On the Broken Road

We gather on these summer nights
around a make shift fire
            but in our minds it roars.
Shadows dance across the faces of
this composite family,
            this ragtag gang of hoodlums,
                       this proud assembly of Olympians.


Stories unfold
of the beginnings, of mumbles
             and other myths of old.
Stories to be passed down
once we are gone.
             When this forgotten, sacred
                       place is once again silent.


We are the creators and
we are the keepers
             of this very moment.
We are the only ones here. Alive
in every sense of the word.
             Dancing with the cattails,
                      laughing with the gentle waves.


As the night wanes, we leave our mark.
A sign of our existance that
             some will see as defacement.
Others will look on with awe and wonder--
whatever came of these people,
             these cunning, elusive renegades,
                       these mighty, mysterious titans?

A Matter of Faith

All of this is happening, more or less. I am there; of this I am most definitely certain but where exactly? Standing in this shadowy, unrecognizable space, I am frantic in my attempt to make sense of the surroundings. Looking up, the rocky, jagged formations that confront me only add to my already distressed state. A cavern? Of all the places to wind up, it just had to be in a tomb. My breathing has already started to accelerate. Oh, God. I need to make sense of this. Oh, God. Oh, God, I’m underground. I’m underground and I have no idea—

Wispy lights reflecting onto the cavern walls bring me back to the present moment. The patterns are familiar. They remind me of… water? Water. Looking down, it is only then that I realize that I am standing waist deep in a body of water. There is a radiant glow beneath the surface that illuminates the surrounding area. The water is clear and pristine, the light preventing any obscurity but its beauty does nothing to pacify my growing nerves. Then I notice that there are others in the cavern with me—dozens of people. What are they doing here? Why are they so calm? Clearly, this situation warrants some sort of response but there isn’t a hint of emotion on any of their faces.

A sense of understanding begins to wash over me. We are all gathered here for a purpose. We are going to another place—a better place. It is a place of absolute harmony and understanding. But this place is on a completely separate plane of existence and in order to get there we will have to leave our bodies behind. After all, they are merely vessels. The easiest way to go about this is simple, apparently. We will drown ourselves. Here. Together.

“It isn’t suicide.”

This we were told over and over again. It is like a vehicle; a path to get from one plane to the next. It is truth—absolutely obvious—and something no one questioned. How could you even consider the thought? You looked forward to the day that you could enter the other plane and I was no exception. However, now, at this very moment, I am unsure. I am not ready to leave; there is still so much that I want to do. So many things that I still need to do.

With these thoughts racing, I immediately began to question all that we were taught. Where exactly is this place? I have no idea. How do we even know it’s better than here? Now, after so long of waiting for this day to come, I am not so sure this supposed perfect plane even exists. I look around in hopes of being able to explain my feelings. People need to know. As I scan the masses, no one else is hesitating. Am I the only one who doubts this completely absurd concept? All of the others are submerging beneath the surface. As I watch on, horrified, I realize that no one is coming back up. They are all gone and it is at this moment that I feel utterly alone—hesitant and not knowing what to do. Suddenly, a girl approached me. She is smiling and projects a kind, nurturing aura. It should have quelled my discomfort but instead my desperation to escape only intensifies as she draws nearer. She asks if I am alright. No. I want to scream at her, to tell her that this is wrong and we need to leave—together, we can go together— but I can’t find the words; can’t even speak.

She continues smiling and says, “Do not be afraid. We’ll go together.”

I am frozen; unable to move, let alone resist. All of the anxious, scrambled thoughts cease and at this moment the only one present is, I’d give anything to have her blind faith. She takes my hands into her own, all the while smiling that ridiculous, unwavering smile. Is it even possible to be that calm? I do not fight it. I can’t. We submerge. I am holding my breath, I know it. Somehow, I am hoping that it will help—that it will give me more time but I know it is hopeless. She is still there, holding my hands and smiling, completely at peace. Why can’t I feel that?

The air is slowly leaving my chest. I feel the burn; feel the tightness consuming me from the inside out. Everything is beginning to fade and in that last moment a fleeting thought occurs. Maybe everything will be okay.

Then there is nothing.

That Night on the Broken Road

A steady breeze blends the familiar smells of low tide
and honeysuckle. The deepest blue ever imagined
dusted with endless stars gazes back. Clear. Perfect.
It is a forgotten place. Sacred and
untouched by civilization's light.

Getting back into the habit.

It's been a long time since I've last posted. Summer is gone and my senior year of college has officially begun. More than ever, I realize that I will need a place to write my thoughts as they come barreling out of my mind. This year will be full of surprises and challenges and, although mildly panicked at first, I am now ready to face these things head on.

My newest obstacle seems to be my Creative Writing course. The reason? Poetry. I haven't had much (if any legitimate) experience with writing poetry so this will be very experimental for me. One of our first optional assignments is to write a very short poem (no more than five lines) about a night in a place we have lived.

Naturally this has lead me to write about my childhood home in Lusby on the water. For the past hour or so I have been reminiscing over nights spent on the banks of the Patuxent River... and instantly I realize that it's making me terribly homesick. Needless to say I do not have a poem as of yet but I did make a list of some of the things I remember most clearly. Sort of a brainstorm. Kind of organized narratively. But pretty rough.

No street lamps

Just the light of the moon

The broken road- a secret sacred meeting place

The old worn away stone steps leading to the beach

An ever present breeze

Calm warm waters

Sounds of the waves- barely a trickle

Cattails rustling in the wind

The comforting/ familiar smells of low tide

And honeysuckles

The refreshing feel of the cool sand

On a warm humid night

Sand shrimp tickling your toes as you bury your feet in the sand

The deepest blue I’ve ever seen sprinkled with

Endless stars

Away from the pink glow of Solomon’s Island
The perfect juxtapositions of mankind and nature
Civilization and solitude

-----------------------------------------------------

As we gather

Stories unfold

Of the beginnings
Of mumbles and other myths of old
We are the creators
At this very moment
We are the only ones here
Alive in every sense of the word
And it is beautiful

A mental wanderlust, (if you will).

I guess you could say these past two weeks have been a nice reprieve. Alex and Kellen were in town. Alex was here for work (no surprise there) so Kellen and I spent a lot of time together just hanging out and goofing off. We all went out to Steelgarden and had a few drinks one night. Kellen and I met and played pool against a couple of guys we dubbed Ponytail, Bald Spot, Mr. T, and Romeo. And then I realized that was one of my first real "straight" bar experiences... and I was baffled by the thought that I was conversing with men who were actually interested in me as a female. Mind boggling.

But like I said, a nice distraction.

As a side note, I guess I should explain that I have a fascination with horoscopes and the zodiac star signs (Eastern and Western versions ). From the moment I really began looking into it I came to the realization that I am what you'd call a "textbook" Pisces. (Even more so if you want to get technical and say that I'm actually an Aquarius-Pisces cusp born in the year of the Snake but that's another topic entirely.) 

So a long time go I came across this description of a Pisces and found that I agreed with most of what it had to say-- hell it even put into words things that I would have never been able to describe myself. However, there was one part that threw me off because I just couldn't see how it related to me:

"Pisceans must not allow themselves to become detached from those around them, because they will become depressed, pessimistic and languid."

I have always considered myself a very private individual. And I've always craved solitude from time to time (more so than the average person)  but I've never realized until now just how accurate that description was.

(and now back to my original point...)

Being so thoroughly cut off from my friends and family for a significant amount of time has given me so many opportunities to get lost in my thoughts and I realize that I really have fallen into a melancholy of sorts. I’ve been teetering on the line of a healthy amount of alone time to think/reevaluate and the point in which you desperately need a distraction from your thoughts. I have started to write these things down as a sort of meditation/ way to organize but I wasn't too sure about uploading them to this blog. They are intensely personal and I wasn't too keen on others having the ability to access them. But after seeing Casey's blog about his similar experiences I think I'd like to try. Putting these out there may decrease this detachment that I apparently need to remedy.

So yeah, expect some of that in the near future.

Trying to organize.

These past few days I have been doing a lot of thinking. Thinking about what it is that I am doing with my work. Thinking about my sources. Thinking about points of intrigue. About processes. About where I want to go with it all. About this impending senior exhibition. There are a lot of thoughts, you see, and I think they are beginning to drive me slightly mad. It might also have something to do with the recent over abundance of time I've been spending alone. It's left me more time than ever to get lost in these thoughts. For better or for worse-- I still haven't been able to determine. Maybe creating this blog has been, in part, a way to alleviate some of these built up frustrations.

So I thought I'd write down a list of some of the things I consider sources of inspiration/ things of interest/ constants in current work. Maybe I'll find some connections. Maybe not.

Psychology

Dreams and their physical interpretations and representations

    both literal and metaphorical
Conscious vs Subconscious

Anxiety and its many forms

    nightmares, fears, bad memories

Contradictions
Site specific works

The relationship between man and nature

    similarities in form

Color relationships and implications

Childhood vs Adulthood

    intermingling the two

War, violence and desensitization

Human nature

    nature vs nurture? inherent good vs evil?

Lines and form

    especially in the natural world

The process of aging

    in both living things and inanimate structures

Current Preoccupations:

   Mayan glyphs

    Native American folklore

    Clockworks

Artists:
    Neo Rauch
    Wayne Thiebaud
    Schoony

I think I'll update this every now and then. See how it evolves. If it even does. I think it might.

Summer showers are so fickle...

It's true. I was in the papermaking studio today and decided to walk back over to Alum to heat up my lunch. The walk over was not bad. Sunny, albeit muggy. Typical summer day. The two minutes-- and I really mean two; a handful of seconds to walk in, one minute 30 seconds to heat food and another handful of seconds to walk back out-- that it took for me to walk out the front doors of Alum, it was raining. Not just any rain. It was that hard, thunder looming in the background, dark skies kind of rain. As suddenly as it had come, it left leaving sunny skies once again.

Fickle.

Someone once told me that I was fickle. I remember being offended. Indecisive, yes. I could attest to that but I never really thought of myself as fickle. The word always held a negative connotation in my mind.

But if the weather is considered fickle than it can't be all that bad. That sudden rain shower brought with it the refreshing smell that rain so often leaves behind. It subdued the humidity that was hanging in the air. It brought water for the plants. It gave me a moment to sit and think as I waited for it to pass. It had all the potential to be detrimental but in the end there were nothing but positive results.

So if fickle equates to a summer rain and a summer rain equates to all of those positive outcomes then I think I'm okay with being considered fickle.

It was just one persons opinion anyways.

Practice, practice.

I went back to that spot behind the library today. I have a feeling it will become a regular occurrence for me.

Although, today I noticed that there happen to be hundreds of those little red bugs, which I have recently discovered (and by recently, I mean just now... I looked it up) that they are Clover Mites. Now that I know their name, I feel bad that I basically committed mass genocide against them. Sorry little bugs, nothing personal... I just don't need you in my bubble.

I sat for awhile, noting that there was a celebration going on down in the park. A birthday perhaps. I couldn't really tell because the voice over the microphone was blurry and speaking Spanish. It looked like a good time.

I had my sketchbook with me and made a few sketches of various things. Here is one of a tree that I am particularly fond of. It's not much but I really like the outcome. Though, whenever I begin a drawing I always feel a little lost and anxious when looking at the complexity of the subject. And it's like I'm holding my breath as I'm drawing this image and I really have no idea what I'm doing but my hand keeps moving fervently across the page until finally, I stop. And I take a step back. And it looks alright. I need to find a way to get over that...

Practice, practice, I s'pose.

Birds of a feather?

This evening I was feeling a bit inspired so I thought I'd head over to the studio and see if anything would come of it. I get there only to find out that the building was locked up. A little discouraged, I decided to make the best of the really nice evening and take a walk around campus.

With nowhere in particular in mind, I just went where my feet carried me and eventually wound up behind the library. I don't know how many people actually know about that space but it really is beautiful and very quiet back there. I took a seat on on of the ledges that overlooked the park and just sat for a while. I watched a few people down in the park and committed to memory the colors of the sky.

Eventually, I noticed one of the hawks perched up on the balcony of second floor Moore. I watched him for a long time just sitting there taking in the park. We were kind of the same in that moment and I began wondering what was going through the hawks mind as it sat there starring out at its world. How far has he really traveled or was this small space all he knew? It was a strange thought but I couldn't help but be mesmorized by this creature.

Then I noticed that perched on the balcony above the hawk was a small little blue jay. It was making all sorts of noise and I briefly wondered why it had to break the comfortable silence of this nice evening and I'm pretty sure the hawk was feeling the same way. I almost felt a bit worried for the blue jays sake because surely that hawk could easily end its life. With time the hawk suddenly spread its wings and took off, landing just overhead on the library roof in a manner that clearly stated jesus christ blue jay, shut the hell up. I was amused to find that the blue jay followed but kept a safe distance away still chirping obnoxiously. It was funny. Was the smaller bird really yelling at this hawk? What the hell was this ballsy little blue jay thinking?

They continued with these interactions for a long time. The blue jay would yell, get a little braver and move closer and then quickly dodge as the hawk tried to peck some sense into him. It was just the two of them and I wondered; what brought them together like that? Why did the hawk just sit there and take it when he could clearly 1. out fly or 2. easily get rid of the nuisance? They were an interesting pair.

I watched a little longer but eventually the light began to fade and I could feel the bugs having a field day on my ankles so I left; the two still bickering on top of the library from what I could hear. I don't know why I felt compelled to write about these birds. I guess there was just something so human... no, not human, because that would imply that emotions and relationships are strictly a human occurrence...  so I guess... something familiar and relatable about them. It was an odd and satisfying connection of sorts.

I'm not even upset about the whole studio thing anymore.