This is a project we had the first week of class. A mandala is a circle that shows your soul. http://img198.imageshack.us/img198/9448/201108120004503622.jpg
here is a link to the drawing
My mandala says many things about my inner self- my desires, my fears, my tendencies, and my thoughts. It is not organized too much, although it is mildly. There are about six different portions and some flow into others.
I first drew a fish, this is representation of me. I try to swim through the world and I try to embrace life. The fish is smiling as I smile when I embrace living. Waves are scattered on the fish’s skin; it is the tranquility of the fish and life in general. It is bigger than the boat in another scene; I think a fish has a significant amount of importance even though it is only a fish.
A large leafy tree is growing out of the middle of the circle. This tree grows like I, myself try to grow. It grows stronger, older, and larger and becomes abundant in life. It stems out to more and more branches and that explains how everything is related to everything and that all life is a common miracle. I climb the tree which shows my respect and love for it while also showing how I want to enjoy my life.
The least detailed part of my mandala is the black sliver. This sliver is small but gets bigger. This is darkness, sadness, anger, and craziness. Darkness can envelop in a person and destroy their mind. It can consume one completely and control one’s thought; this is shown by it going out of the circle.
Another scene reflects common day life and how I try to make everyone happy. I hold a balloon and the people around me are in bad states of mind: sadness, anger, and frustration. Someone can see the beauty of everyday life and show up with a balloon by their side instead of a rain cloud over their head.
Below the fish is a big scene, although it starts with an ocean. The ocean goes out of the circle showing the passing of time and a life of consumable happiness. The man in the boat shows how small he is compared to the ocean. On the left part of this bottom scene is a snake. The snake is darkness as well, but also fear. Fear for life, fear for love, and fear of going crazy. The snake is staring at a figure of me when I’m older. I am happy and successful in what I try to do. I stare at the snake like how I flirt with danger, take risks, and try to understand darkness. If I get upset and give up, the snake eats me. I stay standing on the border of the ocean and occasionally look into darkness.
I have taken a whitened chicken bone, from which the unfortunate animal was used as dinner a few nights ago. The farmer seemed more than happy to give up one for the cause of the King. From this bone I have begun to carve a small Celtic charm, my brother's wife taught me the meanings of several and I have chosen the luck charm. It is said that the more you wear it, the more luck you will have. Duncan taught me everything he taught Daniel, including how to carve. It was only about three quarters of an inch wide on all sides, and the details were difficult with my wide blade, but it was turning out well. When I had finished the outline and cut the shape out of the rest of the bone, I took a lump of coarse dirt from the roadside and began polishing the edges to round it out.
I sat in the entrance way to my tent after a long day's march, and the rain had begun to pour down. There was not much else to do in the camp besides drilling, so I had plenty of time to make the charm. When the polishing was finished, I reached into my bag and pulled out my sash. Pulling three loose threads from the cut edge, I tied them together at one end and then braided them down to the other end. I took the charm and looped the braid through the top hole in the design, and then tied it around my neck and dropped it down the front of my shirt. I felt it through the cloth and put my hand over it. "Thank you Duncan, goodbye."
I heave a sigh and wipe the moisture from my eye. Tomorrow, we are told, will be the last day of marching, we will be in Portsmouth by mid afternoon and from there on to the ships. I have never been on a ship before, only small fishing boats, and I wonder what its like. Matty walks by on his way to supper, I jump up and join him, and I will ask him.
"Have you ever been on a ship, Matty?"
"Me? No, never."
"I wonder what it's like." said I
"Chris has been on one before." Matty smiled as we ducked out of the rain into the mess tent. "He sailed from Ireland to join up."
Hmm, that's right. I will ask him then. We get in line and two steaming plates are put in front of us, as well as two tankards full of water. No ale for the drummers, humph. We turn from the line and search for Michael and Chris. They are spotted across the tent, but Nicholas and his gang are sitting between us and them. I look at Matty and head off to take the long way around; we've had mostly no trouble with him, but they are growing bolder; and even though we are equals, he is older and stronger. So we avoid him and his English pals.
"I swear, if I was the cook in this place, Ah'd have made us all a nice big pot o' porridge, never mind this shite!" I swore when taking my seat.
"Oh, so yer a chef now, as well as a sword master?" laughed Chris.
"Aye, Ah'll kill you wi' mae sword in one hand and cut you up and put yer pieces in my stew with my dirk in the other!" I joked back. Matty's eyes widened at this and ducked his head down. "What's the matter, Matty?"
He looked nervous, but spoke anyway. "Is it true
Joseph Roza (XRIVO Co-founder) and I have many things in common. We both attended the University of Iowa and studied writing with the phenomenal undergraduate program there. We both fell in love with Iowa City, one of the most renowned literary communities in the world, and its ability to inspire someone’s best work. Of course, As compulsive writers, it was difficult not to fall in love with a town with quotations and passages engraved into the sidewalks, murals of literary allusions on the walls of buildings, and readings, lectures or artistic displays happening somewhere every night of the week. Then the academic side, and the workshops: that horrifying, rigorous process through which a panel of your peers and faculty picked through every pore and imperfection of your work to try and help you refine your vision. Anxiety-inducing, yes, but powerful, all because no one ever described anyone's work as "bad". The students were only ever interested in trying to improve themselves and offering whatever small bits of valuable input they could. Nothing, artistically, was off limits. As students, as two people who had a genuine, intense affection for language and writing, it was a wildly exciting place. Then, as students eventually must, we left the creative and academic bubble that college represents for most and entered the real world. Upon leaving, we discovered one other thing we had in common: We missed Iowa City. We were also both mutually terrified by the horror stories we heard from writers about dealing with publishers, stories about lack of creative control, astonishingly low royalties, or even a year of being told they were “interested” in using the work followed by an impersonal, boiler-plate rejection letter. The world for someone with an artistic streak is, as it turns out, not a friendly place. But something wonderful has been happening in the publishing industry over the past few months. Digital distribution methods and social networking tools allow for anyone to market their work and sell it on their own, on their terms, making self-publishing a more feasible method than ever before. The truth is, we don’t need publishers to reach people, and we certainly don’t need them to tell us what merits a chance at a wide base of readers. What the digital age hasn’t offered us yet is an open community site that’s specifically designed to help writers of every form, genre and experience level to connect with readers and build their own creative community. Writing is so often portrayed as a solitary craft, the product of one great intellect sitting alone in a room pounding out genius. In fact, writing is just one side of a conversation, the beginnings of a discussion between writer and reader. So many people are convinced that they can't write, or that they shouldn't, or that their perspective couldn’t possibly offer anything of worth to the world, even if they’ve been writing their whole lives. If they do manage to keep faith in the wo
Sixteen chickens were now living on 'Ol Joe's farm. They were sitting and clucking around and not knowing exactly what to do.
The mom chicken gave birth to one; it was a boy. It was excited, clucking around. The sky was free and everything flowed like a feather in a breeze. It was great. Everything was good. It was the only chicken born to the mother. He wanted friends or siblings. "-Cluck- I need to have to fun -cluck- We could run around on this clucking farm together -cluck-"
It was another boy that was born! On the same day and same time that the first chicken was born. Happy. The first chicken was extremely happy. He looked at the new chicken, it looked almost exactly like him. Twins. However, it was more strange because the new chicken seemed to be the same age as the old chicken, even though he was just born. "-Cluck- Big ol' twin" The new chicken smiled at the old chicken. He seemed quite able for his age. The future seemed to be friendship.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. This chicken even bigger. There were three chickens now and they were clucking and confused. "Cluck" " Yes, this is strange. This chicken seems to look like both -cluck- of us" It did. This chicken seemed to be the same as the others. Three year old chicken born at the day. They were all clucking and confused. "Cluck" "Cluck" "We're friends!" said the new chicken.
They were happy but overwhelmed. Their ideas were conflicted now. Were these chickens the same age, because it seemed like they were. Or were these chickens separated by a year, because it seemed like they were. "Cluck" They clucked a lot on the farm. That's all they did for a little bit in silence. They decided to keep enjoying their time together and continuing on with life.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. All the chickens had grown significantly. But out of the egg in 'Ol Joe's farm, that chicken was the same size and seemed to be the same age. Were they all the same chicken separated by a year? -cluck- -cluck- -cluck- or what? They did not know what to do, they all had become great friends. They were thinking of two ideas, but continuing to cluck.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. Things were feather free still. This chicken was the same size and age as the other chickens. However, the chickens had gotten older. and became more intelligent. It is confusing because the new chicken was just as intelligent. They looked at each other with chicken eyes and clucked again.
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It became to be an uncomfortable malaise. The chickens did not know what to do. They loved their brother but were more -clucki- -cluck- confused. They decided they need to keep on going. "-Cluck- Let's play hopscotch" "Yes"
On the same day a year later, another chicken was born. It was the same size, mind, and seemed to be the same age as the other chickens, j
My Dearest: It has been so long since we've talked; since we've touched; since I've felt the tenderness of your soft lips caressing my own. Your voice was once so euphonious to me. You had always found a way to bring my mind to joy, even during my times of greatest need. I had nothing when you found me. I had not even the clothing on my back, but only a thin gown. My thoughts were then in deep distress; my life was but only a mess. You, my dear; you were the only who could bring a smile to my face, a laughter in my voice, and the love from my heart. You were my everything! You were my everyone... my only one. When I was trash to the rest of the world, you saw something in me. You saw things that I would have never realized on my own. You were my anchor, my crutch; you were the rope that I held on to which pulled my from my gloom, my hole... my grave. Oh how I miss you so, my dear. I miss your tender touch, as when we would kiss your hand would graze my chin, my cheek, the back of my neck. I miss parking the car in an empty lot in the middle of the night just to dance to the song that played in our hearts. I miss holding you closely in my arms, as the night would grow dim you would fall asleep beside me; while i could not sleep because I was so captivated by you. You would wake up and smile just because I had not let you go through the night. I miss gazing into your eyes. I remember telling you on multiple occasions that your eyes were just so beautiful to me, but you would never believe me. Then you would ask with a smile on your face, "How many girls have you used that line on before?" rolling your eyes. I would smile back and tell you that your eyes are the most beautiful eyes I think that I have ever seen in my life. And, darling, that is not a lie. Your eyes are so perfect! They are bright light blue with delicately detailed patterns that make them look like timeless winter crystals. Do you remember? Do you remember how you felt with me? Do you remember the way our kiss would make you feel? Do you remember joyous feeling of being in love? Do you remember the first time we said, "I love you." to each other? Do you remember how I stuck by you no matter how badly things had gotten, within our complicated situation? Do you remember talking to me in the middle of the night and no matter what it was, I was there to help, to listen, to give feedback? I do. I remember all of it. From the night that we met, to the last second I saw you... I remember. And because I remember, I wish I could forget. I wish I could forget how happy I was then so that I can stop mourning how depressed I feel right now. I wish I could forget what it felt like to be loved so that I do not realize my feelings of being unloved; of being trash; of being worthless to the one I once called my lover, my friend, my Aubrey Reed. Signed with all of my love,Me
and it's like a
laundry-list of acquaintances,
name-marked and chilled condiments;
squeeze-filled "hello!" embraces
or a clumsy slumberkiss.
impartial sandman relations and
impact to sway an axis;
care without condition,
unbiased opinions or
a scar-free appendage.
siblings. childhood friends.
a domesticated orca,
a drink void of caution,
a late night walk without keys in hand or
a beach in which to submerge my toes and
those scenarios premiering in dreamland;
a well-paid career [or
at least equal to that of a man's].
life without currencysocietyand
without the mundane, routine progression
of green, grey, gone;
singular sentiment, automated sleep,
parents capable of satiety and
a world lacking dishes and trash-taking.
winter white and frigid,
an early completion;
someone to wait on me
without an inevitable aberration.
the assuagement of afterlife, the
divine intervention of hands
the quiet murmur of ideals and desires within
the ear of some orphic entity
presumed to care.
a kiss clean of guilt,
solicitous reassurance, and
a sigh at the stars in the arms of a
it's like you:
something I can never have.
tendered flesh where your
found my skin—
[jaw lines, joints, appendages twixt]
indistinct regret as my
turnt my chin.
reminiscent of your essence,
everpresent in all my recollections
seeps between discretion.
you linger like a dream
lining my subconscious,
you stick to my clothes—
[jeans dirtied, hair tousled]
you re-emerge in inhalation and contemplation;
disrupt the surface with ease.
the smudges left,
the rubber burnt,
the charcoal scent stains
in a chest pit;
fueled with every
the skin-to-skin sensation
and each beat accelerated—
a feather-lined stomach
wont to sway in anticipation
stays its state
as if it were expected.
and to lie beside
is more than welcoming,
to sit with a firelit
until the morning; tempting.
loyal like a dog,
loyal to a fault,
and awaking to wince;
this tenderness is all
an exploratory thumb
gingerly rubs a palm
and the sliver of pain
neonlights the night;
encouraging his fists
occasional remorse uttered
internal nausea gnawing
fists brushing skin,
salutations in sharp inhalations,
he continued, aware
of masochistic intent;
side, my thigh, a
a smile insinuates
grin and bear.
this plaything status more
a consensus wrought
in bruises and
but his knuckle splits
a spot of blood, an
"no" comes all
like a wave
end over end over
throat knots and
she/ her/ you know,
nouns and adjectives.
could you believe it
still turns my stomach?
quickens the beat of bitter
and ripens resentment;
it doesn't matter,
blue fluxes navy
in effervescent splash dances
complacent with your words,
skin pigment laced pink
stains and tinges grey
while trails of liner treadway
fade with your name
still, my head mimics
dramatic scenery within film strips,
of horroresque cinematics
so sluggishly shaking horizontal
still, after weeks proceeding months
in the near completion of one-hundred-days
strings frayed garrote my heart
in utter asphyxiation
and still, my breath undulates
I tiptoe into plasmic veils
and now my shadow seems less vivid,
always careening to outline behind
I don't need a replica,
I just want a friend