Monday, November 30, 2009

Old News (Poem)

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They thought I'd fall, thought I'd die,
Thought I'd crawl, thought I'd hide,
They hoped I'd leave, hoped I'd flee,
Hoped I'd cease to reach what I can be,
They want me gone, want me quiet,
But where I'm from we're known to get violent,
We're known to fight, known to rebel,
We're gonna beathe or give you hell,
I'm an Iron Man, product of my environment,
Product of my issues, aquaduct of the official,
Brought up by my misuse, and balled up like a tissue,
So don't you think this is all new, not true,
Every hurt that lurks in tomorrow is old news.

Monday, November 23, 2009

Scoffing the Mirror

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Is art for the artist or the spectator? I think it's for the artist. I think you can certainly create art for others and it be appreciated, but really and truly I think art is for the artist. It is quite a conundrum though: if the art isn't appreciated, is the artist fulfilled? I guess this is really the dividing line between art for the maker, or the viewer. By having that part of yourself on display and it being loved makes the artist feel like they're accepted and loved as well, but is the purpose of the art to be loved and accepted? I don't think it is, I think art is something that's in a person and needs to be expressed, and just because it isn't should not be the life/death of the maker, which is why, in my mind, that art is for the artist, because if it's truly art then it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks since the art isn't for/from them, it's for/from you and if they're able to relate then all the better.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Still Steely Eyes

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Cold to the touch. She'd never felt a dead body before, but she wasn't scared. Really, she was barely even curious, almost just a way to kill a fleeting moment of her life. Clammy was the word that sprang to mind, like a more solidified version of gelatin. She couldn't even honestly say she would miss her grandmother, the only time of year she saw her, Christmas, always resulted in ugly sweaters that were thankfully too loose to wear, "You'll grow into it," was the annual phrase.

Then it happened. She gazed one moment too long into her grandmother's eyes and remembered. One summer day when she was eight years old, her grandmother had her for the afternoon and had promised her a "day of magic", which apparently meant shopping at the mall and watching the ice skaters in the rink next to the food court. While enjoying the amateur ice skating her grandma said she would go grab some ice cream, "So we can also get on the ice," but when grandma had walked away a man approached and suggested they go find her grandmother, which seemed odd initially, but at such a tender age adults always seem to know what's going on.

So she went with him.

At first everything seemed normal, until the stranger escorted her to the exit...then the parking lot, which was when she lost her voice and her limbs began to stiffen, "Where's my gran-maaaa?" she started to sob, he nervously smiled and said everything would be fine, then opened his car door and lifted her into the backseat and buckled her in. He scooted around to the driver's side where his door awaited, he grabbed the handle and the impact of a flying body onto his own slammed the half-opened door shut. He quickly found himself on the ground looking up at a very fraught elder woman. Grandma found him. From the backseat she could see her grandmother's rage, and the flutter of hope and awe in her heart could have rivaled the sun's brilliance. She saw the man spring to his feet, but her grandmother punched him in the throat then lit him up with her taser, he plummeted to the ground and lay seemingly paralyzed. She never would have guessed her grandmother could have carried her home that day, but she also could have never let go.

Perhaps, she would miss her grandmother after all, or more accurately, regret never taking the time to understand the strength that such a woman possessed. Now she hoped that the same strength could manifest in herself when called upon, she's gladly her grandmother's granddaughter.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Mother May I?

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I have a couple of confessions. I'm Christian. I believe homosexuals should be allowed to marry.

BOOM!! In yo face! Seriously. I am not saying that I agree with the decision of homosexuality, but I am saying it isn't my business nor my place to put such restrictions on others.

However, it's far deeper than that. See, the problem shouldn't be centered on morality, it *should* be centered around WHY DO WE ALLOW THE GOVERNMENT TO DECIDE WHAT CONSTITUTES A MARRIAGE? Marriage is a God-given right, not a state-given right...at least it shouldn't be. All the "benefits" of marriage (on a material level) stem from things the government shouldn't be doing/involved in anyway! Income tax break? Thank you for allowing me to keep more of my money that you should never have taken in the first place. Health Insurance? Sweet, but the last time I checked insurance was something I bought as a "just in case" scenario, not as a method of paying for something I need, that's called a service, not insurance.

Marriage should not be decided and granted by our government, and the reason should be crystal clear: that power can easily be illfully used against me as well. If marriage is an issue of morality, then let the morality issue be about freedom and not your own preferences of what a marriage looks like.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Miss Jilly Sinclaire

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He blinked twice, unsure if the message was getting through. The rules on communication were clear, blink once for no, twice for yes. Being strapped to a bed was no picnic you see, made worse by the ever present threat of The Butcher in the next room, when will he take his new victim through the paces? Hopefully, never.

He knew he was safe when help arrived in the delicate form of one Miss Jilly Sinclaire, aided by her always loyal basket of talking laundry, Mister Sheets. He'd heard stories of Miss Jilly and Mister Sheets, her knack for finding people in need coupled with his ability to provide cover and costumes in always the cleverest of ways. Their skills would be needed, if not put to the most extreme of tests.

Miss Jilly responded to his blinks by giving him a big thumbs up, Miss Jilly Sinclaire nodded to Mister Sheets and he promptly slithered out a sheet and layed it at the foot of the door. Miss Jilly climbed the wall and waited upside down on the ceiling, waiting to pounce. He got the indication that on the count of three, he was to yell like a madman.

1.
2.
3!!

The Butcher heard the commotion, and flung the door open so fast its hinges nearly broke!

"Please calm down Mr. Zelnicki," said The Butcher, and as he stepped through the door the sheet was yanked from underneath him! Miss Jilly pounced onto the toppled evil-doer, ready to strike a mighty blow! Mister Sheets quickly tied The Butcher's ankles together with the same sheet that felled the monster of a human. "Security!! SECURITY!!" The Butcher screamed.

"Mr. Zelnicki?? You have no clue who you're dealing with Butcher!!", Mr. Zelnicki replied, "And what evil men would take up with you? Mister Sheets, quickly now, gag his mouth!"

The Butcher furiously looked around as he was fighting off having his feet tied together, yet rubbing his surely concussed head. "Aw, Mister Zelnicki, you haven't been taking your medication again, have you? And how did you get out of your bed?"

As security burst through the door Mr. Zelnicki shouted, "It was Miss Jilly Sinclaire, that's how! She knows about me and she won't give up until I'm free!! Get back you evil henchmen!! BACK!!!"

Security quickly took control of Mr. Zelnicki, because as fate would have it, there was no evil man holding him captive, unless you are to count his imagination, but such is the condition of men who reside in mental hospitals.