http://www.bri
I just realized. I use 'fucking' in conversation like most people use 'um.'
Maybe I should fuckin' stop swearing so goddam much.
if my art never infiltrates the popular conscious, if it makes no social changes, if it isn't taught in schools long after my death, is it relevant as art? And am I, in turn, relevant as an artist? Would I be content as a footnote in someone else's story? Is my destiny only to inspire and aid another artist into revolution, into fame and glory? And could I be content with that? If I work all my life as a commercial artist doing children's books and DnD illustrations will that be an acceptable legacy?
How much should I compete with my heroes, with my contemporaries
Am I even old enough to consider this kind of career nonsense? XD
songs I have an emotional attachment to:
Solsbury Hill - Peter Gabriel
Don't Give Up - Peter Gabriel
Black Leaf Falls - Sea Wolf
No Surprises - Radiohead
Just (You Do It To Yourself) - Radiohead
Can't You See - Marshall Tucker Band
Midnight Rider - Allman Brothers Band
Boston - Dresden Dolls
This isn't counting a variety of classical music, which will take me to a different place entirely. These are songs that give voice to the way I feel. I'm sure I'm forgetting a few.
I woke up this morning with Solsbury Hill by Peter Gabriel running through my head, and an unsubstantiate
I know from life drawing that I love that little tummy pudge on girls. I think it forms this beautiful curving slope that accentuates all the other curves. When I lose weight I'm going to keep that for sure.
Sasha Reneau
Critical Analysis and Semiotics
Section K
December 1, 2009
I’ll be honest. I’m an Internet junkie.
At home, the Internet has fizzled out for one reason or another. I’m staying at school so I don’t miss anything if my collaborative stories move at all. In fact the only reason I am writing this essay this early in the evening is to pass the time between forum posts. Ironically, even as a full-time college student, homework takes part-time precedence when it comes to entertainment on the World Wide Web.
It occured to me that I don't have a lot of real-life male friends. So I considered the male friends I do have and it made me miss them terribly. I say I want to go to the opera more often; I really mean I miss hanging out with Daniel. I say I want to start getting flying lessons again; I really mean I want to talk to Ben. Funny how attached you can get to people you see every day for four years. I even miss dysfunctional Matt.
I don't like people, but I love these people in particular more than I thought I could.
Hey, rp buddies!
The reason I haven't been on is because I'm on a cruise for my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary. I don't have internet access here but I'll be back Friday!
Sorry for not mentioning this earlier.
Is there anything more delightful than Patrick Stewart narrating Peter and the Wolf?
No.
No there isn't. <3
http://deoxy.o
Short link for a long essay. I'm maybe a third of the way through it, I just wanted to bookmark it for now.
There's a shadow waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.
It leans against the stairwell wall with one foot crossed over the other,
arms bundled neatly around its chest.
If I stop and watch carefully
I can see its chest gently rise and fall.
It waits with an infinite patience,
occasionally checking to see how its wristwatch is doing:
the big hand has a while to go before it gets to six thirty
but it'll get there before dinner.
In the shadow's jacket pocket there's a paper
and on that paper is a song
the song that's been in my throat for the past month
but has never made it beyond my lips, battered against walls of teeth
and crumpled like a term paper underneath my brain.
I feel so strongly compelled to burst into song
but the firing mechanism is jammed
the words are locked in their trailer
and the melody is on strike.
So I will wait for the shadow at the bottom of the stair
And the shadow will wait for me
with my song in his pocket
and his hands folded across his chest
dozing off on the stairwell wall
because I know and it knows
that shadows make and break no promises
and when I pass it,
I will claw at its form on the wall.
I will dig my fingers into the plaster
and tear and tear and tear away
until its jacket is stained with the blood from my fingertips.
I will scream and howl and rail at the shadow.
Give me my words! those are my words! that is my song!
And I will crumple and beat my fists and soak my sleeves in snot and tears
because a shadow is where light refuses to go
and nothing more.