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Mutual Assured Delight

Archive for the category “Art”

The Arts are dead and so are you.

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.
A lot.
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”.
No.
This is America.
God bless us, everyone.

Still running

Still runningStill running

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.

Right?

No

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.

Polite Poetry 10

 Tuesday  is the Day  of Starvations

I used

to like

the rain.

It would lick

my face   like
Fido or

another stupid

dog name I guess

I was wrong.

Now the bullet

wounds show

from top

to bottom

and I bleed

past tense.
I think

it was raining

when I first gave in

to you and

when I first gave  you up

Or something

like that I guess
With all this

ringing

in my ears

its hard

god its

so hard

to remember

do I even

stupid

I guess

The hard

-est part

about walking

in the rain is

not  walking

alone but the

cold that

comes

later

.

Polite Poetry 9

Superheroes

A mistake was

made it is

cracked. I said it was

broken

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

scratch

but I was listening

to the sounds of

false lions. In the

plains

of red and green

they roared and

I returned it and I

was wrong. I guess it was

perfect-

ly fine the way it was.

Oh well I guess

that’s life

in the wild

plains

Polite Poetry 8

Breath in Breath out Breath

 

It so very Hard to breath

Inhale

When the world is so insistent

Exhale

On stealing your air

Relax

It is so very Hard to breath

Inhale

When the little blue monster

Exhale

Creeps into the lungs

Relax

It is so very Hard to breath

Relax?

When  you are Matilda

Exhale…

Stuck in the Chokey

No Inhale

But the  eyes are the   spikes

Wait, Relax

And that second too late is Mrs. Truchbull

With that ugly wart

Inhale

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

And

Remember

To

Relax

it is very hard to breath

Time-Crunched: On Writing

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:

Do it.

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.

~Rizzo

Still Roses

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

and

exist.

Under the Covers

 

Under the vast canvas of a slighty worn black comforter, the characteristic light from a chipped silver gameboy advance sp illuminated the darkness of my prepubesent room. The screen was blank though, an odd thing for any gameboy held in the slender hands of a boy to be. No, this gameboy had more pressing duties at end. Yes, this console was the lantern that lit the way towards knowledge. Under those covers late at night I read books about magical beings an places. Hudden from a candid world( and a mother’s after bed time rage) I would dive into a sea of wonder.

More than a decade (and many strong prescription glasses) later, I find myself still diving into the paper dreams that I found at a younger age. I found myself recently at the other side of the country and found myself(lets face facts, I was drawn to it by some mystical force) at a local library. At that library, a magician was doing an event based on the national summer reading programs theme for the summer, dreams. This magian was not only entertaining, but insightful. He pointed out that there are two types of dreaming. Dreaming when you are asleep, as in dreams, and dreaming while awake. Magic and getting into an amazing book is the latter. During both experiences, belief and reality are locked on suspended animations. Dangerous dragons and magical movements happen right before the eye and in the head. We are dreaming while wide awake.
I know that I talk about this alot, but I cannot stress this enough. Hug a librarian. They are the gate keepers and the  key holders and the sandmen to dreams and fantasies beyond your wildest dream. I have been involved some way or another with the library system for as long as I remember, and it has benifited my a thousan folds over.  The library is truly a place full of dreams and dreamers.

Dreams are todays answers to tomorrows questions- Edgar Gayce

-Grant (I dream of a world where a good live action Last airbender movie is made)

Polite Poetry seven

texture-designer-grey-fur

Grey Headed Soul

Grey hairs fill my soul

what was first simply weeds in a garden

is now an Amazon, blocking out the sum

The temples of my heart

Varicous veins older streaming as if they were the Nile Delta,

Telling tales of Ages long past hidden ‘twixt decpreit ribs.

Where did the time go-

Can time be lost

Or maybe father time simply grows old

outdated

with grey locks covering his ears and heart

And I-

I foolishly march on

with clippers in hand and dye in the other

Scrambling after the footprints of Gilgamesh

denying myself of the rite of passge of time

For a grey headed soul is not a signal for a last meal of sorrow and regret

but a message from the gods that It has only just begun.

Polite Poetry six

              

                            Ellie

The tiny pattering of feet fill her head

growing in intensity as the dream shrivels away

She lays outside letting the raindrops batter her porcelain frame

What happened to the balloon that would never allow her string to be tied down

the helium of life is gone and her string

oh that string that was tethered around my arm and lifted me up

it is wrapped around the leg of that chair.

the exhilarating cries anticipated has all but been replaced

replaced with the sobbing. the rain.

Tell me, what can this hopeless balloon vendor do

do without your laugh that was more precious than any amount of helium gas.

Tell me

How can I help you float above the falls?

I do not own any of the characters from Pixar’s Up. All rights go to Pixar, my heroes.  -Grant

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