Journals10
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GADDAMMIT, IT'S BEEN A WHILE!
1 min read
Soup, guys. I haven't been on here in a minute.
What's been going on?
And we can now use italics in our journal entries? HOW FUCKING COOL IS THAT!!!!
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The Pet Peeves of Art
2 min read
1. People say draw-LING instead of draw-ING (worst).
2. My feet get either too cold or too hot.
3. Drooling on my paper.
4. When there's a local contest or artshow, family or friends are constantly saying that I should have submitted something OTHER than what I had ALREADY submitted, just because they think like the other piece better. (THANKS, GRANDMA! YOU'RE THE BEST!)
5. Finding something that I did wrong and having to start on another one, such as realizing one eye is bigger than the other (thought this is sometimes a blessing, because the next draft is usually better than the previous).
6. When people appreciate things by artists who either are dead or have no talent at all! I saw a million dollar worth piece that was futuristic city that looked like a bunch of green vibrators.
7. It's okay. Not all art has meaning. Some people just get bored, okay. Stop trying to make some off the wall interpretation of something comepletely spontanious or realistic.
8. When someone who has absolutely NO perspective in art or literature lies to you about your work and claim that they just LOVE it, but that's because they have nothing else to compare it to due to their close-minded view of what art exactly is.
9. When I am hungry.
10. When I am thirsty.
11. When I am tired.
12. When I am horny.
13. When people are looking over my shoulder WATCHING me draw.
14. Paint spatters (sorry, I dislike Jackson Pollock).
15. When someone says they can see emotion in a photograph while the subject is woman with a straight pokerface.
16. When someone tries to interpret my art and tells me what they think I intended for that piece, when really I was just bored.
17. Emo album art.
18. Confusing skill with talent.
19. Hipters. 'nough said.
20. Naruto and Sasuke yaoi.
2. My feet get either too cold or too hot.
3. Drooling on my paper.
4. When there's a local contest or artshow, family or friends are constantly saying that I should have submitted something OTHER than what I had ALREADY submitted, just because they think like the other piece better. (THANKS, GRANDMA! YOU'RE THE BEST!)
5. Finding something that I did wrong and having to start on another one, such as realizing one eye is bigger than the other (thought this is sometimes a blessing, because the next draft is usually better than the previous).
6. When people appreciate things by artists who either are dead or have no talent at all! I saw a million dollar worth piece that was futuristic city that looked like a bunch of green vibrators.
7. It's okay. Not all art has meaning. Some people just get bored, okay. Stop trying to make some off the wall interpretation of something comepletely spontanious or realistic.
8. When someone who has absolutely NO perspective in art or literature lies to you about your work and claim that they just LOVE it, but that's because they have nothing else to compare it to due to their close-minded view of what art exactly is.
9. When I am hungry.
10. When I am thirsty.
11. When I am tired.
12. When I am horny.
13. When people are looking over my shoulder WATCHING me draw.
14. Paint spatters (sorry, I dislike Jackson Pollock).
15. When someone says they can see emotion in a photograph while the subject is woman with a straight pokerface.
16. When someone tries to interpret my art and tells me what they think I intended for that piece, when really I was just bored.
17. Emo album art.
18. Confusing skill with talent.
19. Hipters. 'nough said.
20. Naruto and Sasuke yaoi.
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Through the Wide Open Door
14 min read
Through the Wide Open Door
Red clouds stained the sky on the morning that I found out that Amberle was dying. I woke just before dawn to watch the sun rise, slipping into my coat and smelling the sweet autumn air as I stepped into the fading darkness. A violent breeze caught me on my doorstep, a sudden feeling of apprehension sweeping through me. I searched the fading stars above me for the source of that feeling, a cold writhing in my stomach. For a while I ignored it, but it haunted me every minute that ticked as the sun crept up the horizon. The sky seemed to be composed of several clots of blood, all strewn over my head and orphaned of the usual golden light that dawn had always brought. Today was different, today was amiss. I shunned the feeling away.
Then I heard my mother's bell ringing faintly from inside the house. Shutting my eyes tightly against the sound, I ignored that too.
Instead of coming to her, I distanced myself from the house, far from her room as if it were plagued with an incurable disease. I wouldn't go near it so long as I could help it. She might wet herself, vomit, or even roll into the floor. But I kept walking, looking for comfort against the bloody dawn, seeking out for an escape against that damned bell I had grown to hate. Instead, I came to Amberle.
When I spoke of Amberle, mostly discreetly, friends or eavesdroppers might have assumed I spoke of a sister or a lover. Though I cared for her as if she either, she was not. She was a tree, a massive white birch whose skyward limbs were coated with crimson leaves. Amberle was lovely, more beautiful than any woman I had ever encountered. She was a tree, and I loved her.
And now she was dying.
The wilt that began to consume her was almost beautiful. I always loved to pick at the moss that caked her roots, but it was sickly. The branches seemed hollow, the leaves rotting from decay like bad teeth. How long did this fly over my head? How could not have noticed that Amberle was sick? She seemed sad; sap poured like tears from her bone-white bark. I bit my lip in dismay and fought back tears.
I remember when I first had met Amberle. When I fourteen, my family had reached below the line of poverty. We were forced to dwell in a much smaller home, a shack compared to what we last had lived in. Then my father's drinking habits spun out of control. He became loose after that, a helpless ghost no more than a memory in the back of my mind. While he wallowed in self-pity, I watched him with disgust. His death brought no surprise to me, but my mother's life had begun to deteriorate. She had cried into her pillow to something or someone to "make it go away". I couldn't bear any of it; whatever haunted her was none of my concern or out of my help. A lone white tree met my gaze as I had stormed through the backdoor one afternoon, awesome and brilliant in the beaming sun. It brought me comforts no other friend I'd had could attempt. Its being there was good enough, for that was all I could have asked for.
Back then I was always reading, reading until it felt like my eyes would bleed because then there was no responsibility, no cares. Reading was my escape from my force-fed poverty. It was Terry Brooks who stole me away one year, his books bringing me a world I had dreamt of every night. Sometimes I read to the tree, which listened intently. It was very humanlike in a lot of ways, and I knew that it was my dearest companion.
"That's a beautiful name," I had said aloud as I read from Terry's book. "Amberle."
Mother hated that tree. I ignored her sometimes when days seemed dim, for that was when I was with Amberle. Mom never understood how Amberle listed to me, how she never mocked me or laughed like the others. But Mom didn't care. I had other priorities, she would say. I never would have foreseen that my own mother would be one of those priorities. Many years had passed my father's death, and Mother's mind was leaving. I walked her places and made our meals. I worked for us, I fought for us. But she was helpless. By the time I was twenty, her mind was gone. I strived to keep her alive, I strived for her wellbeing. Yet I knew there was nowhere for her to go. I was her last and only link to life.
I loved my mother and I hated her. Even now, after having fled the sight of my beloved birch, as I washed off Mother's feces, I felt a boiling hate. Her eyes wandered ignorantly to the dark corners of the room, the shadows blunt as the light in her pale eyes. I felt sick as I watched, trying to shake away the malice that flowed from me. All I could do was watch her bathe in her own illness, for that I surely could not wash away. I could never wash it away.
Amberle was becoming like Mother too, one death as unpredictable as the other. Wave upon wave of pity and guilt washed over me as I stared at my mother, a helpless woman who couldn't discern life from sleep.
"Mom," I said, almost with a whisper. "I've got news."
She didn't stir.
"Amberle… She's dying." I smiled mockingly. Mother's milky eyes passed over my face. For a moment, I thought she comprehended me; that was a stupid thought. She was lifeless. "Isn't that what you always wanted? The goddamn tree is finally dying!"
I realized that was screaming. Mother had jumped at my voice, which seemed to hang in the air, desolate and unforgiving. She was drawn back in fear and confusion, and this time I felt sure shame. Of all the times I pictured her death, sweet and final, all the times I desired it so that I would be rid of her, I was never shamed. Now I saw the fear in her lifeless eyes.
Even though I knew that she could not see me, I hid my face from her. My teeth ached as I grinded them. Something cold was thrashing in my chest, some pain that I could not shake. I stormed from the room.
My room was quiet. My bed was welcoming. I slept and dreamed of death and her many woes.
The next morning was filled with silence. I hadn't said a word to my mother as fed her. I didn't pass under the branches of Amberle. The entirety of that morning, I sat a pool of my own sorrow. Again, I felt the need to separate myself from my home. I left the house soon after and walked. I passed many broken homes on my way to where I didn't know. After half an hour I came upon a hill, where a great willow wept over bench, upon which sat an old man, his chin tucked. Without a thought, I started toward him.
His eyes found me before I spoke. He smiled. "Hello there, son. Out for a stroll?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Thought some fresh air would be nice."
The old man nodded back, his smile firm. "Yes, yes. I suppose that's why I'm here too. But then again, I'm always out here, fresh air or no."
Without replying, I sat beside him on the wooden bench.
"You look to be troubled," he announced curtly.
I shrugged. "Just tired."
"Ah," he sighed slowly. "A lot of that fatigue going around. Gets ya while you're working or walking. All the same."
I smiled despite my anxiety.
"You know, when I was about your age I found this bench. I've been coming here every Friday since. But as of late, it's been every day. Hardly a soul passes my way, but when they do, they wave back at me. They're all lost, though. At least it seems that way. And you?"
"Hmm?" I hummed, hardly listening.
"You lost, son?"
I thought about the question as it hung over me. My eyes wandered to the bottom of the weeping willow six feet away from him. It seemed sick too. "Not lost. Wandering seems a better word."
The old man smiled again. "Huh. Imagine that."
The day suddenly grew colder, and the man shifted uncomfortably against the breeze. I didn't shiver; not even my toes curled. I waited in silence neither of us said anything. We just watched the distant trees dance in the wind.
"Do you know a lot of things?" I asked suddenly, unaware of what this was leading to."
The old man shrugged. "I've lived for many years. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."
"Could you tell me how to save a tree from dying?"
He didn't answer immediately. It seemed like a silly question, but the man was thinking on it. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you can't. Some trees grow sick, but most die of age. Almost always, time decides when one thing in nature dies. Time and nature contradict each other often, but they seem to be married to each other. Inseparable."
I stood suddenly. "Thank you, sir." With that I ran home.
The small, brown house came into view as the sun hid behind it. I was facing the back yard as I ran. Amberle stood tall against sky, without pride and completely defeated. She was old, I knew. She had outlived so many generations before me; she must have been tired. No, she wasn't defeated. She was surrendered.
I stopped beneath her shade just to talk to her. But there wasn't a thing that I could say. Although, I knew of the inevitability, I was ashamed of my ignorance. My heart began to race as I dropped to my knees and pressed my forehead against her white trunk. Where did my time go for her? Was it time that that took my place? How could I have been so oblivious?
For God's sake, she was rotting!
I wept, silent for moment. Time was absent from me now. I hugged Amberle tight against me, as if to absorb her into my body. Then a ringing erupted, an ambient squeal of a noise that wrapped my head up in a shroud of pain. Under the ringing I felt myself scream, a howl that came from deep within me. I screamed for moment that passed without my reckoning, and I would not stop. It came like rushing water, for hours and hours it seemed. I could not tell if passersby would hear me, not did I care. The love of my life was rotting away, its life fading just like my mother's…
A sudden brush swept across my back. It was gentle; I almost didn't notice it. My voice cracked then faltered. The ringing in my ears was gone. Another brush. I opened my eyes and looked down at my knees. There strewn about were two… three… four leaves. Then I stood, staring down at my feet, beaming at the defeated red leaves. Without thought, I stepped onto one
of them. My feet had been bare this whole time. The feeling of the leaf crumbling beneath my bare feet was peculiar. It made me shudder with both delight and fear.
I turned quickly about then, with a fleeting need for to do so. I felt the breath leave my body. Mother stood in the doorway, her clothes hanging loosely from her weak, useless form. Her face was expressionless, apathetic. I could not see what was in the pools of her eyes, now so dark that nothing could penetrate them. There was no flicker of either joy or hope, no reflection of either pain or horror. She was a standing skeleton, staring ahead as if to embrace the death she no doubt had long awaited. I stared, frozen.
Then she fell. Her arms flew up as her body collapsed through the air, a figure dropping gracefully to ground. She hit the floor without a sound, her head bouncing onto the doormat. With a jolt, I went to her. I ran ten feet, but it seemed like a mile. When I reached her I cradled her into my arms the way she had held me as an infant, and I wept into her neck until the collar of her gown was damp with my tears.
A time passed as I crouched there, rocking my mother back and forth, a time in which death could have come at any second but did not. I soon gathered her up and carried her over my arms and crossed the lawn to the car. I drove her away from the house, driving her somewhere… I knew less now of my destination than I had when walking. I only knew that my mother had to be far away from that house. All the while, I thought of how I had left the door wide open when I stormed from her room. She was escaping, I thought to myself. She was escaping life. Death could never have come through those sealed windows, that locked door.
All this time it was my fault. Her sickness had once been a defense to ward away the grief of everyone dying around us. But it was I who shut her away into that room, I who shut her away into the lifeless form she had assumed. She had done so in order to keep apart of herself
sane, a fragment of herself that she buried beneath the exterior she was forced to wear. Yet I couldn't save her from dying, for her death was warranted. I couldn't even save a tree from dying.
As I drove on, I thought of death. Thoughts of it swam gracefully in my head, taking shape in a voice that sounded remarkably like the old man on the bench beneath the weeping willow.
Death is forthcoming, death is innocent. Death is coveted, death is still. Death is here, death cannot be missed. Many of us strive to defeat death, then the very idea of death. We work ourselves and wreck our bodies in an effort to achieve immortality. To maintain our lives in such a way is a disgrace against both time and nature. Death is here, death should be embraced.
Just as my mother's life faded in my back seat, I felt something. It was passing of grief. I had done all of my grieving before; now I was grateful. Amberle will die too. Her own death would be slow, and she might even outlive me. Her time was come, like mothers.
Yet I knew I was not to mourn any longer.
I slowed the car as I reached Heath's Cliff, a cliff-face that overlooked the broad river that stretched for miles until the distance blurred it from sight. I pulled into the view where a picnic table was the only thing that made its home here, a weak thing that almost collapsed as I sat upon it. I watched the river roll against the foot of the cliff-face and lick the rocks passionately. This day was short-lived, I thought. The sun was already sinking into the rim of the earth. The light faded before my eyes.
Red clouds stained the sky on the morning that I found out that Amberle was dying. I woke just before dawn to watch the sun rise, slipping into my coat and smelling the sweet autumn air as I stepped into the fading darkness. A violent breeze caught me on my doorstep, a sudden feeling of apprehension sweeping through me. I searched the fading stars above me for the source of that feeling, a cold writhing in my stomach. For a while I ignored it, but it haunted me every minute that ticked as the sun crept up the horizon. The sky seemed to be composed of several clots of blood, all strewn over my head and orphaned of the usual golden light that dawn had always brought. Today was different, today was amiss. I shunned the feeling away.
Then I heard my mother's bell ringing faintly from inside the house. Shutting my eyes tightly against the sound, I ignored that too.
Instead of coming to her, I distanced myself from the house, far from her room as if it were plagued with an incurable disease. I wouldn't go near it so long as I could help it. She might wet herself, vomit, or even roll into the floor. But I kept walking, looking for comfort against the bloody dawn, seeking out for an escape against that damned bell I had grown to hate. Instead, I came to Amberle.
When I spoke of Amberle, mostly discreetly, friends or eavesdroppers might have assumed I spoke of a sister or a lover. Though I cared for her as if she either, she was not. She was a tree, a massive white birch whose skyward limbs were coated with crimson leaves. Amberle was lovely, more beautiful than any woman I had ever encountered. She was a tree, and I loved her.
And now she was dying.
The wilt that began to consume her was almost beautiful. I always loved to pick at the moss that caked her roots, but it was sickly. The branches seemed hollow, the leaves rotting from decay like bad teeth. How long did this fly over my head? How could not have noticed that Amberle was sick? She seemed sad; sap poured like tears from her bone-white bark. I bit my lip in dismay and fought back tears.
I remember when I first had met Amberle. When I fourteen, my family had reached below the line of poverty. We were forced to dwell in a much smaller home, a shack compared to what we last had lived in. Then my father's drinking habits spun out of control. He became loose after that, a helpless ghost no more than a memory in the back of my mind. While he wallowed in self-pity, I watched him with disgust. His death brought no surprise to me, but my mother's life had begun to deteriorate. She had cried into her pillow to something or someone to "make it go away". I couldn't bear any of it; whatever haunted her was none of my concern or out of my help. A lone white tree met my gaze as I had stormed through the backdoor one afternoon, awesome and brilliant in the beaming sun. It brought me comforts no other friend I'd had could attempt. Its being there was good enough, for that was all I could have asked for.
Back then I was always reading, reading until it felt like my eyes would bleed because then there was no responsibility, no cares. Reading was my escape from my force-fed poverty. It was Terry Brooks who stole me away one year, his books bringing me a world I had dreamt of every night. Sometimes I read to the tree, which listened intently. It was very humanlike in a lot of ways, and I knew that it was my dearest companion.
"That's a beautiful name," I had said aloud as I read from Terry's book. "Amberle."
Mother hated that tree. I ignored her sometimes when days seemed dim, for that was when I was with Amberle. Mom never understood how Amberle listed to me, how she never mocked me or laughed like the others. But Mom didn't care. I had other priorities, she would say. I never would have foreseen that my own mother would be one of those priorities. Many years had passed my father's death, and Mother's mind was leaving. I walked her places and made our meals. I worked for us, I fought for us. But she was helpless. By the time I was twenty, her mind was gone. I strived to keep her alive, I strived for her wellbeing. Yet I knew there was nowhere for her to go. I was her last and only link to life.
I loved my mother and I hated her. Even now, after having fled the sight of my beloved birch, as I washed off Mother's feces, I felt a boiling hate. Her eyes wandered ignorantly to the dark corners of the room, the shadows blunt as the light in her pale eyes. I felt sick as I watched, trying to shake away the malice that flowed from me. All I could do was watch her bathe in her own illness, for that I surely could not wash away. I could never wash it away.
Amberle was becoming like Mother too, one death as unpredictable as the other. Wave upon wave of pity and guilt washed over me as I stared at my mother, a helpless woman who couldn't discern life from sleep.
"Mom," I said, almost with a whisper. "I've got news."
She didn't stir.
"Amberle… She's dying." I smiled mockingly. Mother's milky eyes passed over my face. For a moment, I thought she comprehended me; that was a stupid thought. She was lifeless. "Isn't that what you always wanted? The goddamn tree is finally dying!"
I realized that was screaming. Mother had jumped at my voice, which seemed to hang in the air, desolate and unforgiving. She was drawn back in fear and confusion, and this time I felt sure shame. Of all the times I pictured her death, sweet and final, all the times I desired it so that I would be rid of her, I was never shamed. Now I saw the fear in her lifeless eyes.
Even though I knew that she could not see me, I hid my face from her. My teeth ached as I grinded them. Something cold was thrashing in my chest, some pain that I could not shake. I stormed from the room.
My room was quiet. My bed was welcoming. I slept and dreamed of death and her many woes.
The next morning was filled with silence. I hadn't said a word to my mother as fed her. I didn't pass under the branches of Amberle. The entirety of that morning, I sat a pool of my own sorrow. Again, I felt the need to separate myself from my home. I left the house soon after and walked. I passed many broken homes on my way to where I didn't know. After half an hour I came upon a hill, where a great willow wept over bench, upon which sat an old man, his chin tucked. Without a thought, I started toward him.
His eyes found me before I spoke. He smiled. "Hello there, son. Out for a stroll?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Thought some fresh air would be nice."
The old man nodded back, his smile firm. "Yes, yes. I suppose that's why I'm here too. But then again, I'm always out here, fresh air or no."
Without replying, I sat beside him on the wooden bench.
"You look to be troubled," he announced curtly.
I shrugged. "Just tired."
"Ah," he sighed slowly. "A lot of that fatigue going around. Gets ya while you're working or walking. All the same."
I smiled despite my anxiety.
"You know, when I was about your age I found this bench. I've been coming here every Friday since. But as of late, it's been every day. Hardly a soul passes my way, but when they do, they wave back at me. They're all lost, though. At least it seems that way. And you?"
"Hmm?" I hummed, hardly listening.
"You lost, son?"
I thought about the question as it hung over me. My eyes wandered to the bottom of the weeping willow six feet away from him. It seemed sick too. "Not lost. Wandering seems a better word."
The old man smiled again. "Huh. Imagine that."
The day suddenly grew colder, and the man shifted uncomfortably against the breeze. I didn't shiver; not even my toes curled. I waited in silence neither of us said anything. We just watched the distant trees dance in the wind.
"Do you know a lot of things?" I asked suddenly, unaware of what this was leading to."
The old man shrugged. "I've lived for many years. But that doesn't necessarily mean anything."
"Could you tell me how to save a tree from dying?"
He didn't answer immediately. It seemed like a silly question, but the man was thinking on it. "I'm not sure. Perhaps you can't. Some trees grow sick, but most die of age. Almost always, time decides when one thing in nature dies. Time and nature contradict each other often, but they seem to be married to each other. Inseparable."
I stood suddenly. "Thank you, sir." With that I ran home.
The small, brown house came into view as the sun hid behind it. I was facing the back yard as I ran. Amberle stood tall against sky, without pride and completely defeated. She was old, I knew. She had outlived so many generations before me; she must have been tired. No, she wasn't defeated. She was surrendered.
I stopped beneath her shade just to talk to her. But there wasn't a thing that I could say. Although, I knew of the inevitability, I was ashamed of my ignorance. My heart began to race as I dropped to my knees and pressed my forehead against her white trunk. Where did my time go for her? Was it time that that took my place? How could I have been so oblivious?
For God's sake, she was rotting!
I wept, silent for moment. Time was absent from me now. I hugged Amberle tight against me, as if to absorb her into my body. Then a ringing erupted, an ambient squeal of a noise that wrapped my head up in a shroud of pain. Under the ringing I felt myself scream, a howl that came from deep within me. I screamed for moment that passed without my reckoning, and I would not stop. It came like rushing water, for hours and hours it seemed. I could not tell if passersby would hear me, not did I care. The love of my life was rotting away, its life fading just like my mother's…
A sudden brush swept across my back. It was gentle; I almost didn't notice it. My voice cracked then faltered. The ringing in my ears was gone. Another brush. I opened my eyes and looked down at my knees. There strewn about were two… three… four leaves. Then I stood, staring down at my feet, beaming at the defeated red leaves. Without thought, I stepped onto one
of them. My feet had been bare this whole time. The feeling of the leaf crumbling beneath my bare feet was peculiar. It made me shudder with both delight and fear.
I turned quickly about then, with a fleeting need for to do so. I felt the breath leave my body. Mother stood in the doorway, her clothes hanging loosely from her weak, useless form. Her face was expressionless, apathetic. I could not see what was in the pools of her eyes, now so dark that nothing could penetrate them. There was no flicker of either joy or hope, no reflection of either pain or horror. She was a standing skeleton, staring ahead as if to embrace the death she no doubt had long awaited. I stared, frozen.
Then she fell. Her arms flew up as her body collapsed through the air, a figure dropping gracefully to ground. She hit the floor without a sound, her head bouncing onto the doormat. With a jolt, I went to her. I ran ten feet, but it seemed like a mile. When I reached her I cradled her into my arms the way she had held me as an infant, and I wept into her neck until the collar of her gown was damp with my tears.
A time passed as I crouched there, rocking my mother back and forth, a time in which death could have come at any second but did not. I soon gathered her up and carried her over my arms and crossed the lawn to the car. I drove her away from the house, driving her somewhere… I knew less now of my destination than I had when walking. I only knew that my mother had to be far away from that house. All the while, I thought of how I had left the door wide open when I stormed from her room. She was escaping, I thought to myself. She was escaping life. Death could never have come through those sealed windows, that locked door.
All this time it was my fault. Her sickness had once been a defense to ward away the grief of everyone dying around us. But it was I who shut her away into that room, I who shut her away into the lifeless form she had assumed. She had done so in order to keep apart of herself
sane, a fragment of herself that she buried beneath the exterior she was forced to wear. Yet I couldn't save her from dying, for her death was warranted. I couldn't even save a tree from dying.
As I drove on, I thought of death. Thoughts of it swam gracefully in my head, taking shape in a voice that sounded remarkably like the old man on the bench beneath the weeping willow.
Death is forthcoming, death is innocent. Death is coveted, death is still. Death is here, death cannot be missed. Many of us strive to defeat death, then the very idea of death. We work ourselves and wreck our bodies in an effort to achieve immortality. To maintain our lives in such a way is a disgrace against both time and nature. Death is here, death should be embraced.
Just as my mother's life faded in my back seat, I felt something. It was passing of grief. I had done all of my grieving before; now I was grateful. Amberle will die too. Her own death would be slow, and she might even outlive me. Her time was come, like mothers.
Yet I knew I was not to mourn any longer.
I slowed the car as I reached Heath's Cliff, a cliff-face that overlooked the broad river that stretched for miles until the distance blurred it from sight. I pulled into the view where a picnic table was the only thing that made its home here, a weak thing that almost collapsed as I sat upon it. I watched the river roll against the foot of the cliff-face and lick the rocks passionately. This day was short-lived, I thought. The sun was already sinking into the rim of the earth. The light faded before my eyes.
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I've never done anything very significant in my dull life, never leaped into anything exilherating which I could always remember for a lifetime. It may not be significant to some, but when a chance comes to meet someone who inspires you and makes you laugh hysterically, I would easily jump for that very chance.
Well that chance came about a month and a half ago, when I was looking over the tour dates of the comedy sketch troup the Whitest Kids U' Know, who I've watched for years on IFC and almost anywhere online. Listed on their tour list was Chicago, IL. I've never been to Chicago (I've been through once or twice) but never had stayed long enough to digest it. I live in Metropolis, IL which is at the bottom of the state (yes, the home of Superman). A few friends and I decided to go, saving up as much money as we could to go see this show.
I was more than anxious to go, and so were my friends. On top of being fans of the WKUK, we were looking forward to a roadtrip, something which we've always yearned for since kids.
Beneath all the excitement and elation, I was afraid. First of all, in the small hick-ass area known as Southern Illinois, hardly anything exciting comes around. No opportunities come to see a great show from inspirational people, save for the artists that have come to the annual Superman Festivals whom are kevinmule and martheus and linworkman. There is nothing in this region. Second of all, everytime a chance to do something so great to me always collapses into a great, black pool of failure. Going to Chicago to see the Whitest Kids seemed a dream impossible.
But that day did indeed come. On the morning of February 26, 2012 my friends Mothsonian and bmitch777 and Lee went north to Chicago, IL. Seeing a city so big was new to us. Seeing someone we admired was rare. The Whitest Kids performed a great show, were nice guys, took pictures with and talked to us a bit. I was elated beyond telling.
In the city, we lost a car, visited a seven-floor mall and stopped by the Oz Park, something which we hadn't known even existed and stumbled upon in searth for our car, which we had finally found.
The time was excellent; even the long rides there and back were memorable. My friends and I will always remember these two wonderful days.
Well that chance came about a month and a half ago, when I was looking over the tour dates of the comedy sketch troup the Whitest Kids U' Know, who I've watched for years on IFC and almost anywhere online. Listed on their tour list was Chicago, IL. I've never been to Chicago (I've been through once or twice) but never had stayed long enough to digest it. I live in Metropolis, IL which is at the bottom of the state (yes, the home of Superman). A few friends and I decided to go, saving up as much money as we could to go see this show.
I was more than anxious to go, and so were my friends. On top of being fans of the WKUK, we were looking forward to a roadtrip, something which we've always yearned for since kids.
Beneath all the excitement and elation, I was afraid. First of all, in the small hick-ass area known as Southern Illinois, hardly anything exciting comes around. No opportunities come to see a great show from inspirational people, save for the artists that have come to the annual Superman Festivals whom are kevinmule and martheus and linworkman. There is nothing in this region. Second of all, everytime a chance to do something so great to me always collapses into a great, black pool of failure. Going to Chicago to see the Whitest Kids seemed a dream impossible.
But that day did indeed come. On the morning of February 26, 2012 my friends Mothsonian and bmitch777 and Lee went north to Chicago, IL. Seeing a city so big was new to us. Seeing someone we admired was rare. The Whitest Kids performed a great show, were nice guys, took pictures with and talked to us a bit. I was elated beyond telling.
In the city, we lost a car, visited a seven-floor mall and stopped by the Oz Park, something which we hadn't known even existed and stumbled upon in searth for our car, which we had finally found.
The time was excellent; even the long rides there and back were memorable. My friends and I will always remember these two wonderful days.
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Colors Fore'er
1 min read
Colors
Colors fore'er
Never say never
Never will be Always never while colors are fore'er
Always fore'er
Always be there
Forever say colors
Forever say that colors are fore'er
Wash the dullness
Wash the dullness into the never
Always never
Always never will the gray prosper the ever
Colors
Colors never are never
Colors
Colors are always fore'er
Never again
Never to let dullness make away ever
Forever again
Forever hear another day the colors forever
Forever fore'er
Forever fore'er
Prosper the color
Prosper in endeavor
Forever the endeavor
Forever the endeavor is closer than ever
Colors again
Colors more e'er
Evermore than never
Evermore and always forever
Colors fore'er
Never say never
Never will be Always never while colors are fore'er
Always fore'er
Always be there
Forever say colors
Forever say that colors are fore'er
Wash the dullness
Wash the dullness into the never
Always never
Always never will the gray prosper the ever
Colors
Colors never are never
Colors
Colors are always fore'er
Never again
Never to let dullness make away ever
Forever again
Forever hear another day the colors forever
Forever fore'er
Forever fore'er
Prosper the color
Prosper in endeavor
Forever the endeavor
Forever the endeavor is closer than ever
Colors again
Colors more e'er
Evermore than never
Evermore and always forever
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