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.

Train Your Parents

My brother Kane hardly visits anymore.  He used to come out for Thanksgiving at my folks house but as the place became cluttered where milk crates line the floor and Amazon boxes perforated the brick, man made walls, the less he showed up.  It could be that he just found the niche he was hoping for out in Nebraska with his wife or maybe every time he is shown sight of the house he once grew up in, his analness sprouts up.  It’s not like he has tried to ever fix the situation.  Both my brothers, who do not resemble each other, one olive skinned like myself and the other paley white with brown straight hair,  both the same height though, have never tried to fix the situation but they rather use the out dated, retrograde, action of complaining. 
    “It’s a shit hole.”  Sean will say.

Detached

Sometimes I think it would be better if my parents were divorced.  Yeah, I have had plenty of friends who had divorced parents.  They always complain.  Not just about the break-up and the tragedy that ensues throughout, not just the splitting of the parents but the dissolve of the family, but mostly about their own selfishness.  They have to divide their time to appropriately visit both of them.  They think that if they didn’t and if they just lived with the most convenient one then their other parents would be gorged with jealousy.  But I rather know the truth, that mine don’t love each other, rather then be confused on their relationship.  My friends actually know through legal documents that their parents did not love each other anymore but mine are still mixed up in civil court.  It’s a day to day pain.  Some days it seems like they have talked a lot even though I never hear it.  Others it is just a constant storm of bickering that has lasted ten years.  It’s an answer that none of us brothers can answer.  It has startled us in the decrepit regards.  I have only seen my parents hug as a joke.  My father squeezed my mom and practically chuckled like love is supposed to be a societal figure rather then an emotion.  This has led me to relationship disrupt that includes being afraid of public displays of affection and social awkwardness when around my girlfriend.  I get scorned because of it and it feels like this is the root of my emotional problems.