Yeats, Monet, Bach… In the daily turmoil of our lives, we often forget about art. We don’t read as much as we think we should, we don’t watch all the films we’ve been recommended, and a trip to a museum is a once-a-year (if that) kind of occasion. We’ve shoved art aside; it has lost its importance. Or so we think.
What we seem to frequently forget, however, is that the very act of living itself is made up of artistic masterpieces, one by one, colliding into each other. Human relationships are art, and the most exquisite of these is the one single connection that has managed to evade capture by our feeble words, hands, and minds: love.
Love has been pursued by the most capable of hunters, and as a result we have libraries, museums, and iTunes playlists full of homages to the one ethereal higher power we all seem to be capable of worshipping. We have tried to capture love by giving it a name (the insufficient “love/amor/愛/etc.”), turning it into a symbol (the “heart,” which is really just a variation on a circle, indicating love’s endlessness), and rallying behind it as a mantra (all you need is love). But love is a fickle beast; it manages to skitter away right when even the most capable of human thinkers and creators believe they have cornered it.
To put it simply, love is a masterful combination of ineffable emotions and chemicals. It’s the driving force of humanity, the reason we work, the reason we dream, the reason we breathe. We each long to catch a glimpse of the deity Love at least once in our short lives, even if it may only be through a muddled reflection in a broken mirror. Though incomplete, that one shimmer of the Divine, as philosophers of yore might attempt to label it, will be enough. Love, and the simple knowledge that it exists, is enough to sustain us through our journeys through the dark valleys, because we are confident in its ability to supply the nirvana that occurs when we finally reach the summit, even if we are not meant to linger there for long.
The greatest pieces of art are not, then, comprised of our insufficient mortal imitations, but rather the source of our inspiration itself: love. Love is the most effective and yet the simplest form of communication we have yet devised. Love, in its many infinite and equally meaningful forms, can exist anywhere two people are together, sharing a moment in the swirling current of time, as they each acknowledge the pulsing beat of life radiating from within the other and know, without a doubt, that they are not alone. We live to love, which is to say we live to appreciate the life in others and have our own reality similarly validated. Every piece of “art” that stems from this force is really just a microscopic piece of a cosmic puzzle that all humans across the ages have been trying to put together. Our art attempts to capture the essence of the only real art in our reality, the great and powerful crazy-little-thing called Love.
--Amy Kristen
The tactfully side-stepped charade, the superficial patter of plastic tongues clicking against plastic roofs of mouths rattling in plastic heads garnished in metallic sparking shine
And the constant hummmm, the bass beneath my feet at 3:00 on a Tuesday night/morning and the vibrations of hills of encased iPhones being answered with headsets and insincere HELLO?s bellowed at maximum volume to disguise the insecurities hidden beneath the words
And the tap tap tap of five-inch-high heels and glinting patent leather on glass, marble, gold floors walking to a hollow destination at a pace that suggests the end is near, leaving trails of glitter glistening in the heels' red-traced path
And the clouds of dollar bills resting on the thick green layer of smog that hovers above the city, wilting and crumpling and decaying as the ragged frail underbelly stretches out its withered hands from miles below, watching as the paper crinkles into ashen dust
And the rush and dip and swirl of a world disguised by a shot or a smoke or a snort or a swallow and the thud as her head hits the wall and the wet warmth in the dark
And the colors and flash of lights and the big grand display, come one come all to the greatest show on earth, and the swiveling heads with hungry hypnotic eyes leering and luring and reaching into the pockets of the entranced
And the nails, the claws, the jagged teeth of fights staged in cages amongst the lions and bears and tigers but tastefully adorned with a lace pink bow and stardust and the rusty dagger dragging down his back
And me
And this city.
--Amy Kristen
We use it all the time: hard
But only they know what it means
The electricity in your veins
The foot that twitches
The pounding in your head
Bang-bang-bang
Sending a message
Maybe I hurt
But the source cannot be found
And the source hardly even matters
There’s a bicycle that makes a noise
Clank-clank-clank
The wheels turn, the rider flies smoothly on
And yet.
The multitude of voices
Singing praises, sending prayers
Attempting aid with their minds
But it sounds more like a
Whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
A sea of love that never reaches the dry, awaiting sands
What good can the vibrations of a larynx do
When the grounds of the earth are shaking
When the ants have stopped marching
When at last the only sound is silence.
--Amy Kristen
Dear Diary,
I find myself constantly saying, “Things are always the same”, but they never are.
I have a friend; we used to be the best of friends, but lately, we just don’t land on the same page like we used to. I’m not sure whether she’s growing bored of me, or if I’m growing bored of her, but I just don’t see that light that used to shine bright. It has grown dull, unoriginal, and desperate to intrigue, or maybe I’m just now noticing. That is how I know things are constantly changing. That is how I know I am not stuck in the same spiral of good laughs and new, interesting conversations.
The year, it passes through, attempting to be discreet about its development, though it only accentuates its growth by making some pleasantly extroverted, while others, it keeps locked away in memories of the year before. It makes some chipper with its annual warming and those afraid to melt, are left like popsicles out of an icebox. That is how I know things are constantly changing. That is how I know I have the opportunity to burn and go out without heavy layers of skin.
I am different; I am forever changing.
- astruso.
Manager wanted for gas station in middle of desert, 100mi from nearest town. Must have good people skills, but must also be comfortable spending extended periods of time alone without any human contact. Must provide own reliable means of transportation (lodging is not provided and sleeping on the floor is not encouraged due to high local scorpion population). Lack of family, friends, pets, personal hobbies, personality, and/or life highly preferred. Apply within.
FARMHAND WANTED:
Must have a strong disposition and should not be easily spooked. Experience dealing with mysterious apparitions, ghosts, Ringwraiths, demons etc. a plus. Call 800-666-3385.
STRIP FOR $$!
Ladies, sick of stripping for your good-for-nothing boyfriend for free? Strippers needed for rest stop in a HOT new start-up location off I-40! Must not have any preexisting heart conditions and should be comfortable stripping in extreme heat and dark environments (no working a/c or lights). Ideal body type: Under 300 lb., full set of visible teeth, no unusual body deformations.
SEEKING PEST TECHNICIANS:
Small-town pest control company in need of technicians for extensive two-week extermination project. Must have at least 5 years of training. Looking for hard-working techs with background in fleas, tics, bed bugs, chimeras, basilisks, and/or yetis. Must be comfortable killing gnomes.
FREE HOUSING!
Looking for personal slave to help run extensive remote property. No compensation, but private room will be provided in newly converted closet in basement. Must take orders well. If interested, send resume and photo to slaves@hugefingplantation.com.
Dear Diary,
I feel the weight of the world on my weakening body. I cannot breathe. My lungs are attempting to expand, inhale, exhale. My breath is running short, and so is my time.
“You must be intelligent, graceful, witty, the greatest.” Great expectations are called forth by great minds, and I am agile, while apprehensive. If you slip, you are bound to fall. If you run away, you will surely fall.” That is what they tell me.
I must be all they have ever dreamed of.
What makes me the greatest?
What makes me tower over the rest?
Is it the drugs I’ve taken? Or maybe it’s all the secrets I keep.
I am afraid of heights, because the higher you go, the greater your chance of death.
I am afraid of the assumption that I am a king, chosen by God, perfect in every way.
I am a chiller. I am a thriller.
I am a smoker. I am a toker.
No one knows I am not perfect.
Some said she had chosen this way of life, that it was a mark of a deceitful and hardened heart worn away by the toils of time, and that she simply no longer cared to associate with them. Some said she was a lost soul to be pitied, and they prayed for her in their churches and their Bible studies and brought her a casserole every now and then, feeling quite good about themselves as they did so. Not once did her front door open; all of their donations of charity were left sitting outside on the porch, growing cold and obtaining an unsavory jelly-like form until the aluminum lids were pried off by savvy scavenging creatures in the blistery winter night. No one had spoken to her for ages, yet her presence loomed over them still, a ghost relentlessly prying its way into their obtuse brains, reminding them of something they had forgotten, like a beloved object once accidentally left behind.
She certainly had been something, back then. She had delighted and entertained, swirling with vibrancy and color as she danced through the monotonous motions of living, making the simple fact of existence appear a cause for joyous celebration. Her beauty was of the natural variety; she never wore makeup nor fancy clothes, but still she shone in the center of a crowd. Her eyes were alight with an irresistibly alluring fire and her long, dark hair hung in waves down her slender back. But her most admirable feature was her smile: strong, passionate, and infectious, it was indeed unique.
The woman did not possess any remarkable skills or talents; she preferred to dabble in various recreations for a short period of time, persisting only until she grew bored and restless and felt the urge to move on to something different. Over the years she had tried becoming a painter, a writer, a pastry chef, a woodworker, a singer, and, during one of her more mysterious stages of life, an exotic dancer. She performed adequately in every task she attempted, but none of them inspired her enough to continue longer than a year or so. She complained openly about her ennui, but only in a laughing, dismissive manner, with a wave of the hand and a shake of her head. “I’ll find it eventually,” she would say, with that broad smile of hers. “I’ll find what I’m meant to do.”
She had gotten married to a successful and handsome entrepreneur from Iowa. She had received declarations of affection from countless potential suitors, but all of their compliments had seemed to float stagnant in the air between them, never reaching the woman’s ears. On the rare occasions that she would speak with others about her love life, she expressed resignation; she insisted she had grown comfortable with the notion that no one was ever to be interested in her (despite all evidence to the contrary). Her would-be suitors took her as arrogant, a rather cruel tease to the hearts of men, but her indifference did little to calm the warmth of desire induced by the very mention of her name.
The Man from Iowa was chosen simply because he had been the most persistent of her admirers, and while she was sure she didn’t love him, she agreed to marry him. Like her round-table of jobs, the role of Wife was simply another hat she felt she obligated to try on. The night he left her was the first night that she did not cry herself to sleep. Instead, she lay in her opulent king-sized bed and studied the patterns in the ceiling, blinking her eyes and wondering why they were so dry.
The next day she ripped apart an old bookshelf and used the wood to board up the windows on her small home. The darkness pleased her, seemed to be a comforting assurance that the world outside did not really exist. After walking through the halls, reviewing her short life’s collection of possessions, she lay down on her couch, clutching a pillow to her chest, and there she remained.
Maybe I’m ready.
Maybe it’s time.
Tomorrow I could take a step
And will my limbs to climb.
But how do you make the change
From a Maybe to a Yes?
Maybe I’ll say I’m sorry.
Maybe you’ll say it’s fine.
Or perhaps you’ll say goodbye,
And leave me clutching to the line.
I want to say I love you,
But instead I’ll fade away.
Maybe hearts mend.
Maybe wounds heal.
Maybe it’s time to change,
Though reality seems unreal.
I know I’m no fortune teller,
Because all I see is mist.
Maybe you’ll come find me.
Maybe I’ll let you in.
Your pillow lies shapeless on my bed
And I’m drowning in the din.
A simple button can rewind a disk,
But you and I keep spinning forward.
Dear diary,
When she walks, she is always on a mission.
When she speaks, she never fails to intrigue and evoke laughter.
- astruso.
Dear Diary,
I sat there anxiously, as I whispered quietly to myself. “Abandonment, that is my greatest fear, because it is my greatest pain.”
The days move swiftly on, as I watch strangers pass, as though wanting to say something. It’s apparent that when we lose something, we hold on tightly to the next, for fear of losing it. However, I act with a great sense of absence, perpetual nervousness which allows me no grip. It makes me cold and distant. It leaves me forsaken and afraid.
I heal myself before I am healed.
I hurt before I am hurt, just to have them, leave before I am left.
I am a machine.
I am a heartless woman.
I am an old hag with a provocative figure.
Feel my cold hands which speak of desolate love, creep onto your chest. I’m tired of being the cursed party, exploiting a man’s love simply to abandon them in the manner of which I was left, alone and as bitter as an immature lime.
I met a young man a few years ago. He’s been after me ever since.
He’s a kind boy, a handsome boy, but I am a woman, a heartless woman.
One day, he showed up at my window and asked me for admission through my front door. I never understood why he didn’t just knock on the door in the first place. I asked him, but all he said was, “A prince always goes through the window.” He paused momentarily, as though wanting to say, “I love you,” but added, “And you’re my princess.” We became close friends and went to drive in shows, out for lunch to outdoor cafes and even volunteered together at local street fairs.
Last week, he was helping me rearrange my apartment. We worked all day, into the night. Growing weary we agreed he could stay on my sofa. The next morning he awoke me from my slumber to remind me I had to go to work. I thanked him, but I saw a horrified look on his face. He took a seat next to my awakening body, slightly lifted my shirt and asked, “What happened here?” He had found my door, the giant scar which held my controls. I felt the wooden dowels creep painlessly into his fingers, which lurked along my back. He had a warm touch and a tool kit. He was a kind mechanic.
- astruso.
Dear Hobo/Homeless Man/Bum/Tramp/Vagrant/Whatever you preferred to be called (I don’t want to offend you, really),
I feel like we haven’t been communicating effectively, so I’m writing this letter out of the hope that we can work out our differences. Every time I’ve tried to tell you how I feel, you’ve merely grunted or bared your teeth at me. Mostly, you’ve chosen to ignore me. I’m not sure if maybe there’s a language barrier problem (It’s hard to tell what ethnicity you are, to be honest, because your skin is covered in a thick layer of dirt and excrement… the bathroom is just through that door, you know), but for whatever reason you keep giving me the stink eye instead of listening to me.
I know we haven’t gotten off to a great start. It was really hard for me, at first, when I woke up in the middle of the night to you clawing at my window and ratting my doorknob. I live in a studio apartment on the first floor in the middle of a fifthly, overpopulated city, so I’m used to normal distractions such as gunshots, thumping bass lines, and wailing cats, but I’d never been awaken by an intruder before. I was frightened, and groggy, and I couldn’t hear very well because of my earplugs (necessary to drown out the sex noises of my next-door neighbors). I also really couldn’t see, because, you know, it was the middle of the night, and I couldn’t find my glasses. Without my glasses, I am almost legally blind. So, you see, it really wasn’t my fault that when you shattered the glass of my window and climbed inside my first reaction was to scream and start flailing around at you with the handle of my Swiffer Sweeper. I didn’t mean to hit you in the head and knock you out. Again, I was disoriented and scared and it was the first time someone had tried to break in. I hope you'll forgive me.
I probably should have called the police right away, but I really wasn’t sure if you were dead or not. Plus I had taken a rather large sleeping pill that evening and wasn’t thinking clearly. I may or may not have had a couple glasses of wine on top of that, as well. Yes, the warning labels say to avoid mixing the pills with alcohol, but I’m single. Lonely. Nights are hard. It’s a cold, cruel world: a fact I’m sure you know all too well.
When you suddenly started crawling towards my bed, I got even more frightened and picked up the nearby can of Febreze to try to divert you away from it. I guess I thought it was a can of bug spray, which would have made your eyes sting like a poor-man’s mace, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t since my apartment smelled a lot like Spicy Autumn Harvest when I woke up. I guess my plan sort of worked, since you decided to go underneath my bed instead of on top of it. That was okay with me. My bed’s just a twin, so we both wouldn’t have fit in it. Plus I flail around a lot when I sleep. After that, I couldn’t bring myself to kick you out of my apartment. It was a cold night, and, like I said, I was lonely. It was nice to have a bunk-bed mate of sorts. Also, you’d stopped breathing again, and I still wasn’t in the right state to try to dispose of a dead body.
When I heard you mumbling to yourself in the morning, I figured you’d come to your senses and would finally leave. After all, the window was still wide open. But no. You stayed. You were still under the bed when I came home from work, and you’ve stayed there for the past two weeks.
Yes, I’ve enjoyed having you as a house guest, but I think it’s finally time that you moved on. There’s a Carl’s Jr. down the street that seems to be a popular hangout place for many people who share your lifestyle. Perhaps you could join them? If you’d be willing to split the rent with me, we can talk about our options, but I think it’s pretty clear you don’t have any money besides what you keep stealing from me.
I need my space. I think I’ve realized through all this that I actually prefer to be alone. Also, you’re making my place reek. Really, the bathroom is not off-limits. Febreze can only do so much.
Anyway, I’m going to leave this letter here on the floor next to this plate of toast (okay, yes, it’s moldy, but you’re not picky, right?) in the hopes that it will lure you out from under my bed. Please try to consider my point of view. It would mean a lot to me.
Also, even if you decide to stay, I would like my stuffed monkey back. It was given to me by my now-deceased grandmother, and it tortures me to listen to you masturbate with it.
Yours truly,
Amy Kristen
It disturbs me to turn on the TV, and be forced into the same sad scene on each network: Two or more individuals screaming "fake bitch", flailing their arms against each other, proudly displaying negative behavior, all of this possibly topped off by something along the lines of a strategically coordinated nipple slip, while an audience watches, cheering at the entire debacle until commercial break. It's disheartening to know that scenes such as this are considered “entertainment” but what's more disturbing is to see traits of this behavior being emulated in real life.
Jersey Shore - "Reality" TV
Gossip Girl
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| Goku and his son Gohan |
In the world of the Dragon Ball good always prevails over evil, and nice guys finish first, but not for a lack of challenges.Its shows like Dragon Ball Z that have become out of the ordinary.Although DBZ is animation it promotes a sense of truth and loyalty amidst battles between good and evil. I've never been one of those A-Con type fanatics, but I grew up watching Dragon Ball-Z on Toonami and the raw action filled plot in its early sagas never failed to deliver a level of integrity and sportsmanship that is no longer portrayed in many popular scripted and unscripted series.My friends always think it's weird that I compare an animated show to real life, but the fight for honesty in a universe preoccupied with self interest reminds me all too much of the world we live in today.
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| Vegeta |
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| Goku |
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| Picollo! |
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| Goku protecting Gohan from evil Saiyan fighters |
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| Goku catching up on some rest while in heaven |
"A person who is too nice an observer of the business of the crowd, like one who is too curious in observing the labor of bees, will often be stung for his curiosity."
“Good afternoon! My name is Amy, and I’ll be your server today. Can I get you started with—”
Oh, I’m sorry, did you not notice that I was in the middle of a sentence? It’s okay, you can interrupt me all you want. You are clearly so important that I’m dying to know what you have to say. Yes, you - you sallow misogynist who thinks I’m inconsequential enough that you can interrupt me during my well-rehearsed and entirely disingenuous greeting. Yes, I’m clearly inferior, because I’m wearing a bright yellow tie with portly dancing chefs galloping across the border while you’re wearing your favorite ill-fitted suit that your saggy ex-girlfriend bought you fifteen years ago, which not only stretches unflatteringly across your gut but also still has stains on it from that night you got so drunk at the office party you “accidentally” had an “easily misinterpreted somewhat-sexual encounter” with Carlos, the flamboyant new assistant in H.R., even though you’re “really not gay, not at all.” It’s true, I don’t have any unique thoughts of my own. I live to serve, all day, every day. So please, indulge me with your list of demands. Let me be thy faithful servant, oh master of thy business domain.
“Okay, so I have two garden salads, both with dressing on the side. Is that all for you today?”
God, those things are HUGE. I’m trying not to look at them while I talk to you, but they’re practically tapping me on the shoulder and saying “Hey. Hey. Hey.” over and over again until I pay attention to them. I’m sure your husband/boyfriend/one-night-stand sent your plastic surgeon a large gift basket from Harry and David filled with those nasty sausages and cheese spreads that never expire when you brought home those giant globes. Your bra seems so strained by their mass that I’m certain in just a few moments they will leap forth from your chest and roll out the front door, and then you, me, and your bored-looking frenemy (who glares at you every time you look down to adjust your ridiculously low-cut blouse) are all going to share a rather uncomfortable moment together.
“Do you want that with French fries, salad, fruit, coleslaw, a baked potato, rice pilaf, or everything kind of mashed up into one?”
I’m trying so hard to be funny, to pretend I don’t absolutely despise everything about you and your desperate need for order most likely derived from your upbringing in a strict household where no one ever said “I love you.” I can’t wait to find out how well you like your burger cooked. Please, demand that I bring you an extra-extra well done burger with fries that are extra-extra crispy (because if they’re too soggy you’ll send them back, which I know you’ll do no matter what) as well as a pint of pale ale because clearly if you don’t get some alcohol in your system immediately you’ll take that blunt knife I’ve just set down in front of you and attempt to drive it straight into your heart. Sadly, any such suicide attempt would inevitably fail because the layer of fat that covers the distance between your skin and your heart is just too deep. I’m sorry, is the table dirty? Let me clean it off with this rag, which I just used to clean the bathroom.
“Well, Ma’am, the noodles are actually already in the soup, because it’s pre-made, so… Really? You’ve gotten it that way before? … I SAID, YOU’VE GOTTEN IT WITHOUT NOODLES BEFORE? … I see. Okay, I’ll pick the noodles out for you. I SAID, I’LL TAKE THE NOODLES OUT FOR YOU.”
I hate old people.
“…No, I’m sorry, we don’t have kids’ menus. Nope, no baby formula, either. Actually, we should probably move this stroller out of the walkway…”
You, lady, should not be allowed out in public with your overabundance of offspring. You need to make your shrieking infant cease its sorry display of discontent immediately, or I am likely to push this stroller right out of this building and into the parking lot. It’s highly probable that you won’t even notice and will remain at your table sans-baby because the rest of your exasperating clan will be tugging on your frizzy hair and throwing macaroni and cheese on the wall and peeing in their pants and pinching each other and climbing onto the table and shouting profanities they picked up from your numerous fights with your worthless husband who’s sleeping with Margie, your spotty next-door neighbor, because you now abhor the very idea of sex. Please do everyone a favor and go back to your car, take a little trip to the nearest fast-food drive-through, go home, and don’t come back out into society until your children are all at least 20 years old.
“Just so you know, we’re getting ready to close, so whenever you’re ready, I’ll take your check…”
Seriously, you guys? Can you break away from each other for just one minute? It’s very sweet and romantic that you are so in lust – I mean, love – but have you really not noticed that you are the only customers still here? The busboys are sweeping underneath your feet, we’ve turned off all the lights, there’s no more music playing, and the manager is standing at the front door twirling the key. It’s easy, really. First, you remove your hand from inside his pants and then you take your tongue out of her ear and then you pay your check and then I wipe up after you, count my meager earnings, and go home to my vibrator and Michael Bublé CD.
“Alright, here’s your check back. Thank you so much for coming in! Have a lovely day.”
Please please please be a secret billionaire who will leave me an unusually generous tip because I’m so wonderful and pleasant and because you’ve never seen anyone be so diligent about making sure your breadbasket was consistently full. Look at my smile. This is the smile of a desperate college graduate who is secretly brilliant but just hasn’t gotten around to utilizing her full abilities. I promise I will spend your money wisely. However, I cannot promise I will be nice to you if you come back, because you have the most offensive body odor I’ve ever encountered.
-- Amy Kristen
[And, hey, check out my personal blog, http://dontstopmedontstopme.blogspot.com. This is a shameless plug, I know, but, as Calvin once said, "What's the point of wearing your favorite rocket ship underwear if no one asks to see 'em?" This blog is my rocket ship underwear.]
