Intrigued and intriguing.
Crab dip and triskets
Karate elbow door
Dusk’s rainbow
heart of strings
emotional confessions
abstract points
.
Jumbo grape
Fabric Garden
Curving mountain road
Salty kelp
Bewilderment
Mark and the little store
Driveway freshly snowed
Dogs and art
A man filled with insight
And a warm heart.
Scent of the earth
Viewing through slights
With hashed perception
The cold
Bowling car
Bumpers of snow
Salted pebble road
Below zero search
Pat down
Car destruction
The disappointed,
“I can’t believe it, nothing.”
Unthawing, I mean thawing
Relating self
The no I, me or my game
Frustration and challenge
Darkness with beautiful music
Cold toes and
Back seat to the sleepers
Parallel rectangular city
Mexico’s magic act
Duet of burning ember
His finger tips touch mine
The butterflies surge
His voice alluring,
Finger tips touch
My knee
Thoughts provoke
Stopped in the wind
Cape cod meets the French
Another strawberry flavor.
The wintery sky opens its dawn
the axle is limping.
The awesome mounds surround
Metallic purple enchanting our eyes
Fading into the light, moving
Displaying a spectrum of time
Intense pink spreads among us.
Sleepy, heavy eyes
Nearly home
Name game
The almost forgotten save
The artifact in the day
With a splash of tomato
Dusk’s rainbow appears
With no destination
The beauty evolved,
Four artists
An old new car
and the back roads
This is where I met my love.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Theme Ten: Don't mean what they seem
I search frantically through the apartment, feeling around with my fingers, scaling the length of the couch, around the pillow, under the CD book and the afghan…not here. I check the computer desk, and under papers, and the floor. I take a peak at the kitchen table, leaning in to get a better view. Circulating through to the bathroom, I look behind the stack of towels, the counter, and under my work clothes. Through the closet and to the bedroom, I feel all around the night stand and the floor around the bed… nope not here either.
Opening the bedroom door, I take another sweep through the living room running my hand over the coffee table, and the entertainment stand.
“Where the fuck are they?” I say aloud with frustration, and stomp into the bedroom.
I flip on the light and yank the covers off the bed, shaking them gently. …Nothing. I toss the blankets on the bed, and collect the articles of clothing off of the floor. “This is no way to start a day.”
I return to the living room, plop down on the couch. “You know, glasses are the most difficult thing to find.”
Opening the bedroom door, I take another sweep through the living room running my hand over the coffee table, and the entertainment stand.
“Where the fuck are they?” I say aloud with frustration, and stomp into the bedroom.
I flip on the light and yank the covers off the bed, shaking them gently. …Nothing. I toss the blankets on the bed, and collect the articles of clothing off of the floor. “This is no way to start a day.”
I return to the living room, plop down on the couch. “You know, glasses are the most difficult thing to find.”
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Theme Nine:Words mean something beside..
Orange and kind, he wanders around for another adventure; stepping softly and swiftly through the terrain. Sensing out the danger, and sometimes just imagining it. Forward, to the left, then to the right, and forward again, exploring the options within bounds. Marking milestones along the way, until discovering a cool spot, out of the lights view and nestling in for a while, cozy, comfortable and free of care. Laying in limbo until the hunger sets in, crafting his movements.
Discovering a treasure, and with burning patience, still in his tracks just observing and studying until the moment arrives. With ambitious strength, and inspirational faith, he pounces and sinks his teeth into an elating taste of victory and with instinctual impulse; he proudly carries his earrings to his homestead. Dropping his trophy onto the doorstep, he returns filled with warmth, and gratitude. He sips from his bowl and rinsing the conceit from his tongue. Then he climbs up into my lap and shares his energy.
Discovering a treasure, and with burning patience, still in his tracks just observing and studying until the moment arrives. With ambitious strength, and inspirational faith, he pounces and sinks his teeth into an elating taste of victory and with instinctual impulse; he proudly carries his earrings to his homestead. Dropping his trophy onto the doorstep, he returns filled with warmth, and gratitude. He sips from his bowl and rinsing the conceit from his tongue. Then he climbs up into my lap and shares his energy.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
Theme Eight: Large to small
LARGE to small
I began a painting this past summer, in oils (water soluble). The subject: Paradise Orchids, from a stationary card.
My eyes follow the curves and the shapes of the petals, the stems and the leaves, as I try to capture the image. My eyes refer from the card and back to the canvas; I continue this process until the entire image is stenciled in graphite. I take a deep breath, and release, layer one is finished. I roll my chair across the kitchen floor, and light a cigarette. I view the drawing from a distance, while I smoke and sip from a cold glass filled with spring water.
I roll back across the floor to the easel and dive in for layer two. With my palette in my lap, I squeeze out Winsor and Newton’s permanent rose red, and then some mixing white, each occupying a space of its own on the wooden wax papered palette. With the wooden, paint splattered handle wedged between my fingers, I knife into the red paint. I scoop it off the palette, and plop it onto the white. I knife the paint again and blend the two thick colors into each other, creating a lively pink. In accordance to the stationary, these orchids are more peachy-pink. So I squeeze out lemon yellow and add it to the mixture. I fold the paint into itself, over and over, until I am satisfied with the mixture. Meanwhile, The Requiem for a Dream soundtrack pounds from the living room speakers; but I do not hear it. I watch the knife as it bends, and shimmers in the light, the richness of the colors being reflected into my face, and the aroma of the oil fills my nostrils.
I plop the knife into the orange cup and select a clean flat brush. Dipping just the tip into the cup, and it moistens. I rub the tip of the brush along the peachy-pink mixture, blending the paint with the water; thinning it. I slide the brush gently and smoothly along the inside of each petal and conceal the bright whiteness of the canvas. This pink peachiness is the foundation layer of color. I dip the brush once more into the warm water. Then carefully, attentively paint the inner line of the curves and folds of the petals, until each is completed.
(I try to work evenly through out a painting.) I plop the brush into the cup, and prepare a shade of green. I reach for phthalo green (blue shade) and phthalo green (yellow shade). I squeeze out the blue shade, and then a greater potion for the yellow shade. (Blue is darker than yellow.) I pull the knife from its lukewarm bath and wipe it clean with my mother’s bathroom towel. I knife the shades together. With a thin brush, I paint the stems and the petals with its foundation layer of a vibrant green.
Referring back to the stationary, the background is black. I blend a mixture of cool colors using dioxazine purple, colbalt blue hue, purple red, and phthalo green. Then blend that mixture to a hint of black. So it will help bring out the other colors. I select a narrow brush and paint all the remaining white.
I roll back from the easel with peach, green and a mixture of black along my hand, fore arm and elbow. I wipe it on the red apron my grandmother made for me. I light another smoke, the white has been conquered; layer two is completed.
The whole canvas is wet and stays went for a while, (depending on the humidity). I want to use this to my advantage, so that I can evenly juxtapose the value changes. I create more of the pink peachiness and plop it in the center on my palette. To the left I squeeze out a glob of permanent rose red, and purple red and just dab of purple, black and blue. To the right of the peachiness, I squeeze out, luminous red (which is hot pink) and a glob of white, each with considerable space between. With my knife, I knife the dark colors together, clean my knife, and continue down the line. I blend each adjacent color the next and create the value changes of the pedals. And this begins the painting process. The layers from here on out are countless; I have yet to finished this painting.
I began a painting this past summer, in oils (water soluble). The subject: Paradise Orchids, from a stationary card.
My eyes follow the curves and the shapes of the petals, the stems and the leaves, as I try to capture the image. My eyes refer from the card and back to the canvas; I continue this process until the entire image is stenciled in graphite. I take a deep breath, and release, layer one is finished. I roll my chair across the kitchen floor, and light a cigarette. I view the drawing from a distance, while I smoke and sip from a cold glass filled with spring water.
I roll back across the floor to the easel and dive in for layer two. With my palette in my lap, I squeeze out Winsor and Newton’s permanent rose red, and then some mixing white, each occupying a space of its own on the wooden wax papered palette. With the wooden, paint splattered handle wedged between my fingers, I knife into the red paint. I scoop it off the palette, and plop it onto the white. I knife the paint again and blend the two thick colors into each other, creating a lively pink. In accordance to the stationary, these orchids are more peachy-pink. So I squeeze out lemon yellow and add it to the mixture. I fold the paint into itself, over and over, until I am satisfied with the mixture. Meanwhile, The Requiem for a Dream soundtrack pounds from the living room speakers; but I do not hear it. I watch the knife as it bends, and shimmers in the light, the richness of the colors being reflected into my face, and the aroma of the oil fills my nostrils.
I plop the knife into the orange cup and select a clean flat brush. Dipping just the tip into the cup, and it moistens. I rub the tip of the brush along the peachy-pink mixture, blending the paint with the water; thinning it. I slide the brush gently and smoothly along the inside of each petal and conceal the bright whiteness of the canvas. This pink peachiness is the foundation layer of color. I dip the brush once more into the warm water. Then carefully, attentively paint the inner line of the curves and folds of the petals, until each is completed.
(I try to work evenly through out a painting.) I plop the brush into the cup, and prepare a shade of green. I reach for phthalo green (blue shade) and phthalo green (yellow shade). I squeeze out the blue shade, and then a greater potion for the yellow shade. (Blue is darker than yellow.) I pull the knife from its lukewarm bath and wipe it clean with my mother’s bathroom towel. I knife the shades together. With a thin brush, I paint the stems and the petals with its foundation layer of a vibrant green.
Referring back to the stationary, the background is black. I blend a mixture of cool colors using dioxazine purple, colbalt blue hue, purple red, and phthalo green. Then blend that mixture to a hint of black. So it will help bring out the other colors. I select a narrow brush and paint all the remaining white.
I roll back from the easel with peach, green and a mixture of black along my hand, fore arm and elbow. I wipe it on the red apron my grandmother made for me. I light another smoke, the white has been conquered; layer two is completed.
The whole canvas is wet and stays went for a while, (depending on the humidity). I want to use this to my advantage, so that I can evenly juxtapose the value changes. I create more of the pink peachiness and plop it in the center on my palette. To the left I squeeze out a glob of permanent rose red, and purple red and just dab of purple, black and blue. To the right of the peachiness, I squeeze out, luminous red (which is hot pink) and a glob of white, each with considerable space between. With my knife, I knife the dark colors together, clean my knife, and continue down the line. I blend each adjacent color the next and create the value changes of the pedals. And this begins the painting process. The layers from here on out are countless; I have yet to finished this painting.
Saturday, October 30, 2004
Theme Seven Small to larger
Theme Seven: Small to larger.
When I arrived to work on Sunday morning at six forty-five, for my second double in a row, I was informed that we were out of home fries. Eighty-six home fries.
I made it through breakfast with the disappointing news. At eleven, we switched over to lunch. I was then informed that we had run out of potato chips, so all sandwiches were served with a small portion of french-fries. Eighty-six potato chips. One of my customers ordered a vanilla shake, I went to the freezer. The bucket was mostly empty with the exception of what was stuck to the edges of the bottom. Eighty-six vanilla.
Breakfast and lunch were busy. There were two cruise ships in the harbor. I kept on top of things, and felt like I had breezed right through the day with out missing a beat. My apron was stuffed with dollar bills, some fives, some tens, and the change jiggled when I carried out trays of food.
When dinner arrived, we were slammed. There were tour busses in town this evening. I was prepared and ready for the challenge. I felt confident and ready to hustle through the home stretch. We split the restaurant into two sections. I took the left wall, an eight table section, and the fill in waitress took the right wall and middle, a seven table section.
I took drink orders for several tables in a row. I filled cups with ice and the selected beverages and placed them on a large tray. I ran the drinks and took dinner orders. I placed several orders in the kitchen at one time. Then as my section filled, I repeated the process and collected drink orders. My task was interrupted when I was beckoned to the kitchen. “We are out of turkey.” Ashley informs me.
I flipped through my check book to check the table numbers, and returned to two different tables with menus in hand and informed my customers of the inconveniences and offered them something else for dinner. I stood there impatiently, trying to be patient while they ponder other choices. I took the new orders and submitted the slips to the kitchen. By that time, a few of my plates were up in the window. I ran food to two tables. And returned to the cups all lined in a row. I filled the order and ran the drinks. Then I took new dinner orders, and submitted the slip to the kitchen. I took a walk through the dining room and checked on customers with their dinner. I heard the bell ring once, “Number One!” I returned to the kitchen. “We are out of roast beef.”
I exhaled with disappointment, and returned to one of the same tables (that ordered turkey) with menus in my hand once more. I took a deep breath and presented my customers with more disappointing news. The man looked at his wife, reached for his wallet, threw a few bills on to the table as he stood. “That is for the sodas.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” I said as they walked out the door.
That is also a hard experience to have especially during a rush, and when other customers are watching. I do not have control over stock. Because of the interruptions, I had lost my rhythm, I had hungry customers waiting. I returned the kitchen and picked up appetizers.
“May I have plates under my soup?”
“Yeah, if we had some.” Paul replied.
I looked in the window, at their stack of plates, there wasn’t one small plate! My eyes transferred to the dish pit, it was over flowed with cups, straws, napkins and lobster shells. We didn’t have a dishwasher on that evening.
I grab two soup spoons and two drink trays, and carry soup out on trays. In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. Everything was delayed. I walked through the dinning room. A customer put his finger in the air, and looked right towards me. I remembered what he needed. I dropped off the soups and pulled two bags of oyster crackers from my apron.
Then I walked up to the man. “All I need to do is total your bills and I will bring them right along.”
I had to manually write out the prices and total to bills, four separate checks, for each customer at this four top. I ran their bills, and totaled up the bills for each table that already had their dinner.
In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. The night went on chaotically, and we continued to run out of items. So now instead of greeting each table and rambling off the specials of the day, instead, I told my customers what we did not have. The fill in hostess had kept the manager up dated on what we were out of, but still she wouldn’t let us close.
So the embarrassment continued. Tables continued to walk out, or gave me time limits to when they were walking out. I made a forty five cent tip off of one table. The eighty-six list grew from just home fries to: buffalo wings, turkey, roast beef, ham, vanilla ice cream, meat loaf dinners, pickles, wraps, dinner rolls, and mayonnaise; which meant we couldn’t make tarter sauce for seafood dinners, nor could we serve crab rolls or lobster rolls (which is a popular fourteen dollar item). Oh, and potato chips twice. I no longer told my customers what were out of, but what they could actually order.
I am so grateful that the season is almost over. I can’t believe that a manager would do that to her help! I should have walked out.
All of these problems steamed from two simple tasks that were not completed; the morning crew needed to prep, and thaw out particular items. And a manager or should check inventory daily to keep the restaurant in healthy stock.
When I arrived to work on Sunday morning at six forty-five, for my second double in a row, I was informed that we were out of home fries. Eighty-six home fries.
I made it through breakfast with the disappointing news. At eleven, we switched over to lunch. I was then informed that we had run out of potato chips, so all sandwiches were served with a small portion of french-fries. Eighty-six potato chips. One of my customers ordered a vanilla shake, I went to the freezer. The bucket was mostly empty with the exception of what was stuck to the edges of the bottom. Eighty-six vanilla.
Breakfast and lunch were busy. There were two cruise ships in the harbor. I kept on top of things, and felt like I had breezed right through the day with out missing a beat. My apron was stuffed with dollar bills, some fives, some tens, and the change jiggled when I carried out trays of food.
When dinner arrived, we were slammed. There were tour busses in town this evening. I was prepared and ready for the challenge. I felt confident and ready to hustle through the home stretch. We split the restaurant into two sections. I took the left wall, an eight table section, and the fill in waitress took the right wall and middle, a seven table section.
I took drink orders for several tables in a row. I filled cups with ice and the selected beverages and placed them on a large tray. I ran the drinks and took dinner orders. I placed several orders in the kitchen at one time. Then as my section filled, I repeated the process and collected drink orders. My task was interrupted when I was beckoned to the kitchen. “We are out of turkey.” Ashley informs me.
I flipped through my check book to check the table numbers, and returned to two different tables with menus in hand and informed my customers of the inconveniences and offered them something else for dinner. I stood there impatiently, trying to be patient while they ponder other choices. I took the new orders and submitted the slips to the kitchen. By that time, a few of my plates were up in the window. I ran food to two tables. And returned to the cups all lined in a row. I filled the order and ran the drinks. Then I took new dinner orders, and submitted the slip to the kitchen. I took a walk through the dining room and checked on customers with their dinner. I heard the bell ring once, “Number One!” I returned to the kitchen. “We are out of roast beef.”
I exhaled with disappointment, and returned to one of the same tables (that ordered turkey) with menus in my hand once more. I took a deep breath and presented my customers with more disappointing news. The man looked at his wife, reached for his wallet, threw a few bills on to the table as he stood. “That is for the sodas.”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience, sir.” I said as they walked out the door.
That is also a hard experience to have especially during a rush, and when other customers are watching. I do not have control over stock. Because of the interruptions, I had lost my rhythm, I had hungry customers waiting. I returned the kitchen and picked up appetizers.
“May I have plates under my soup?”
“Yeah, if we had some.” Paul replied.
I looked in the window, at their stack of plates, there wasn’t one small plate! My eyes transferred to the dish pit, it was over flowed with cups, straws, napkins and lobster shells. We didn’t have a dishwasher on that evening.
I grab two soup spoons and two drink trays, and carry soup out on trays. In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. Everything was delayed. I walked through the dinning room. A customer put his finger in the air, and looked right towards me. I remembered what he needed. I dropped off the soups and pulled two bags of oyster crackers from my apron.
Then I walked up to the man. “All I need to do is total your bills and I will bring them right along.”
I had to manually write out the prices and total to bills, four separate checks, for each customer at this four top. I ran their bills, and totaled up the bills for each table that already had their dinner.
In addition to the embarrassment of not having these items, the dinners took longer, because we were running out of dishes to serve food that we did have. The cooks were taking turns swapping off from cooking, to doing dishes. The night went on chaotically, and we continued to run out of items. So now instead of greeting each table and rambling off the specials of the day, instead, I told my customers what we did not have. The fill in hostess had kept the manager up dated on what we were out of, but still she wouldn’t let us close.
So the embarrassment continued. Tables continued to walk out, or gave me time limits to when they were walking out. I made a forty five cent tip off of one table. The eighty-six list grew from just home fries to: buffalo wings, turkey, roast beef, ham, vanilla ice cream, meat loaf dinners, pickles, wraps, dinner rolls, and mayonnaise; which meant we couldn’t make tarter sauce for seafood dinners, nor could we serve crab rolls or lobster rolls (which is a popular fourteen dollar item). Oh, and potato chips twice. I no longer told my customers what were out of, but what they could actually order.
I am so grateful that the season is almost over. I can’t believe that a manager would do that to her help! I should have walked out.
All of these problems steamed from two simple tasks that were not completed; the morning crew needed to prep, and thaw out particular items. And a manager or should check inventory daily to keep the restaurant in healthy stock.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Theme Five Action, Narrative, Story
I stand dressed in my favorite blue jeans, a black short-sleeved top and three-inch boots. I look through my glasses, and into my eyes coaching my self for the long day.
“You will be fine, every problem has a solution, your creative, just wing it.”
I take a deep breath, and exhale.
“The cars are packed, are you ready to go?” I yell to my boyfriend, who’s in the living room. We walk down the wooden stairs from the apartment.
“I’ll meet you there”, I say to Wes as I get into my Lumina. Putting on my seat belt, I take a deep breath…and exhale. We drive around the block, and up to the Village Green. I park in the bus zone, Wes parks in front of me. We walk through the Green searching for my spot, we discover nametags duct taped to the paved sidewalks. Shortly after, we discover mine.
We return to our vehicles to unload and we start with a heavy, eight foot table. Then Wes lugs the canopy tent, and I carry my portfolios.
Wes slides the sleeve off the tent, and begins to open it. It works like an umbrella effect, one person on each side and pull. “Walla,” He says as it opens.
We adjusted the height by stepping on a triangular piece at the bottom of the leg, while pushing in the knob. However, one of the legs was missing the triangular piece (which keeps the leg from going all the way back into itself), and the leg was shoved all the way in! So there it stood with one whole corner on the canopy practically on the ground.
“What the fuck do we do Wes?” I ask in distress.
“Did you bring any pliers?” He asks.
“No.” I look back at the lopsided tent, and my brain fails to work.
“Well, why don’t we unpack everything, and then go back to the house and get the pliers.” Wes suggests.
I look at my watch, eight fifteen. “Well I guess so,” I say, like I am put out with the idea.
I walk back through the park to my car and return carrying my backpack, two easels and a wooden chair that had been painted yellow. Wes informs me that the lady next to us had a tool to pull the leg out. Her husband has gone to the car to retrieve it.
We get the leg fixed, and the table set up underneath the canopy. I turn to Wes, “Where are the sides to the tent?”
He walks over to the sleeve, and picks it up. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, great they rented me a tent, with out any sides!” I say with a ‘to top it off’ attitude.
We string twenty gauge wire on the poles of three sides of the tent. With butterfly clips, I hook the top of each shrink wrapped piece of artwork. I set up the easels, and unwrap all of the framed artwork. Then we move things around to create a space to welcome viewers into the tent.
.
People had been walking through all morning, but I had not paid them any attention until now. I sit behind my table, my comfort zone. My comment book lay open in front of me, and gel prints all along the table. The morning was beautiful, the sky was blue, the sun, shining down on our art show. The breeze is nice it cools me off. I look at my watch, ten forty seven.
People browse through my artwork, and comment, and leave comments. The pieces of artwork sway in the breeze. We sit in the sun, drink our juice, and watch the people, as most of them just walk by.
“Do you feel like lunch?” Wes asks.
I look at my watch, eleven thirty. “No, not really.”
“Well, I am not hanging around much longer. I need to sleep some more before I go to work.”
“I guess so.”
“I was thinking subway.” He suggests.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What would you like?” He asks.
“Umm, let me write it down for you.” (I am very particular.)
Wes kisses my lips, and heads off.
I try to discretely smoke a cigarette. The breeze picks up a bit, and my business cards and gel prints go flying to my left. I place my cigarette in the ashtray I brought, and chase after them. A lady in the gazebo offers me some duct tape. I gladly take it and tape my table-cloth down so the wind won’t blow under it.
I decide to walk to the tent on my right (the lady with the tool.)
“Hello.” I say,
“Hello.” She repeats.
“Lily.” And I put my hand out.
“Sheila.” She replies while returning my gesture.
“I wanted to thank you for your help earlier, I was very grumpy and stressed out this morning.”
“Yes, this morning was stressful.” She agrees. “Is this your first show?”
“No, this is my sixth show, however, my first show outdoors.” I reply.
A browser walked into her tent. “I will catch up with you later.”
I return to my tent, just as Wes walks onto the green. We sit on the grass and eat our lunch. Wes goes home to nap. The breeze picks up once again takes my gel prints with it, I chase them again. I bound the business cards with a hair elastic, and add a second strand of wire at the bottom of the back of the tent and clip the bottom of the work to it.
My father calls,
“I should be leaving tow in about fifteen minutes.” I look at my watch, two thirty three. He should be here in about an hour.
“See you in a bit Dad.”
I am relieved that he will be here, I hate doing art shows all by myself, the company helps. Maybe he will have some ideas to fix my side-less tent problem.
I had run out of wire earlier when I strung the back of the tent, so the pieces on the left and right sides were blowing off, and away. At this point in the afternoon, I was no the only artist fighting with the wind.
The lady diagonal from me (known as Gloria) comes over to assist me. Wit her she brings clamps and a basket. She suggests that we clamp the shrink wrapped work to the wire with them, and lends me a basket for the gel prints.
Everything seems secure now so I unfold an easel and set up oil painting I have been working on and begin to mix paint. The breeze shifts and come through the back of the tent and flips the portrait of Albert Einstein onto his face. I jump from my chair and slowing flip it back over, hoping to find it scratch free and in one piece. To my relief it was. I angle the frame pieces so the wind won’t blow them over. I return to my seat, and the wind swoops under the canopy and lifts one of the legs from the ground. I now hold onto the tent while the wind pulls at the sail.
A man walks up to me, “I have watched you struggle long enough, and I will hold it for you.” I thank him with great appreciation.
I point down to the tent of my left, “That guy’s got the right idea.” I say. He has gallon jugs tied to each leg.
“You could go right up to the hardware store and buy some rope.” The man suggested while holding the pole and leaning on it and the same time.
“Well I live right down School Street. I have rope at home and have plenty of empty jugs at my house.
“Well if you trust me, I will stand here and hold down the fort.”
I think about, it’s not like he is going to steal my artwork. I am running out of options. “Well if you don’t mind, I will run right over.”
“Not at all.”
I grab my cigarettes and keys and run through the park to my car. I race home and fill four gallon jugs with water, and grab some rope and a pair of scissors. I place everything into a laundry basket, and load it in my car.
I return to the Green and park in the movie theater parking lot and lug the basket back to my tent.
I greet him, out of breath and with a smile. “Thank you so much!” I drop the basket, and plop a gallon at every corner.
“Well I have to get going now.” The man informs me.
“Thank you again.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.
I tie all the jugs to my tent, and pack up my oil painting.
My father calls again, I look at my watch three fifty four.
“Where are you?” I ask while looking around the park for his van.
“I am still in Bangor I don’t think that I am going to make it. The day just slipped away…” He continued through what he had done today. “I just don’t feel well, and wel’p I’m sorry.”
I sit and slouch further in my chair, my eyes fill with tears. I try to keep my throat clear so I sound okay. Meanwhile a guy that I work with) walks up to my tent.
“Well I hope you feel better, I will talk to you later Dad.”
“Alright, sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Talk to you later.” I say and hang up the phone. I try to make the tears in my eyes go away. He looks at me, I try to smile, but the tears fall anyway.
“Why you cry?” He asks with his broke English
“My Dad’s not coming.” I wipe the tears quickly from my face. “It is very good to see you ! You are the only person that told me that they would come to the show that actually did. Thank you!”
“I like your paintings.”
“Thank you Krasimir.”
“I play tonight on the sail boat, I must go now.” (He plays the tambura and sings Bulgarian music, on the Margaret Todd.)
He leaves, and again I am alone. The sky is darkening, and the wind seems against me especially. A gust of wind comes out of no where and blows over my display easel. Framed art work meets with the ground, some on its face, and some of the faces of others. The ladies next to me come to my rescue. I pick up the artwork and begin to sob. Gloria puts her arm around my shoulder, pulls me closer to her, and squeezes.
“I just feel so unprofessional, immature, amateur. I don’t know what else to do I am running out of ideas.” I cry.
“Well it is after four, I don’t think that the chamber (chamber of commerce art show) would mind if you left a little early. Sheila and I will explain to them what happened. Go home, get a goods night sleep and try again in the morning.” I take a big breath, and wipe the tears from my face. Gloria helps me pack up my work, while I continue to cry. We lower the tent and take the sail off to prevent it from blowing away during the night. I pack my things into my car, and return home, I lug the artwork the up the stairs and I slip into bed still crying.
“You will be fine, every problem has a solution, your creative, just wing it.”
I take a deep breath, and exhale.
“The cars are packed, are you ready to go?” I yell to my boyfriend, who’s in the living room. We walk down the wooden stairs from the apartment.
“I’ll meet you there”, I say to Wes as I get into my Lumina. Putting on my seat belt, I take a deep breath…and exhale. We drive around the block, and up to the Village Green. I park in the bus zone, Wes parks in front of me. We walk through the Green searching for my spot, we discover nametags duct taped to the paved sidewalks. Shortly after, we discover mine.
We return to our vehicles to unload and we start with a heavy, eight foot table. Then Wes lugs the canopy tent, and I carry my portfolios.
Wes slides the sleeve off the tent, and begins to open it. It works like an umbrella effect, one person on each side and pull. “Walla,” He says as it opens.
We adjusted the height by stepping on a triangular piece at the bottom of the leg, while pushing in the knob. However, one of the legs was missing the triangular piece (which keeps the leg from going all the way back into itself), and the leg was shoved all the way in! So there it stood with one whole corner on the canopy practically on the ground.
“What the fuck do we do Wes?” I ask in distress.
“Did you bring any pliers?” He asks.
“No.” I look back at the lopsided tent, and my brain fails to work.
“Well, why don’t we unpack everything, and then go back to the house and get the pliers.” Wes suggests.
I look at my watch, eight fifteen. “Well I guess so,” I say, like I am put out with the idea.
I walk back through the park to my car and return carrying my backpack, two easels and a wooden chair that had been painted yellow. Wes informs me that the lady next to us had a tool to pull the leg out. Her husband has gone to the car to retrieve it.
We get the leg fixed, and the table set up underneath the canopy. I turn to Wes, “Where are the sides to the tent?”
He walks over to the sleeve, and picks it up. “It’s empty.”
“Oh, great they rented me a tent, with out any sides!” I say with a ‘to top it off’ attitude.
We string twenty gauge wire on the poles of three sides of the tent. With butterfly clips, I hook the top of each shrink wrapped piece of artwork. I set up the easels, and unwrap all of the framed artwork. Then we move things around to create a space to welcome viewers into the tent.
.
People had been walking through all morning, but I had not paid them any attention until now. I sit behind my table, my comfort zone. My comment book lay open in front of me, and gel prints all along the table. The morning was beautiful, the sky was blue, the sun, shining down on our art show. The breeze is nice it cools me off. I look at my watch, ten forty seven.
People browse through my artwork, and comment, and leave comments. The pieces of artwork sway in the breeze. We sit in the sun, drink our juice, and watch the people, as most of them just walk by.
“Do you feel like lunch?” Wes asks.
I look at my watch, eleven thirty. “No, not really.”
“Well, I am not hanging around much longer. I need to sleep some more before I go to work.”
“I guess so.”
“I was thinking subway.” He suggests.
“Yeah, me too.”
“What would you like?” He asks.
“Umm, let me write it down for you.” (I am very particular.)
Wes kisses my lips, and heads off.
I try to discretely smoke a cigarette. The breeze picks up a bit, and my business cards and gel prints go flying to my left. I place my cigarette in the ashtray I brought, and chase after them. A lady in the gazebo offers me some duct tape. I gladly take it and tape my table-cloth down so the wind won’t blow under it.
I decide to walk to the tent on my right (the lady with the tool.)
“Hello.” I say,
“Hello.” She repeats.
“Lily.” And I put my hand out.
“Sheila.” She replies while returning my gesture.
“I wanted to thank you for your help earlier, I was very grumpy and stressed out this morning.”
“Yes, this morning was stressful.” She agrees. “Is this your first show?”
“No, this is my sixth show, however, my first show outdoors.” I reply.
A browser walked into her tent. “I will catch up with you later.”
I return to my tent, just as Wes walks onto the green. We sit on the grass and eat our lunch. Wes goes home to nap. The breeze picks up once again takes my gel prints with it, I chase them again. I bound the business cards with a hair elastic, and add a second strand of wire at the bottom of the back of the tent and clip the bottom of the work to it.
My father calls,
“I should be leaving tow in about fifteen minutes.” I look at my watch, two thirty three. He should be here in about an hour.
“See you in a bit Dad.”
I am relieved that he will be here, I hate doing art shows all by myself, the company helps. Maybe he will have some ideas to fix my side-less tent problem.
I had run out of wire earlier when I strung the back of the tent, so the pieces on the left and right sides were blowing off, and away. At this point in the afternoon, I was no the only artist fighting with the wind.
The lady diagonal from me (known as Gloria) comes over to assist me. Wit her she brings clamps and a basket. She suggests that we clamp the shrink wrapped work to the wire with them, and lends me a basket for the gel prints.
Everything seems secure now so I unfold an easel and set up oil painting I have been working on and begin to mix paint. The breeze shifts and come through the back of the tent and flips the portrait of Albert Einstein onto his face. I jump from my chair and slowing flip it back over, hoping to find it scratch free and in one piece. To my relief it was. I angle the frame pieces so the wind won’t blow them over. I return to my seat, and the wind swoops under the canopy and lifts one of the legs from the ground. I now hold onto the tent while the wind pulls at the sail.
A man walks up to me, “I have watched you struggle long enough, and I will hold it for you.” I thank him with great appreciation.
I point down to the tent of my left, “That guy’s got the right idea.” I say. He has gallon jugs tied to each leg.
“You could go right up to the hardware store and buy some rope.” The man suggested while holding the pole and leaning on it and the same time.
“Well I live right down School Street. I have rope at home and have plenty of empty jugs at my house.
“Well if you trust me, I will stand here and hold down the fort.”
I think about, it’s not like he is going to steal my artwork. I am running out of options. “Well if you don’t mind, I will run right over.”
“Not at all.”
I grab my cigarettes and keys and run through the park to my car. I race home and fill four gallon jugs with water, and grab some rope and a pair of scissors. I place everything into a laundry basket, and load it in my car.
I return to the Green and park in the movie theater parking lot and lug the basket back to my tent.
I greet him, out of breath and with a smile. “Thank you so much!” I drop the basket, and plop a gallon at every corner.
“Well I have to get going now.” The man informs me.
“Thank you again.” I hold out my hand, and he shakes it.
I tie all the jugs to my tent, and pack up my oil painting.
My father calls again, I look at my watch three fifty four.
“Where are you?” I ask while looking around the park for his van.
“I am still in Bangor I don’t think that I am going to make it. The day just slipped away…” He continued through what he had done today. “I just don’t feel well, and wel’p I’m sorry.”
I sit and slouch further in my chair, my eyes fill with tears. I try to keep my throat clear so I sound okay. Meanwhile a guy that I work with) walks up to my tent.
“Well I hope you feel better, I will talk to you later Dad.”
“Alright, sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“Talk to you later.” I say and hang up the phone. I try to make the tears in my eyes go away. He looks at me, I try to smile, but the tears fall anyway.
“Why you cry?” He asks with his broke English
“My Dad’s not coming.” I wipe the tears quickly from my face. “It is very good to see you ! You are the only person that told me that they would come to the show that actually did. Thank you!”
“I like your paintings.”
“Thank you Krasimir.”
“I play tonight on the sail boat, I must go now.” (He plays the tambura and sings Bulgarian music, on the Margaret Todd.)
He leaves, and again I am alone. The sky is darkening, and the wind seems against me especially. A gust of wind comes out of no where and blows over my display easel. Framed art work meets with the ground, some on its face, and some of the faces of others. The ladies next to me come to my rescue. I pick up the artwork and begin to sob. Gloria puts her arm around my shoulder, pulls me closer to her, and squeezes.
“I just feel so unprofessional, immature, amateur. I don’t know what else to do I am running out of ideas.” I cry.
“Well it is after four, I don’t think that the chamber (chamber of commerce art show) would mind if you left a little early. Sheila and I will explain to them what happened. Go home, get a goods night sleep and try again in the morning.” I take a big breath, and wipe the tears from my face. Gloria helps me pack up my work, while I continue to cry. We lower the tent and take the sail off to prevent it from blowing away during the night. I pack my things into my car, and return home, I lug the artwork the up the stairs and I slip into bed still crying.
Saturday, October 02, 2004
Theme Four: Person
A man in his fifties awakens from his slumber and rolls out of bed with his dog. The man robes himself as he makes his way down the hallway into the bathroom, and proceeds to pee with the door partially ajar. He continues down the hall, into the living room to the kitchen.
He opens the cupboard door and selects a mug. Pouring the already brewed coffee into the mug adds some milk and pours in the sugar. He yawns, and his whole upper body shakes. He stirs his coffee, and then leaves the sugar and the spoon out on the yellow countertop. Opening the glass door to the back deck, he let’s Tank out on his leash.
Sitting at what we call the bar, (his desk) in the kitchen, my father lights his morning cigarette. He coughs and hacks with the first drag, then sips from his steaming mug. Then presses play on his answering machine to collect his missed calls. He is the owner of a contracting business; (his twenty sixth year). He built our home with his own hands. He is a business man to the core, he likes to talk money. He returns his calls on estimates and talks to his crew. He has the gift of gab. Sipping from his coffee and chain smoking, he prepares his schedule for the day. Sitting on his stool, he always has a tendency to rub his big toe against the next toe. (Something I have always noticed.)
Then he is off, to shower. He must get out of the shower before he dries off. There always seems to be wet foot prints on the floor from the shower to the closet. Returning to the living room; my father sits on the footstool, grunts while tries to put his socks on, on her pot belly. White shaving cream has gathered in his ear, he wipes it off with his hand and wipes it on his jeans. He places a hat on his bald head, and grabs his cell phone and Tank off the leash. They both jump in the van, for another days work.
My father is a veteran of Vietnam, he enlisted for two years, in the Marines Corp. Unfortunately, and he is a republican and sides with Bush.
My father has always been there to bail out his kids; and he knows a lot of people, or the right people I should say. He is softer with his girls than his son. When I was in high school, he would sign me out of school when I was having a rough day. He’d call my sister and me in sick, when we decided to stay home. (Our grades were good, so that was how he justified it.) For a while, this was a common occurrence with Kati and I. He has an indulgent parenting style, which would make my mother the bad guy, more of the times than not.
My father is a stubborn man, especially when it comes to him, and the way he does things. He likes to do things his way, and he doesn’t have much patience. I think he has passed both of these traits down to his children, more so my brother and sister, than me.
Now when I look at my father, I see an aging man, with a big heart and a hard head.
He opens the cupboard door and selects a mug. Pouring the already brewed coffee into the mug adds some milk and pours in the sugar. He yawns, and his whole upper body shakes. He stirs his coffee, and then leaves the sugar and the spoon out on the yellow countertop. Opening the glass door to the back deck, he let’s Tank out on his leash.
Sitting at what we call the bar, (his desk) in the kitchen, my father lights his morning cigarette. He coughs and hacks with the first drag, then sips from his steaming mug. Then presses play on his answering machine to collect his missed calls. He is the owner of a contracting business; (his twenty sixth year). He built our home with his own hands. He is a business man to the core, he likes to talk money. He returns his calls on estimates and talks to his crew. He has the gift of gab. Sipping from his coffee and chain smoking, he prepares his schedule for the day. Sitting on his stool, he always has a tendency to rub his big toe against the next toe. (Something I have always noticed.)
Then he is off, to shower. He must get out of the shower before he dries off. There always seems to be wet foot prints on the floor from the shower to the closet. Returning to the living room; my father sits on the footstool, grunts while tries to put his socks on, on her pot belly. White shaving cream has gathered in his ear, he wipes it off with his hand and wipes it on his jeans. He places a hat on his bald head, and grabs his cell phone and Tank off the leash. They both jump in the van, for another days work.
My father is a veteran of Vietnam, he enlisted for two years, in the Marines Corp. Unfortunately, and he is a republican and sides with Bush.
My father has always been there to bail out his kids; and he knows a lot of people, or the right people I should say. He is softer with his girls than his son. When I was in high school, he would sign me out of school when I was having a rough day. He’d call my sister and me in sick, when we decided to stay home. (Our grades were good, so that was how he justified it.) For a while, this was a common occurrence with Kati and I. He has an indulgent parenting style, which would make my mother the bad guy, more of the times than not.
My father is a stubborn man, especially when it comes to him, and the way he does things. He likes to do things his way, and he doesn’t have much patience. I think he has passed both of these traits down to his children, more so my brother and sister, than me.
Now when I look at my father, I see an aging man, with a big heart and a hard head.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
Theme Three: Scene and Dialogue
The sun is shining into the restaurant; the air is cool this morning. I scan the sidewalks in hopes to find entertainment watching the tourists as they walk by. It is eight in the morning, so the streets are quiet. Down behind the hill I can see the ocean, the horizon is clear. I stand at the hostess station, in my black dress pants and jacket. The restaurant is empty, each table set with a jelly rack and filled with maple syrup sitting on a saucer, fresh cut flowers, (from the owner’s garden) and two sets of silverware placed on white napkins. Elevator type music plays quietly from the speakers in the ceiling.
“Good morning!” I announce to a couple as they walk in from the cobblestone courtyard.
“Two for breakfast?” I inquire.
“Actually we would like some information about your bus tour.”
“Oh, okay, we leave at ten a.m. and two p.m. everyday. It’s a 2.5 hr. tour that takes you up the loop road, it’s like 27miles. You’ll go to the top of Cadillac Mountain, seiur de mont spring, thunder hole, sand beach, otter cliff, and the Jordon pond house. There will be three fifteen minute stops.”
“Oh, okay, how much?”
“Twenty-dollars per person.”
“Do you have a senior discount?” The woman inquires.
“No I do not, but I have a ten percent triple A discount.”
“Oh, we have triple A.” The man exclaims, as he reaches in his back pocket.
“Would you like to make a reservation?” I ask.
“Yes, two for the two p.m.” The man replies. I retrieve the reservation book from the windowsill, and grab a pen.
“Your last name?”
“Uh, Taylor.” His wife announces.
I add their name to the list
“I just need a visa or master card to reserve your seats.”
“Can we pay you now?” He opens his wallet.
“You certainly can. I can take visa, master card, traveler’s checks or cash.” I respond.
He passes me a visa, and shows me his triple A card.
“Your total will be thirty six dollars with the triple A discount”, I confirm before swiping the card through the machine.
Mr. Taylor nods with the okay.
I swipe the plastic through the machine, enter the amount, and wait for the slips to print. Then place the slips of paper on the counter in front of me.
“I just need a signature at the bottom.” As I pass him a pen.
Another couple enters the restaurant. “Excuse me, for just a moment.” I address to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.
I make eye contact with the new arrival. “Two for breakfast?” I repeat for only the second time so far this morning.
“Yes.” The young woman replies.
I turn and obtain two breakfast menus, then walk towards the sun filled windows, “Right this way.” The hungry young couple follows me. I place the menus on the table.
“Thank you!” They reply. They are one-step closer to their fix of morning coffee.
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” I say politely.
I return to the hostess station and Mr. Taylor passes me the slips.
“The bottom copy is yours.” I say, and pass the copy back to him.
I pull two tickets from the reservation pile. “Here are your tickets. The bus will pick you up right across the street.” I gesture with my index finger out the front window. (People always look when you point.)
“Well, thank you very much” They each say as they walk out.
“You’re welcome, have fun!” I say with a smile.
“Good morning!” I announce to a couple as they walk in from the cobblestone courtyard.
“Two for breakfast?” I inquire.
“Actually we would like some information about your bus tour.”
“Oh, okay, we leave at ten a.m. and two p.m. everyday. It’s a 2.5 hr. tour that takes you up the loop road, it’s like 27miles. You’ll go to the top of Cadillac Mountain, seiur de mont spring, thunder hole, sand beach, otter cliff, and the Jordon pond house. There will be three fifteen minute stops.”
“Oh, okay, how much?”
“Twenty-dollars per person.”
“Do you have a senior discount?” The woman inquires.
“No I do not, but I have a ten percent triple A discount.”
“Oh, we have triple A.” The man exclaims, as he reaches in his back pocket.
“Would you like to make a reservation?” I ask.
“Yes, two for the two p.m.” The man replies. I retrieve the reservation book from the windowsill, and grab a pen.
“Your last name?”
“Uh, Taylor.” His wife announces.
I add their name to the list
“I just need a visa or master card to reserve your seats.”
“Can we pay you now?” He opens his wallet.
“You certainly can. I can take visa, master card, traveler’s checks or cash.” I respond.
He passes me a visa, and shows me his triple A card.
“Your total will be thirty six dollars with the triple A discount”, I confirm before swiping the card through the machine.
Mr. Taylor nods with the okay.
I swipe the plastic through the machine, enter the amount, and wait for the slips to print. Then place the slips of paper on the counter in front of me.
“I just need a signature at the bottom.” As I pass him a pen.
Another couple enters the restaurant. “Excuse me, for just a moment.” I address to Mr. and Mrs. Taylor.
I make eye contact with the new arrival. “Two for breakfast?” I repeat for only the second time so far this morning.
“Yes.” The young woman replies.
I turn and obtain two breakfast menus, then walk towards the sun filled windows, “Right this way.” The hungry young couple follows me. I place the menus on the table.
“Thank you!” They reply. They are one-step closer to their fix of morning coffee.
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” I say politely.
I return to the hostess station and Mr. Taylor passes me the slips.
“The bottom copy is yours.” I say, and pass the copy back to him.
I pull two tickets from the reservation pile. “Here are your tickets. The bus will pick you up right across the street.” I gesture with my index finger out the front window. (People always look when you point.)
“Well, thank you very much” They each say as they walk out.
“You’re welcome, have fun!” I say with a smile.
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Theme Two: unpacking
Unpacking the Journal.
Well the story of writing the journal is filled with stress, let us not go there.
What do I wish had happened? I wish that when I started this course that my computer had been ready with out any problems. This is week three and I am still working on week two as well as week three. I wish that time would slow down, let me catch a breath. Just give me one really long day. I enjoy writing, though I feel I am being rushed and forced to write superficially, so that I can complete each assignment. Writing is an emotional process as well as cognitive. Creativity comes through emotions and time filled thoughts. Also because of the nature of this course, I feel that I am holding back. You talk about being naked in public and writing is a test of character, though the topics I wish to discuss are not just my stories to discuss. Though I am aching.
I have been keeping a journal for almost eleven years now. I think that I will delve into the story of how I became a writer.
I have always been a brainstorm kind of girl. I always have so many ideas and thoughts, and phrases that I want to use. I must break down the chaos and construct complete sentences. I have always been good at run on sentences, and have a chronic tendency to use semi colons, to make up for the run ons. I write the way the thought comes to me, though at least I am aware and try to correct it. Like I said, I have been keeping a journal for about eleven years, but there are great gaps between. There were times that I just grew tired of documenting my days, and repeating the dramatic, chaotic events again. My Journal was my closest friend; I could speak the truth, and figure out problems. There was no one to interrupt me, or criticize my opinion. I have always written from the emotional side.
When I was twelve, I was introduced to poetry on a new level. Mrs. Kellet's Language Arts. I adopted my first pen name that year, Scott Amber, inspired by S.E. Hinton. For seventh and most of eight grade, I attended a catholic school. Well, well! I was rebellious, independent, opinionated, and had no idea what I was getting into. Academically catholic school was good for me. Students in my class, including myself entered a poetry contest, and two, including myself, were accepted for publication. Anthology of young American, Forth edition.(page 127.) In eighth grade, we were asked to write a paper for All Catholic Schools Week. I being the opinionated non-conformist, wrote about how great our school was, with one hundred percent sarcasm. After a few parent/student/teacher conferences and a stack of pink slips (for stupid, trivial things) I was no longer a student at the school. Returning to public school just in time, as a freshmen I meet the most interesting and inspiring teacher, Mrs. Philbrook. She moved me, and taught me how to move my audience. She helped me find my voice and to use my eyes to write. I had my first creative witting class with her. I was also taught by, Sandford Phippen. I wrote some real off the wall, beyond left field papers for his class; but He loved them, though he was critical about my grammar. I still need to proof read aloud, several times. After graduating, I moved north and went to Northern Maine Community College. I took English Composition. I found myself to be in a class with a very closed minded, conservative instructor. She censored our topic range and made me re-write me papers. When I wrote what I though she wanted to hear, she loved it. Toward the end I was able to censor, as well as be open.
Now here I am. I have been trying to take creative writing for three semesters now. I am a bit discouraged that so far it has not been enjoyable, due to the over whelming stress of being behind. Not having a writing program that grammar checks, and hoping that the computer will stay in functioning mode.
Well I guess that was my unpacking of my journal. I don’t think that this is what you wanted. I don’t know where I went, when I wrote it.
Well the story of writing the journal is filled with stress, let us not go there.
What do I wish had happened? I wish that when I started this course that my computer had been ready with out any problems. This is week three and I am still working on week two as well as week three. I wish that time would slow down, let me catch a breath. Just give me one really long day. I enjoy writing, though I feel I am being rushed and forced to write superficially, so that I can complete each assignment. Writing is an emotional process as well as cognitive. Creativity comes through emotions and time filled thoughts. Also because of the nature of this course, I feel that I am holding back. You talk about being naked in public and writing is a test of character, though the topics I wish to discuss are not just my stories to discuss. Though I am aching.
I have been keeping a journal for almost eleven years now. I think that I will delve into the story of how I became a writer.
I have always been a brainstorm kind of girl. I always have so many ideas and thoughts, and phrases that I want to use. I must break down the chaos and construct complete sentences. I have always been good at run on sentences, and have a chronic tendency to use semi colons, to make up for the run ons. I write the way the thought comes to me, though at least I am aware and try to correct it. Like I said, I have been keeping a journal for about eleven years, but there are great gaps between. There were times that I just grew tired of documenting my days, and repeating the dramatic, chaotic events again. My Journal was my closest friend; I could speak the truth, and figure out problems. There was no one to interrupt me, or criticize my opinion. I have always written from the emotional side.
When I was twelve, I was introduced to poetry on a new level. Mrs. Kellet's Language Arts. I adopted my first pen name that year, Scott Amber, inspired by S.E. Hinton. For seventh and most of eight grade, I attended a catholic school. Well, well! I was rebellious, independent, opinionated, and had no idea what I was getting into. Academically catholic school was good for me. Students in my class, including myself entered a poetry contest, and two, including myself, were accepted for publication. Anthology of young American, Forth edition.(page 127.) In eighth grade, we were asked to write a paper for All Catholic Schools Week. I being the opinionated non-conformist, wrote about how great our school was, with one hundred percent sarcasm. After a few parent/student/teacher conferences and a stack of pink slips (for stupid, trivial things) I was no longer a student at the school. Returning to public school just in time, as a freshmen I meet the most interesting and inspiring teacher, Mrs. Philbrook. She moved me, and taught me how to move my audience. She helped me find my voice and to use my eyes to write. I had my first creative witting class with her. I was also taught by, Sandford Phippen. I wrote some real off the wall, beyond left field papers for his class; but He loved them, though he was critical about my grammar. I still need to proof read aloud, several times. After graduating, I moved north and went to Northern Maine Community College. I took English Composition. I found myself to be in a class with a very closed minded, conservative instructor. She censored our topic range and made me re-write me papers. When I wrote what I though she wanted to hear, she loved it. Toward the end I was able to censor, as well as be open.
Now here I am. I have been trying to take creative writing for three semesters now. I am a bit discouraged that so far it has not been enjoyable, due to the over whelming stress of being behind. Not having a writing program that grammar checks, and hoping that the computer will stay in functioning mode.
Well I guess that was my unpacking of my journal. I don’t think that this is what you wanted. I don’t know where I went, when I wrote it.
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Theme One: Journal
Week one: Journal Entries 1-5
Journal Entry 1
I am behind in this class. I am frustrated with the class. My computer, after a week and a half of problems and solutions, is now running, and on the internet. An exciting tool for me, though for not having access to the internet (other than in public places) in several years, I am behind in technology. I feel behind in everything.
The summer is gone and I barely spent any time outside enjoying it. My apartment is so far from organized. I was on top of it, until I began leaving laundry and paperwork where I was finished with it (as well as my boyfriend). My hamper is heaping and overflowed, the bottles and jugs are heaping, I am behind on artwork and other projects. I spend my time now, working three jobs, going to school, chain smoking cigarettes and sleeping. I have fallen into this poor habit of staying up until early hours of the morning and then, "Sleeping the whole day away," in the words of my mother. My biological clock creates my schedule, and I follow it religiously. That is why I work in the evenings, stay up late and forfeit the whole day to my subconscious. Well that is all for now.
Journal Entry 2
I am tired of working, and growing bored with it. Waiting tables is boring, when there isn't a steady flow of customers to attend to, and hosting, that shit is for the birds. Making money takes up so much time. I feel like I am haven't done any painting this whole summer. I have started two oil paintings but neither is finished.
Fall is on its way, the leaves are changing, and it is the beginning of September. The cycles continue and the transitions begin. Our daylight is rapidly decreasing by seven to eight minutes each sunset.
I am curious to experience the fall on the island. I really enjoy the ocean; I wish that the water was warmer. The ocean should keep the island warmer and we will not get as much snow, but I bet it is wonderful down here. Well for now, let us deal with the fall. I hope to find the time to drive around and take pictures so I can photograph the changes. The fall also means the end of the work season and we need to search for winter jobs. The hunt begins again. On that note, I need to go to bed. It is 4:24am.
Journal Entry 3
This year will be the first presidential election that I am old enough to vote in. I hope that more people register to vote, and go to take their one vote opportunity. I remember hearing something like only 50% of the U.S. actually votes. I have been reading some of the paper about Bush and Kerry’s campaign. I sure in hell am not voting for "W". Bush is driving this country into the ground. Everybody’s broke, innocent people are dying. Bush and the Bush administration are trying to create one world government; they are establishing democracy in other countries. Well enough about that, next subject.
I drove around doing errands today with the radio blaring, and singing along to Randy Travis. I am tired of one-way streets and random, seemingly unnecessary stop signs, and pedestrians (use the damn crosswalk!) For the whole summer, 90% of the time I rode my bike. However, then something began to squeak and I was embarrassed to ride through town. In addition, I have grown tired, and a bit lazy, therefore instead of putting WD40 on my bearings, I would rather cruise around in my Chevy, though at this time I am going to cruise on into the abyss, and dream for several hours. Good night. 3:06am.
Journal Entry 4
Today my boyfriend Wes and I went on a picnic. I just got this wicker basket with intentions on going on a picnic. It was warm today, with a September (northeastern breeze), cleaner air than the southeastern winds that bring poor air to us. N-E-ways, we went over to the park and sat down on a blanket on the edge of a baseball diamond. Soon after we finished with lunch, we shimmied down to the sea kayak tours; and went on a sunset kayaking adventure. We kayaked about three miles around some islands. Boy are we going to be sore tomorrow.
We saw a juvenile bald eagle. I really didn't do much to talk about.
Wes's birthday is coming up; I have some small surprises, but nothing big. I am making both, so there is more stress there. Today is Tuesday, his birthday is Thursday. That is a big problem living with him now, I can't work on things when I would like. I have told him that I am kicking him out of the house this week. Tough shit honey, that's how it goes. We really have a healthy relationship. We both have things to work on, but we work well together. We communicate! Well dinner is ready, my belly is empty.
Journal Entry 5
I took my neighbors dog for a ride in the car, we went to the dump and dropped off the trash, then ran more errands in town. I can't wait to be caught up on everything; I have been productive this week. Yesterday I took for myself, and for Wes. It was needed. I work six days a week. This week I got two days off. After he leaves for work, I am going to make his ice cream cake. This will be my first attempt, so I anticipate that it will take some time, but it isn't that difficult. I really like being organized, especially waking up in the morning to a clean house. It seems like we clean, well it seems like I clean everyday.
I am tired of smoking; I feel that a change is in need. I should transform with the seasons, take new steps towards my health. I don't eat breakfast. When we cook dinner, we eat well. I don't have a balanced diet. I stay up too late, eat junk directly before bed, and top it of with a cigarette. Instead of trying to prohibit cigarettes, the government allows it. This is a drug, one that the whole world can purchase legally, (permitting age limit). By providing consumers with cigarettes, tobacco companies make money off the consumer, and passing the consumer down the line. Hospitals make money off smokers. Homeowner insurance is higher to those who smoke (I think, or it is at least a question on the application. All the people that die from smoking provide money to funeral homes, and cemeteries. Cigarettes are partly for economic purposes, but also for population control. Consumers, including myself go to the store and purchase cancer sticks. If I had never started smoking, I would have had so much more money to do things that I wanted and want to do. If I had kept track of the money I have spent on cigarettes this summer I would probably been able to pay some bills ahead of time. The end of the work season is not far from now; so trying to play catch up and get ahead at the same time makes it a little more difficult. I need to call herbal research and take supplements then I my lungs can clean themselves, my nails won't grow with a yellow tint. My whitening toothpaste would actually work. I just need to discipline myself. I don't drink, sometimes I'll have a beer, I don't do drugs, and I have control over these decisions. All I need to do is stop buying them, and don't bum any off of anyone. Well the phone is ringing, going to go to talk to my mom. Later.
Journal Entry 1
I am behind in this class. I am frustrated with the class. My computer, after a week and a half of problems and solutions, is now running, and on the internet. An exciting tool for me, though for not having access to the internet (other than in public places) in several years, I am behind in technology. I feel behind in everything.
The summer is gone and I barely spent any time outside enjoying it. My apartment is so far from organized. I was on top of it, until I began leaving laundry and paperwork where I was finished with it (as well as my boyfriend). My hamper is heaping and overflowed, the bottles and jugs are heaping, I am behind on artwork and other projects. I spend my time now, working three jobs, going to school, chain smoking cigarettes and sleeping. I have fallen into this poor habit of staying up until early hours of the morning and then, "Sleeping the whole day away," in the words of my mother. My biological clock creates my schedule, and I follow it religiously. That is why I work in the evenings, stay up late and forfeit the whole day to my subconscious. Well that is all for now.
Journal Entry 2
I am tired of working, and growing bored with it. Waiting tables is boring, when there isn't a steady flow of customers to attend to, and hosting, that shit is for the birds. Making money takes up so much time. I feel like I am haven't done any painting this whole summer. I have started two oil paintings but neither is finished.
Fall is on its way, the leaves are changing, and it is the beginning of September. The cycles continue and the transitions begin. Our daylight is rapidly decreasing by seven to eight minutes each sunset.
I am curious to experience the fall on the island. I really enjoy the ocean; I wish that the water was warmer. The ocean should keep the island warmer and we will not get as much snow, but I bet it is wonderful down here. Well for now, let us deal with the fall. I hope to find the time to drive around and take pictures so I can photograph the changes. The fall also means the end of the work season and we need to search for winter jobs. The hunt begins again. On that note, I need to go to bed. It is 4:24am.
Journal Entry 3
This year will be the first presidential election that I am old enough to vote in. I hope that more people register to vote, and go to take their one vote opportunity. I remember hearing something like only 50% of the U.S. actually votes. I have been reading some of the paper about Bush and Kerry’s campaign. I sure in hell am not voting for "W". Bush is driving this country into the ground. Everybody’s broke, innocent people are dying. Bush and the Bush administration are trying to create one world government; they are establishing democracy in other countries. Well enough about that, next subject.
I drove around doing errands today with the radio blaring, and singing along to Randy Travis. I am tired of one-way streets and random, seemingly unnecessary stop signs, and pedestrians (use the damn crosswalk!) For the whole summer, 90% of the time I rode my bike. However, then something began to squeak and I was embarrassed to ride through town. In addition, I have grown tired, and a bit lazy, therefore instead of putting WD40 on my bearings, I would rather cruise around in my Chevy, though at this time I am going to cruise on into the abyss, and dream for several hours. Good night. 3:06am.
Journal Entry 4
Today my boyfriend Wes and I went on a picnic. I just got this wicker basket with intentions on going on a picnic. It was warm today, with a September (northeastern breeze), cleaner air than the southeastern winds that bring poor air to us. N-E-ways, we went over to the park and sat down on a blanket on the edge of a baseball diamond. Soon after we finished with lunch, we shimmied down to the sea kayak tours; and went on a sunset kayaking adventure. We kayaked about three miles around some islands. Boy are we going to be sore tomorrow.
We saw a juvenile bald eagle. I really didn't do much to talk about.
Wes's birthday is coming up; I have some small surprises, but nothing big. I am making both, so there is more stress there. Today is Tuesday, his birthday is Thursday. That is a big problem living with him now, I can't work on things when I would like. I have told him that I am kicking him out of the house this week. Tough shit honey, that's how it goes. We really have a healthy relationship. We both have things to work on, but we work well together. We communicate! Well dinner is ready, my belly is empty.
Journal Entry 5
I took my neighbors dog for a ride in the car, we went to the dump and dropped off the trash, then ran more errands in town. I can't wait to be caught up on everything; I have been productive this week. Yesterday I took for myself, and for Wes. It was needed. I work six days a week. This week I got two days off. After he leaves for work, I am going to make his ice cream cake. This will be my first attempt, so I anticipate that it will take some time, but it isn't that difficult. I really like being organized, especially waking up in the morning to a clean house. It seems like we clean, well it seems like I clean everyday.
I am tired of smoking; I feel that a change is in need. I should transform with the seasons, take new steps towards my health. I don't eat breakfast. When we cook dinner, we eat well. I don't have a balanced diet. I stay up too late, eat junk directly before bed, and top it of with a cigarette. Instead of trying to prohibit cigarettes, the government allows it. This is a drug, one that the whole world can purchase legally, (permitting age limit). By providing consumers with cigarettes, tobacco companies make money off the consumer, and passing the consumer down the line. Hospitals make money off smokers. Homeowner insurance is higher to those who smoke (I think, or it is at least a question on the application. All the people that die from smoking provide money to funeral homes, and cemeteries. Cigarettes are partly for economic purposes, but also for population control. Consumers, including myself go to the store and purchase cancer sticks. If I had never started smoking, I would have had so much more money to do things that I wanted and want to do. If I had kept track of the money I have spent on cigarettes this summer I would probably been able to pay some bills ahead of time. The end of the work season is not far from now; so trying to play catch up and get ahead at the same time makes it a little more difficult. I need to call herbal research and take supplements then I my lungs can clean themselves, my nails won't grow with a yellow tint. My whitening toothpaste would actually work. I just need to discipline myself. I don't drink, sometimes I'll have a beer, I don't do drugs, and I have control over these decisions. All I need to do is stop buying them, and don't bum any off of anyone. Well the phone is ringing, going to go to talk to my mom. Later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)