Monday, May 5, 2014
area of study
art history
when i search just art history it brings up lots of things and works that have been recently found, so i refine, putting in "not found" this did nothing. so now im gonna try art history " and education" i want to see how we tech art and why we choose those parts in time and that country. this brought up a lot about the history of teaching. but some of what i wanted came through, but it was mostly why schools should keep art programs. one article was neat because it was half in Korean, interviewing people who have left north Korea and how the express themselves, and how they view art. it think i love that. how people from different backgrounds view art.
do peoples backgrounds effect the way people value art?
theater
with that tread for my visual art i want to see how people view and express live plays.
with just typeing in theater, the first article is about trying to make theater appeal to younger groups of people. that makes me change, i was thinking more like people from other countrys but now i want to know about what old people who hold theater so lofty think of kids. so i refine theater "and youth". on a suggestion drop down box it has" youth attitudes" and i am all about people blaming todays youth for the downfall of all that is holy. weirdly the first thing that shows up is about the pope being hip with the kids yo, and a few pages down there is a paper about young actors wanting to put on a play to promote and showcase Nigerian culture. i want to know more about theater that young people produce and consume.
what kinds of theatrical works are people under 40 making?
electronic engineering
the part i like best is circuit boards. so that is what im gonna start with."search circuit boards" im stupid and for got to click full text so lets move on. a lot of articles are talking about printed circuit boards so im going to look into printed technology."search printed technology" only 6 things came up. none of them are what i was looking for. i will try 3d printing. i find lots of articles about how 3d printed technology will change the future! i love that is what i love to think about with technology. so i ask, 3d pprinters are made for small personal or semi industrial work, so where could major industrial production benefit from 3d printing
environmental classes
in a growing age of "green" should a kind of class be more showcased in eduction? search environmental classes. most of the things where about the environment about
Friday, May 2, 2014
final passion list EXPLORE
- restaurant food
- dance music
- not wearing prints on prints
- USE YOUR TURN SIGNAL
- potted plants are good for you
- not like other girls
- sleep in till noon
- tiny houses
- vodka is nasty
- sweat pants mean you have died on the inside
if you have a restaurant i can assume you can cook
if you cannot cook do not own a restaurant. if you do not know how to cook don't try to give me a lump of charcoal and tell me it is a burger. white sauce is more than flour and milk, but you would not know that because the kind you serve came from a can. i know because every "mom and pop Italian dinner in town tastes the same. like Paul Newman's. If you want me to pay more than 3$ for a meal, do not microwave my food. i get heat lamps for take out restaurants, but if you have table clothes i expect you to know how to work an oven. fjfjfjfjfjjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjjfjfjfj if you mess up an order be sure not to bring me the same messed up thing back.
dance music
don't have your phone out on the floor you look like a boring bastard. don't play a dub step mix of a pop song. accuracy adding more bass to a pop song is not a remix, do not play it as one. if you only come to clubs to do drugs your boring. if you became a DJ and use abilton excusably i will assume you do not know what you are doing. stop asking me if i have found molly. if you wear a head dress to cochilla i assume that is the way you show others you are an ass. PLESE PLEAS PSPADJ do not put giant winde ups in songs with drops that lead to the corus.
i am passonite about dance music getting better
not like other girls
yes you are
yes i am. why do you fixate on being so diffrent? " to me a good date is cuddleing in a blanket fort and watching disny movies and maybe we will makeout a little im not high maintanice like other girls" have fun with that boring ass relaton ship, it is gonna taste like shit mixed with oat meal. "i dont like to wear makeup, i just wear my hair in a bun and wear a sweater im not vain like other girls" who lied to you and told you being girly was bad and what limp dick are you trying to score points with being this way? LOVE YOUR SELF.
Monday, April 21, 2014
glass
th writing may have not been bad, but the place was improper
like he was a good story teller, but this was no place to be telling stories.
a news paper, so checked over he must have been a spending almost as much time covering his ass and making nice with people as much a s he spent writing.
when did he start to lie? why what piece was bland he chose to lie?
did he think he would never get cuught?
where the lies like the bought papers we just talked about? did he feel forced to lie to make his way a head?
if he did not have those personal relationships would he have been caught sooner?
also the class room was weird, he was not getting praise from his parrents or peers, but form a teacher and students. he wanted to be like the people who inspired him, and make the teacher who made him proud.
like he was a good story teller, but this was no place to be telling stories.
a news paper, so checked over he must have been a spending almost as much time covering his ass and making nice with people as much a s he spent writing.
when did he start to lie? why what piece was bland he chose to lie?
did he think he would never get cuught?
where the lies like the bought papers we just talked about? did he feel forced to lie to make his way a head?
if he did not have those personal relationships would he have been caught sooner?
also the class room was weird, he was not getting praise from his parrents or peers, but form a teacher and students. he wanted to be like the people who inspired him, and make the teacher who made him proud.
Monday, April 14, 2014
the humanities project
blair witch project
for my film comparison i chose to do the last movie i watched, the blair witch project! i watched it at a friend’s house during a sleep over, so i chose to re-watch it without screaming and talking over the film.
compared to citizen Kane, the filming seems quite messy, only in the first scene in the grave yard has any real filming techniques, with wide panning shots and close camera framing the grave stones. but in the planning and the concept of the film i think they are more alike. the directors never where on set on the blair witch. the left boxes in the woods for the actors, and planted some people in the town to tell the actors stories about the witch. they really wanted the actors to show fear in a real way.
for effects, the entire film is a gimmick. two cameras in color and in black and white. stands where almost never used, making the whole film look like a home movie. if anything the effects are the story telling. you never see the monster, or any violence shown on camera. suspense through the whole film the shoe never drops.
the suspense in psycho is different from the blair witch. in Blair witch the actors go looking for trouble, wandering into a woods they know is cursed,with little food and a bd map. and the way it is filmed makes it feel like you are going along with them, the camera held at a person hight, and it moves like your head. psycho is “normal”. setting aside the inn keep with creepy birds and mommy issues this is a normal motel stop.during the slasher scene the actress remains unaware until she attacks her. but we can see him creep up on her and we can easily replace our selves in this scene. I shower and someone could sneak up on me!
the blair witch project was made in the 90’s and it kinda showed how collage students live. before they leave they all make jokes and take shots and act like “adults”. but later in the film the behave like children, yelling at each other, and crying for their parents. the end scene has one of the actors standing in the corner of a room like a child, waiting for death. so i think this film is a twisted coming of age film. the actors try to act like adults when on the camera for the documentary, lowering their voices and changing their clothes a little, but swear and make dirty jokes in the next shot. showing the weird melding of a 20-something year old.
i think the future in film will be leaps and bounds toward computer generation, but also a back to basics. Pacific Rim was shot with a lot of models and fully built sets and props and made the film seem a lot more real. or with directors like wes anderson, models and color pallet can make films iconic to that director, while still being engaging and other worldly.
for my film comparison i chose to do the last movie i watched, the blair witch project! i watched it at a friend’s house during a sleep over, so i chose to re-watch it without screaming and talking over the film.
compared to citizen Kane, the filming seems quite messy, only in the first scene in the grave yard has any real filming techniques, with wide panning shots and close camera framing the grave stones. but in the planning and the concept of the film i think they are more alike. the directors never where on set on the blair witch. the left boxes in the woods for the actors, and planted some people in the town to tell the actors stories about the witch. they really wanted the actors to show fear in a real way.
for effects, the entire film is a gimmick. two cameras in color and in black and white. stands where almost never used, making the whole film look like a home movie. if anything the effects are the story telling. you never see the monster, or any violence shown on camera. suspense through the whole film the shoe never drops.
the suspense in psycho is different from the blair witch. in Blair witch the actors go looking for trouble, wandering into a woods they know is cursed,with little food and a bd map. and the way it is filmed makes it feel like you are going along with them, the camera held at a person hight, and it moves like your head. psycho is “normal”. setting aside the inn keep with creepy birds and mommy issues this is a normal motel stop.during the slasher scene the actress remains unaware until she attacks her. but we can see him creep up on her and we can easily replace our selves in this scene. I shower and someone could sneak up on me!
the blair witch project was made in the 90’s and it kinda showed how collage students live. before they leave they all make jokes and take shots and act like “adults”. but later in the film the behave like children, yelling at each other, and crying for their parents. the end scene has one of the actors standing in the corner of a room like a child, waiting for death. so i think this film is a twisted coming of age film. the actors try to act like adults when on the camera for the documentary, lowering their voices and changing their clothes a little, but swear and make dirty jokes in the next shot. showing the weird melding of a 20-something year old.
i think the future in film will be leaps and bounds toward computer generation, but also a back to basics. Pacific Rim was shot with a lot of models and fully built sets and props and made the film seem a lot more real. or with directors like wes anderson, models and color pallet can make films iconic to that director, while still being engaging and other worldly.
make it dream djjdjdjdjddjdjdj
i know i am dreaming. i am shaded but sill baking. salt thick in the air and thick on my
lips, for the heat i cant see the sun.towering ponderosa pines
shifting and groaning on the breeze, making it twilight, with only thin
slashes of light between the trunks. the Forrest around a summer cabin,mixed with a rode trip through California red woods.
needles scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth, remembered from a childhood of running in the woods.
moving forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a Carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneath after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and itching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine. i want this to stop,a lucid twist, and i am there, stepping through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.or rather a ledge.massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.here is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, the lake is twisted, cut from rivers, making a deep bowl in the desert, bright blue against so much red and brown. with one island in the middle,with a light house, bright and hard line of white in so much red and blue.lake Powell.
i came here when i was 14, with my mom dad and sister, when we went there was nobody, but in my mind it is a crowded beach. people with towels and umbrellas placed carefully on the rocks crowding the cliff and the slope to the beach.
a lake and people a, relief after a Forrest, brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion and salt after miles of pine refreshes my nose.and the lake matches the sky, not a cloud in sight, hopeless blue.
down the slope, cat stepping around people and carefully between towels, down to the water line. I take off my shoes and peel off my socks pine needles and mold fall out. musty clammy foot sweat. pants rolled tight around my calves, with feet cool in the water. the sky is a bowl framed in red earth. even when my eyes slide shut, i see red. water laps and talks,so clear and blue i can see the bottom it looks so shallow, like i could walk across the whole lake.
but poking at the edge of my mind is The light house. inorganic and odd. it was not here when i was awake, so why would i make it when i am asleep? rigid hard white, a half remembered Greek building sitting on top of a sandstone pillar. squinting to look at the bright whiteness in the blue and red.
another twist and i am there, standing at the lighthouse door. pushing open cool glass doors and up thin steps. the top i can look across the entirety of the lake.
needles scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth, remembered from a childhood of running in the woods.
moving forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a Carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneath after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and itching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine. i want this to stop,a lucid twist, and i am there, stepping through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.or rather a ledge.massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.here is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, the lake is twisted, cut from rivers, making a deep bowl in the desert, bright blue against so much red and brown. with one island in the middle,with a light house, bright and hard line of white in so much red and blue.lake Powell.
i came here when i was 14, with my mom dad and sister, when we went there was nobody, but in my mind it is a crowded beach. people with towels and umbrellas placed carefully on the rocks crowding the cliff and the slope to the beach.
a lake and people a, relief after a Forrest, brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion and salt after miles of pine refreshes my nose.and the lake matches the sky, not a cloud in sight, hopeless blue.
down the slope, cat stepping around people and carefully between towels, down to the water line. I take off my shoes and peel off my socks pine needles and mold fall out. musty clammy foot sweat. pants rolled tight around my calves, with feet cool in the water. the sky is a bowl framed in red earth. even when my eyes slide shut, i see red. water laps and talks,so clear and blue i can see the bottom it looks so shallow, like i could walk across the whole lake.
but poking at the edge of my mind is The light house. inorganic and odd. it was not here when i was awake, so why would i make it when i am asleep? rigid hard white, a half remembered Greek building sitting on top of a sandstone pillar. squinting to look at the bright whiteness in the blue and red.
another twist and i am there, standing at the lighthouse door. pushing open cool glass doors and up thin steps. the top i can look across the entirety of the lake.
wc
http://www.powellguide.com/
http://www.ag.ndsu.edu/trees/handbook/th-3-169.pdf
http://theanthrotorian.com/history/2012/10/17/greek-white-and-blue
http://www.ag.ndsu.edu/trees/handbook/th-3-169.pdf
http://theanthrotorian.com/history/2012/10/17/greek-white-and-blue
light house
i am shaded but sill baking. salt thick in the air and thick on my lips, for the heat i cant see the sun.towering ponderosa pines shifting and groaning on the breeze, making it twilight, with only thin slashes of light between the trunks.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a Carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneath after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
or rather a ledge.
massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.here is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, cut by rivers making it twisted and deep.
a lake in a desert, being a relif after a Forrest.after brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion after miles of pine refreshes my nose.but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
the lake is twisted, cut from rivers, making a deep bowl in the desert, bright blue against so much red and brown. with one island in the middle,with a light house, bright and hard line of white in so much red and blue.
down the slope, cat stepping around people and carefully between towels, down to the water line. I take off my shoes and peel off my socks pine needles and mold fall out. musty clammy foot sweat. the wet breeze and open air makes my feet feel cold. roll up my pants and wade in to the water. so clear and blue i can see the bottom it looks so shallow, like i could walk across the whole lake.
pants tight around my calves, and feet cool in the water,the sky is a bowl framed in red earth. even when my eyes slide shut, i see red. sun giving me a head ache. water laps and talks.walking the beach
no light house one
i am shaded but sill baking. salt thick in the air and thick on my
lips, for the heat i cant see the sun. pines
shifting and groining on the breeze, making it twilight, with only thin
slashes of light between the trunks.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
or rather a ledge.
massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.here is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, cut by rivers making it twisted and deep.
a lake in a desert, being a relif after a Forrest.after brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion after miles of pine refreshes my nose.but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
down the slope, cat stepping around people and carefully between towels, down to the water line. I take off my shoes and peel off my socks pine needles and mold fall out. musty clammy foot sweat. the wet breeze and open air makes my feet feel cold. roll up my pants and wade in to the water. so clear and blue i can see the bottom it looks so shallow, like i could walk across the whole lake.
pants tight around my calves, and feet cool in the water, back warm against hard sandstone.
flat on my back on a out cropping the sky is a bowl framed in red earth. even when my eyes slide shut, i see red. sun giving me a head ache. water lapps and talks.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
or rather a ledge.
massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.here is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, cut by rivers making it twisted and deep.
a lake in a desert, being a relif after a Forrest.after brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion after miles of pine refreshes my nose.but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
down the slope, cat stepping around people and carefully between towels, down to the water line. I take off my shoes and peel off my socks pine needles and mold fall out. musty clammy foot sweat. the wet breeze and open air makes my feet feel cold. roll up my pants and wade in to the water. so clear and blue i can see the bottom it looks so shallow, like i could walk across the whole lake.
pants tight around my calves, and feet cool in the water, back warm against hard sandstone.
flat on my back on a out cropping the sky is a bowl framed in red earth. even when my eyes slide shut, i see red. sun giving me a head ache. water lapps and talks.
Friday, April 11, 2014
essssssay take 2
i am shaded but sill baking. salt thick in the air and thick on my
lips, for the heat i cant see the sun. pines
shifting and groining on the breeze, making it twilight, with only thin
slashes of light between the trunks.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
or rather a ledge.
massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.
down down down far below a lake in a desert. a desert being a relif after a Forrest.
after brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion after miles of pine refreshes my nose.
but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
and my plainness here.
the only red i have to offer is a sting across my cheek, a cut from branches dragging along my face.
the lake and the sky the same color: uncaring blue. cut only by red land. the people and the earth have no interest in blue. i can only offer the brown of my sweaty hair, grubby hands, and squinting eyes.
there is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, cut by rivers making it twisted and deep.
the jewel in the middle: a light house.
pure white so stark against the orange and the blue and the cloudless sky. white. sleek harsh minimalism, hard lines against the curves of nature.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
or rather a ledge.
massive boulders shattered and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below.
down down down far below a lake in a desert. a desert being a relif after a Forrest.
after brown trunks, brown needles and my own dirty brown hands, red and blue are the colors.
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny.pink. suntan lotion after miles of pine refreshes my nose.
but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
and my plainness here.
the only red i have to offer is a sting across my cheek, a cut from branches dragging along my face.
the lake and the sky the same color: uncaring blue. cut only by red land. the people and the earth have no interest in blue. i can only offer the brown of my sweaty hair, grubby hands, and squinting eyes.
there is openness here. wide cloudless sky, and flat fading desert. the lake is in a basin, cut by rivers making it twisted and deep.
the jewel in the middle: a light house.
pure white so stark against the orange and the blue and the cloudless sky. white. sleek harsh minimalism, hard lines against the curves of nature.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
descriptive essay dream 1
i am shaded but sill baking. salt thick in the air and thick on my lips, drying and cracking. for the heat i cant see the sun. pines shifting and groining on the breeze, making it twilight, with only thin slashes of light between the trunks.
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
red is the color after so much brown
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny carefully not looking at the stranger through their sunglasses.
massive boulders shatterd and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below
the contrast of sparkling water , open skies, and ocher stones. it makes me squint after so long of brown dryness.
but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
and my plainness here
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
the only red i have to offer is a sting across my cheek, throbbing and hot, a cut from branches dragging along my face
needes scrach me. the sap sticks to my hands and hair, fir filling my nose, sticky bitter in my mouth.
go endlessly forward,stopped under the branches, knot in my lower back and in my shoulders. my cheek and forearms sting. watching my feet trudge through shed bones and hair of the trees. craking and snapping under my feet, toasted a carmel brown on top, rotten to mold silver dust underneth after i kick it up.
getting stuck in my socks, pricking and iching. with sweat, on my temples, under my shirt, dripping. making a curved path down my face and around my stomach and spine.
.
through the thicket last dusting of pine needles
a beach.
red is the color after so much brown
red sunburn bodies lain about. looks hot and shiny carefully not looking at the stranger through their sunglasses.
massive boulders shatterd and warn to smaller stones showing red and orange, and painted green in the water below
the contrast of sparkling water , open skies, and ocher stones. it makes me squint after so long of brown dryness.
but i am a stranger here, so carefully no one sees me.
and my plainness here
corporate red : towels, umbrellas, bikinis, all trying to blend with the red stone.
the only red i have to offer is a sting across my cheek, throbbing and hot, a cut from branches dragging along my face
Monday, April 7, 2014
at the end of the paper said that 70% of customers are from the us. the next highest cluster is 15% from the uk.
what is happening that more than half is from the us and the next highest is 15%.
are out collages that much diffrent? or highschools?
i know the US and UK have much different grading scales, could that be it? that my failing paper at 50 points would have been a c paper?
no. that cant be it teachers grade accordingly. bad is bad no matter the measure.
but for me i have cheated on tests to save my grade. could this be what this is for? i dont want my grade to suffer, so i pay a professional to do it?
and those professionals, 6 to 12 hours for one paper being paid 11$ is not even close to minimum wage.
what do these people do, that they need to do this, are they collage grads with no job prospects? are they ashamed? or do they look at it as getting by, like i did on my test?
what is happening that more than half is from the us and the next highest is 15%.
are out collages that much diffrent? or highschools?
i know the US and UK have much different grading scales, could that be it? that my failing paper at 50 points would have been a c paper?
no. that cant be it teachers grade accordingly. bad is bad no matter the measure.
but for me i have cheated on tests to save my grade. could this be what this is for? i dont want my grade to suffer, so i pay a professional to do it?
and those professionals, 6 to 12 hours for one paper being paid 11$ is not even close to minimum wage.
what do these people do, that they need to do this, are they collage grads with no job prospects? are they ashamed? or do they look at it as getting by, like i did on my test?
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
person writer
i love how the program shows how to type diffrent types of papers
and it seems more helpful than just a text book
the writers review seems help full but it is super easy to just auto correct the paper to whatever it says is correct
and it seems more helpful than just a text book
the writers review seems help full but it is super easy to just auto correct the paper to whatever it says is correct
Monday, March 31, 2014
mission
it was supposed to be simple.
i carry the brief case down to the intersection of Gloria and Roanoke. at the corner Green will take the case. or rather i never had a case, no cases exist and there are no missels ready to launch in Washington D.C.
Green is green in every sense of the word. new agent trips and fumbles on the cross walk. we carefully do not see each other, but he takes the case smoothly, i can feel his sweaty hand brush mine.
and it is done he walks to his future, and i walk to mine. maybe the next time we don't meet Green will be more poise. not all missions can be perfect, but i can tell this is as close as one can get.
The Brief Case that does not exist is not flying. and it is not shooting lasers at people on the street. the US does not have that kind of technology. nor are we developing that kind of technology the Brief Case must be compremised by some sort of super powered hacker, the Case was made, not that we made a Case, to be un hackable. some one on the project must have leaked. not hat there was a project.
a car is on fire. not caused by any kind of Case. and Green is there in the middle of the street holding some thing. what is he doing? Has he forgotten his training? why is his gun not out? is he the leak? Will i have to take him out ?
a lazer shatters bricks from a wall beside me, a lazer that does not exist, from a brief case that does not exist that is supposed to belong to a man i have never seen before. and a woman screams. and i call out because they are sure to be listening, "Johnson on the Tango mission we have a problem"
Friday, March 28, 2014
sky
blegh
bleghhh
so empty.
so perfect.
navy fade to gold, and outlines the world with black
softer cooler more magic
the twilight hour
shadows are long, people become high contrast charters
and it holds opportunity
go home or say out
we have all night
if i could paint my house any colors i wanted it would be this.
dark dark navy at the front door.
down the long hall way it gets warmer,
lovely soft blue where i lose my coat
pale blue white steals my shoes.
warm brassy golden yellow around my bedroom
where i can lie and wait
to be born in reverse.
sad
the moon has been eaten away to nothing
no stars to keep me company.
the sun leaves me for another
not a single cloud to keep me warm
making my world dark uneasy black
false stars and moons shine from peoples hearts and homes
linear and fake
keeping the world's trubbles at bay
bleghhh
so empty.
so perfect.
navy fade to gold, and outlines the world with black
softer cooler more magic
the twilight hour
shadows are long, people become high contrast charters
and it holds opportunity
go home or say out
we have all night
if i could paint my house any colors i wanted it would be this.
dark dark navy at the front door.
down the long hall way it gets warmer,
lovely soft blue where i lose my coat
pale blue white steals my shoes.
warm brassy golden yellow around my bedroom
where i can lie and wait
to be born in reverse.
sad
the moon has been eaten away to nothing
no stars to keep me company.
the sun leaves me for another
not a single cloud to keep me warm
making my world dark uneasy black
false stars and moons shine from peoples hearts and homes
linear and fake
keeping the world's trubbles at bay
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
foodie 2.go
lovely deep maroon, with pops and punches of high contrast color: orange, yellow,green,and white.
sangria. tastes like it sounds thick and spicy, with tart citrus Finish. a summer drink, but we make it in the winter. hot tea steaming up the kitchen, boiling with cinnamon sticks and piles of sugar, steeped to blackness. in the largest pitcher you own pour in orange juice and the bitterest pomegranate juice you can stand. use the kind grandpa drank, so dark red it is purple, thick enough to stick to the faceted sides of the glass bottle. the tea should be cool, pour it in. watch the blackness mix with the maroon, bitter and sweet mixing together, stir as necessary.
now the fruit.
Christmas oranges from grandmas snowbird flight to California, supposedly from uncle bill's tree. you wouldn't know you never met him, but his oranges are are sweet and thin skinned, and are larger than you can wrap my hands round, and smell like child hood Christmas.
or you could buy some from the store.
three will do nicely. while you are there pick up some lemons, apples, and limes: a perfect blend of simulated summer.
wash the fruit, because your uncle told you when you where 9 that apples are kept shiny with floor polish and you have been paranoid ever sense. take out a bread knife and start cutting the fruit. the knife will work great on the citrus, gripping and cutting through the spongy skin, keeping your fingers safe from cuts filled with acid. the apple will need a paring knife, and cutting it in to cubes rather than rounds so you can fit more in your glass because that is your favorite part.
dump the fruit into the pitcher, and leave it for like two days. it will be so good. don't eat the pieces of fruit don't don't don't don't ok maybe some pieces you are going to throw them out any way. may as well eat them.
for the part pour in a whole liter of sparkling water. all of it because your aunt thinks it is too strong and mix hers with half a cup of water any way. have nice fruit out in a bowl or a plate over ice. take out the old fruit it is gross looking and stained red, but it is delicious. hide some to eat alone in the garage when the fire is too hot and the house is too crowded and everyone is asking what classes you are taking? do you have a boyfriend yet? are you still drawing?
take your finished glass of nectar and try to mingle, bathe yourself in the sweet smell and crunchy fruit and warmth of the house and in that glass there is the holidays
sangria. tastes like it sounds thick and spicy, with tart citrus Finish. a summer drink, but we make it in the winter. hot tea steaming up the kitchen, boiling with cinnamon sticks and piles of sugar, steeped to blackness. in the largest pitcher you own pour in orange juice and the bitterest pomegranate juice you can stand. use the kind grandpa drank, so dark red it is purple, thick enough to stick to the faceted sides of the glass bottle. the tea should be cool, pour it in. watch the blackness mix with the maroon, bitter and sweet mixing together, stir as necessary.
now the fruit.
Christmas oranges from grandmas snowbird flight to California, supposedly from uncle bill's tree. you wouldn't know you never met him, but his oranges are are sweet and thin skinned, and are larger than you can wrap my hands round, and smell like child hood Christmas.
or you could buy some from the store.
three will do nicely. while you are there pick up some lemons, apples, and limes: a perfect blend of simulated summer.
wash the fruit, because your uncle told you when you where 9 that apples are kept shiny with floor polish and you have been paranoid ever sense. take out a bread knife and start cutting the fruit. the knife will work great on the citrus, gripping and cutting through the spongy skin, keeping your fingers safe from cuts filled with acid. the apple will need a paring knife, and cutting it in to cubes rather than rounds so you can fit more in your glass because that is your favorite part.
dump the fruit into the pitcher, and leave it for like two days. it will be so good. don't eat the pieces of fruit don't don't don't don't ok maybe some pieces you are going to throw them out any way. may as well eat them.
for the part pour in a whole liter of sparkling water. all of it because your aunt thinks it is too strong and mix hers with half a cup of water any way. have nice fruit out in a bowl or a plate over ice. take out the old fruit it is gross looking and stained red, but it is delicious. hide some to eat alone in the garage when the fire is too hot and the house is too crowded and everyone is asking what classes you are taking? do you have a boyfriend yet? are you still drawing?
take your finished glass of nectar and try to mingle, bathe yourself in the sweet smell and crunchy fruit and warmth of the house and in that glass there is the holidays
foodie
virgin sangria
sangria
tea bags, and my largest pot.
rough cracking cinnamon
all set to boil
my largest pincher.
Orange juice, grandpa's bitter pomegranate juice
of sugar.
round cuts of oranges, cut with a bread knife to keep my finger
lemons limes apple
sweet
finished with the bitter tea
served to snack and talk and drink
on a hot summer night i just want a drink
lovely deep maroon, with pops and punches of high contrast color: orange, yellow,green,and white.
sangria. tastes like it sounds thick and spicy, with tart citrus Finish. a summer drink, but we make it in the winter. hot tea steaming up the kitchen, boiling with cinnamon sticks and piles of sugar, steeped to blackness. in the largest pitcher you own pour in orange juice and the bitterest pomegranate juice you can stand. I use the kind my grandpa drank, so dark red it is purple, thick enough to stick to the faceted sides of the glass bottle. the tea should be cool, pour it in. watch the blackness mix with the maroon, bitter and sweet mixing together, stir as necessary.
now the fruit.
Christmas oranges from grandmas snowbird flight to California, supposedly from uncle bill's tree. i wouldn't know i never met him, but his oranges are are sweet and thin skinned, and are larger than i can wrap my hands round, and smell like child hood Christmas. or you could buy some from the store. three will do nicely. while you are there pick up some lemons, apples, and limes too a perfect blend of simulated summer.
wash the fruit, because your uncle told you when you where 9 that apples are kept shiny with floor polish. take out a bread knife and start cutting the fruit. the knife will work great on the citrus, gripping and cutting through the spongy skin, keeping your fingers safe from cuts filled with acid. the apple will need a paring knife, and cutting it in to cubes rather than rounds so you can fit more in your glass because that is your favorite part.
dump the fruit into the pitcher, and leave it for like two days. it will be so good. don't eat the pieces of fruit don't don't don't don't ok maybe some pieces you are going to throw them out any way. may as well eat them.
for the part pour in a whole liter of sparkling water. all of it because your aunt thinks it is too strong and mix hers with half a cup of water any way. have nice fruit out in a bowl or a plate over ice. take out the old fruit it is gross looking and stained red, but it is delicious. hide some to eat alone in the garrage when the fire is too hot and the house is too crowded and everyone is asking what classes you are taking? do you have a boyfriend yet? are you still drawing?
take your finished glass of nectar and try to mingle, bathe yourself in the sweet smell and crunchy fruit and warmth of the house and in that glass there is the holidays
sangria
tea bags, and my largest pot.
rough cracking cinnamon
all set to boil
my largest pincher.
Orange juice, grandpa's bitter pomegranate juice
of sugar.
round cuts of oranges, cut with a bread knife to keep my finger
lemons limes apple
sweet
finished with the bitter tea
served to snack and talk and drink
on a hot summer night i just want a drink
lovely deep maroon, with pops and punches of high contrast color: orange, yellow,green,and white.
sangria. tastes like it sounds thick and spicy, with tart citrus Finish. a summer drink, but we make it in the winter. hot tea steaming up the kitchen, boiling with cinnamon sticks and piles of sugar, steeped to blackness. in the largest pitcher you own pour in orange juice and the bitterest pomegranate juice you can stand. I use the kind my grandpa drank, so dark red it is purple, thick enough to stick to the faceted sides of the glass bottle. the tea should be cool, pour it in. watch the blackness mix with the maroon, bitter and sweet mixing together, stir as necessary.
now the fruit.
Christmas oranges from grandmas snowbird flight to California, supposedly from uncle bill's tree. i wouldn't know i never met him, but his oranges are are sweet and thin skinned, and are larger than i can wrap my hands round, and smell like child hood Christmas. or you could buy some from the store. three will do nicely. while you are there pick up some lemons, apples, and limes too a perfect blend of simulated summer.
wash the fruit, because your uncle told you when you where 9 that apples are kept shiny with floor polish. take out a bread knife and start cutting the fruit. the knife will work great on the citrus, gripping and cutting through the spongy skin, keeping your fingers safe from cuts filled with acid. the apple will need a paring knife, and cutting it in to cubes rather than rounds so you can fit more in your glass because that is your favorite part.
dump the fruit into the pitcher, and leave it for like two days. it will be so good. don't eat the pieces of fruit don't don't don't don't ok maybe some pieces you are going to throw them out any way. may as well eat them.
for the part pour in a whole liter of sparkling water. all of it because your aunt thinks it is too strong and mix hers with half a cup of water any way. have nice fruit out in a bowl or a plate over ice. take out the old fruit it is gross looking and stained red, but it is delicious. hide some to eat alone in the garrage when the fire is too hot and the house is too crowded and everyone is asking what classes you are taking? do you have a boyfriend yet? are you still drawing?
take your finished glass of nectar and try to mingle, bathe yourself in the sweet smell and crunchy fruit and warmth of the house and in that glass there is the holidays
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
very seriousssss screen play
Bannibal
the message of the play is the effects of genetic engineered fruit based on the real tragedy of the “banana genocide” of breeding a banana with smaller, making contemporary bananas sterile with no seeds. The effects and build up of genetic modified potassium start to mutate the people making them zombies.
consant background music of a choir singing
“ bananana do do doodo do
banananana do do do do...”’
exterior: whorganic market open air, cuban market Bright colors butiful seniorita
dirty farmer selling “new seedless bananas” sick and yellow around the eyes locals avoid wery of pladipi. tourists flock around the ramshakel stand
FARMER: banananas for sale, come get your banananans ! (with force)
TURist 1: are these organic?
TURISDHJS: are they really seedless?
TURist 1: have they been genetically engineered?
the message of the play is the effects of genetic engineered fruit based on the real tragedy of the “banana genocide” of breeding a banana with smaller, making contemporary bananas sterile with no seeds. The effects and build up of genetic modified potassium start to mutate the people making them zombies.
consant background music of a choir singing
“ bananana do do doodo do
banananana do do do do...”’
exterior: whorganic market open air, cuban market Bright colors butiful seniorita
dirty farmer selling “new seedless bananas” sick and yellow around the eyes locals avoid wery of pladipi. tourists flock around the ramshakel stand
FARMER: banananas for sale, come get your banananans ! (with force)
TURist 1: are these organic?
TURISDHJS: are they really seedless?
TURist 1: have they been genetically engineered?
Monday, March 24, 2014
the toddler was angry
warped red face hiccoping and crying
oh no. a gasp for air and a sniffle. the quiet before the storm. aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
wailing and dramatically throwing them selves to the floor. a Oscar wining performance . drool is getting in the carpet, and feet are punishing the rug, sticky hands and face getting redder and covered with lint. try not to pay attention. a peak between fingers, and then she stands, runs so i can see her through the door way, and throws her self at the ground,"I WANT THE PINK CUP"
THIS IS A TRAP
she is blond.
she is as blond as the sun is dull
she is blond to find a man like the tv promised her
blond because princesses dont have brown hair.
she is blond, brassy bright, honey almond 035.
she is blond to fit in.
blond to hide her fear.
blond so she can be brave
blond so she can hide pctures of the chubby buenette stranger
blond like marilyn
blond one small step in hiding who she was
sangria
tea bags, and my largest pot.
rough cracking cinnamon
all set to boil
my largest picher.
orage juice, grandpa's bitter pomagrate juice
a moutan of sugar.
round cuts of oranges, cut with a bread knife to keep my finger
lemons limes apple
sweet
finnished with the bitter tea
served to snack and talk and drink
on a hot summer night i just want a drink
oh no. a gasp for air and a sniffle. the quiet before the storm. aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
wailing and dramatically throwing them selves to the floor. a Oscar wining performance . drool is getting in the carpet, and feet are punishing the rug, sticky hands and face getting redder and covered with lint. try not to pay attention. a peak between fingers, and then she stands, runs so i can see her through the door way, and throws her self at the ground,"I WANT THE PINK CUP"
THIS IS A TRAP
she is blond.
she is as blond as the sun is dull
she is blond to find a man like the tv promised her
blond because princesses dont have brown hair.
she is blond, brassy bright, honey almond 035.
she is blond to fit in.
blond to hide her fear.
blond so she can be brave
blond so she can hide pctures of the chubby buenette stranger
blond like marilyn
blond one small step in hiding who she was
sangria
tea bags, and my largest pot.
rough cracking cinnamon
all set to boil
my largest picher.
orage juice, grandpa's bitter pomagrate juice
a moutan of sugar.
round cuts of oranges, cut with a bread knife to keep my finger
lemons limes apple
sweet
finnished with the bitter tea
served to snack and talk and drink
on a hot summer night i just want a drink
i will never do that agian
i will never do that agian
design shoes
take a forien lauage class
ask out a boy
get my nose swabed
chug vodka
jump down stairs
eat carrot cake
sit on a cactus
wear kneepads while roller bladeing
roller blade
ride a razor scooter
write a play about bananas
dye eggs
eat pork chops
eat at mc donalds
go to a corn maze at the middle of the night
go in the arch
hope fully never put my self down
hurt my self
yell at my mom
be late to school
work at michales
work frait trucks
make a backpack out of paper
use a lave
fall and roll my ankle
juge someone on their hobbies
hold a grudge
think i cant
eat corn beef and cabbage
cook potato soup
cry when i get locked out of the house
sleep outside
drive with my dad in the car
get lost in the woods
step on a bee hive
be 17
talk to dainel croxton
see my aunt
meet my grandpa
design shoes
take a forien lauage class
ask out a boy
get my nose swabed
chug vodka
jump down stairs
eat carrot cake
sit on a cactus
wear kneepads while roller bladeing
roller blade
ride a razor scooter
write a play about bananas
dye eggs
eat pork chops
eat at mc donalds
go to a corn maze at the middle of the night
go in the arch
hope fully never put my self down
hurt my self
yell at my mom
be late to school
work at michales
work frait trucks
make a backpack out of paper
use a lave
fall and roll my ankle
juge someone on their hobbies
hold a grudge
think i cant
eat corn beef and cabbage
cook potato soup
cry when i get locked out of the house
sleep outside
drive with my dad in the car
get lost in the woods
step on a bee hive
be 17
talk to dainel croxton
see my aunt
meet my grandpa
humanties
Bannibal
the message of the play is the effects of genetic engineered fruit based on the real tragedy of the “banana genocide” of breeding a banana with smaller, making contemporary bananas sterile with no seeds. The effects and build up of genetic modified potassium start to mutate the people making them zombies.
the message of the play is the effects of genetic engineered fruit based on the real tragedy of the “banana genocide” of breeding a banana with smaller, making contemporary bananas sterile with no seeds. The effects and build up of genetic modified potassium start to mutate the people making them zombies.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
dream home story
i want to be in a place where the shady trees play in the silver breeze. wind curing around the house. wind chime clapping a song.
where the summer heat drys and cracks the soil to dust catching on your feet when you stomp trough it.but in the shade, dampness.moss fluffy earthy on top of wet cold clay,lily of the valley here in the shade, so sweet it makes you sick.a garden off accomplishment.
every morning i wake up to blue skies. pull myself from my warm bed, plush soft so soft giving but firm. smells like me, and smells like her. he bed is pallets rough holding the mattress, smooth for the headboard porous cinder blocks holding it up, denim quilt thrown across the bed worn and warm.
i drag my self out of bed across uneven bumpy floor toes drag across the smooth but uneven ground...cold.
my hands drag along the wall on the walk down the stairs. cold wall, warm glass windows smooth, but my finger catches on it all the way down. creaking steps bolted to the wall defying gravity. at the bottom cool cement.
the shower runs to warm the water, sharp sound of a faucet on in the other wise silent house. water scorching on one side frigid on the other,steam a blessing to skin striped of warm pajamas, filling the stall with the smell of lavender soap,lemon perfume, and hair dye.
through the floor walls and halls, she gets up and the bed creeks. short flight down the stairs and hard blows of bass in the radio fill the house.
hey you with the pretty face welcome to the human race
when i pick the brush and the paste from their pegs on the bright orange board i can hear the cry of a running machine getting beaten with full foot falls. a wonderful morning. all mine.
where the summer heat drys and cracks the soil to dust catching on your feet when you stomp trough it.but in the shade, dampness.moss fluffy earthy on top of wet cold clay,lily of the valley here in the shade, so sweet it makes you sick.a garden off accomplishment.
every morning i wake up to blue skies. pull myself from my warm bed, plush soft so soft giving but firm. smells like me, and smells like her. he bed is pallets rough holding the mattress, smooth for the headboard porous cinder blocks holding it up, denim quilt thrown across the bed worn and warm.
i drag my self out of bed across uneven bumpy floor toes drag across the smooth but uneven ground...cold.
my hands drag along the wall on the walk down the stairs. cold wall, warm glass windows smooth, but my finger catches on it all the way down. creaking steps bolted to the wall defying gravity. at the bottom cool cement.
the shower runs to warm the water, sharp sound of a faucet on in the other wise silent house. water scorching on one side frigid on the other,steam a blessing to skin striped of warm pajamas, filling the stall with the smell of lavender soap,lemon perfume, and hair dye.
through the floor walls and halls, she gets up and the bed creeks. short flight down the stairs and hard blows of bass in the radio fill the house.
hey you with the pretty face welcome to the human race
when i pick the brush and the paste from their pegs on the bright orange board i can hear the cry of a running machine getting beaten with full foot falls. a wonderful morning. all mine.
Monday, March 17, 2014
dream home
neon lizards over maroon stripped with pink orange and blue
2 are real one looks stiff
the still one is green with pink and red spots it barely curves around the circle
a striped lizard faces him it has 6 stripes covering it's body, running from nose to tail
it curves around with tilted head and curved til
the last lizard is mostly yellow with blue stripes up it's spine and legs scalloped like lace
he faces the tail of the fake lizard and sits tail to tail with the striped lizard
it's til loops around in a perfect o
in the center of the circle of lizards a feather sits that looks like clouds
i want to be in a place where the shady trees play in the silver breeze
cool in the summer heat
where the summer heat drys and cracks the soil to dust catiching on your feet when you stom trough it
but in the shade, dampness
moss fluffy earthy on top of wet cold clay
taking the heat from my body
sweet flowers fill the air
lily of the vally here in the shade
so sweet it makes you sick
sage and lavender more rough spicy secrect.
i want to walk through that door
and feel the cool concret
and climb the rough stairs
and taste the eletricity and feel the thrum
and fall into my soft bed
smells like me
smells like her
and have it be mine
sight
denim quilt thrown across the bed worn and warm
the bed is pallets rough holding the mattress, smooth for the headboard porous cinder blocks holding it up
plywood floor finished smooth
low walls leading to sloping round celling small skylights letting in hot sun with prism catching and making rainbows
smell
lemon perfume dry dust sodder
wood furnish dirt
rubber cork oil bread
lavender soap cooked carrots
balsamic vinegar concrete
cedar wood musty damp shower
warm skin paint chalk
steel
hot plastic silicone lumber
old furniture
hair dye
taste
dry bitter shocking
musty and biller like old moldy bread with Windex Finnish
dry salty
chemical with nutty taste
sweet carrot cooked in red wine-earthy sweet and bitter
the disappointment and failure taste of soap
feel
plush soft so soft giving but firm
rough splintering why did i not sand this
uneven bumpiny toes drag across the smooth but uneven ground...cold
warm glass windows smooth, but my finger catches on it all the way down
round rubber coated cables nice to roll between fingers, but will give rubber burn if yanked out
sound
wind curing around the house
dull buzz of electricity in the walls
wind chime throbbing outside
hard bows of bass in the radio
sharp sound of a faucet on
gowns from the floor the flex of furniture
cry of a running machine getting beaten with full foot falls
emotional
mine
finaly free to be me
hopes and dreams
who i want to be
what i want
saftey
the feeling of being wanted
of wanting my self the freedom to make myself
to not be a burden
easy
so easy doing what i love
bulding what i like
a garden off acomplisment
all mine
made by me
to be me
story
every morning i wake up to blue skies. pull myself from my warm bed and walk all the way down the creeking steps bulted to the wall defying gravity. the shower runns to warm the water, warm pajamas giving away to cold air. water scorching on one side frigid on the other, blance never quite found.
hey you with the pretty face welcome to the human race
brush your teeth. pick the bruch and the paste from their peggs on the bright orange board
minty.
2 are real one looks stiff
the still one is green with pink and red spots it barely curves around the circle
a striped lizard faces him it has 6 stripes covering it's body, running from nose to tail
it curves around with tilted head and curved til
the last lizard is mostly yellow with blue stripes up it's spine and legs scalloped like lace
he faces the tail of the fake lizard and sits tail to tail with the striped lizard
it's til loops around in a perfect o
in the center of the circle of lizards a feather sits that looks like clouds
i want to be in a place where the shady trees play in the silver breeze
cool in the summer heat
where the summer heat drys and cracks the soil to dust catiching on your feet when you stom trough it
but in the shade, dampness
moss fluffy earthy on top of wet cold clay
taking the heat from my body
sweet flowers fill the air
lily of the vally here in the shade
so sweet it makes you sick
sage and lavender more rough spicy secrect.
i want to walk through that door
and feel the cool concret
and climb the rough stairs
and taste the eletricity and feel the thrum
and fall into my soft bed
smells like me
smells like her
and have it be mine
sight
denim quilt thrown across the bed worn and warm
the bed is pallets rough holding the mattress, smooth for the headboard porous cinder blocks holding it up
plywood floor finished smooth
low walls leading to sloping round celling small skylights letting in hot sun with prism catching and making rainbows
smell
lemon perfume dry dust sodder
wood furnish dirt
rubber cork oil bread
lavender soap cooked carrots
balsamic vinegar concrete
cedar wood musty damp shower
warm skin paint chalk
steel
hot plastic silicone lumber
old furniture
hair dye
taste
dry bitter shocking
musty and biller like old moldy bread with Windex Finnish
dry salty
chemical with nutty taste
sweet carrot cooked in red wine-earthy sweet and bitter
the disappointment and failure taste of soap
feel
plush soft so soft giving but firm
rough splintering why did i not sand this
uneven bumpiny toes drag across the smooth but uneven ground...cold
warm glass windows smooth, but my finger catches on it all the way down
round rubber coated cables nice to roll between fingers, but will give rubber burn if yanked out
sound
wind curing around the house
dull buzz of electricity in the walls
wind chime throbbing outside
hard bows of bass in the radio
sharp sound of a faucet on
gowns from the floor the flex of furniture
cry of a running machine getting beaten with full foot falls
emotional
mine
finaly free to be me
hopes and dreams
who i want to be
what i want
saftey
the feeling of being wanted
of wanting my self the freedom to make myself
to not be a burden
easy
so easy doing what i love
bulding what i like
a garden off acomplisment
all mine
made by me
to be me
story
every morning i wake up to blue skies. pull myself from my warm bed and walk all the way down the creeking steps bulted to the wall defying gravity. the shower runns to warm the water, warm pajamas giving away to cold air. water scorching on one side frigid on the other, blance never quite found.
hey you with the pretty face welcome to the human race
brush your teeth. pick the bruch and the paste from their peggs on the bright orange board
minty.
Friday, March 7, 2014
thing i did for humanities
thing i did for humanities "soundtrack of my life" maybe handy for comp class?
now with ~* links*~
a Mr blue Sky- ELO ( my phone alarm every morning)
b ON N’ ON- Justice ( memories of my senior year)
c Saturday-Elton Jhon ( first song i could not stop listening to )
d Betty Davis Eyes- Kim Carnes ( memories of cooking with my mom)
e DAYLIGHT- Matt and Kim ( memories of listening with my best friend)
f Digital Love- Daft Punk(going ice skating)
g Just to See You Smile- Tim McGraw( my 13th birthday)
some of my music is a little old, but good music is timeless. also my dad have a big influence on what kind of music i like, i stole all his old albums. Electric Light Orchestra, Elton Jhon and Tim McGraw are from him, Kim Carnes is from my mom. but i think a lot of people are like that, some music you get from people around you and some music you find for your self. and i think that is what every generations music is about finding songs that have little bitts of you in them. bits of heartbreak, bits of a night out, bits of who you want to be, and bits of who you were.
the paragraph part is 100% bullshit but that is what happens when the prompt is bullshit
my hells and heavens free
jfjfjfjfjfjfjfjfjf
10min
uhh
my heaven this week is the bath. and my dootles. i have not wanted to draw in so long but i took time to do that and i am so proud. i painted this week, during the snow. i had a 4 day weekend and i paninted
my hell is i am not as good as i was. i spent to long doing nothing.
i forgot assignments over the break, now my grades will suffer.
friday is my heaven. next week is free. i can paint and do nothing. or do more
my garden is starting to sprout, but i want to clear out another box for the plants
and i want to work on my boots
and music.
my hell is procrastination so much time to put things off.
i only have to do 2 things for school and i bet ill be doing them sunday.
my heven is food i cooked what i like on monday. and bought apple juice just for me. and tea that i like.
10min
uhh
my heaven this week is the bath. and my dootles. i have not wanted to draw in so long but i took time to do that and i am so proud. i painted this week, during the snow. i had a 4 day weekend and i paninted
my hell is i am not as good as i was. i spent to long doing nothing.
i forgot assignments over the break, now my grades will suffer.
friday is my heaven. next week is free. i can paint and do nothing. or do more
my garden is starting to sprout, but i want to clear out another box for the plants
and i want to work on my boots
and music.
my hell is procrastination so much time to put things off.
i only have to do 2 things for school and i bet ill be doing them sunday.
my heven is food i cooked what i like on monday. and bought apple juice just for me. and tea that i like.
clean copy of words
Abulia
wisky
bitter, defined, cultured
liquid, but it is not moist
a fantastic high velocity burn all the way down
he loves it,
I hate it.
"it is delicious!"
"dont you want any?"
facetious question
he knows my answer
him drinking, smoking, laid back
embodying the epic image of a man
i facetiously live through him
if there were no cost i would be like him
accepted,honored, savvy, free
the image is spontaneously shattered
begging for fudge and tacos once he is drunk
embodying the epic image of a child
rigging up toys from gadgets and empty glases
such a waste,
such a fucking waste.
in my constant confusion of who i am
he can effortlessly become
but he is not the type of man i want to be
if i could be a man at all.
wisky
bitter, defined, cultured
liquid, but it is not moist
a fantastic high velocity burn all the way down
he loves it,
I hate it.
"it is delicious!"
"dont you want any?"
facetious question
he knows my answer
him drinking, smoking, laid back
embodying the epic image of a man
i facetiously live through him
if there were no cost i would be like him
accepted,honored, savvy, free
the image is spontaneously shattered
begging for fudge and tacos once he is drunk
embodying the epic image of a child
rigging up toys from gadgets and empty glases
such a waste,
such a fucking waste.
in my constant confusion of who i am
he can effortlessly become
but he is not the type of man i want to be
if i could be a man at all.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
favorite words
wisky, acceptable, cultured. honor. gadget.
moist/ fudge/ fun/ poop/free/
tacos/ fuck daphqu fantasti/c epic/
velocity/ spontaneous/ facetious/ vicarious/ delicious/
abulia/ savvy. embody. rig, cardiac
Abulia
wisky
bitter, defined, cultured
liquid, but it is not moist.
a fantastic high velocity burn all the way down
he loves it,
I hate it.
"it is delicious!"
"dont you want any?"
a facetious question
he knows my answer
him drinking, smoking, laid back
embodying the epic image of a man
i facetiously live through him
if there were no cost i would be like him
accepted,honored, savvy, free
the image is spontaneously shattered
begging for fudge and tacos once he is drunk
embodying the epic image of a child
rigging up toys from gadgets and empty glases
such a waste,
such a fucking waste.
in my constant confusion of who i am
he can effortlessly become
but he is not the type of man i want to be
if i could be a man at all.
moist/ fudge/ fun/ poop/free/
tacos/ fuck daphqu fantasti/c epic/
velocity/ spontaneous/ facetious/ vicarious/ delicious/
abulia/ savvy. embody. rig, cardiac
Abulia
wisky
bitter, defined, cultured
liquid, but it is not moist.
a fantastic high velocity burn all the way down
he loves it,
I hate it.
"it is delicious!"
"dont you want any?"
a facetious question
he knows my answer
him drinking, smoking, laid back
embodying the epic image of a man
i facetiously live through him
if there were no cost i would be like him
accepted,honored, savvy, free
the image is spontaneously shattered
begging for fudge and tacos once he is drunk
embodying the epic image of a child
rigging up toys from gadgets and empty glases
such a waste,
such a fucking waste.
in my constant confusion of who i am
he can effortlessly become
but he is not the type of man i want to be
if i could be a man at all.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
TRAIT 2.0
he has short legs but a wide stride.
like every step he is trying to make it over a puddle.
salt and pepper hair mixed over brown, sweeping down to touch arched brows.
he is on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
is/am/are/was/where/has/had/have
short legs but a wide stride.
like every step like a lunges to make it over a puddle.
salt and pepper hair mixed over brown, sweeping down to touch arched brows.
speaking on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
no original list words
but he walks like a cowboy.
every step like a lunge over a puddle.
molded bark colored hair, reaching down to touch highrise brows.
slurring through t's and r's, his voice twisting into a nagging woman.
conspiring with his phone
then he paces, listens, hushed.
mouth slack, bones peaking from under skin,tracing his plush cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his eyes
like every step he is trying to make it over a puddle.
salt and pepper hair mixed over brown, sweeping down to touch arched brows.
he is on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
is/am/are/was/where/has/had/have
short legs but a wide stride.
like every step like a lunges to make it over a puddle.
salt and pepper hair mixed over brown, sweeping down to touch arched brows.
speaking on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
no original list words
- salt n pepper.
- lisp .
- open mouth.
- arched brows.
- round cheek .
- knobby hands .
- sleek hair.
- thin.
- brown hair.
- short legs
- long stride
but he walks like a cowboy.
every step like a lunge over a puddle.
molded bark colored hair, reaching down to touch highrise brows.
slurring through t's and r's, his voice twisting into a nagging woman.
conspiring with his phone
then he paces, listens, hushed.
mouth slack, bones peaking from under skin,tracing his plush cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his eyes
ok esssssssay 3.0
drivel
I am not smart. I am not clever at all.but I like to think.a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
My core is thinking. I try to have some level of empathy for everyone, and I think this has made me a better version of me.I used to get angry at people lot, but now I just think about why they made me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. I can step back and see why I react the way I do has made me a happier person. I can let things go. I can make my self happy. i think this has made me more understanding of people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. I listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
When I asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. Something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves. I think mostly in words, when people talk to me I can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.But there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. That persons frame and pen are different than mine. Even if we seem the same we are so different.
Even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. I will never know how my father thinks. But I can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. Trying to understand people, to see where they come from is important to me.
A form of solidarity. Not sympathy. Not pity. I cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me. I can step back and see why i react the way i do. I am less angry, less blind bias. I know myself, knowing how I am, I can make myself happy, but I also get more frustrated, when I fall through my own cracks.
I am not smart. I am not clever at all.but I like to think.a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
My core is thinking. I try to have some level of empathy for everyone, and I think this has made me a better version of me.I used to get angry at people lot, but now I just think about why they made me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. I can step back and see why I react the way I do has made me a happier person. I can let things go. I can make my self happy. i think this has made me more understanding of people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. I listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
When I asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. Something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves. I think mostly in words, when people talk to me I can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.But there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. That persons frame and pen are different than mine. Even if we seem the same we are so different.
Even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. I will never know how my father thinks. But I can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. Trying to understand people, to see where they come from is important to me.
A form of solidarity. Not sympathy. Not pity. I cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me. I can step back and see why i react the way i do. I am less angry, less blind bias. I know myself, knowing how I am, I can make myself happy, but I also get more frustrated, when I fall through my own cracks.
Monday, February 24, 2014
essy shit copy 2.0
drivel
I am not smart. I am not cleaver at all.but I like to think.a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
my core is thinking. i try to have some level of empathy for everyone, and i think this has made me a better version of me.i used to get angry at people lot, but now i just think about why they made me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. Trying to look smart. i can step back and see why i react the way i do has made me a happier person. i can let things go. i can make my self happy, i am happy hanging out with my dad because he wants to know more about me and i want to know more about him and we can talk and that is great.
i think this has made me more sympathetic to people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. i listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
it has also made me kind of sad. i see things i do not agree with, and i cannot understand how a person can think like that. and maybe it is just my frame of reference, but if people thought more they would be kinder. but not everyone wants to questions themselves, and that is ok.
not everything has a "bad guy" that is what separates life from fiction
even though i love to draw and daydream, i think mostly in words, now i am planing parses and letters./\ when people talk to me i can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.
when i asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves.
but there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. that persons frame and pen are different than mine. even if we seem the same we are so different.
even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. i will never know how men think. narrower, i will never know how grown white men think. smaller, my father thinks. but i can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. trying to understand people, to see where they come from is me.
a form of solidarity. not sympathy. not pity. i cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me.. i can step back and see why i react the way i do. i am less angry, thinking than i was fighting with blind bias. i now myself deeply, knowing how i am, i can make myself happy, but i also get more frustrated, when i fall through my own cracks
I am not smart. I am not cleaver at all.but I like to think.a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
my core is thinking. i try to have some level of empathy for everyone, and i think this has made me a better version of me.i used to get angry at people lot, but now i just think about why they made me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. Trying to look smart. i can step back and see why i react the way i do has made me a happier person. i can let things go. i can make my self happy, i am happy hanging out with my dad because he wants to know more about me and i want to know more about him and we can talk and that is great.
i think this has made me more sympathetic to people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. i listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
it has also made me kind of sad. i see things i do not agree with, and i cannot understand how a person can think like that. and maybe it is just my frame of reference, but if people thought more they would be kinder. but not everyone wants to questions themselves, and that is ok.
not everything has a "bad guy" that is what separates life from fiction
even though i love to draw and daydream, i think mostly in words, now i am planing parses and letters./\ when people talk to me i can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.
when i asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves.
but there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. that persons frame and pen are different than mine. even if we seem the same we are so different.
even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. i will never know how men think. narrower, i will never know how grown white men think. smaller, my father thinks. but i can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. trying to understand people, to see where they come from is me.
a form of solidarity. not sympathy. not pity. i cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me.. i can step back and see why i react the way i do. i am less angry, thinking than i was fighting with blind bias. i now myself deeply, knowing how i am, i can make myself happy, but i also get more frustrated, when i fall through my own cracks
essy shit copy 1.0
drivel
I am not smart. I am not cleaver at all.but I think a lot.I think a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
core is thinking. i think too much sometimes, but i think it has made me a better version of me.
i used to get angry a lot, but now i just think about why things make me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. i can step back and see why i react the way i do has made me a happier person. i can let things go. i can make my self happy, i am happy hanging out with my dad because he wants to know more about me and i want to know more about him and we can talk and that is great.
i think this has made me more sympathetic to people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. i listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
it has also made me kind of sad. i see things i do not agree with, and i cannot understand how a person can think like that. and maybe it is just my frame of reference, but if people thought more they would be kinder. but not everyone wants to questions themselves, and that is ok.
not everything has a "bad guy" that is what separates life from fiction
even though i love to draw and daydream, i think mostly in words, now i am planing parses and letters./\ when people talk to me i can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.
when i asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves.
but there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. that persons frame and pen are different than mine. even if we seem the same we are so different.
even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. i will never know how men think. narrower, i will never know how grown white men think. smaller, my father thinks. but i can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. trying to understand people, to see where they come from is me.
a form of solidarity. not sympathy. not pity. i cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me.. i can step back and see why i react the way i do. i am less angry, thinking than i was fighting with blind bias. i now myself deeply, knowing how i am, i can make myself happy, but i also get more frustrated, when i fall through my own cracks
I am not smart. I am not cleaver at all.but I think a lot.I think a lot of people try to judge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but some times those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think.
core is thinking. i think too much sometimes, but i think it has made me a better version of me.
i used to get angry a lot, but now i just think about why things make me mad. small things, like kids who ask to many questions in class, they just make me mad because they are just wasting time. i can step back and see why i react the way i do has made me a happier person. i can let things go. i can make my self happy, i am happy hanging out with my dad because he wants to know more about me and i want to know more about him and we can talk and that is great.
i think this has made me more sympathetic to people. i am more willing to listen to both sides of a story, to form my opinion on, small things like arguments, or big political things. i listen to both and find the answer that best aligns with me, one or the other or maybe a mix of both.
it has also made me kind of sad. i see things i do not agree with, and i cannot understand how a person can think like that. and maybe it is just my frame of reference, but if people thought more they would be kinder. but not everyone wants to questions themselves, and that is ok.
not everything has a "bad guy" that is what separates life from fiction
even though i love to draw and daydream, i think mostly in words, now i am planing parses and letters./\ when people talk to me i can picture the type scrolling like a stock clicker.
when i asked my grandmother "how do you think" she said she never thought about it. something you live with everyday, the voice and images in your head, never speaking about themselves.
but there is so much more to thoughts than words and pictures. that persons frame and pen are different than mine. even if we seem the same we are so different.
even if we think in pictures and words, people are so different, and no one will truly understand where you think. i will never know how men think. narrower, i will never know how grown white men think. smaller, my father thinks. but i can try to know him, and learn why he reacts the way he does. trying to understand people, to see where they come from is me.
a form of solidarity. not sympathy. not pity. i cannot know how you feel, but i try to see why you are the way you are. Thinking has made me a better version of me.. i can step back and see why i react the way i do. i am less angry, thinking than i was fighting with blind bias. i now myself deeply, knowing how i am, i can make myself happy, but i also get more frustrated, when i fall through my own cracks
trait
he has short legs but a wide stride.
like every step he is trying to make it over a puddle.
salt and peper hair mixed over brown, sweepin down to touch arched brows.
he is on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
like every step he is trying to make it over a puddle.
salt and peper hair mixed over brown, sweepin down to touch arched brows.
he is on his phone
lisping through t's and r's, trowing his voice to mimic a nagging woman.
then he paces, listens, quiet.
mouth open, thin knobby hand tracing his round cheek.
the voice on the phone talking
making nervous optimism grow in his blue eyes
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
wssay 3 phome typwing
I am not smart. I am not cleaver at all.but I think a lot.I think a lot of people try to jduge people on their intelligence, or lord their own knowledge over people.but somtimes those people are the dumbest people. Because they can only see themselves. Egocentric. They have no empathy. Because they are smart and are told they are clever they see their view is right. So they never think
Sunday, February 16, 2014
humanities thing
Keith Lemley is my favorite artist for his combinations of light and texture to make unearthly concept art.The Woods is a sculpture piece that takes up a entire room and is a commentary piece on deforestation. the piece was made in 2012 making it a resent contemporary piece.most of Lemleys work uses neon tubes to create a line art like “drawing” in this case it is a 2D silhouette a 3D field. so line and shape are used together in a distinct image of a axe.the neon tube has no visible texture, but the cement room and stumps are the only texture in the piece, the cement is worn, being smooth in some places and jagged in others. the sumps are split so the wood grain is plain to see. Most of the colors are muted grey and browns, with the white of the neon making a huge contrast. For value the axes are the main light source with rest of the room in darkness. i think that is what makes the piece so interesting, that rather than spotlights lighting the work, it lights the room. much of the piece is open space to walk around in,and also to feel the emptiness of a cleared forest, so empty, but not unused space is a big part of the work.
the work is haunting, the dark makes you feel unease, with your eyes drawn to the axes, vaguely threatening lining the walls and balanced on ragged stumps.the leaning axes on the wall give a “finished” feel, what ever happened here is done no going back, everything has been cut and ruined.
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