words to myself

love is a passionate addiction.  I mean this in the sincerest form.  The word addiction must not be viewed in the negative connotations for far to long.  Love is a person’s habitual reference point.  It brings you from down in out days, the ones that feel if everything is going wrong, to that mean, the reason we are living state.  The person you love, the thing you love can open, better yet unleash that wave of relief right out from under you as almost that rotten day never resided in you, in the first place.  If you want to embrace, and feel that love, that inner freedom toward ourselves, you must stroke that addiction.  We are all slaves, in a good way.  No one ever said love was wrong, except the ones that never had it or appreciated it.  And if love isn’t wrong then your addiction can’t be either.  Some times you need that support, some thing to lean on when the day, like all days, eats you alive.  It’s easy for a therapist, or any one else that works in the field, to call it an addiction because first, it is their job and second, they don’t appreciate the requirements of life.  Who cares how we all live especially if it doesn’t harm anyone else.  We only live once, don’t live it trying to be something you aren’t, covering up who you actually are.  If you desire, take. 

The New Stranger

Coming outside, breathing this new, white picket, suburbia for the first time was like a new beginning.  My yard looks identical to the others.  The grass looks so green and it really looks fake like those artificial grasses you see at football stadiums and on some city streets.  I glance around, taking in all the two story, blue bordered houses that parallel down Chestnut Street.  Each one are duplicates but they all have their own identities and they live in breath like us humans.  One yard is celebrating there trivial rose garden then another one has obviously the home and garden network and has color palettes bricking lining there front with different ferns that look dead and stone statues lying about but mine, still fresh and crisp is burdened with weeds signalizing to all the neighbors that I was new and also a stranger.  These carnivorous plants cut away at my grass and started to mark off its territory by the fence and along my yards boundaries while the sun burns formless circles of yellow, hanging blades.  Before I am talked about in this community for lowering their property value I must take action and remove these weeds from their rightful habitat.  Who am I to say that these weeds aren’t supposed to be here?  Oh yeah, they look awful.  And looking awful isn’t really in style these days not like in the 18th century.  I don’t want to lose anyone’s superficial money for them so I must apprehend to these societal pressures.  I’ll do this murdering with my hands.  I went out last night so I didn’t look silly picking dandelions.  Someone will come over to my house and want to shake my hand but not with someone with green and yellow patches on his palms.  That would be disgraceful in such a this honorary country.  At the local hardware store I got gardening gloves that were $25 bucks for just work gloves with daisies for the print and this weed killer which was really cheap and ineffective and made me wonder what was actually in that opaque bottle and if they killed weeds what did it to my mind. 

Transpose

I used to skateboard every single day. My best friends lived a street over.  They were both brothers separated by two years.  They were almost identical except Wills had a rounder face and Jon had a nose that resembled a pig.  We went to the same bus stop which was a street over from their’s right outside a park that only had two rusty swings and a weight, obtuse jungle gym that was compressed to a five foot area and the rest of the park which was the size of a football field was just grass and one oak tree with a picnic table underneath.  Across from our bus stop was the Waites grandparents house which they stayed at before and after school because their mom was a third grade teacher.  I would usually head over to the bus stop 20 minutes before I had to so we could just hang out.  I would bring my skateboard and leave it at his grandparent’s house because I would just walk over there right after school.  They only had an asphalt driveway but we would just practice flat land tricks or we would set up a piece of wood no longer than a foot and grind it off into the grass.  We would do these activities for an hour after school until his mother came and picked them up.

Home Town Girl

Janna, an averagely tall white woman from Charles Town, South Carolina where tobacco was  still a gold crop and the average family size is seven.  Even though, in a small town like this, everyone knew each other by acquaintances, they only kept to their immediate family.  She was raised like her five brothers, Billy, Nate, Matt, Joel and Zackary and two sisters Kelly and Shania which was at home.  Her father worked as a plumber, always wearing overalls and a white striped conductors hat.  On hot days, which were common on the east coast, he didn’t wear an undershirt and let the straps of the denim overalls grip to the sweat that glistened his meaty shoulders.  Janna had the same brown, curly rats nest hair like her mothers who left them peacefully nine years back.  She had her fathers square jaw that helped while sweating in the humid climate, so the sweat rolled off your face besides jogging down your neck to your breasts.  Janna was raised to wear t-shirts, mostly a practice kept up by her father since her brothers were all order then the females.  Hand me downs were a necessity in Charles Town where the children our plentiful but the imports were scarce.  All the kids, still called that by their aunts and uncles, were all old enough to rightfully move out of the house especially with Kelly’s babe son Caleb and Joel’s baby mama moving in last month but it was a ritual, a rite of passage that needed to be stuck with to support the community. 

#3 JM

So I just sent the fucking text and it’s 2 in the morning.  I think all I said was I love you to my girlfriend of 4 months.  We have been tiptoeing around the statement for a month or so but none of has had the intuition to actually say it to one another.  I figured I would start out the routine.  Jackie has asked me a question that related similarly beforehand.  She asked me “how emotionally attached to I are you?”  Me, being not only new to dating but also a smart-ass but a romantic replied in with the only metaphor I could think of.  “I am along for the ride.”  She then asked me to explain myself.  I said “Well if you were, figuratively, a boat driver in this relationship I would be the wake boarder holding onto the rope.  She didn’t know how to take this but I felt like that was a sufficient answer to her question.  Her friend Alex agreed that it was a good thing but most of the time I don’t really know what comes out of my mouth.  It’s never pre-arranged or thought after but when it opens and I am ready, which is very important, then it just spews informative nonsense.

Profiling, Clues withstand Time

and then me being referenced on my teacher's blog. http://philiphartiganpraeterita.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2011-04-15T08%3A48%3A00-05%3A00&max-results=20

Our Technological Noose

The Art world is constantly changing.  The hard thing to do before understanding the pretext is to determine what is art.  Art has many definitions ranging from products that are arranged for conceptual purposes and some view art as any skill or mastery.  It’s hard to find the middle ground between these statements because one says that intent has to be behind an action and the other tells us that you need knowledge in a subject for it to be considered art.  It almost feels like they, meaning either the artists, the collectors or the curators add a level of higher ground in this platform of art.  But the easiest way to solve this problem would be to hit an average.  I would define art by bridging the statement that is a skill that people do to express themselves.  Since all things could be attributed to as a skill and their is different level between every single person that does that almighty skill then it would end to everything be considered art.  Since art is a freedom of speech, a place to let go of our collective reality, the area that we all are apart of, and explore our creativity which is a space that we put away our sight and start expressing sometimes verbally, graphically or conceptually into a void-less space that has no definitions.  Definitions are just guide lines not policies to apprehend to and this is the definitions behind things like love, emotions, life, reality and in our case, art.  It’s obvious that arguments have spurred from language and these can’t determine our natural discourse between our instinct to be right.