Truth Nugget

Here is a list of things I must complete today and tomorrow:

• My YoungArts application
• The rough draft of a College Application paper
• A seven foot tall sculpture that is due tomorrow (I’m still constructing the armature)
• A proposal for an installation
• And applications for Cornell, Cornish, PNCA, AIB, MCAD, KCAI, UT, and Corcoran.

Out of this, I have completed:

• The first half of my YoungArts application

It’s become apparent that I’ve got my work cut out for me.   I think it’s time I dropped from the social scene.  It’s happened before but usually as part of a punishment for procrastating to a point of extreme detrimentality.  So of course, out of naturally occuring rebellion, I continued to procrastinate during those periods of isolation.  But now it is time for a self-imposed isolation.  A holy-shit-I-need-to-get-stuff-done-and-I-just-don’t-have-the-time-for-anything-else  kind of isolation.

Here is a list of things I need to do in order to get everything done:

• Cancel weekend plans
• Change availability hours so I’m not closing on weekdays
• Cut back on the pot
• Actually do work

Catch a Burning Star as the Night Sky Smiles

The world was black and green and white, and Nita was laughing for the first time in weeks. When she realized this, and realized that Kit must have been planning this whole thing for nearly as long as she hadn’t been laughing, she was startled into more jubilant laughter and the beginning of tears.

They were running, leaping, stumbling, all from their haste, and it was the best damn adrenaline rush Nita had ever had, even after the past few years fighting ambivalence and evil. No Powers That Be right behind her, no twisted cabs hunting her, no sharks after her flesh.

No racing against the clock.

Nita glanced at Kit, grinned even harder at the sight of him, all sweat and smiles and pure joy.

It was ecstasy.

Then another one fell, closer this time; the white streaked across the ink dark sky, burning afterimages into their eyes and outshining even the brightest of stars far above them. For once, Nita didn’t pause to wonder what the stars were or how far away they were or how tight the Lone Power’s grip on those far-away worlds was. Her attention was on the brilliant light of the burning meteorite, the jubilant aura emanating from Kit, the tears of joy and receding pain carving paths down her flushed face.

Nita laughed again, allowed the feeling of simple joy to envelope her, made a mental note to thank Kit profusely.

In the meantime, they had a falling star to catch.

The night sky watched them, the stars the lone witnesses to their momentary happiness, and in a world much closer to the heart of time, someone smiled.

Mr. Right Called; He’s Cheating on You (and He’s Gay)

Another product of my English class. No offense meant to either gender.

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For more than seventeen years, I’ve been around women and I’ve yet to understand how their minds work. From daycare on I never could comprehend the origins of their fascinations with clothes, jewelry, and make-up. However, the subject that has managed to keep me particularly curious through the years has been their uncontrollable fascination with men, rivaling and possibly surpassing the one which men hold for women.

            To some degree I can understand this bewitched state of mind; their have been times when I myself was taken aback by the elegance of what I believe to be the fairer of the two sexes. Still, while I have been tempted to begin pursuit based solely upon that factor I have yet to be drawn in fully by such intoxication. For a long period, I could not bring myself to understand what it was that drew the women I knew in so easily that somehow managed to elude me all of these years.

            Charm.

            It stemmed from something girls I’d known for years had continuously said when I commented on my dissatisfaction with their choices in men. “You don’t know what it’s like when you like someone that much.” They were right; I had no idea what it was like. In most cases, I was in lust with a woman so I never went farther than a couple of brief conversations leading me to realize how dull she actually was. It was a very different experience for my friends though. I’d heard of or known many guys who had perfected the alluring qualities necessary to catch and keep kind-hearted naïve girls. At a time in which I was far younger, I had aspired to be like one of those guys. I was born with sufficiently good looks, could easily enough hide my insecurities with a charming smile and pre-existing witty dialogue, and at such a young age I didn’t need much money to pass for a reasonably classy person.

            Yet, as time went on and I began to see the emotional impact that such actions could have on others, I no longer desired to be that way. As many girls as I had met who were quite content in a serious relationship, there were at least five others who had been in many unsuccessful ones and continued to boldly say to any younger girl they wished to mentor, “You will never find a really nice guy.” With all of the selfish men I had seen in the world, I was beginning to further understand their point of view and see the origin of that catchy phrase, “Gay, straight, or taken.” However, just as I had so many times before, I found another flaw in the argument.

            I’ve looked around myself numerous times in the past years trying to examine why I wasn’t taken. In more recent times, many women had considered that I was the type of guy who was very nice, handsome, and considerate. I’d already resolved with myself that I would never be unfaithful to the woman I was with under any circumstances, having seen the other end of such break-ups constantly with the women I cared about. With all of this in mind, was I not worthy of being one of those taken? Thinking more extensively about all the nice single guys I knew, I had to wonder if they were not worthy either?

            As time continues, I cannot bring myself to believe that women (or at least the women I know) are foolish. In many cases, they’ve made far wiser decisions than I or any other male I’ve met would have made. Certainly, if they are intelligent enough solve problems in the relationships of their friends, they are intelligent enough to solve their own. These days, I’m beginning to think that it isn’t the women who are at fault with the choices they make in these situations, for we are all deceptible to the impact emotions have on our judgment. The answer lies in the men. In reality, as men we are not nice enough, handsome enough or considerate enough. It may even be that we are too nice and considerate, and despite all their complaints, women actually want a guy who isn’t always going to be there for them. In the eyes of women, the good guys aren’t always good guys, the bad guys aren’t always bad guys, and nice guys are rarely the right guy. The truth of the matter is that the “ideal man” is only as good as we think he is.

Essay Topic A

“Are you attracted to her even when she looks like that?” my friend suddenly asks during lunch, pointing to the girl in question. I turn around to look.

She wears a plain white T-shirt that has somehow been splattered by assorted colors of paint: beige, light green, and pink to name a few. Her pajama bottoms are black and grey plaid, and are long enough to shroud her bare feet. Her messy mahogany hair is hastily propped up by a rubber band, and her almond eyes are framed by the thick brown glasses perched on her flat nose. She sits cross-legged on a bench with her back against a bleach white wall, lit up by the hot sun, her tanned skin aglow. Her head is bent over a book.

She and I would always have the most interesting conversations; they’d always start out with me making some half-thought arbitrary statement. After I would make this statement, she would find a point to argue over. One time I announced to her that milk is healthy and delicious and it is exponentially beneficial for one to drink a glass of cow’s milk every day. She argued that drinking milk is unnatural; no other animal drinks its mother’s milk after a certain age, much less consumes the “baby formula” of a completely different species. Our debates over such frivolous things were always heated. We’d also disagree about people, politics, objects, and class work just as passionately. Rarely did I end up agreeing with her, and never did she agree with me.

There was, though, a time that she thoroughly convinced me to coincide with her opinion. It was not a debate or collision of intellect; I simply asked her what she thought the greatest compliment one could give to another. She bounced the question right back at me and I said I thought the greatest positive comment someone could say was a simple “thank you.” Instead of disagreeing, she just stated her opinion. She believed that nothing was more uplifting than someone telling you that you’re illuminating, that you’re the finale of the iridescent annual fireworks display, that you’re the great mass of ancient stars in the sky on a cloudless night far away from the city.

She taught me humility. She taught me that there will always be someone of more importance, someone with a bigger ego, someone who will always out shine your greatest efforts: someone who is worth loving and following.

Now, at lunch, she sits there alone. Brighter than ever.

I turn back to my friend.

“No,” I lie.

the most awkward of silences are those between a boy and a girl

It seemed to be a nigh-impossible task, but damn if she didn’t feel like trying. And damn did that almost seem like a mistake. She stands outside of a door painted green after it had been painted red, covered in a thin layer of dirt splattered by the wind. Her hair is tousled, wind-swept even, and her clothes inexplicably still neat. A breath. Two knocks on the door yield no response. Three rings of a digitized dial tone lead to a four-second delay of dead air before a response. The voice is gruff, masculine to a certain extent, voices of others can be heard faintly if at all. “I’m on my fifth cigarette here, Em!”

“It’s nice to hear the progress by which you’re killing yourself.” Em replies, in that tone that the female gender masters by the age of twenty-two.

“We’re in the back yard, on the porch.” He replies, answering her unasked question. Click. Em nearly trips over the front step as she tediously makes her way toward the back of the house, her shoes, if one could call them that, for they were more towards the line of soles with straps, proved to be no protection against the untamed wilderness within the unkempt grass. It was enough to slightly unnerve one who spent the majority of their life within the safe confines of tiled or hardwood floors and stale, recycled air-conditioned air.  There’s the soft sound of laughter, the volume of it steadily increasing to that of a raucous roar. Em looks up to see four peculiar figures, one holding a cigarette, the other a beer, and the others nothing at all. The one holding the cigarette notices her but does not acknowledge her, allowing Em to sneakily make her way to the step of the porch. “That’s some fucked up shit, man.” He says, and takes a drag.

“What is?” Em asks, signaling her entrance.

“Oh, hey Em!” The one with the beer replies, without answering her question. One of the two who hold nothing at all looks at her with a slight disdain. The other, a slight attraction.

“I don’t believe we met?” The one with the slight attraction says, in a manner intentionally suave but unintentionally unnerving. “I’ve heard a bit about you, though.”

“Yeah?” She extends a manicured hand towards him, as a sign of introduction. “Then you should know that my name is-”

“She’s Em,” the one with the cigarette interjects.

“I can introduce myself just fine, thank you!” Em retorts, her hand still extended. The one with the attraction carefully shakes her hand, brutally beating the notion of himself kissing her hand in a manner only those ruggedly handsome could with a baseball bat. A metaphorical baseball bat. “I think The Rude One,” she enunciates, with emphasis towards the guy currently taking a drag from a wrinkled cigarette, “told me once that your name is Dan.” She notices his hand to be fairly rough before letting go. Dan, as he was now known, nodded in agreement while coyly averting his gaze from her. She stands on the porch, clutching a bag that suddenly seemed too heavy, watching four not-quite-men stare into space, lacking something to keep the conversation going. “What, did I interrupt something?”

“Sorta.” The one who holds a bit of disdain replies. The one with the beer casually sneaks inside to grab another can, without so much as saying his intents to the rest of the group. A plane buzzes by, cutting through the silence like a butter knife.

“So, uh, how about that weather?” Dan shoots into the void of conversation.

“Yeah, I know, right?” Em replies, “First it was sunny, then rainy, now it’s just…” she trails off.

And then, silence.

“saskatchewan”, or a vignette in exactly 404 words

They sit within a prime model of American Muscle, staring at the stars.

Guitar tones resonate from within, melodies noodling around a pentatonic scale; whispered vocals playing against the music that speak of a love recently found. The stars are obscured by a haze not unlike the one found within a cup of coffee; the air is uncomfortable both in temperature and atmosphere. “So, what now?” he asks, as if there were an adequate answer. He turns the key, and a cool breeze pours in from slotted vents. The music skips for a split second. She sits two feet away from him, her chair leaned as far back as possible. One could assume she was napping, though he knew otherwise. His hands rest on the steering wheel, thumbs tapping away at the faux-leather. “I mean, I knew this would be happening, but…”

“I don’t know.” She finally interrupts, in a voice closer to a whisper, as she blew some of her dark brown hair from her eyes. Her gaze doesn’t shift from outside the window.

“And you’re just going to…?”

“Yeah.” She interjects, once more.

“What about…?” he trails off, tiptoeing around a question that he had for so long avoided. The music rises in a well-worn crescendo, only for it to end with a disappointing whimper. There is the sound of airplane engines in the distance. Red lights flicker in the night sky, contrasting with the dim whites of stars. It is almost too chilly. He turns a knob, and the sound of air being pumped in is replaced by the sound of breathing. One is slow, calm, almost calculated. The other, anxious, hasty. “Will you…” he searches for the right words, “Will we…?” He catches himself, realizing that he isn’t able to put his question into spoken words.

“We’ll figure it out later.” The statement was accompanied by a click, a not-so-subtle click, that indicated the door opened. The cabin lights burst into life, and the smell of nature and exhaust fumes cut through the recycled air. In one swift action, she exits the car, leaving behind a single memento that wouldn’t be found for another few days. Another not-so-subtle click, and the door is closed. He begins to stare into the abyss that was the night sky, noting its similarities with what he had just lost.

And just like that she was gone, left and leaving for a town in Saskatchewan.

Complex Connotations (of a Seemingly Mundane Subconscious Experience)

There are certain topics in this world that individuals attempt to steer away from as often as possible. One such topic is religion, an issue that many find unsuitable for conversations in the workplace do to its heavy social influence and tendency to raise tempers. The same goes for politics which has different subject matter but not-so-coincidentally producees similar results.

Strangely, when I think of small issues that rarely come up in some form of conversation among my peers, these are the only two that come to mind. This, however, doesn’t mean that we’re constantly discussing issues of racism, world hunger and LGBT rights. In fact, more often than not we’re cracking jokes about them – and I’m okay with that on most levels. But when it comes time to discuss a natural part of our lives and we can barely say the word without giggling or shutting down out of discomfort or genuinely finding it funny, there really is a problem. There’s no way I can’t say it.

SEX.

It’s something we need to be capable of talking about without laughing or numbing up at the thought of. At this stage in our lives things like friendship, individuality, freedom of speech, boys, girls and all that other jazz start seem more and more intense and are amplified to the extreme level. Our parents and teachers along with most other adutls are starting to badger us with speeches about birth control, STD’s and the trials of unplanned pregnancies. “Don’t forget to use a condom, son.” “Honey. Abstinence is the best birth control.” Worse still they could be telling us nothing about it (Just to clarify, “pulling out”  doesn’t work).

Knowing the facts about sex is incredibly important. Without that knowledge the teen pregnancy rate would be substantially hired and STD’s would spread like wildfires. However, I feel that when it comes down to us attempting to speak honestly about this topic the focus becomes incredibly uneven. From what I’ve heard as a teenager walking throughout my high school, it is quite rare to find people talking about sex on a level other than that of the stereotypical hormonally overwhelmed adolescent. And I truthfully feel, that it isn’t at all healthy.

Recently, I awoke from what to me was a rather unsettling dream. A rather graphic sexual image of young woman I had hardly known and had barely thought about recently wouldn’t seem to remove itself from my mind. It was a topic I felt I like I couldn’t discuss with anyone I knew, not even my closest friends. When I finally brought myself to tell somebody something about it I was relieved to find that I wasn’t judged and my mind was freed from the image but not from its subtext. I soon came to realize that what truthfully bothered me was on more of an emotional level of not knowing what significance this girl holds for me and even know, I barely feel capable of saying anything to anybody.

Now I realize that sex itself is not to difficult of a subject for us to tackle. When can joke about, talk about it’s mechanics and shoot some bullshit about how great this “fine ass hoe” I was with was all we want but that’s all the easy stuff. There is a different between talking about intercourse or  fucking, and sex because when you’re talking about the former two everything is guarded in some way whether it be the science of it or the artificial nature of the things that you’re saying. However, when you’re really talking about sex, or at least when I am, you’ve made yourself completely vulnerable by exposing yourself intellectually, emotionally and in any other way you can think. And in discussing our own experience (or inexperience) in these matters we aren’t just discovering more about sex and it’s connotations but more importantly ourselves. Which brings me to the point of this post.

I have a challenge for you.

During this time of adolescence, we are deep into one of the most emotionally challenging parts of our lives and on a daily basis we are either having a nuclear meltdown or gearing up for yet another one. We need to know that we aren’t alone in what we are going through. It is crucial that we are understood as more than the hormonally challenged subjects of Hollywood films. 

For this reason, Dream Weaver Productions is launching a special project for teenagers specifically. Using the testimony of you wonderful people here at This Space Intentionally Left Blank, I would like to express on film the impact that sex has on people our age.  If you want your voice to be heard, you can either post a comment below or send a personal message to me or A.  To achieve the most honest expression of the human experience possible all submissions will be anonymous. No one will be judged no matter what they say so please be as open as you can here.  You may talk about anything you would like whether it be losing your virginity, not losing your virginity, relationships, etc. If you have any questions e-mail me or leave a comment.

Any assistance in putting this project forward is greatly appreciated. Let’s try and start something.

E-MAIL: allowmetojackyou@hotmail.com