Underwater Sculptures

This is incredibly touching. 





Dear Jason de Caires, you've just graced some of my heartstrings. Thank you. 

Collaboration

I came across this and am still amazed.


Try for yourself!


<COLLABORATE>

Contreras Road, Oxford OH

                 

I went for a run this morning. I hurried up High Street to meet up with my friend in her neon blue shoes. We left before the Sun awoke from beneath his fluffy white sheets. Afraid that he might see us running through this sleeping college town, we left and headed towards the open country road. My feet were feeling more comfortable as we reached Contreras Road towards the edge of Indiana, with Andrew quietly whistling his smooth tunes in my ears. We continued along the wall of corn and soybeans, black cattle munching away their morning meal. The air was clear and the roads quiet except for the occasional old couples, which I supposed were hurrying to Sunday service. They tell you that when running longer distances, you should make a target ahead of you and run towards that sign or curve in the road until you reach that mental flag you placed and then you make another target and it keeps you running and running, even if your guts feel healed over like a floppy pancake. Today, I didn’t have to make those targets. Three miles in, at Scythian Empires, archers of an afterthought, I was taken aback by the flirting birds heading left and right above me. Together they made beautiful patterns that reminded me of the handful of black sesame my mom sometimes puts into the rice while it’s cooking. We turned around to head back; where I imagined the girls would begin to walk back to their dorms in last night’s dress, sometimes their feet bare or blistering in cute black heels. I had not realized the Sun had arisen into its place in the sky, ready for the day’s work. His jealous rays now softly wrapped around my face and the front of my shoulders. I couldn’t help but to think about a couple things; some things I needed to get done, dental things that stress me out, things for school and class, some things about people and friends I have left at home, and other things like when I could stop and take a rest. I am not the best distance runner; I wanted to stop fifteen times while he glared down at me--his fierce eyes could easily burn holes in my salty skin. But, we kept going. That’s the great thing about running with a friend, with a friend and her neon blue shoes. I could feel that it was a good start to the day, a good start to a new week, and to a good school year back in Oxford, Ohio. 

Poem of the day

Another Reason I Don't Keep a Gun in the House by Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking,

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog.

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.

Nothing

I COMPLETELY WASTED MY ENTIRE DAY TODAY. THERE IS NOTHING MORE TO SAY BUT THAT. 

Buttons and Buttons

Have you ever, as a child, found something precious but by making it your own, turned it into something completely and utterly useless? Well, I once I strung together a necklace; a collection of buttons of different sizes and colors. I found them inside the dusty cupboard beneath our old black metal sewing machine. Through the years I had collected these loose buttons that had fallen off of Grandma’s thick winter jacket, mom’s white blouse and Dad’s knitted vest. There were a couple of silver plated ones with beautifully carved engravings, some others that smelled like old Chinese medicine cabinets and some others that were so covered in rust, that I couldn't even make out what sort of fashion they may have once displayed. There are a bunch of pink pastel buttons on there, please excuse them, they’re just a foolish mix up. (Those were added on last minute to finish the job). Those Crayola-dyed colors, a million shades of pinks and reds-- like flowers today. Those luxury bouquets sitting as centerpieces, their petals flaunt out at you and their chests puff out in daunting ways. Unnatural. They lounge around in homes. They witness the crying of young fellows and friends of friends. They sit beside my grandfather and they loom quietly over his grey patched on makeup, his stiff suit and folded limp arms, their scents almost enough to cover the lifeless room.

He looked so different, like one of those famous figures you see at the wax museum, each characteristic, each wrinkle carefully constructed to mirror the man who had tucked you in to bed just last week. I remember staring down at him, holding my breath as if my breathing might wake him from his peace. I looked at his eyes, small slits like paper cuts; and I couldn’t help but to notice how his eyebrows looked bushier than ever; like those thick black tent caterpillars you can find crawling around the driveway in the spring time. It's unsettling to see them all over the place but not to panic says Debbie Hadley in her About's Guide to Insects, they complete their life cycles by the summer time.

I strung those pink buttons on after the last of my button collection was through. No more vintage buttons. It was finished and here I had created something my hands  could touch and I could hold onto forever; I could have as mine. And today, I don't even wear this as an accessory. To be honest, I don't even know where I last put it. This long dangling necklace of buttons and buttons. 

Perks of Being a Wallflower

You never really know how you're doing until someone tells you


I finally finished reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. 


Sam says to Charlie: 

"Charlie don't you get it? I can't feel that. It's sweet and everything. But it's like you're not even there sometimes. It's great that you can listen and be a shoulder to someone, but what about when someone doesn't need a shoulder. What if they need the arms or something like that? You can't just sit there and put everybody's lives ahead of yours and think that counts as love. You just can't. You have to do things...Like take their hands when the slow song comes up for a change. Or be the one who asks someone for a date. Or tell people what you need. Or what you want."

Sometimes I can relate to Charlie. I think he spends too much time thinking and worrying about how other people may think or whether they will be happy, so much that that becomes the priority-- so much that it doesn't matter anymore what he feels as long as things go as planned and everyone has a good time. I don't think he realizes that by not making himself vulnerable to his friends and showing them himself and what he needs and wants and cares about, he creates in himself a person that is just there, among other people. You can see him, talk to him, hear him, laugh with him but really that is all because he is not really there.