Lets Be Honest

I am not what you might consider to be a person who is well read, infact the bulk of my reading has been done at the breakfast table advocating for the rights of the Trix rabbit to be given an equal oppurtunity at rotting his big bunny teeth on those sugar filled balls we all know as Trix. Helen Hunt Jackson's story Ramona is sort of a reprieve from my normal reading material. The story is told in three part perspective as grandmother, daughter, and grand-daughter recall the same series of events and the reader experiences the total story from each narrators perspective. The story line is well written and the book was a very enjoyable read. The language is light and fun.

To abstract or not to abstract that is the question

During the last class while conducting the exercise on abstracts, I think I may have come face to face with myself and realized that I am a pervert. The stimulus word was control and I immediately thought of a teacher in a tight tweed skirt weilding a yard stick like a lightsaber and huffing while peeping over a low-budget pair of fogged-up perscription glasses. (really do teachers really huff anymore) The next image was even scarier as the tweed skirt morphed into leather undergarments and the yard stick transformed into a leather whip and the educational rants became"you've been a naughty boy." I know this is scary stuff, hell I was the one living this nightmare. The next image that my mind decided to conjure up was the annoying ring of an alarm clock with the numbers in a blaring red neon light flashing off and on like christmas lights with a broken bulb. The other images are too gross and I really dont want to offend anyones sensibilities. I guess the moral of the story is control comes in a lot of different forms, and it is when we connect our emotional being with our visual cortex the end result can be a little shocking. Here is my attempt at poetry. Remember I am an artist and I am sensitive about my work.

It was only a kiss, our last kiss I never even payed attention
I never looked into her face to explore her feelings
I never noticed how her green eyes shifted color in the moonlight
or how they reminded me of dew drops on summer grass when she got emotional
It never crossed my mind to move that strand of hair from her lips
or caress her soaked cheek with my sweaty palms
I didn't notice the slump in her walk or the gentle crackle in her voice
I couldn't remember apples
She always smelled like county fair candy apples
I didn't want to touch her
I watched her lips. I know she said something important
But I lost my focus Icouldn't hear her
I should have loved her
But I didn't I just didn't

Selfish or Human?

I am almost positive that there will be opposition to my position, yet I feel compelled to speak on the metamorphic change that takes place in a marriage once a wife is blessed with a bundle of joy, who she in turn exassperates all of her love upon until complete and total depletion, transforming the husband from love slave to love sick. When a child changes the dynamics of a couples relationship, is it wrong for the husband to feel jealous of the child? Is it so out of the ordinary for a man to experience nostalgia and yearn for the simplicity of husband and wife, instead of the inclusion of a being that is leeching the love that was once his? I dont think so, but perhaps like all men (according to most women) I could be wrong.