The Only Part I Remember From The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

I wrote this in 11th grade for English class. Up to this point, it's the only essay I've ever written that got an A, even though it's very flawed. We were assigned to write a personal essay, and could write about anything we wanted, and as soon as I got the approval, I immediately started writing. Normally, in this section, I would divulge every single detail I can remember about writing this, but this time, I'll let you, the reader, make those inferences if you wish. Today, I return home and my first year of college is concluding. I'm posting this completely unedited, as it was originally written when I first turned it in.

I’m a pessimistic person. It’s a known fact. I can recall maybe a few things of my childhood that are precious enough to exhibit on a photo album with Precious or Treasured Memories already printed on the cover, with the same elegant font. You would think companies like that wouldn’t switch it up every once in a while. My whole childhood does resonate in my mind frequently, but it’s a painful, killing motion just like firing a pistol in an enclosed space and hearing the booming noise of the Liberty Bell smacking against both sides of your brain. Don’t get me wrong, the whole freedom of being a child was certainly enjoyable(along with the occasional tantrum), but I seriously can’t find many defining moments in the past 17 years that would be worth mentioning casually at dinner. But…there have been some.

Toy Story is my favorite film of all time. Many would scoff at such a decision, same as I would scoff at them for laughing at the “funniest thing ever” only for that position to be usurped in a day. I can imagine the emperor, in the shape of a banana peel, choking and coughing on a drink served to him by “knock knock joke”. I still remember, vividly, when I was only 3 yrs. old, the family took out the new Nissan ‘95 model for a spin, which is no longer as magnificent and powerful as it once was. We drove to a Jons marketplace, though not the one close to where we live, my parents saw the cardboard standup of Buzz flying as high as his aspirations, with Sheriff Woody, tightly grabbing Buzz’s leg, and praying that he doesn’t fall. My parents just couldn’t resist that tempting cardboard and bought the movie, in Spanish. We came home, we turned on our television set, vrrrring then clicking to reveal the snow, turned on the VCR set, and then I fell in love. I was captivated by the characters, the colors, the humorous actors and situations, the wonderful music, and finally, the credits. The whole movie was absolutely perfect, and it was a position that I never challenged, even in my later years, as an obnoxious, pessimistic teenager.  There are just too many classic moments to recall in that film: Woody’s meeting with the toys, the plastic army men performing an impressive espionage mission, and John Ratzenburger with his amazing voice, being supplied to the classic know-it-all, Hamm. It wasn’t just a small role for John. And who could forget ol’ Forrest Gump himself, Mister Tom Hanks? Tom is my favorite actor and though I’ve seen him in many movies, I hereby declare his career defining performance to being the voice of Sheriff Woody. I know some will disagree…I know many will disagree, but I can’t help but just want to state that as a fact, since it is a fact, a factual fact. Anyway, Toy Story is one of the few defining moments of my childhood. After seeing that movie, I began drawing and haven’t stopped yet. It’s become one of my most enthusiastic endeavors, alongside writing. My dream is to create as a story as beloved as Toy Story, and one that makes its permanent mark in the film industry and the world. Such high aspirations for such a low thinker.

Something happened upon re-watching Toy Story upon finally becoming seventeen. People claim that I obsess over the most ridiculous details. But one particular detail from the movie struck me like a harpoon, piercing the durable flesh off a whale in the middle of a thunderous storm. For much time, I enjoyed the joke that Etch N Sketch draws the lamp that Woody used to push Buzz out the window. Oh, wait. It’s not a lamp, is it? For most of my life, that’s what I wanted to imagine it was. Toy Story was a cute film with adorable characters that had problems that get resolved in the end like a fairy tale. Toy Story is also an unapologetic human drama that explores the rawest emotions that toys can develop. It was then, I realized but refused to accept, Etch N Sketch drew a noose, fit for the most bastardy scoundrel. Even the most wonderful part of my childhood had grown up. (There’s also a kiss ass joke and a vulgar joke but that doesn’t pertain here.)

Growing up is a challenge. That sentence has been written and typed by many people, in different ways, and can be considered as the eponymous statement of the century, but only since it’s true. For a long time I wanted to consider the noose as a lamp, not only due to its shape, but because it would just make more for sense for me as an ignorant 10 year old, who wanted to believe that everything was okay when his mother told him so, even when it clearly wasn’t. Toy Story is a film that has grown up alongside with me over time. I can now find different, sophisticated reasons to appreciate the wonders that this film delivers. However, the first time I found out that it was a noose, I laughed. Hard. At 11: 00 pm. With no one else around to ask me what the joke was. But after laughing, I started shivering. Shaking. I felt like my joke was macabre, offensive, as a badly worded Holocaust joke which for the record, I have tried on several occasions. I always get blank stares. When at one point, as a kid, I thought about how awesome the rocket scene in the movie was, now when I think of Toy Story, I thinking about Bo Peep saying, “why don’t I get someone else  to watch the sheep tonight?” and then Woody laughs as awkwardly, yet as teasingly as he could. What a horn-dog. I can’t even blame that kind of thinking as simply being immature, now I’m challenging the logic of reproduction with these plastic figures. I can’t even believe I just typed that sentence.

It’s a difficult transition to go through in gaining such responsibility, a word I hereby nominate as severely overused. When, at an early age, you begin to draw outside the lines or play in the sandbox with the kid and his little red truck, suddenly you’re presented with explaining why you drew outside the lines and designing that same red truck or even improving its design. Much like my progression with the movie, it seems that many of the films choices are no longer adorable or frightening just because that’s how the movie was made, with no previous planning. Now, I realize the guys at Pixar are geniuses at what they do, but they fight and struggle with their choices as much as any other career does. The guys at Pixar are the same as the race car driver, the choreographer, or the scientist. Woody wasn’t the handsome cowboy we know and love at one point, originally he was a cynical, snarky, rude, short-tempered ventriloquist doll who looked frighteningly like Chucky. Also, my idol, director John Lasseter and his team went through hundreds of drafts for Woody’s first line in the movie. His first line! To think it must’ve taken weeks for them to come up with, “Pull my string. The birthday party’s today?” Geniuses. That’s the only way I can describe them. I’ve decided, half-heartedly, that I want to become an animator, but I’m still not absolutely confident I can pull such a thing off. Hell, it’s taken me 16 years to realize that I should write my thoughts down…on paper. Not just say it to people and hope they like it, but to…write…it…down. And it took me 17 years to finally understand what I’m supposed to be figuring out for essays, which is still such a struggle. In trying to articulate my thoughts as coherently as possible, I have taken the first step towards maturity. But if seeing those moments in Toy story makes me uncomfortable and even traumatic, am I capable of taking that step? Can I fathom what a drop that step will be? I predict it’ll be, at least, a 30,000 foot drop, with the cartoon smoke that always dooms Wile E. Coyote.               

As a little kid, I found myself negatively obsessed with Toy Story. Now let me explain what that means. Just like any franchise, I found myself purchasing whatever product I could from the toy store that was about Toy story. I even bought the Luxo ball so that I could bounce on it, even though the weight distribution would prompt immediate death and a frightening squeal from the ball. I was as abusive as the psychosomatic maniac, Sid, when it came to the treatment of my “prized” Toy Story figures. I remember on a cloudy day, nothing like Andy’s room’s wallpaper, where if weather reflected emotions, it would be pitch black. For no impertinent reason, I walked to the middle of the driveway, holding my Buzz Lightyear with both hands, and shouting “To Infinity and Beyond!” hurling Buzz through the air almost 20 feet. He was a spaceman and had been trained to handle such intense forces of gravity, but he was also made of PLASTIC-Kkk and couldn’t survive the flight back down to cruel mother earth even he tried to. I was always careful, and when I knew I couldn’t catch the spaceman, I didn’t try to. I would be absolutely traumatized if I saw Buzz penetrating the rock-solid concrete at such a frightening speed, no one to help him as his carefully designed buttons and features would scatter across the place, cracking and breaking into indiscernible bits. I rarely swear in public if it’s only a stream of curse words with no subject, verb, or meaning. Saying it just for the sake of saying it, but I promise that I would frighten the poor bastard for daring to rape the integrity of that beautiful film by doing just as the film’s villain had, and not realizing the significance of these wonderful characters. Then again, I was 4. I wasn’t thinking about rape nor did it ever occur to me to type, write, or say the word. It even confounds me that such a word even exists or that it’s always thrown out in public like “the” or “and”. I’ve never heard of a conversation that didn’t contain either word, and can’t imagine anyone trying it, even for some kind of viral recognition. YouTube is making just too easy for anyone to become recognized, and that wouldn’t be a problem for me if the people being recognized were worthy of being recognized. Such random exposure to things like in YouTube would’ve confused and possibly annihilated the curiosity of a 4 years old toy torturer/space explorer that he would never want to think about anything else since he’d realize just how horrible and unapologetic any word, term, or phrase can be. What he had once thought as innocent, millions of others see as a destructive, poisonous force.

But I’m being pessimistic. The film, no doubt, has some of its morals intact, memorable life lessons that I will remember forever since people won’t stop repeating them. You can stop telling me to be myself; I learned that lesson a long time ago. Strangely enough, I can’t find myself to stop making the connections between Toy Story and A Streetcar named Desire. At first glance, yes this comparison is not worthy of being compared. The two movies have absolutely no possible way of being compared, and without even…Okay, I’ll stop now. Blanche Dubois was someone who didn’t want to let go of what her life had established, a reputation of a life that had no chance of evolving into this time period, a woman with her moth-like gestures trying to suck up as much of the spotlight as she can, yet not allowing it to consume her in a blanketed inferno that no soul would try to put out. I know that sounds confusing so…let’s try that again. Blanche is a misunderstood woman, living in a city she misunderstands, trying to find an explanation that justifies all of her torment. As it turns out, Blanche never finds this justification and is thrown into the mental institution, even though she was the sanest of the other characters. Arguably. Favorable spaceman Buzz Lightyear went through the same mental scenario; arriving in Andy’s room, he captures the attention of all but one toy, the most resilient one who won’t dare to move from his established position. Yes, Woody is Stanley Kowalski and better yet, Marlon Brando would’ve seen the connection as well. Heh, imagine if Woody shouted like Stan-oh wait… “YOU… ARE… A…TOY!!!” Brando would’ve been proud. Anyway, both Buzz and Blanche search for their identities without doing so, but are forced to confront reality when it is the most and only appropriate solution to their ongoing conflicts. Pixar took risks by placing Woody and Buzz in that dramatic and Oscar-worthy scene, where both on the toys “death row”, contemplate their previous actions and (realize what they had been missing all their lives). It’s truly a noteworthy scene that…well, I don’t remember if I did cry the first time I saw it, but I promise that it would make me emotional if I saw it today or even years or decades later. Woody is talking the whole time, but Buzz never looks up, even to relax his neck, just…thinking. Even the actors mention that Buzz is legitimately depressed at this moment and it seems that nothing can pull him out of it. This moment is Blanche’s moment at the very end of Streetcar, though not done quite as graphically, but just as emotionally, and on some days, I feel like I’ve been strapped onto that rocket, and I don’t care about how heavy or volatile the rocket may be, but all I know is that rocket is the only thing it takes for my life to end, in a fiery explosion, in a blocked out state of mind, in a reality that has lied to me for the last time. But…Pixar does what I can’t even do without some kind of help. They remind me that there is someone nearby who can help, a cowboy, sitting under a crate just a foot away, standing as the brightness of the morning sky clears away the thickest fog painted onto the window, pushing with all of the might his stuffy arms and delicate exterior can exact onto the crate. Woody pushes, the uplifting music joining him, pushes, pushes, and then Buzz joins him, and they push, and push, and then Woody is freed, and then Buzz keeps pushing and then… Classic movie moment. The moment is purely physical comedy, but it’s done with such finesse and nostalgic brilliance that I promise I will laugh at that sequence every single time it happens. Woody may be my favorite character, but you have to have to laugh at yourself every once in a while. Woody’s expression just as the toolbox falls on him is just classic. God, I love this movie!

Yes, I have been…a little pessimistic throughout the whereabouts of my life, and now that I think about it, I’ve been unfair to myself. But it hasn’t been my entire fault. Life has been a constant struggle that challenges me every day to do something worthwhile. Life can be pretty damn annoying in that sense. I mean, I can’t even take a 5 minute break without life telling me that I should stretch out my arms in order to get more comfortable. I just typed a…2, 637-ah, make that 8, word essay and life still wants me to keep working. At this point in time, I will freely admit that I have been disappointingly lazy, despite my sudden interest in everything except academics, so that could be a factor for not wanting to work. But, also, work can’t be the only factor of my life, and Pixar knows this. Their careers encapsulate everything I dream of accomplishing in the future, and my appreciation for their remarkable and ingenious contribution to films will be everlasting. But that’s not what my childhood was about. No, my childhood was about the story of two toys, which were different from one another, who learned to accept each other as individuals, and become lifelong friends. I will admit part of that sentence was said by Tom Hanks in a television interview, and I paraphrased it…a little, but I do respect Tom that much to confess, and to acknowledge that he explained the meaning of the film better than I could. All right, I give it another shot. Toy Story is about a group of toys that have an undying appreciation for their imaginative owner Andy; it’s also about human struggles, the search for oneself in an ever-changing world, and the complications that plague their lives constantly. It’s a wonderful, beautiful film that I cannot help, but look back on sometimes when I want a simplified explanation to life, and sadly, for this, the film no longer delivers. But that is my fault since my personal philosophy can be connected back to the movie (and Curb Your Enthusiasm), and everyone knows that philosophy tends to be complicated. What it does deliver is something that, even after all these years, I still can’t directly explain, gives me a renewed appreciation for the wonders of life, and reminds me of the imaginative potential that everyone is capable of. There are exceptions, small ones. It’s a movie that reminds me that toys are not just a product of commercialism as we’ve forced ourselves to believe in trying to seem mature, but that toys are the only aspect of our lives that we have an eternal connection to, a never-ending wire that can reach long and beyond the end of the universe, a cementation of our souls that we will always love, no matter how much more complicated the world becomes. I love Toy Story, and… will never forget the permanent influence it’s given me, for it is not simply a 76 minute long strand of film. Toy Story is me, and as far as I know, that’s a pretty good thing.

No Left Turn

Originally typed on June 16, 2011.  

The following was written as a reaction to one of my friends' paintings, one from her concentration, a series of paintings with one related theme, in high school. Like a fascinated but also somewhat annoying person, I kept reminding her that I wanted to "canonize" her masterful work in some shape or form, and after trying to criticize her work thoughtfully, I instead opted for a short story, one that became an obsession of mine to complete during the summer. Unfortunately, I have no way of showing her image to you, the reader, so that you have some idea of how the brainstorming process worked for properly interpreting her piece. Something that struck my attention was how her theme is "Home", and most of her concentration were little sections of her home in the Palisades and although she is a wonderful painter, I felt her theme hampered on the execution of most of her paintings, and with her goal of completing 12 paintings by the end of the school year, she began rushing towards completion of her series. One day, she brought along her next painting, one with no title. It surprised me how empty and yet lively this painting was compared to the others. I don't want to describe it since I know my description will be inaccurate. The painting features as a sign saying "No Left Turn" which I have named the story. I admit that I'm posting this story also with haste as I no longer want to worry about it and move on to other projects, and that it is a story that resolves itself very quickly and that the descriptions lack the underlying bitterness of my previous stories, but overall, it's still a pretty good story that could be improved. Let me know what you think about it in the comments, and thanks for reading if you do.  

 

A lone pebble in the middle of the street balances the neighborhood. At the earliest hour, it makes a shadow that reaches the far end of the block up to the stop sign. Some pranksters cut out a side of it to fool exhausted drivers. The paperboy knows about the cars that could potentially crush and mangle his bike, so he always watches the road after passing the stop sign. His newspaper sack feels heavier than usual. So did his arms. People make fun of him for wearing sunglasses everywhere, but his eyes are that deplorable and could only function properly for 15 seconds until becoming defunct. It was the paperboy’s last day on the route. He pulls out each paper and flings it at every direction. A quiet summer morning is spoiled by the paperboy’s terrible aim. Mrs. Flutterman’s precious daises are flattened by the LA Times. He breaks his fifty-first flower pot. The lone pebble catches onto the wheel and shreds the tire. The paperboy tumbles to the floor, a stunt he had rehearsed a few times before. A few scrapes don’t stop the paperboy. Only the sight of his rented bicycle rolling by itself and then crashing into a moving car do. Words from the newspaper editor swearing at him makes the paperboy shake in turmoil. For the next few minutes, the only things the paperboy sees are the sidewalk and his own shadow.

The paperboy shakes his head and looks up. He panics and searches for his sunglasses which are just near his shoes. Taking a moment, he begins putting them on when something catches his eyes. The neighborhood has the most vibrant palette of colors he’d ever seen. Every house has its own personality, its own traits and behaviorisms. The house filled with whimsical colors designs, seemingly being lifted off the ground: Animator. The house covered by another house’s shadow, revealing only parts of its exterior but daring others to see what the interior has to offer: Prostitute. He pulls out his schedule and checks the number. Yep, he was in the right place. Carrying his bag, the paperboy steps carefully onto the sidewalk. Wind chimes, garden gnomes, doghouses, basketball hoops, at once he tries to imagine the people who purchased these things. He imagines the wind chimes at some sterile department store in the midst of many customers passing the wind chimes to. The paperboy looks at his own shirt and reconsiders the thought. People in the neighborhood had confidence in the world, enough that none of them had any kind of security system to defend their homes with. The paperboy walks up to the house and looks at the wind chimes. A small breeze begins the chimes’ lovely tune. He hums the tune and sways his head in rhythm with the chimes. Though he wants the chimes on the porch of his parents’ house, it killed him to realize he would only be getting a similar, yet flawed replica. He looks out and realizes this was the last house to deliver. He pulls out the paper and places it gently on the doormat. He sits on the steps and looks at the neighborhood one last time. Though he never saw it in a truthful light, it had been his home and it took care of him as well as any mother could have. His parents call him later in the day, wondering if his shift is over. The paperboy tells them that there’s still a few more papers to deliver. He puts his bag aside and watches the neighborhood. He’ll return home by lunchtime.          

Accident on Freeman Ave.

Originally typed in 8th grade.
 
This is the beginning of my creative writing career, and the very first time I was able to express myself without censoring my thoughts. Also, it was the final project for my 8th grade creative writing class. Since this was my most enjoyable project of the year, it did take a while to realize the story is severely flawed and incomplete. The story has an interesting plot, but it moves quickly and never feels complete. I remember a generous ovation the first time I presented the story to the class, but for an eighth grade story, it is depressing and overly dark and paints a picture towards how my first year was in a new school. Even with a story like this, it still has to be acknowledged as an important first step in my exploration of a new idea, and as life shows, every mistake is a step forward. Inappropriate content ahead. Read with caution.

Part 1

Everything is black. I don’t hear a noise. I guess no one else is here. I take off the sheets and try to walk. I fall straight to the floor. My back is really killing me, my feet feel like mush, and my spine seems as fragile as glass. Damn. That annoying ring tone is playing again. It seems like forever till I grab the cell phone from the table. I accidentally push some ornaments and they fall on the floor and break on impact, the water splashing on my fingers. I check whose calling me and at that moment, I lose my breath. I frantically crawl to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, and gulp down a bottle of water. I check who it is again and find out it was from my friend Elizabeth. It was a text message that read, “GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE! WE NEED TO TALK!” If Elizabeth doesn’t use the landline phone, I can tell it’s not good news. It feels like forever till I can finally stand up and walk normally. Forgetting that I actually have a car, I toddle to Elizabeth’s house while negative thoughts are pouring into my mind. Why does she want to see me? Why is she infuriated? Why in hell did she use the word ass? Walking nervously to the front door, I touch the doorbell and get an unexpected reaction. She opens the door and I become aware of her eyes filled with tears, runny nose, quivering mouth, she held tissues tightly in her hands, and says, “Curt’s dead!”

For a reason I can’t explain, I accidentally say, “whose dead?”

“That’s not funny!” she yells while wiping away her tears. “You know what I’m talking about, JOHN!” She’s right about one thing. I do know Curt but I don’t know why she’s yelling. Curt, a quarterback for the high school, known as a jock, always had a huge ego, and my best friend. He always acted like an ass at our high school years but we had been friends since preschool, always shared laughs and told ourselves inappropriate things at sleepovers. Yeah, nothing would keep our friendship apart…or so I thought. The day I thought as hell turned out to be more than that…it’s also death. “Do you remember that accident, John?”

“Don’t remind me about that day, damn it!”

“He was your best friend and you killed him because of your carelessness!”

“Now wait just a-“I stumbled back and sat on the couch by the wall. Killed Curt? Why the hell is she saying that I killed Curt? “That’s crazy talk! I wasn’t anywhere near Curt when-“

“Well you could’ve at least stopped him before he did the last decision of his life. You didn’t think at all of what could’ve happened and…” she went on and on and on for minutes but it felt like forever, the most painful torture I could ever get.

“Okay, I’ve had enough of this! I’m getting the hell out of here!” I leapt off the couch, stormed towards the door and flung the door open.

“You step out of my house and I’m calling the cops. Then you’ll become a runaway and your life will become so screwed up that you’ll want to commit suicide!” Those words flew into my eardrums, became transmitted into my brain, and chilled the rest of my body. But I still grabbed the door handle and slammed the door shut. I start running for my life and wondered if she was bluffing but I didn’t want to take any chances. I immediately reach home and turn off all the lights. By this time, I’m breathless and fall to the floor. Can’t believe this. Of all the crappiest things that ever happened to me, this is the whole shitload. Things have happened and I can’t change it. But I still remember that accident clear as day and maybe I can reveal whose fault it truly is.

Part 2

A normal, cloudless afternoon, students from campus with vehicles would drive away to hang out with their girlfriends, or go to the movies, or whatever the hell they would do after school. I, on the other hand, would just drive home and type on the laptop for hours and hours and hours, thinking that I’ve wasted my entire life. Then there’s Freeman Ave, a crosswalk which gave me frozen nerves, every time. I had a certain feeling that sometime, at that very crosswalk, chaos would strike. And strike it did. Kurt was driving next to me in a Honda Accord, in shimmering jade. I drove a Volkswagen Buggy, in unembellished red. By the millions of times he was beeping that horn, I could tell that he wanted to race. No damn way was I gonna risk my neck in an insipid stunt as that so I drove away, trying to lose him. Unfortunately, I had just “started” the race so he tried to catch up. I couldn’t take this any longer so I called him on my cell phone and screamed the F-bomb in his ears. He knew that I wasn’t kidding so he said fuck back at me, told me he was gonna find some other sucker to race, and then hung up. Curt began screaming towards random people to race and they either called him drunk or a mentally retarded ass. One person reluctantly agreed and the race was on. This would be his fatal mistake. I drove behind them, in case anything happened. It was an intense race with twists, turns, and nearby runovers. Ironically, the next street coming was Freeman Ave. Curt was in the lead. He didn’t look at the traffic lights. From our side, it turned red so the other side just became green. The cars kept driving even though Curt was in full view. I jumped out of my car before someone rammed into it. The other guy smashed Curt’s car from behind and pushed it forward. Curt’s car was instantly crashed from the left and began spiraling when another car smashed it from the front. People began dialing their cell phones and calling for help. When his car began to spiral, I just ran away from the scene and hoped that he was okay. I had fainted while running and then everything went blank. The last thing I remember is the wailing of ambulances.

My god…the worst thing that could’ve happened but I survived and he didn’t. And it’s my entire fault. Had I’ve told him not to insane enough or imprudent enough to race in the hazardous, urban city he would still be alive right now, enjoying popularity, acting like a big ass big shot, and snapping twigs while playing football. I grab my skull tightly and massage my brain to think clearly; what do I do, should I accept his death, should I move on, should I…cry? A big boom disables my concentration and suddenly the door flies off. It’s smashed into the wall and breaks into pieces instantaneously. That bitch did call the police and wants me to pay for my crime. Another option pops into my head and I choose it immediately as it came: Run. I climb from the floor and rush to the bathroom. Bullets are instantly fired and destroy everything in sight. I nudge the window open, inch by inch and leap out. It’s a painful landing as I fall on some razor-sharp, bristly bushes. I wait for a while and quickly rush under the sewers. One sniff and I start coughing like hell. The odors of dead animals, shit and urine from all over the city mix with the sea green, chocolate-imitating liquid all in one ostentatious aroma. Well, are you happy now, you bitch?! I’m a runaway from a murder which is believed to be my entire fault, police are chasing me day in and day out, and you’re dead, Curt! Form loss of blood, smashed bones, shards of broken glass piercing your skin, I don’t know how it happened but you’re dead…and very soon, when the cops find me, I’ll find you so we can do that race that you wanted, no matter how long it is.

Artist's Statements

Began on March 28, 2011.

The following are the numerous versions of the artist’s statement that I wrote for my concentration(more on that in The Third One) It is an accurate portrayal of my thinking process which can be very frustrating if little progress is made. With the theme of stories and the numerous ways I could interpret that theme, I eventually came upon the last statement that encapsulated the ideals the theme represented as well as being as mysterious as the works themselves. Eventually I will try to explain the works as a whole but maybe when I become more confident in trying.  

In AP Art History, when I learned that Salvador Dali, the world-famous surrealist, had a wife, it gave me hope for the future. That’s a story.

Stories. An exploration of the human psyche.

Stories. Originally began as a more instructional development of the steps needed to tell a story, with each work being a separate element. An example of one work being the beginning, the next the rising conflict, leading to the climax, and so on. The idea dropped inconspicuously, replaced by a simple need to display ideas. By an understanding of how unusual my ideas seemed, I’ve struggled for the past few months doing so.

Stories. As the name itself shows, it is an unorthodox exploration of the concept of the story. Works focus on making things happen.

Stories. I’m having trouble with it.

Stories.  The topic is personal.

Stories. Begun as a major opportunity to unveil my unorthodox ideas for the first time after keeping them hidden, it’s become a personal and almost therapeutic exercise for life and for the future development of stories. The exhibit doesn’t display the order in which they were created in. Though the original concept of the stories has a dark and disturbing nature, it was a challenge to universalize those ideas for the viewable public, mirroring my own challenges with talking with others in a different world.

Stories. Still having trouble.

Stories. Originally was going to be a chronicle of lost ideas to be displayed for the first time-began as a single story telling the journey of a psychotic man who wanted to experience some kind of emotion by going to the park and shooting a duck. However, against the wishes of the class, I decided to sound like a douchebag who rejected his friends’ ideas. Whoo.

Stories. Can give headaches.

Stories. Pressure.

Stories. Giving importance to the seemingly unnecessary elements presented in a story-Showing only the most essential details that push a story forward-elements is an overused word-I’m tearing up right now and I don’t know why.

Stories. Can cause emotional imbalance.

Stories. Can continue tomorrow.

Stories. An opportunity to reveal an uncertain truth, only for those curious enough to listen(or in this case, see.)  A collection of works that I can’t help but call strange only since they are.  Pretty damn strange. Much like it may be strange to swear upon realizing you’re no longer 5, it is strange to have made these works with the intent of being a public therapy session, but ultimately that’s what each of them are. Therapy is a long winded session of story-telling with the therapist making each connection(listening intently).

Stories. A pretentious explanation that is simpler than it appears to be. 

Stories. A wish that the artist will stop insulting his own works and get to the goddamn point.

Stories. A commercial break.

Stories. A mythical trip through an ancient time.

Stories. Making the connection can be as frustrating as the work itself, daring yourself to prove you are not ignorant to the obvious.(The obvious can be anything) The purpose of these stories is to allow the mind to unwind itself for the first damn time, giving the okay to make as many interpretations to the work and not questioning either idea as all of them are as relevant as the other.

Stories. Whether it is just a letter, a note, or a page, the journey through a story always requires direct attention and no preconceived knowledge. A story can amuse, surprise, or confuse.

Stories: A Concentration

The Third One

Originally typed on April 16, 2011.

Around this time, my art class had to write a few words about our concentration, a collection of works that had a theme; my theme was stories.  A painful brainstorming session about what my artist’s statement was going to be led to this story. The thinking process tends to be a difficult and self-inflictive one and when I can distract myself with words that pair together well with each other, the result is therapeutic and wonderful. When my teacher, Ms. Marianne Hall read it the first time, she insisted that the story should be another work for the concentration. It worked out very well, and in a future post, I’ll explain why. For now, enjoy.

The bead from a 20 inch long bracelet of twine; Hidden under a pile of decomposing forgettable, amazingly uncrushed under all the weight. Once nestled carefully with 20 or so other beads around the wrist of a young boy or man as he liked to call himself. His fifteen-week anniversary present. He preferred to count by months, less numbers to keep track of. The bead tumbles across the sludge and trash, skipping right across other precious memories. A toy train missing one wheel. A picture frame with drips of paint on the top right corner. The bead lands in a can of Spam, hitting the bottom, skipping off against the wall, spinning until it finally rests. Its judgment day will come in a few hours.