So, here are some pictures of my sweet angels.
They cuddle and groom each other and sleep so peacefully ...
Or, do they? Behold, Little Demon Shits:
Just look at those teeth. Demon.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
So, a certain person in my life informed me that I need a creative outlet, and that writing should be it. I promised I would write at least one post, of at least two sentences, before I saw this person again in two weeks. I would actually like to write more. At one time in my life, I wanted to write all the time. So, I dug around in some of my old writings to find this specific piece I wrote four years ago - yes, FOUR years ago - for a creative writing class. This is just to bring me, personally, a little inspiration. And, maybe, I'll write a little more than just this one post in the next two weeks.
Why I write.
I attended a concert last night. I'm not sure I'd actually call it a concert. What do you call listening to a garage band practice? The, okay, concert was held across the street from one of only two local bars; a one-room building with a capacity of 49. Though, counting all the performers, their wives and children, and an occasional parent, I only counted about 20 people.
This wasn't my scene. I'd been dragged by my love-struck sister whose current interest was the booking agent/doorman. My 80's Love-Songs Sister had been every night, through the country, heavy-metal, and, tonight's specialty, technica. Oh, what some people will do for love, and others for lack of anything better to do.
The show started fifteen minutes late. A frantic sound manager knocking out cords as fast as he could plug others in. When, finally, he decided the sound was as good as it was going to get, the first act stepped onto the stage. Really only wide enough for two people, let alone instruments and speakers, the stage was demarcated from the rest of the room as a foot-high wooden box in one corner.
The opening act was a rapper, and as his first speedy words rushed out crackily I folded my arms across my chest, scrunched down in my chair, and started preparing for a LONG night. Man, this kid was rapping about a frog. Yep, frog raps. I rolled my eyes at my sister. Oh, not just a frog, a frog who wanted to fly with the birds. A frog that wasn't going to take nature as an answer. A frog who was going to fly.
And, oh heavens, I was smiling. And sitting up. And, heavens-to-Betsy, I think I was singing along to the audience-anticipation section. Maybe it was the self-deprecating humor. Or, maybe just the sheer earnestness. Or, the real-life, current-events parallels of our poor frog hero and this obviously nervous rapper. I was actually enjoying the show!
After a few more songs, the rapper stepped down from the stage to sit cross-legged in front of it and watch the next act. And I sat in my seat flabbergasted. I don't like rap music. I don't like low-budget, indie music. I didn't want to be there. I had been putting on a really good job of being mad for being dragged to my sisters date. So, why had I enjoyed it?
This is why I write. I wouldn't say I'm a good writer. I wouldn't even say that I am persistent. In high school a paper I wrote was used as an example of common writing mistakes to avoid. One of my journalism professors told me I had too definite of a voice in my writing. English professors tell me I don't know the rules. A creative writing professor told me not to quit my day job.
My mom tells me I can do anything I want to, and be anything I want to be.
And so, I write. I write because I would never stand up in front of, yes, twenty complete strangers and perform for them my life's work. I write because I heard an absurd story about a frog who wanted to fly with the birds. I write because, in the end, I am on a stage too small for my backup and my gear, with a sound system that is cutting in and out, and, in this moment, I am absolutely terrified, and absolutely alive.
Why I write.
I attended a concert last night. I'm not sure I'd actually call it a concert. What do you call listening to a garage band practice? The, okay, concert was held across the street from one of only two local bars; a one-room building with a capacity of 49. Though, counting all the performers, their wives and children, and an occasional parent, I only counted about 20 people.
This wasn't my scene. I'd been dragged by my love-struck sister whose current interest was the booking agent/doorman. My 80's Love-Songs Sister had been every night, through the country, heavy-metal, and, tonight's specialty, technica. Oh, what some people will do for love, and others for lack of anything better to do.
The show started fifteen minutes late. A frantic sound manager knocking out cords as fast as he could plug others in. When, finally, he decided the sound was as good as it was going to get, the first act stepped onto the stage. Really only wide enough for two people, let alone instruments and speakers, the stage was demarcated from the rest of the room as a foot-high wooden box in one corner.
The opening act was a rapper, and as his first speedy words rushed out crackily I folded my arms across my chest, scrunched down in my chair, and started preparing for a LONG night. Man, this kid was rapping about a frog. Yep, frog raps. I rolled my eyes at my sister. Oh, not just a frog, a frog who wanted to fly with the birds. A frog that wasn't going to take nature as an answer. A frog who was going to fly.
And, oh heavens, I was smiling. And sitting up. And, heavens-to-Betsy, I think I was singing along to the audience-anticipation section. Maybe it was the self-deprecating humor. Or, maybe just the sheer earnestness. Or, the real-life, current-events parallels of our poor frog hero and this obviously nervous rapper. I was actually enjoying the show!
After a few more songs, the rapper stepped down from the stage to sit cross-legged in front of it and watch the next act. And I sat in my seat flabbergasted. I don't like rap music. I don't like low-budget, indie music. I didn't want to be there. I had been putting on a really good job of being mad for being dragged to my sisters date. So, why had I enjoyed it?
This is why I write. I wouldn't say I'm a good writer. I wouldn't even say that I am persistent. In high school a paper I wrote was used as an example of common writing mistakes to avoid. One of my journalism professors told me I had too definite of a voice in my writing. English professors tell me I don't know the rules. A creative writing professor told me not to quit my day job.
My mom tells me I can do anything I want to, and be anything I want to be.
And so, I write. I write because I would never stand up in front of, yes, twenty complete strangers and perform for them my life's work. I write because I heard an absurd story about a frog who wanted to fly with the birds. I write because, in the end, I am on a stage too small for my backup and my gear, with a sound system that is cutting in and out, and, in this moment, I am absolutely terrified, and absolutely alive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)