circles

The circle is perfect, why wouldn’t you want to be part of it? The circle is oblivious to sharing, since it knows nothing other. The circle skips skipping, for fears it will collapse into its own holes. The circle does not know where it came from or who made it, nor does it know the question. Please, don’t take advantage of the circles ignorance.

What's a tie?

Ties, not even, neck ties. I have been thinking about neck ties. Yes I have. I have worn a tie many times in my life. I am disappointed that it took so long for myself to ask the question, “Why am I knotting this colored piece of fabric around my neck?”
We wear these ties to events, places where we are required to be at our “best.”
I don’t understand how such a fashion has not only lasted so long, but has become a requirement.
What the fuck is a tie?
This thing serves no logical function, and yet to be honest every now and then I will choose to put one on because it pleases my eye.
It is obvious that there is a focus on the unnecessary, the insignificant in this place we live. We know what celebrity has dyed their hair. We know who has won what award. We forget that our senses were given to help us function, we have taken them much further.
For me, a tie sums up all of this. There is no purpose to them other then a tradition starting in ascots.
What is interesting is, I say this knowing I will wear a tie again, and probably sometime soon. I will want to wear a tie; I just wish I knew why.

Staring

I'm sorry for making you invisible, that's just me staring.

"You exist within the senses I have yet to acquire."

"I exist within the senses you have yet to acquire."

Photographers surround me.

I’m sitting in the New House Photo Lab. Let’s talk about photography. I don’t want to talk about the overall mood of this building; it’s upsetting to think of. Smart people, though.
Photographers working on creating the sublime, ignoring the vast majority of context to tell a history confused.
Confused? Yes. There are two sides to all history, the true and the told. This is understandable since the truth is too large to report on. When re-telling a story it only makes sense to choose the sublime.
Though, with the constant advances in technology, the re-telling of stories become new stories that never existed, but are simply based on actually event, if that.
I’m going to end with this:
The concept of editing was created by the devil.

“How can I help you?” and the placement of something.

When said behind something, working, in front, crazy, on top, lying, below, only memory.

Should love be illegal?

Love, when trying to be described, is often explained in a similar manner to when someone tries to put words to their experiences on drugs.
It seems, when it comes to love and drugs, the conclusion to knowing what “it” feels like, you need to experience it for yourself. Before that, words are just words, with drugs, love, and pretty much emotion as a whole being beyond words.
Does this mean love can be constituted as a drug?
Love (in most cases) does not involve smoking, drinking, swallowing, snorting, or injecting anything.
What love does have in common with drugs is the need for something outside of yourself, something that messes with levels inside your body.
Maybe love should be illegal when compared to the amount of pain it brings. Not all illegal drugs will hurt you. It seems love inevitably will. Love leads to madness, love leads to sadness. Before you even experience love, you are already addicted, going through withdrawal.
I’m going to write a letter to congress. Make love illegal. How many lives will we save? How much pain will we avoid?
Rip out your heart and turn it over to your government so they can pile them up and burn them in a field along with your cocaine and marijuana.
In the words of Jeff Thomson-"Weed never made me want to die, kill, cry. Mary Jane has."

The World is Flat.

No, it is, really. Trust me.

Please.

There is absolutely nothing in this existence that anyone can be 100% certain of, nothing other then the need for us to be inherently good.
The definition of good falls under the former.

Teaching.

Teaching hinders originality.

Art is easy.

I have some things I would like to say which would take me to a few different places. I will try to take these things in the same direction. I can start from any of them.
Let me start here:
This being my last year at SU, I took an Intro to sculpting class hoping it would be an interesting, fun, and relaxing three credits. While I really do appreciate my professor’s attempts at making the class fall into those categories, it has yet to.
Our first assignment was to do an abstract juxtaposition using plaster and wood, one being dominant over the other.
I was not down.
I began work a few weeks ago on my sculpture, heartless. I simply worked on it to get it done so that I could start on my next piece.
I hate plaster.
I love wood.
When it came time for crit last Thursday, I looked at my piece knowing I was going to have to explain the meaning behind it, why it is the way it is.
Though, when starting the piece there was no reason to my design, once I was done I was able to come up with an elaborate expression dealing with the direction of our world’s society that would explain for every inch of my piece, from what I did intentionally to large chunks of plaster that came off accidently.
The crit took longer then expected. I was to be criticized last.
Standing behind my piece, when everyone turned to stare at it, I knew what was being asked of me. Regardless, I still asked, “what’s the question?”
My professor politely told me to explain my piece, what was my meaning behind it.
At that moment I decided to abandon my original cliché explanation.
I looked my teacher in the eyes and said, “I don’t know if you have noticed this, but I am not comfortable answering that question.”
After giving a few seconds to allow the shock of what I had just unexpectedly said to the class set it, I began to explain why.
“For this assignment we were asked to do an abstract piece. If, instead we were told to do something figural, I would have done a sculpture of a puppy, and right now I would be telling you that this is a puppy. With it being an abstract piece, telling you the meaning behind it would negate the purpose of it being abstract.”
I look at the students’ faces to see the same face I would have sculpted for that puppy… I decide to elaborate.
“Being abstract allows each individual viewer to have his or her own personal interpretation, expression, feeling, etc. for the piece. If I were to tell you right now what this piece means it would surly influence their personal view, something I don’t want to do.”
My professor then thanked my for brining up the subject, respecting my decision.
For the rest of my crit, the other students tried to either give advice or find something wrong with my piece, realizing that they couldn’t since they had no clue as to my own personal meaning behind it.
At that point it was fun, they began to express their views on it, looking at my face for clues on whether or not I shared them.
I did not.

Talking about art, I am going to bring up a discussion I had with a friend who has graduated, Emily. Though I doubt you are reading this, if you are, I hope you don’t mind.
In this discussion we spoke of what makes an artist an artist:
Everyone on this planet is an artist. Anyone can make art; one major reason for this is because anything can be art. The difference between everyone and the select few who walk this earth calling themselves artists is an artists will spend their lives rather then trying to understand the world around them, with the need for the world around to understand them.
Thank you, Emily.

Last, buy certainly not least, my Bubbie.
I’m usually not the type that brags. If I am it’s as a joke.
In this case I feel I can brag since it no longer is the case.
When I was younger, much younger, I would say a few years before and after third grade, I was good at art. I was really good at art. Today I would not be able to come close to drawing or painting what I was capable of doing back then.
All the reasons why I no longer have that ability aside, my biggest fan when it came and comes to my art is and was my Bubbie.
I didn’t progress the way you would have expected when it comes to my art, but in her eyes, I feel she genuinely thinks I have. In her mind, those younger days are still here. I have taken three different art classes while at SU, and every time I talk to her about them, she gives me advice on how to make it a career.
I try and tell her it’s just for fun.
She thinks I’m beyond that.
I’m not.
What I am trying to explain through my Bubbie is what art really is. As she always told me, art is about what you feel. She looks at my pieces blinded by what she feels knowing that her grandson created them.
On a side note, my Bubbie has been in the hospital for the past few days, hopefully she gets out tomorrow. I called her yesterday, sitting on the quad as she sat in her hospital bed.
My grandmother, whenever she found out I finished anything she could consider art, even if it was on a post-it, she would ask me if I signed it. She was adamant on me signing everything.
In our conversation, I told her how I had learnt in one of my classes that back in the day, especially during the time of Leonardo da Vinci, artists could be arrested and possibly even killed for signing their artwork. I explained that the reason for this was artists were commissioned to do their work, once their piece was finished it was no longer theirs.
I then asked my Bubbie why she had been trying to have me killed all these years.

She laughed.

Something.

It only ends when we are no longer able to see.

This is terrible.

This is terrible, what an awful class. The professor is standing there, lecturing, but nothing is coming out.
This is not to say he is silent, rather, he has not stopped talking. He needs to learn which words are worthy. He has told us nothing new, nothing interesting. It's like listening to a comedian commenting on love, sex, and marriage, except without the comedy.
I have been meaning to add to this blog, but I didn't know what. I have plenty to write about, but I want to make sure not to insult, not to make people uncomfortable.
Soon enough.
Soon enough I will begin to write what I really come here to write, but not yet. I need to warm up. You need to warm up. I need to learn how to put my thoughts into an order that you can understand. I write in a way that most levels of education can comprehend. My thoughts, my theories have yet to fall in line.
I had a failed letter writing project over the summer (I will write about it in detail some other time). Failed may not be the right word. I wanted to learn from it, and I did. I just didn't like what I had learned.
I will use that information for this blog. I don't want to overwhelm you just yet. If I do, nothing will make sense. For now, maybe I'll write a few stories, talk about my day. Thanks to this professor, I now have the time to.
Soon enough, though.

Killing a Blind Man

10:40AM, 20 minutes until class. Having about a 5-block walk to campus, the trip is straight. As I leave my house, put my headphones on, I notice a large black man, blind, walking behind me. Two short blocks into my walk I look back, becoming impressed, noticing that even with his apparent blindness, he was still able to keep the same pace as I, not to say I maintain a fast speed.
Feeling slightly emasculated by the blind mans ability to keep up, I begin to walk faster, looking back every now and then to make sure his helping cane, the longest one I have ever seen, sweeping side to side, covering more area then just the cement sidewalk, reaching the grass on each side. Students began piling up behind him, unable to make the leap over his eye. He was now at a comfortable distance.
Ostrom Avenue, two blocks away from campus, I was standing on the curb, one step from the two way street in front of me, waiting for the cars to stop appearing, or for the white walk sign to show. With “two headed boy” playing in my ear, I feel a tap at my ankle. I turn around to see the blind man using me as his sign to stop.
A habit of mine, as with many others is, when someone accidentally touches a body part of mine, my reaction is to move that part of my body in the opposite direction of whoever touched it. Now, this black mans staff touched me. Without thinking, I took one step onto the street, pretending I was back in Brooklyn where more people wait to cross standing on the street itself rather then the sidewalk.
While my mind was in Brooklyn, I was not thinking of how this stranger was using me as a reference point. I can only imagine, but I assume he thought I was crossing the street, thus it was safe for him to cross the street.
My eyes and mouth reached the same diameter as I noticed cars coming from each direction while this poor black blind man walked towards his future of disfigurement. A flash of Chancy Nancy played in my mind, “oh, um, you can’t go here anymore, you killed a blind man.”
I jumped out to the side of the man with my hands raised, as if to say “STOP” in each direction. Thankfully the cars did as I asked, and I am still a student at Syracuse.
I spent the rest of the walk behind the poor schmuck, clueless of what had just happened.