. I imagine at some point we all just blend together. I REALLY don't understand the girls who get bent out of shape over it. I was surprised he had remembered me when it had been only the night before so I can't see what kind of mentality makes you think that a guys a jerk because he doesn't remember signing your left boob three months ago...

Anyway, that's what my face is. Rachel snapped the picture just as my awkward teenage girl brain tried to formulate sentence structure enough to state something along the lines of "... umm... maybe".

I hated this photo, tongue stuck to the side of my teeth like an idiot, but now when I look at it I can't help but smile, just a little. It's a sweet memory. Kill Hannah is one of my all time favorite bands, they are heinously under-appreciated, the mere fact that these boys don't own the world by now while throw away static pop continues to hit platinum is quite frankly the devil. That being so, I'll probably cherish this photograph forever.

Silly, little girl that I am.


Now, if you excuse me, I have neighbors to wake.




Saturday, October 3, 2009

Requiem of the Tide

While I was staying at my parents a peculiar thing happened.

It was almost dusk, the brown leaves covered the ground and attached to the fibers of my button-up, knit boots as I made my way to the car. It had been a long day full of unanswerable questions, like why I only come home when I run out of clothes, or where all the money in my bank account has disappeared to...

Button-up knit boots?

*Cough*. Pepperoni pizza was needed.

I started the engine and swung into reverse; just then I heard a loud popping sound. I watched through my rearview mirror as an explosion of blue liquid shot into the sky. I turned around in my seat just in time to see the Tarantino-esque spray make its way back to the earth. I sat, thoughts racing:

Oh. my. God.

Did I just manslaughtered a Goblin?

A teensy, weensy aristocrat?

My insurance rates are going to hell.

And finally, my last thought as I surveyed the icy, blue carnage...

Talk about great product placement:



P.S. I'm also going to start publishing some imports from my old blog. They will be tagged "imported"and retain their original posting dates.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Bueller... Bueller...

I know I've been absent for a bit and while I just know that you've missed my running commentary on all thing innocuous, I really do miss passing a few minutes a day to read over everybody's blogs.

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.
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