Thursday, March 15

The Tail End of Fairy Tales

Performed this once at Loyola's Tet program. Forgot to give away the draft after I was done.

There once was a time when once upon a time ruled our world. When laying down right before bedtime, meant entering a realm where Kings and Queen existed. When knights slashing throats of mythical creatures made you clinch a broken branch like a sword and whipped the closest tree. Like, “on guard you tree of treason”. These fairy tale stories told you animals could turn into princes so you took a nearest frog and you kissed him and got warts. They told you that cynical witches had huge moles on their face, so you constantly hid from Aunt Judith. Fairy tales teach you that the real world is the mystical place made for you to grow into a hero in order to save a damsel, or be saved by a dashing handsome vigilante. It were when your imagination could open like lotuses. When full moons, swords in stones, roses, kisses, dwarfs, and fairy godmothers created opportunities for you. It was the home to forever after.

However, modern day fairy tales bore me; they're made different. They now begin with enough alcohol shots to take you home with. It’s when the best story you’ve got to tell your friends is whom you’re now sleeping with. Modern day fairy tales are passed from bathroom stalls and embedded in rumors about who’s the best in bed in your room only told during lunch time. When we call anything that lasts longer than a one night stand a great story for romance. When the best title for each other is “friends with benefits.” Now the finest heroes are vampire stalkers that stand in your room while you’re asleep, like Edward Cullen. Infamous stories tell us not to sleep with the wrong guy, unless he’s a blood sucker or a fairly built wolf man, Jacob. Modern day fairy tales. Drunken text messaging has replaced writing letters. Night clubs seem the best place to ask a girl for her hand. The stories now leave damsels in distress waiting for the first phone call just after you left her bedroom. It is as every one put down books of fantasy and fables, only to pick up magazines that only to turn sideways. Showing honor isn’t captured in megapixels, written in unpublished blogs, and delivered in the form of a Facebook status or 140 character tweets.

Fairy tales never seem to escape old novels and now R-Rated movies. Truth is, is that fairy tales never made it to the 21st Century. What happen to stories of the getting Hansel and Gretel home, kissing snow white and sleeping beauty, turning the beast into to a man, and nothing wrong with a princess loving a frog. They’ve replaced class for more ass. Me, I’d rather less Kim Kardashian and more Pocahontas and Thumbelina. There’s something so much more sexy about Cinderella running around with one slipper, little mermaid’s half body, and the swan before she turned into a princess waiting for me. But I still believe in chivalry, stripped of shining armor because no one’s reading fairy tales for us to believe we reenact. So, remember the next time that you tell a story, tell them you were once that prince with a branch, trying to save fantasia from the three bears by kissing her to awake, so she didn’t have to sleep on a bed with a pea, under the sea, under the moon, under the impression that real world is the mystical place made for you to grow into a hero in order to save a damsel so the world won’t forget what a fairy tale is made of.

Wednesday, March 14

Two Sides of the Same Image

We split a canvas. One side designated for her, and the other labeled mine. Right down the middle was a thick divider painted black, placed vertically. We were both given the same palette, brush sizes, and apparatuses. The goal was to envision the sun at any given point of the day that best reflects your stance and to mimic it using the acrylic paint provided. I question to which stance is being referred. No answer was given, as if the directions were sufficient enough. Where would this get us? What reasoning was behind this? No proper preparations or definite instructions, but began painting we did. Still, there were no complaints from us for the task at hand. One should not complain if another is not under the same circumstances. It was still all too sketchy. You could see that the brushes had been used before as you could not create any refined lines. The colors, well mine at least, didn't blend as well, as opposed to using the oil that I so happens to be accustomed with. We started, and we finished. Disregarding some minute touches, each of our sides were highly comparable. Painting style reflected our own lack of talents, but besides that, it was a mirror image. From the vibrant range of pigments to the all to familiar horizon, one could presume that we were given a photo to mock. I wasn't too surprised with the results. What should they expect if we're given the same assignment? They asked us what we had just painted. Of course we painted the same image, the proof was shown in the final product. So she effortlessly began to explain that it was merely the sunrise, the start of something new filled with unknown excitements and resilient ambitions. She exclaimed that it as indeed the beauty of the Earth to which would captivate her soul's awakening. My expression removed the confidence in the two. So, I argued that my side, although aesthetically similar, was of an inferior sunset, of the closing of every thing inadequate that has been. The outlook that set the sun to hide behind the landscape to escape the entrapment of the mediocrity. What our retinas would interpret were identical, but we were diametrically opposed from what our hearts acknowledged. Her sunrise represented the consistency of something indispensable, while my sunset sought out for better than what was and what is. Although the colors were the same, we were on opposite sides of the spectrum. Then, without hesitation she dropped her palette and brush never to return to another medium with me again. The sides couldn't be any more unalike; one was the sunrise of her satisfaction and one was of the sunset of my discontent. With one painting, we lost each other.


Thank you Hudson for the picturemail. It got me to run again, to blog again, and to feel again. Something as small as a note saying you miss me, changed months of indifference.

Tuesday, March 13

Vivid Dreams and Vague Realities

It's late; 3:30 to be exact. I'm not too sure why I didn't just stay asleep during my afterwork nap, but here I am. There are 12 blog drafts on this account, most of which I haven't scratch the surface. I'm in the middle of roughly 5 movies with several recorded, most of which I'll barely remember the first 30 minutes. I don't even bother with Netflix anymore knowing the queue will stay queued. Where is the time going? Sometimes I don't know what it is, but I'm feeling less and less cultured. I used to talk about stuff, you know? Not like this first paragraph where I'm just talking about myself. No one told you after school it's all about 1040EZ, insurance, deductibles, 401K, IRAs, etc. How the fcuk can I claim either 0 or 1 dependent? I'm 1 person mtfer. The highlight of my year shouldn't be the bonus I get that I'll have to pay back in taxes or the pay raises that only compensates for inflation. BTW fcuk inflation. Growing up sucks and not writing sucks too. So I'm going to attempt to write every day for 7 days. I have to admit first though, that one thing has happened to me and I'm going to hold onto it as long as I can. For 50 lines I'm going to write 2 words about either vivid dreams or vague realities.

Vivid dreams and vague realities
Everyday friend
Humble beginnings
Broken relationships
Random outings
Apologetic emotions
Harsh actualities
Thought provoking
Altering truths
Unwelcome epiphanies
Miss communication
Inebriated discussions
Lazy cliques
Disengaged arts
Utter nonsense
Soul awakening
Resentful passing
Spacious realm
Sabbatical leave
Creative juices
Art sake
Forgotten passion
Vital signs
Clouds follow
Religious belief
Keen instincts
Avid listener
Theatrical climax
Drug induced
Mythical sentiments
Sporadically missings
Shapeless times
Forgoing circumstances
Contact removal
Witty dialogue
Passionate medium
Scriptless actors
Acute pain
Sensitive flesh
Lesser alternatives
Discontent winters
Hopelessly hopeful
Greater good
Livid evaluations
Minute hours
Pleasant company
Sleaveless heart
Tender moments
Protruding thoughts
Capable reproducibility
Unconditional love

Post Script:
I miss this blog and sometimes even being depressed. This is a blog fart that results from a lethargic brain and less eventful occurrences.