A Memory of Art

Art does not necessarily have to be a painting, drawing, sculpture, or any form of class work/musical creation. Art is the way someone performs something creative and distinct. It is not something you must always be able to sell, hang in a museum, or stand on stage for. Art can be a sport, a talent, a hobby you are good at, or even something you create in your imagination.
My most wonderful art was gymnastics. Not just gymnastics in general, but my routines. I was a very shy when I was younger (yes, hard to believe), so I would not always compete. Somehow, my mom got me away from that. Yet, I was still required to do my routines and participate in in house meets. My coaches would always see me very distracted doing all my own stuff while they would be giving instructions or demonstrating what to do. I would be in the back creating and just doing whatever gymnastics and dance moves I felt like. Eventually, they decided to have me make a routine, along with the rest of the kids to get new ideas. This was my art. I could not in a million years make up a dance routine, but gymnastics, give me a spring floor and I was set. The things I pictured I wanted to do that I couldn't on floor, I would quickly run to the slim, black tumble track and do that tumbling on there. Front tuck step out round off back handspring back layout. Then, run back to the floor and continue my routine. My creativity made gymnastic routines my art. This is my type of art that unfortunately, even if I have the mind set and creativity, I can no longer accomplish due to my fears and lack of courage.

Grandpa Watcher

Grandpa. The perfect candidate as a "Watcher". Even when he was alive he was my watcher. His quote "Who loves you?" always inspired/s me to create a polished paper. Knowing how proud he always was of me for all my accomplishments and still is, (he passed last summer), my constant memory of that question drives me to create something superlative. I know up above in his luxurious, yet simple home made of the fluffiest, cotton white clouds, he reads my writings and guides me through them. My watcher can motivate me to sit and ponder creative ideas and angles at which to write.Once I reach about 4 or 5 pages of my writing... I stop. I think Grandpa needs a breathe. His ambition and motivation always kicks back though and my writer's block is instantly turned aside. My watcher does not let this block happen for too long, knowing how impelled I am to continue my paper. My Grandpa/watcher never lets me down.

Speech

Growing up in Boca Raton you hear speech that just sounds of greedy, money filled shopping bags that consists of cheeky, graceless gossip like little kid's arguing on a kindergarten playground.

I Pulled a Susan

My mother, although very bright, can be ditzy and forgetful. She is constantly running errands, on the phone, and showing houses (as this is her job, being a real estate agent). With all this multi-tasking, she has a hundred thoughts going through her mind at once such as what she has to do that day, the next day, who she has to call back, etc. On top of this, she has a little OCD. Everything has to be perfect, especially with the house. As I walk into our house one day I see her standing in the entrance all by herself just staring up at the ceiling with her arms crossed. The sun was just setting so it was not very well lit in my house.

“Mom, what are you doing?” I asked.

“Do you see that thread up there hanging on the curtains?”

“Um, no. It is over 25 feet high mom no one can see that.”

“Ok, I’ll go call Franklin to get up there and cut it. I look at it every time I pass it.”

Yep, my mom. It is actually really funny. Her and I always laugh when she does stuff like that because she knows she is a little coo-coo. The best moment though was when I was pulling into my neighborhood one afternoon and right when I pulled in, I saw a car on top of the water fall/ clock tower at the main entrance. It was very hard to drive around because it is a some what small area.There were two flashing apple red ambulances, three police cars, and a banana yellow and white firetruck. As I entered my house I ran to my mom and asked how long she had been home.

“I just walked in how come?”

“Did you see the accident!” I proclaimed.

“What accident?”

And there it was again. She had been on the phone while she passed the very petite intersection, might I add DIRECTLY in front of the car accident, and she did not notice a thing. When I told my dad when we were all at dinner that night about this incident, she cracked up while adding, “I pulled another Susan!”. This is what my family and I say when we do something forgetfully stupid or something that just does not make any sense. As you can guess, my moms name is Susan.

For instance, one night I had my whole family running around my house helping me search for my car keys. We searched everywhere, the car, every room, and even my pockets and hands. After a whole 20 minutes, my dad looked at me and said, “Sweetie, walk out of the house, get in your car, and get the fuck out of here.” I was very confused until I looked down and sure enough, even though I looked at my hands before, the keys were in my freaking hands. I had pulled a Susan.

My Little Nuggets

My adorable little nuggets (penguins) have been my whole heart for the past six or so years. My heart drops and melts every time I see anything penguin. Their charcoal black and snow white bodies are the most unique and tranquil shapes to look at. They are shaped somewhat like a large coke bottle with their slender, small heads and wider, chubbier bodies. Their soft texture and warm coat that can allow them to slide head first down burning cold ice. The slickness when you touch their fur and pointy, slightly curved beaks. Although most likely their smell is of fish, it is easy to ignore such a stench when you observe their little feet waddle them where ever they are going. Their tiny side to side movement as they travel along the way. These wingless birds are such fascinating creatures to watch and adore.

BMW Sensory

Today, I had to wake up earlier than usual to bring in my car for servicing. My car, which was very pretty a few months ago, has numerous things wrong with it. The peppermint red interior and black exterior are the few things that are still okay, minus the few dingy dents on the outside (which I did not do). My petite 135i is my pride and joy. As I walked to it this morning I was extremely happy that I was to get it fixed. Driving on my way to BMW grasping the sport-like steering wheel, I was comforted by the smooth leather all around me. Hearing my loose breaks squeak every time I came to a stop, made me ecstatic this morning that that would be the last time I had to hear that. That along with the dinging oil change sound and flashing orange light before my eyes. Oh yeah, and the low tire pressure light. The worst sound though, was no sound. My Ipod connector would not play my music today in my car because the lighter/charger spot is broken. Before letting this get to me, I just took in a deep, refreshing breath and smelled the adorable lady bug inscent I have on my mirror. Once I dropped the car off, I could not have been more anxious to have this same drive, just with better audio surroundings.

End of Week One

I believe all three essays were very informative. Each writer, although all had a different lesson, were somewhat humorous. All of the philosophies give advice and lessons on how to grow as a writer and think of different things so you are not thinking you are a complete failure with your paper. They all show you that not only do all writers have trouble with their papers, but that you will learn and grow form them. They were well written and were a good catch to read because of the light humor in them. 

Anne Lamott’s “Shitty First Drafts” made me feel better about my first paper. It reassured me that all first drafts are well, “shitty”. She spoke about how even great writers have that terrible first draft. Knowing this, can help boost many writer’s self-esteem when writing their papers.  She also talks of how no one will see it, so its okay if it is that terrible. Anne Lamott’s philosophy was some what similar to Lorrie Moore’s “How to Become a Writer”.

Her reading was showing how you can grow from your writings and find something you can write about. She talked of how she always failed at her own writings. It shows how even if you are not strong at one point, like her characters inability to make a good plot, you can be strong at something else, like her ability to write very good, descriptive details. It is written in second person and is a very quick and direct view of a perspective growing. 

This is much different though than Gail Godwin’s “The Watcher at the Gates,” who is saying how we all have are own Watcher. He explains how you control this Watcher and keep him in check so he does not disrupt us or complicate our writings. We have to make sure he does not put our writings off or block our ideas. I learned a lot from his reading. It taught me that when you have a brain block or something stopping you from writing, you need to sit back or think of a way to get that “watcher” to not stop you, but help create ideas and write your paper.