…Nobody fears death. They fear what comes after.
So I wrote this for a Facebook post a while ago , but I really liked it, so I am putting here as well.
After hours upon hours of contemplating my options, reviewing the current trends of the market, and consulting, ney, pursuing every possible avenue, I have come upon this very conclusion: The Arts are dead.
Yes, I know that this statement may seen to be completely incorrect, lacking any basis in reality, but hear me out.
I read Yahoo.
Yes over the years I have scoured the many articles written by the prestigious staff of this news powerhouse regarding education and it has become clear to me that the arts( including performance, creating, selling, and especially the teaching of) has no place in in our fast paced modern society. To get an education, for both personal and business reasons, will surely lead to a life of debt and frustration. The study of both the fine and the minor arts is a long road leading to a cliff of endless sorrow. Let’s face it; The entertainment industry is six feet under. Anybody who thinks otherwise is simply being idiotic and foolish, which most likely means that they are majoring in the arts themselves. Because some people will statistically not succeed in these majors and fields, to keep it on the safe side nobody should major in it.
In fact, if I may be so bold (and I shall), ALL of the humanities should be included in this.
I’ll repeat myself.
ALL of the humanities should be included in this.
I know. you’re probably sipping your champagne while pursuing The Facebook and saying to yourself between bites of your rare prepared steak, ” But Mr. Grant. Your claims are absolutely preposterous. The benefits of getting an eduction in the arts, wether towards a degree or just to further a hobby, is an important part of any education. Most people in some way or another are attached to some form of Arts or humanities in general. Yes, majoring in these fields is not for everyone. And Yes, the unemployment rate is higher than in more STEM related fields, but throwing out the baby with the bathtub is preposterous. Instead of getting rid of programs related to the Arts as a reaction to our low standings in the world, we should try to increase promotion of both STEM AND The Arts in early education. The arts and humanities are very much alive in America and we most continue to support them “.
Poppycock I say!
Poppycock and flabbergabstation and abernathaloutationia all around.
The High browed Liberals in the make believe land of Academia are out of touch with reality. They are stealing our children and friends money and then kicking them out into the Serbian tundra without a pocket to cover their privates.
NOT even their privates.
It is an absolute shame to see such intelligent (yet at the same time idiotic) youth waste their god given talent on such meaningless aspirations.
Now I know. You are sky diving off of an Eagle of Manwë while hopscotching through the World Wide Web on your Google Glasses and yelling to the President of Latveria, ” This is a fruitless rant Colin. You yourself are a music major and have expressed interest in such things as Anthropology and History. If all of these things are valid, which they are not, are not setting yourself up for failure? I think you are blowing things out of proportion. Even Doctor Doom agrees with me, and he looks down on everything NOT Doom”.
Your feeble mind makes a surprisingly astute observation.
I am no longer lingering in the before mentioned fields.
Instead, I am pursuing a more noble path.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.
Wait for CAREER POLITICIAN.
But not just any Career politician. A corrupt one.
Studies show that corrupt career politicians have a longevity in the field.
Yes. To prepare myself for a preposterously long and prosperous career, I will being by cheating on wife of 10 years while doing coke out of the bellybutton of a mistress twenty years my Junior, stealing government money from my constitutions to visit her in her home Latveria, and then lie profusely about it. To assuage them, I will suggest legislation that really makes no sense.
Apologize profusely and convince my wife to stay with me.
Rinse. Wash. Repeat.
Now I know what you must be thinking as you are chasing tornadoes in the magic school bus with Ms. Frizzle and George Asimov to discover the Doctor’s name while telepathically communicating to Dennis the Menace of the Archadian Empire, “This is stupid”.
This is America.
God bless us, everyone.
I honestly thought I was right
I swear, the light, seemed so clear
but the dots dancing around my feet dear
were firefly shadows.
the sound of my hubris is still ringing
singing a haunting refrain in B flat minor.
Songs about can’t.
How I can’t be a chameleon to your father
Why bother even trying
lying to the melanin
the tattooed sin of our love and rage.
And I swear the lightness of his skin
seemed so clear to me for you then
and I knew what you needed.
or I thought I knew I knew
what you needed to want
Because, to be blunt, you looked tired of running with me.
and he could carry you to the end.
And was it right to pretend
while you bled from your knees
that the leaves falling on the track
did not track our eventual demise?
There’s no point in finishing a race, if the running stops your heart.
Because I was wrong
Because we are not interacial because
we are not between races,
we are still running for the life of us
And I am not crushed that they assume
that we rushed into this wall cutaneous
So don’t sing to about ebony and ivory
and don’t preach to me about chocolate and vanilla
and don’t talk at me about the world being black and and white
or black and right
addicted to the sight that we, the prophets of posterity gave up for
half coherent text messages at 3 in the AM
pushing air just for the friction until we fall
into unconscious bliss
and this race is not over
Oh! not be a long shot and
Oh! we shall run together and
Oh! the light bouncing off our conviction
like a freshly waxed car in the Garden State sun.
and the best part is
the only color reflected
Is the color of the rejected dogma.
The of us
The color of eternity.
Tuesday is the Day of Starvations
It would lick
my face like
dog name I guess
I was wrong.
Now the bullet
and I bleed
it was raining
when I first gave in
to you and
when I first gave you up
like that I guess
With all this
in my ears
do I even
in the rain is
alone but the
A mistake was
made it is
cracked. I said it was
and I told Rose
it was our fault for buy-
ing it that way. But she
said that it was fine and that
it was simply just a
but I was listening
to the sounds of
false lions. In the
of red and green
they roared and
I returned it and I
was wrong. I guess it was
ly fine the way it was.
Oh well I guess
in the wild
Pulled up a bio I made for one of favorite forum handles, HonorHunter.
Why? Because this homework needs some time to think about how it is hurting me.
On a day very similar to one quite like this, though different enough to considered peculiar, a young man was born. I say young man not because he came out of the womb almost fully grown in semi-formal attire, but because this child was full of Honor that few gain with multiple lifetimes in their metaphorical bag of life. However, this peculiar birth on this peculiar day would not end in a quirky yet joyful way, like I assume most days of birth end. No, this day would end in a particular sort of sadness saved for the most particular sort of tragedies. You see, this strapping young lads Honor was taken. To get into the details would take many a paragraphs, and though the harrowing tale is of an exciting sort with dragons and lost maidens and bravery with loss, we have no time for these shenanigans. All we need to know for now is that he has spent the last eighteen 365 days cycle hunting for his pilfered Honor.
And he won’t stop.
Breath in Breath out Breath
It so very Hard to breath
When the world is so insistent
On stealing your air
It is so very Hard to breath
When the little blue monster
Creeps into the lungs
It is so very Hard to breath
When you are Matilda
Stuck in the Chokey
But the eyes are the spikes
And that second too late is Mrs. Truchbull
With that ugly wart
Peircing your minds eyesExhale
Suffocating Your SoulRelaxExhale
Emancipating The AirFrom Your ChesRelaxt
While The Walls Oh The Walls Are Closing In
And Now the ParalyzingFearInBreath It Is SettInhaleing In Like A Mother StrangExhaleling Her Child BreathInI can’t Exhale see
BreathOut Of My Mind To A CanBreathdid In WorldBreathinTheWorldTheChokeyBreathInTheWartTheEyeBreathOutIBreathCantBreathFeelBreathAnyBreathMore
Breath in Breath out Inhale Exhale, Breath in Breath out Inhale Exhale, Breath in Breath Out Inhale Exhale, Breath in Breath out Inhale Exhale
it is very hard to breath
Like Colin, I too have been insanely busy ever since school has started. Being the second sophomore ever in AP Physics at my high school is kind of intense. That said, I don’t have a lot of time. This post is hastily being thrown together in the few spare minutes I have between my seemingly endless pile of homework and band practice, so I apologize for its poor quality and I hope I can write something more enlightening and worthwhile later. But for now, here are my crunched-for-time thoughts on creative writing:
Seriously. Go grab something to write on and write with and write. It doesn’t matter what or how long it is, but just write something so surreal there is absolutely no chance it could actually happen. Write a three word summary on alien invasions. Write a novel starring Ben Franklin and his long-lost time-travelling brother. Write a grocery list-esque poem about absolutely nothing at all.
The weight that is lifted in just a few minutes of scribbling nonsense onto a napkin is the most freeing feeling you will ever experience. The best part? No one has to see what you’ve written. These silly little thoughts are for your eyes only. Keep your friends close and your notes closer. You never know when one of your after-work poems will inspire your next fanfiction, or screenplay, or novel.
This is why I always carry a blue pocket notebook on my person. I never know when I might find something worthy to write down. Some of these gems of thought have evolved into something more, starring in a short story or emerging as the plot for my NaNoWriMo novel. But the majority of them stay in that little blue notebook, hidden away from the rest of the world until they’re ready to grow up.
So I dare you. I dare you to find your own little blue notebook and embrace the art of creative scribbling.
Oh wow. It has been a while. Those first weeks of college can be hectic.
Summer is the month of regret.
As I sat on the oven top stoop, with tear stains or sweat stains (To be honest I can tell the diffrence between the two anymore), I pricked my finger on a Rose stem. This Rose had seen better days in months of yester, for the few petals groping on the stem had decay to brown due to lack of water and nutrition. The everwatching big brother of light had no mercy on the majestic flower.
I swatted away at battalions of flies that seemed to stalk me like a pack of carrion birds. The insect vultures neither bit nor landed but waited with carnivorous expectations. The cacophonous buzz of nails on a chalkboard.
But the Rose, Oh the Rose! This treasure, long lost to the nature that binds and separates us all, did not die alone though it did die in vain. As the barbed beauty rolled betwixt my frail fingers a hemophilliatic event occurred. A most grotesque humor can be found in the bleeding out of veins. We expect the dams to break and Niagara falls to occur. Poseidon’s wrath is supposed to occur underneath that thin layer of skin. All of the gods and the angels and the devils within these unholy celestial spheres are supposed to wage war for forty days and forty nights underneath the garb storms and over the tarp of earthquakes leaving no survivors nor space left to breath in the toxic air that they created.
But that does not happen. The blood slowly drips upon stoop, like a leaky faucet. And through no fault of the Rose (for I indeed am the one picked it its beauty and not the glistening pricks) the petals and and blood continues to helplessly fall until they mix together and become one.
And so I lay on the stoop in this horrid season of regret, with the eye of god blinding me. The blood, our blood, still falling over itself with no hope of return to the way it once was.
And the the blood still falls to the stoop.
And the vultures still descend to feast.
And I still sit
Once a month in southern part of New Jersey, a magical occurrence happen for three suns and two moons. During this time the steadfast brick wall between reality and fantasy crumble peeling away of preconception of belief and the unknown. As the dust settles and the earth lays to a rest a new land is formed. This land is full of nefarious necromancers and wise wizards. This land is full of elegant elves and ominous ogres. This land is safe haven for the weak and the strong, the fast and the slow, the fearful and the fearless with every other imagination of being ever to be spun on the spinning wheel of creativity and wonder.
This land is Evermoore.
After two painful months away from the South Jersey based LARP( That’s Live Action Role Play Playing) Mystic Realms, I finally found my way back to the Glory of Guildenhall. I had picked out my deep elf costume(always a work in progress) and made the heart wracking decision of what kind of ears to purchase (halfing, regular, or incredibly long anime ears) and was set for the weekend. On the first night, I was able to experience a side of LARPing that I have never touched before. I was able to NPC.
NPC stands for non player character. A non player character is a person or thing that helps the storyline and is not character that earns status or point for completing tasks. This can range from being a happy mushroom that throws spores to a hero from an era long gone that needs the players help in fighting spirits. NPC’s help characters earn gold/items and move the storyline along. They are the framework of the mighty building known as The Story. On friday was given the opportunity to play an ogre. The experience was incredible. It was as if I was able to finally see the wires behind the computer. Needless to say, I plan on doing it again.
In under 80 hours I fought killer ants, became a gypsy hunting ogre, and evaded semi sentient moving lava. I was able to experience a different world from different eyes and truly suck the marrow from life. LARPing is not the an escape from reality, as many people are led to belive, but an augmentation of existence. Live Action Role Play for me is a portal to experience different people and emotions that would be difficult to imitate in my regular life. So far, I have only attended two events, so take my word with a large shaker of salt. Maybe I am completely wrong and I am still in the honeymoon phase, with the stress of reality of cold hard truth eventually bearing its fangs me.
I don’t think so though.
I have spoken with people, both older and younger, who have been LARPing for years. It seems to me that going to these events have made their regular lives not fade into shadows, but brighten to the height of a million suns. One day I hope to be able to look back at this post not just with fond memories but also with the same enthusiasm that I have now. I look forward to writing more and more about my adventures into this brave new world.