Simile of a Poem's Nature

Poems are like flowers. They bloom, some more timely than others, with your emotions faithfully supplying the necessary nutrients. Some of these are pleasant to ponder. Some are tear-inducing in their beauteous light. Some are repulsive merely by common opinion——a weed——and are reduced to nothing by the herbicide known as white-out or by its cousin the delete key. And sometimes, though rarely in my own case, you may find them naively squished between the pages of a favorite book, often one piteously misplaced much too long ago, in an attempt to keep their allure of heart-felt meaning perpetually cherished.

We have taken this path by choice

I found this in an old High School notebook.


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Arms linked, we walk down a path
never visited by our own foot treads.
You point at the trees, moss-enveloped and strong.
I gaze up to the sky’s vast expanse.
We have taken this path by choice.

Arms linked, we walk in the rain
that chills our skin and forms many puddles.
You slide your toe across the surface of a pool.
I laugh and skitter through a newfound stream.
We have taken this path by choice.

Arms linked, we walk through the heat
of a sweltering summer we are meant to enjoy.
You wipe the sweat from my brow, then your own.
I complain, though my groans will change nothing.
We have taken this path by choice.

Arms linked, we walk among trees
whose many colors gleam in a sun-baked light.
You twirl a copper-rust-gold leaf; tear stains glint.
I fear for you, and brush your eyes dry.
We have taken this path by choice.

Arms linked, we walk with the cold
weathering, eroding at the bond we share.
You turn away, but secretly glance back.
I push from you, but my hand still holds your grip.
We have taken this path by choice.

Arms linked, we walk together
Passed frost had drawn us to warmth, together.
You smile and express silent gratitude, forgiveness.
I grin, resonating acceptance and apology.
We have taken this path by choice.

This path is Trust.

This choice is Love.

"Dew" - An inconsiderately short poem

"Dancing 'til the dawn does break,
Icy droplets drench your skin.
Sing the rain of heart-freed life.
Weeping, stars collide within."

For Mishy

Wishing to hold you
But too far away
Wanting to cry
But there's too much to say

If I could see your face
Just feel your embrace
My life would be amazing
But I'm stuck in this place

My style, my self

If art is an expression of who I am... An extension of who I am... What does it mean when I lose that ability? When I lose my style, have I lost myself as well? I cannot draw a thing that feels 'right.' So... What do I do? How do I find my self that has been lost?

What do I do?

Shape Writing

Love is feeling the touch of an old friend's hand after years of distance. The relief of the first embrace in so long a time as hearts reunite... the feeling shrouds me, protects me. The anticipation and excitement have died down; all that remains is a rightness. Puzzle pieces -- treasures I entrusted to her with my last parting glance so long ago -- fit themselves back into their specified notches in my heart. I am complete, together. Her resting form slumped against me, breathing steady and slow, is peace. I cannot imagine an end to our time; I will not allow myself to imagine it. I love her, my dearest friend. I will keep my Mishy forever.

Apollonian and Dionysian Principles

Apollonian and Dionysian Principals:

Camille Paglia’s Knowledge of Greek Mythology

Camille Paglia, author of Sex, Art, and American Culture, wields a proficiency with Greek mythology; this extensive knowledge becomes apparent to anyone flipping through the author’s aforementioned book. Paglia often refers to Apollo and Dionysus, the Greek gods of knowledge and ecstasy, respectively, in her writings. She claims art is represented by two principles derived from these ancient deities, Apollonian and Dionysian principles. They are described as “a cyclic pattern of expansion and retraction, of the shapeless and the definitive” (102).

Paglia wants to reset the terminology of “art” and “culture” to their previous historical usage. She believes that “art” should apply to all things man-made. Even in the sense of architectural and engineering projects, the identity as “art” still applies. Every creative venture is “art,” regardless of the medium. However, while these creations are “art,” the “questions of quality [are] still operative” (102). Though Paglia marks these as “art,” she does note the different levels of creative ease in the modern age of mass media. While simultaneously expressing sympathy toward the literary wordsmiths, she confesses her envy of musicians as well as her submission to music’s power. She admits her longing for “a prose of Classic structure yet romantic fire,…both clarity and passion, eternal opposites of Apollo and Dionysus” (116).

Within Sex, Art, and American Culture, Paglia repeatedly references characters of ancient Greek lore. In multiple instances, she brings up the Greek poet Homer. In one mentioning, Paglia summarizes and compares a scene from the epic poem The Odyssey to Sappho’s poem “He seems to me a god.” Painting vivid imagery with her delicate wording, Paglia contrasts the meeting of Nausikaa and Odysseus in the formerly mentioned poem with the direction of thought toward an unaware woman in the latter. She reveals her interpretation of the two poem’s comparative idea of “love” as fresh and lively versus isolated and afflictive.

In an argument on sexism and feminism, Paglia repeatedly refers to the Greek poems. She brings up in this argument that “Helen, Circe, and Calypso tell us much more about the magic irrationalism of sex than do the bitterly anti-male tracts of current feminism that underlie the Presbyterian report” (34). The mentioning of Socrates’ chaste behavior by the lovely Alcibiades ties into Paglia’s Apollonian designation, being Chastity in this case.

She weaves the lore through her arguments, calling through to her past as well. As she has stated, she is “the Sixties come back to haunt the present” (250). Speaking with her vast understanding of Greek mythology, Paglia states that, unlike the rest of the Sixties, she honors Apollo and Dionysus equally. She claims that the Sixties polmicists trivialized Dionysus as simply ‘pleasure,’ rather than his true nature, ‘pleasure-pain.’ She also goes on to explain her belief that “no art form, not even Greek tragedy in Athens’s Theater of Dionysus, ever gave full voice to the Dionysian” (106). Another statement of Paglia’s points out her theory that Rock ‘n’ Roll’s Romanticism better conveys Dionysian ideas.

In another explanation of Apollonian values compared alongside Dionysian values, Paglia writes, “Bird and Worm: Apollo and Dionysus, sky-cult and earth-cult, illumination and mystery” (122). She calls the Apollonian “sharp-edged” and the Dionysian “melting” (45).

Paglia does bring light to extremist possibilities, calling Western Apollonian-ism “a cold, desiccated fetishism of pure I.Q. divorced from humor, compassion, ethics, eroticism, [and] wisdom” (224). She touches on the topic of Modernization as well. Once again mentioning the Greek influence on modern society, Paglia claims the modern technological world is a product of Greek and Roman mathematics, sciences, and analytical thought processes. According to Paglia, education “must simultaneously explore and explain the world’s multiculturalism while preparing the young to enter the Apollonian command-system” (239). She ties this back into her love of art and creativity by explaining her desire for ethnic descendants to “retain their creative duality” (239).

With all of Paglia’s knowledge of Greek mythology, it is clear as to why she possesses such ease in relating it to her topics in writing. Paglia knows what she is talking about. Her prowess on this topic paved the way for her other intellectual endeavors. Paglia is an example of studious intelligence.

Work Cited

Paglia, Camille. Sex, Art, and American Culture: Essays. New York: Vintage, 1992. Print.

My Generation, My Self

My Generation, My Self

The Baby Boomers, Generation X, Echo Boom: these are the generations of the past. Now, my own generation emerges. As I sit, pondering this idea of generational change, I wonder what the world sees my generation as. We have been referred to as “Generation Z,” “The Internet Generation,” and “The New Silent Generation.” However, these names mean nothing without application. Our generation is now.

The G.I. Generation fought through the Great Depression in youth and the second world war in adulthood. The Silent Generation protested for the sake of civil rights, as well as seeing the end of World War II. The MTV Generation felt the first impacts of mass media and the last of the Cold War. Now, my generation struggles against commonplace violence; it also fights for its rights and its place in the world.

While growing up, I never thought of the effects of my generation on society. I knew simple truths, though they were few and far between. As a small child, my societal knowledge consisted of these points: big kids could beat up everyone else, girls who liked girls were bad, and students couldn’t attend recess if they didn’t finish their homework. These truths, however, have been elaborated upon as my life has continued to unfold. Big kids who beat others are bullies. Girls who like girls often hide their feelings. Students who aren’t allowed to attend recess are deprived of social interaction and exercise.

My late-elementary experiences contributed greatly to who I am today. During the time I attended A-H-S-T, the school district sent the fourth through eighth graders to the middle school building in Shelby, Iowa. In the fall of my fourth grade year, the fourth and fifth grade bus was over capacity, so my close friend Chelsea and I were selected to ride the sixth graders’ bus. Forced to sit with the cruel older girls, Chelsea and I endured physical, mental, and emotional torment. I arrived home most days dotted with saliva, mucus, and bruises. I always wished that one of them would take pity and save us. Because of this experience, I made the decision to stand up for others.

Many members of my generation share in my feelings; they fight for the unheard. The bullies suppress the voices of the victims. The majorities suppress the voices of the minorities. The ‘normal’ suppress the voices of the ‘different.’

My generation is more tolerating than those past, but it is also more opinionated. The homosexuals are more accepted among us, but also more ridiculed. The mentally ill are more sanctioned, but also more put-down. This contradiction is a painful reality. “Gay” and “Retarded” have become commonplace insults, but their impact is still hurtful. Our generation is too accepting too soon.

Laziness is a recurring quality of my generation. We are so dependent upon others for nearly everything in our lives. Our parents babied us, taught us that we could ask and receive. They allowed us to do what we wanted with minimal consequences. As an example, I was never forced to do something own my own. If I asked for help, I received it. My instructors assured me that help was always available. As I reached high school, I realized that I couldn’t do many simple tasks on my own. I was so dependent on my parents; I would still ask my mother for a good-night-kiss before bed in high school. I didn’t know any different. I was never forced to grow up.

I have noticed the indifference my generation pays to its elders. My history classes feel empty; enthusiasm has crept back into the deepest recesses of our emotions. I was taught snap-shots of history by my unceasingly intellectual father, but I never tied them to reality. Late in my Junior year of high school, however, I asked my grandmother about her past for the first time. What I learned astounded me. I felt long-untapped empathy roar to life within me, pain wrenching through me as she described losing everything. I couldn’t fully visualize the hardships she had to endure. My generation has never had a life-changing struggle of hardship like that. We have never wholly hurt.

My generation is quite uncaring of the impending future. It doesn’t take stock in the value of education; sports and socialization rule supreme. What is right around the corner, coming faster than a bullet, is ignored, put out of mind. Few worry, few plan, few work for a better tomorrow. We have been too safe for our entire lives; we can’t imagine anything tearing us apart. Our lives seems so unending, so unchanging. Nothing can right us; nothing can change us. The sky is darkening with smog and scars, and the world is shriveling in its pain. We can’t change what we don’t see. We can’t see what we don’t open our eyes to. Our eyes are shut tight, and our dreams keep us happy. We’ll soon wake up from it and face a reality so painful and ugly that we can’t find a way to fix it. Overwhelming scum will hide the solution. We will need to find our shovel.

This reality may seem disturbing, but we can open our eyes before it happens. Before the dust covers everything so thick we can’t move, we can stop it. To pull ourselves from our happy dreams, that is what we need to do. We can each start with a small light, so tiny it makes no difference. Then, we can stand together, and the lights join to illuminate the world. First, we have to open our eyes.

This generation leads an existence untouched, unstained by reality. No wars have rocked our homes. No laws have denied our rights. No hate has taken our lives. Nothing has changed our planned paths.  If the world sent forth a catastrophic event, one which wrenched us from our daily sludge, we would have the opportunity to right ourselves. This has not happened yet. However, history repeats itself.

My Ethnic Heritage

My Ethnic Heritage

I remember seventeen of my life’s nineteen years as bland and uniform. However, the two years excluded from this statement make up for this lack of variation with their short-lived yet extravagant assortment of spice and color. During the aforementioned dull portion, I divided my years of living among small towns in the Midwest. With little warning, an odd turn of events in 2004 carried me directly into the previously-unimaginable diversity of another country.

All of the Midwestern towns I’ve lived in—mostly towns in Iowa, such as Avoca, Marcus, and Sioux Rapids—hold a very narrow spectrum of ethnic diversity. Most of the population descends from northern european blood. Some towns even boast of their lack of diversity. A prime example of this behavior is on the welcome sign of Albert City, Iowa; printed on said sign is the phrase “How Swede it is.” The homogenous quality of the surrounding population’s culture prevented me from experiencing more than minimal ethnic contrast. My setting kept a veil over my eyes.

From 1992 to 2004, I lived an unfalteringly sheltered existence. In August of 2004, however, my world flipped upside down. I had always been in the predominant—if not exclusive—group of the population, but an altogether different majority-minority arrangement wove its way into my consciousness.

I recall my first experience in the Marshall Islands well. My family knew about the airplane flight’s required, pre-destination stop on Majuro, the capital of the Marshall Islands. The inspection of the plane by customs officers required every passenger to exit the plane. Officers escorted us into a roofed yet open-air waiting area where we sardined together. A worn sign on the wall read, “No spitting beetle juice on the floor.” This was my first indicator of the cultural difference. My fellow flight passengers and I were the only Caucasians; I felt awkward and out of place. The plane re-boarded its passengers and continued to its destination, the South-Pacific military base of Kwajalein, my new home.

The Americans could never fully accept the Marshallese ways, but the lack of complete acceptance was mutual. The Marshallese are a very generous people; because the islands are so small, everyone has to share what they have. The Marshallese culture stated that if one person needed something that another person had, the first person could borrow it without asking. Americans saw this as stealing, and had to explain to the Marshallese several times that these customs were not allowed on Kwajalein because the island was a United States military base that abided by United States laws.

The Marshallese refer to the Americans as “Rebeles”. When the Americans first heard this phrase directed toward them, they thought it meant ‘white skinned’ or another phrase to point out our differences in appearance because Americans think of people that way. In Marshallese, the name actually means “People with a lot of stuff.” The Marshallese, as stated, would share all of their possessions; no one owned anything personally. The Americans, though, would bring with them to the island large crates on barges containing all of their ‘stuff’ that they would simply live with but not share.

My mother experienced a large cultural shock early in our time there. She went to the convenience store and, while there, complimented the cashier on her necklace. The cashier immediately took the necklace off and handed it to my dumbfounded mother. Embarrassed at her mistake, my mother avoided the convenience store for the next week. The next time the cashier saw my mother walking nearby, however, the cashier ran out to her and gave her the rest of the necklace’s matching set of ear-rings, a ring, and a bracelet. It is Marshallese custom to give someone an item if the person compliments it. The cashier would not accept payment, claiming the jewelry was a gift; my mother has kept the jewelry safe to this day as a reminder of the admirable custom.

The island wasn’t only Caucasians and Marshallese; there was a somewhat large Filipino population as well. I had three close friends on the island, Ali, Mishy, and Coleen. Ali was Caucasian like me, and Mishy and Coleen were half-Filipino. Often, my friends and I would go to a Filipino party. The parties served food from the Philippines, as well as hosting Filipino music and dancing. At the parties, I often received odd looks for my willingness to try new foods. Perhaps it was my previous lack of ethnic diversity that made me so eager to try these different experiences.

In June of 2006, I returned to the Midwestern United States. Once again, my surroundings offered little diversity, but my veil had long since vanished. I knew how it felt to be a minority. The different cultures on Kwajalein left an imprint on my mind never to be forgotten.

The Moment I Grew Up

The Moment I Grew Up

Most young children check beneath their beds for monsters before laying their heads to rest each night. Regardless of age, each person in this world holds a fear, his own form of monster. To select one person at random—any one will do—and examine this person’s mentality would reveal an innermost desire: to be accepted despite the aforementioned monster. To attain this acceptance from someone evinces love.

The monsters of this world have many forms; fear and hatred, pride and greed, the list is unending. For me, this soul-conjured, heart-spun monster appears each time I gaze into the mirror. I keep this monster, my horrid self, locked far and away, out of sight. The masks change often, but I can never quite put them down. Throughout my life, I have believed that showing anyone my whole, true being would cause this person to retract his or her claim to my friendship. For years, this fear, this belief, has proven correct and steadfast. Nothing I had found could alter this notion, could shake off its hold on me. However, recent events of this past year have unwound this anxious stress and have proven me thankfully wrong.

Toward the end of my senior year of high school, I had felt a growing closeness toward a school friend. My love-life at the time had become a pathetic mess. My monster had been seen; my loved one had noticed the hideous creature within me. I was heartbroken and wretched. Seeing an image of his own self in me, my friend helped me to my feet and aided in the stitching to mend my torn heart. I wanted to trust, but each glimpse into the mirror reminded me of the foul, odious form I harbored within. Regardless of how revolting I knew I was, I needed this. Just once, I wanted to be looked upon without the badly-hidden disgust. Just once, I wanted to be embraced wholly. Just once, I wanted acceptance.

I waited, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. Though I had been assured I could trust him, I couldn’t bring myself to take the leap. Fear etched its way into my thoughts, and anxiety wound its way around my consciousness. I knew rejection and hatred all too well. What would come would come, and nothing could stop it. The pain I recalled from previous experiences was too real. It would take all of my strength for me to push myself to take that first step. I prayed it wouldn’t be my last. Too many attempts had failed. Was it worth it? Could I really take this chance?

Sometimes, a chance must be taken—an opportunity seized. I held my breath as we took our seats on that mildewed park bench, the black-as-pitch night mingling with the humid air of June. My exhalation signaled the beginning of my tale, the revelation of my monster. He listened quietly, compassion in his gaze. With each story and recounting, another piece of the puzzle fell into my friend’s hands. Finally, my monster’s likeness was revealed; the last fragment of the image slid into place. The instinct to flee from the imminent rejection overwhelmed me. I hid my face in my hands. Tears fell.

When one reveals oneself fully before another, laying everything bare, a sense of dread creeps in. I quivered, waiting for the impact of repulsion. Instead, I felt the warmth of his embrace. He accepted me, though I could not fathom why. Hot tears slipped down my face and spattered against the evening-chilled pavement beneath our feet. I couldn’t be that simple, or maybe it could. As I looked into his eyes, I had my answer: he saw himself as the monster, not me.

Once your own monster has been accepted, you realize others hold monsters of their own. Little by little, his monster’s form was placed before me. Word by word, he drew up its image. I wrapped my arms around him. Trembling, he presented before me his own monster. Yes, it was a monster, but shining brightly behind it was his angel. I realized then that I must have an angel too.

Every man has a monster: the embodiment of his evils. On the opposite side of the spectrum, however, every man has the embodiment of his good: his angel. The pain of scars may stay with a man every waking moment of his day. The wounds of the past may wriggle their way into his every thought. Regardless of how many wrongs he has done, though, he still has an angel to give light to his good. To make this realization is truly to grow up.

Confession of Blog Neglect -- Stay tuned for special features after the presentation!

This blog has been neglected for so long. Sadness overwhelms it.

I have often recalled the status of this blog: derelict and dejected. The lack of updates, despite my creative responsibility, is a regret I hold.

To my teacher, Erin Olson, I apologize. I had given my word to keep this blog afloat, but it was not well upheld. If only to find a way to revive my blog, I offer up a unfinished piece of my own creative scrawlings.
For your reading experience, though not much of one, I present to you a very rough writing scrap: "The Heart-Flight"


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"The Heart-Flight"
by mudkip003

Prologue


The Birds chirp cheerfully as they hop from branch to branch among the trees. Their wings, tinged with silver and gold, flit and flutter as they dance. Through the air, their jubilance echoes to the sky.
The Birds are always beautiful, always carefree. They sing their songs to themselves, to each other, to all around, but, most of all, to the sky.

I have always been jealous of the Birds. The Birds' wings, glinting in the sunlight, are so much more beautiful than my simple, mottled coat. The most beautiful thing I've ever held in my possession though, the one thing that I can even attempt to compare to their wings, that is my paws. Flecked with bits of copper, these paws are my source of pride.
The Birds, as wondrous a sight as they are, have always mocked me. They taunt me, tease me. Sometimes, if feeling particularly daring, they will even spit at me. Their hatred hurts, as I've never once tried to harm them, never once done anything to earn it. Unlike many of my family, I've never once wished them ill. Unlike my family, I love the Birds.
Despite my many attempts to show my love, I have never found their kindness. If only I wasn't what I am.




Chapter 1

My eyes quickly scan my surroundings. No movement enters my vision, not even the leaves above me twitch from the breeze. Despite the lack of movement, I can smell the fear. It bites at my nostrils, tearing at my control.
"KILL!" I hear the whisper of my ancestors, the voice of my instincts.
I follow the urge to a point: I turn toward where the scent emanates from.

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That's all I have from that.
I also have for you a bit of my story, "Blackest of Blue" (unfinished title)




"Blackest of Blue"
by mudkip003


Chapter 1 - Seeing is more than vision allows

Pain.
That was the first thing Marc felt. Intense and stabbing, it coursed through his body, each and every nerve screaming in protest. His breath came in sharp bursts, each intake of air sending a quake through his body. Teeth clenched and fingers digging into whatever surface lay beneath them, he bit back a wail of agony.
Slowly, his fingers relaxed and his jaw loosened. The pain had lessened to a sting, and then to a dull throbbing. Marc noticed his breathing even out before any other conscious thought could reach him. He grasped onto this feeling in his mind, clutching it desperately as if it were all that kept him from the darkness of naught.
Taking up the task of discovering his whereabouts, Marc attempted to open his eyes. Nothing but blackness entered his vision. A stinging twinge pained his eyes, as if a reminder of his suffering before.
Drawing a wince, Marc's spine cracked as he pushed his torso upright.
"Sir!"
The voice, so close and clear, came as a shock to Marc. His jaw went slack in surprise.
"Sir! You really need to lie back down!"
It was a woman's voice, Marc noted, though not one he recognized.
"Ma'am," Marc's voice rasped, his throat dry, "Where am I?" His hands lifted to his eyes; confusion as to his missing sight swirling through his mind.
A hand slapped his down and the woman's voice rang crisply, "Don't touch the bandages. I've already sent for the doctor; he wanted to see you once you'd woken up. You'll just have to be patient."
"What…?" Marc dug through the jumble of his most recent memories, trying to piece together what was going on. The memories were hazy, but still there.
Before he had time to straighten the facts, the sound of a door's latch catching reached his ears.
"Ah, Marc! You're finally awake! I'm glad to see that. I was getting a little worried, actually," a man's voice greeted him with a chuckle, overlapping quiet footsteps.
Marc tried to fit the pieces together, but couldn't recall enough to understand the current situation.
"You seem a bit unsteady. Is everything all right?" the man's voice held a hint of concern.
Muddling through his viscus memories, Marc found it more difficult to think.
"I-- I can't remember what happened. The last thing that comes to me is my apartment…"
The man sighed, "I was worried about that. The sedative and pain killers must have messed with your head a bit. Well, let me fill you in. You're in a hospital. You were brought here by ambulance about a week ago, after having been attacked in your apartment. Your eyes… Well, you'd be forever blind unless you went through immediate surgery, and you gave your consent to have the operation. It was risky, but none of the staff fully filled you in on just how risky it was," the man's breath seemed to wheeze for a moment, as if his shame kept him from speaking. A moment passed before he continued in a lighter tone, "In fact, you're the first to receive this surgery successfully. The only reason we'd suggested it was because you'd signed up for an experimental medical group, but.. Well, that doesn't matter right now. Anyway, we gave you new eyes, and you should be able to see just fine. It's time to take off the bandages and make sure it was as successful as we believe!"



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This is all I have to offer.
This is all I have to give.
Until next time...
--Mudkip003

Song-- And a change

I've decided that, as I've been rather busy lately, I will try to update my blog with different things in mind each time. I'll try to focus on art once in a while, but more often than not it will be unrelated ramblings. I hope no one minds. The blog title is 'Art; Uniquely', so it should be okay if I add unique things as well as artistic things.

Before I babble too much, let us move to my blog entry!

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Once, a tear fell from the world. Once, the sorrow was naught. Once, the world was completely at peace. Once, all was right.

This tear, though too small to be seen by any being of mortality, contained every sadness, every hatred, every agonistic cry. All these horrible things were locked away in this single, innocent teardrop.
But, despite these things being taken away, struggle returned. The world's peace could not be kept, and the stress and strain overwhelmed the renewed people.
The bickering turned to fighting turned to war.

Another tear was shed.
Peace returned.


But now, the world is in its third attempt at peace. Hope keeps the tear from being shed, from prosperity reigning once again.  Will we be able to save ourselves? Or will another tear fall?

When the world cries, we will die.
Help us help ourselves.