Graphophobia

Layers

Take a mental journey with me. Imagine yourself standing in the bathroom that you grew up with as a child. Look in the mirror. Look deep into your eyes. See yourself as you are right now. Stare deep into those two eyes, past whatever color your irises are. Stare as if you are looking for something, buried deep in the depths of your soul. Now… break apart everything you see in the reflection of the mirror. Un-clip, untie, or pull out any jewelry you have on. Set it on the counter by the sink. Slide off your shirt. Take off your dress. Rip out the undershirt. Kick off your shoes. Undress yourself completely. Stand naked in front of the mirror, with your clothes forming a pile to the immediate left. Now.. Pull off your hair. Just do it. Every stinkin hair on your body. As you do this you realize it does not hurt. It is actually a pleasant, somewhat freeing experience. You are just peeling back layers. Flick off your fingernails. One by one. Attack your skin…let it slide off into a shylockian pool on the floor. Clog up the sink, then prick you finger and drain every ounce of blood into it the basin of the sink. Watch the sanguine flow like Niagra Falls out of your finger and down, down, down into the sink. Good till the last drop. Look back in the mirror. See your muscles and bones now? They are the next to go…its just another layer. Gingerly rip every bone off the muscle; Stack them neatly along the pile of flesh and lay your muscles criss crossed next to the sink full of blood. The muscles should seperate easy once the bones are detached. Don’t forger your gluteus maximus…you never really liked it that much anyway. Try to neatly pull apart all those little chords inside your body, but the tangled web of arteries, nerves, veins and capellaries ends up like a yarn ball on the ground. Lump all your organs: brain, heart, liver, onions, reproductive, etc together and wrap them with the large intestine for togetherness sake.  DO NOT UNTANGLE THE SMALL INTESTINE. (Just trust me on this). There is nothing left but your eyes…still hovering in the same spot. Allow your eyes to softly float about eight feet above the piles of bones, flesh and meat as if they were tied to a balloon. Look down at your handiwork. Notice the flesh, blood, organs, bones, clothes, jewelry and stray body parts neatly organized amongst your bathroom. Look hard at the body parts in the same way you looked into your eyes at the beginning of this paragraph. Do you still see yourself? Is that you lying on the floor? What you see…does that feel like you? Technically, there is no difference between what you see in the mirror and what you imagine strewn about your bathroom floor..yet i would be willing to bet you feel different. Maybe it isn’t about what you see that makes you who you really are.

Don’t rest o’ weary pilgrim

Dont rest o’ weary pilgrim

for sunrise lay just beyond

thy paths may seem black

nighttime drapeth heavy on my brow

whilst darkness frolics amongst morbid meadows

black mist wrappeth thy sinew of man

yet dont rest o’ weary pilgrim

for sunrise lay just beyond

mine eyes hath witnessed its beauty

my skin hath received its warmth

eagerly I awaiteth sunrise

to settle upon thy brow

dont rest o’ weary pilgrim

for sunrise lay just beyond

thy mournful grave eternally awaits

yet thy sun is steadily rising

and its warmth rest on my brow

dedicated for 4/23/07

a couple selections of random poetry

Suisse Grounds

I am the ground in Switzerland

How can you describe me?

God shaped me with his very hands

and he took a little bit longer on me than my brother Appalachia

Some cavemen tried to conquer me

but i threw them in the freezer for later

I love snow

Chocolate

Ice

and any number below 0

or 32 for you Americans

I got some pretty loud neighbors who always want to throw a bunch of bullets at each other

but i really have never got into all that jazz

Im just chill

Give me a good pair of ice skates, ski poles or a snow board any day of the week

Sure, i speak a little English-the bathroom is down there

But be careful if you ever decide to walk on me

Because i gurantee your views of other mountain ranges will never be the same

In more ways that you could ever imagine.

I am the ground in Switzerland

Citerna is beating…

I am the heart of Italy

Beating somewhere near the “GUCCI” logo of the boot

You may not see me

I hid myself in the mountains

Covered in a medivel fortress

blanketed in a few americans who discovered my beauty

I never played a role in history

Sure a few famous guys walked on me once or twice

But for the most part i am just basic

Good smiles, gelatto and freindliness jump out of my dirt

I am not David, Cistene or Giotto

But my grounds can grow a few olives and grapes

and thats important to me

I am the heart of Italy

The Problem with Modern Art

            I have a problem with modern art; I think some of it really sucks. Let me be the first to admit that I am not an art critic. Everything in this essay is my opinion. Honestly, I would much rather study scant archaeological remains from a no name civilization then enter an art gallery. Yet, over the last couple of years I have really taken an interest in art upon seeing some of the great works held in the Louvre, British Museum, MET and other museums. I have viewed some of the greatest works of art in the history of man, and upon comparison of more contemporary art I have come to the conclusion that a lot of modern art sucks. I do realize it is slightly unfair to compare the likes of El Greco, Cezanne and Da Vinci with what is on display at the FHU art center. Keep in mind that level of skill is not my major problem with modern art, although it occupies part of it. I try my best to be as unbiased as possible with art. With all that being said, here is my thesis as to why modern art sucks: Modern Art sucks when artistic skill is replaced by expression.

            I have a hunch as to why much of modern art is so different from the art that was birthed during most of human history. Modern art has shifted from representational themes to abstract themes. From the earliest cave paintings to about the 1800’s art has represented what it was picturing: a quick survey of major art supports this. French Cave Paintings pictured the animals early man hunted. Early civilizations, such as Greek, Babylon, Roman, Mayan and Native American,portrayed the gods or men they worshipped. “Comic-book” type representation is famous through history; The Sistene Chapel, Bayeaux Tapestry and Trajan’s Column. Works that inspired patriotism were representational although they were highly symbolic; Washington Crossing the Delaware, Delacroix,and Guernica. Don’t forget to mention works like Seurat, Vermeer, El Greco, Holkusai, Pieta.These are but a few examples where expression and skill mix together to make great art. My fear is that modern art gets away with a lack of skill by extreme means of expression.

            I am not a “bowl of fruit equals great art” kind of guy. There is a lot of modern art that I feel expertly mixes sill and expression. I enjoy Lichtenstein, Warhol, some Mondrian (specifically Broadway Booige Woogie), and can appreciate Pollock for his layering techniques. On the other hand I do not think Monochrome Paintings , an armchair, the top of a column or a clock or tying up a dog are good art. They may be “art” because art is simply expression, but they are not good art. In my opinion, if random people off the street can recreate a piece of art in the conditions it was formed then there is nothing special about that piece. I can grab a chair and call it art.  I cannot recreate the subtle expression on Joan of Arc’s face in Lepage’s painting. I can take the top of a Corinthian column, place it on the ground and call it art. I cannot begin to create in a block of marble the moment Moses saw the Golden Calf after receiving the Ten Commandments. I can tie a stray dog to a post and take pictures of it everyday as it starves(seen above)

            I believe the root of the problem with modern art can be summed up with a quote from a scene from Elf. When Greenway Press is looking for their next big book, they are discussing new book ideas. Some of the guys suggest a story about peas and tomatoes among other things. The response is this “Everyone’s pushing small town rural. A farm book would just be white noise.” People are looking to express themselves in new and unique ways. No one seems to wants to express themselves in a way that has been done for thousands of years (representationally). New artists try to discover new mediums, techniques and ways for them to get their art our in a new and expressive way. I’m all for that. But I fear the search for new and expressive means in art is over-shadowing the fact that you need to be good in what you do. Sometimes new artists get so far off the beaten path that there is no one around to appreciate what they have done. Who honestly wants to paint a picture of a sun rise anymore? I’m going to be very blunt here: abstract artists do not have to be near as skilled as representational artists.

            What defines skill in art? Who is to say that one piece exhibits skill while another piece does not? Mona Lisawould probably be hanging in my living room instead of a thick protective case in the Louvre if it was painted in 1978 by  instead of by Da Vinci in the 16^th century.  I honestly was not too impressed with it.  Conversely, if the modern art hype beasts had not come out to play Pollock would not have sold for 150 million. That is the sad thing and the great thing about art; it is purely subjective.

            How did this essay make you react? Art is self defining and the definition will change from person to person. My great art may just be decent works to you and vice versa. Because of the subjective nature to art, you can completely disagree with everything I have said and I will not care. It does not make you or me any more correct than what we believe. The one thing I think we can agree on, that if you think I am wrong in my views, that you may need an art lesson.

happy or rhetorically happy?

If you were born into another situation, would you wish your life could go back to the way it is now?

Do you wish more for yesterday, today or tomorrow?

Why wake up?

If you could change anything in your life would you choose something that you can not change?

When was the last time you smiled?

Who did you love?

(related to last question) Did you immediately think of things you did not have to love?(ex’s, friends or family lost to death)

Who leans on you for support?

The Documentary Hypothesis of my Night

The Documentary Hypothesis of my Night 10/15/2009

The air was warm outside. The sun has just settled in for the night.

Today happened to be one of those days, where the seeds of procrastination are sewn into a bounteous crop of a long night studying. I walked into the library with much on my mind, too busy doing school work to stop and notice life’s minuscule beauty.

World Religions midterm, Crit to the Old weekly quiz, Death and Dying midterm. I’ll take things Matthew Mitchell had to do tonight for 200, Alex.

I found my corner spot of the library that always seemed to be the most productive locale. Books began to pile up into skyscrapers around me, like I was experiencing my own academic industrial revolution.

“Man…..Hinduism is really confusing. Good thing the test is multiple choice.”

1^st and 2^nd Samuel was originally one book of the Hebrew Old testament. True.

“Crap… the library is closing, but I really need to print off this midterm.” Tick, tock, tick, tock…. print!

As Matthew Mitchell walked outside, he noticed that the weather had drastically changed. A fog was moving though Freed-Hardeman and the temperature had gotten slightly cooler. The campus was quiet, as most students headed back to their dorms. It was about 1145 at night.

I slid though the doors of Loden-Daniel Library and looked out over the longest continuous view of Freed Hardeman’s campus. My feet immediately froze to the stairs.

The fog…. quiet. The serenity of the moment…deafening.

“What a beautiful night. The campus looks really pretty now.”

Mother Nature was trying to blow a double bubble with her fog gum. Inside the bubble of Henderson was the bubble of fog.

Fluorescent lights across campus were losing the battle to the thick fog. The few lit spots where street lamps shone resembled pyramids.

.               I strolled out into the ambient darkness. I knew where I was going, but the fog kept me from seeing my destination.

A couple holding hands walked across the corner of my eye. More victims of the fog.

The eyes in the back of my head captured a fading picture. The library steps that I just stood on where diming away.

I walked. I walked and looked.

The eyes in the front of my head captured an updated picture. My dorm was focusing in.

Although the fog created harsh lines between light and dark, it seemed to soften the campus. God could rest his head on Henderson tonight.

I reached the steps of my dorm and looked back. The fog smothered the campus.

When I left the library I could not see my destination. I knew where I was going though.

When I arrived at my dorm I could not see my departure spot. I knew where I came from though.

What if you lived your life as if you were walking though a familiar place on a foggy night? Don’t look with your physical eyes but try to see with your spiritual eyes. Faith in God will lead you to your destination and be a reminder of where you came from, even when the path can seem foggy.

My Day

I had a pretty simple day planned; walk to the grocery store around the corner, pick up a few things i needed, then head back home for a mind-numbingly relaxing evening in front of the television.

I started on my quick day trip and decided to take the long, scenic route and walk through the park. It was one of those side trips which i probably did not need to make, but did anyways. I felt free. i had been to this park a bunch before. As i walked through the park i saw a pothole far off in the walkway. I stared at the pothole as i walked closer to it. Closer and closer i came. I could never take my eyes off it. It was deep and jagged, ugly and sinister. It pulled me in slowly. I never attempted any move around the pothole, and my right foot met it perfectly in stride. My ankle went inside, twisted, popped. ”And down goes..!’ my body. I hit the concrete hard. The kinda hard that you watch ten times in a row in slow motion if you are not the one falling. Mr. Face, meet Mr. Concrete. Mr. Front Tooth meet Mr. Concrete. (Mr. Front Tooth and Mr. Concrete fell madly in love and went on to adopt a child together. They named him Chip). I limped out of the park.

Worst thing about this situation? I fall into this pothole nearly everytime i go into that stupid park. The landscaping is so pretty and visually appealing that i cant help myself. Plus, i know where the pothole is. thus i think im good and safe. But the pothole gets me everytime. That, folks, is the definition of insanity.

Bruised and battered, I walked away from the park. The tears and dirt had somewhat blurred my vision but i thought i would be ok. I thought i could put it back together. I really had little time to gather myself before a car hit me. It was not a bad hit, but enough to knock me back down to the ground. Im really getting tired of being knocked to the ground Unlike the pothole, i never saw the car coming. It drove off before i could get a good look at it, but i knew who was driving. There was no one around to see the hit and run.

Walk into a pothole, twist ankle and chip tooth. Car hits me and drives off. I dont even feel like going to the store anymore.

What is graphophobia?

a shined pair of the warden’s shoes. I am Tim Robbins.

Akashi-Kaikyo bridge. You stand on one end. I stand on the other.

frontal lobotomy(before it became a cure-all)

a pencil sharpener on my life’s #2 Dixon-Ticonderoga

basically its just me