Poetry: Polaris; Mother Nature; Dreams By Candlelight

So, more poetry of mine out and about in the “published” part of the Internet?

‘Polaris’ was another RKYV feature, although it has been edited since.
‘Mother Earth’ and ‘Dreams By Candlelight’ are on my high school literary magazine’s page. http://www.mtlsd.org/Pulse/

Polaris

I went out one night to empty my overworked mind.
I took the long forest trail home that night
and while erasing my list of misplaced thoughts
I was lured into taking the time to look up.

I don’t know why I looked, after ten ignorant years
of blissful walking with night’s hand in mine.
But that night, I tilted my head back and upwards
to see the celestial beings in existence above.

I tried to pick out my favorite characters –
Yelping Sirius and the cantering Monocerous
had long been driven out of their positions by
Draco’s flame, Leo’s roar, and Lupus’ windy howl.

Amidst their seasonal bickering for the skyward throne
my eyes found peaceful Polaris, and I hummed an old song,

a tune that had almost been long abandoned
to the pits of my skull: a childhood song, and
a historic memory to avoid being lost, “Left foot,
peg foot traveling on – Follow the drinking gourd.”

The gourd was up there, too; the supposed tour guide
who was rumored to have led the indentured
and enslaved to the lands of promise. Now merely

hovering, nothing more than the key witness
to the two chaotic worlds below and around him:
never standing still, but changing…debatably changing.

I angled my head away from my old friends then,
as the wind carried clouds thickening with jealously
over shining faces and echoing voices. I stood
under the shadows of branches, bathing in the silence.

**

Mother Nature

Lush and green grass waves in the wind
Alongside the aqua lake –
All of the life on her domain is her kin.

Time touches and shapes her homes
He is her master, but also a friend
Who will never leave her here alone.

Legs race with a rising heartbeat
As her children run along
For her to forever watch and keep.

And when the dead sink into the ground
It is Time and other children
Who makes it so nothing will be found.

The cycle can never end
As long as the Mother lives
But if her children bring the end,

It will be Time who comes for us.

**

Dreams By Candlelight

Through the splintered door, he walks.
He looks over the flickering kitchen,
breathes in the vanilla candle
and it’s familiar yearning and hunger.

He takes her hand and brushes their fingers
and wipes the melted wax to ease the throb –
As he always has, in their dreams,
in his letters, with his gliding touch.

He takes the candle from her folded hands
and lets her eyes grasp at his
as they find familiarity
in another world, inhabited by two.

They stand and stare together -
and silently speak of the year gone by
and see the wars within conquered
wishing them down the oily sink.

He dips down to blow out the candle –
She shakes her head, touches his nose.
They need its light
to illuminate their dreams tonight

And tomorrow they will need it still
to find the path they’ll follow.
and maybe this time
They will not need two candles

To light two roads
and maybe their fingers
will not let go, and will remain
Together.

CD Review - Dead Confederates

The original Pitt News page.

Wrecking Ball destroys rock

"Commitment is not a requirement for rocking out these days, at least not for Dead Confederate.

What started out as a “sometime thing” — a band creating music influenced by Pink Floyd and Nirvana — became a sensation when the group won an Annual Open Mic Madness competition in 2006.

With a sound that is unique to them, the unknown band members moved on from gigs and an EP to a 10-track record titled Wrecking Ball.

How no one has heard this sound yet is a mystery, considering just how dominant the alternative and classic rock sound is.

“The Rat,” the band’s newest featured song, starts off: “Shoot from the back / And take good aim / Make sure I’m dead.”

And on it goes from there. If you’re looking for a good song about liars and betrayers, with the hard backdrop to go with the drama, search no more.

“Yer Circus” makes a reference to a retreat from battle, and for certain songs Dead Confederate even keeps a drum beat that almost sounds like that of a Civil War drummer. Deliberate effects and allusions to the band’s name, maybe? But no worries: Dead Confederate sounds contemporary more often than not.

I mean, how often do you get to hear a song titled “All The Angels” that starts off with an intro that’s nothing short of trippy?

And right after that, “Start Me Laughing” starts off with a screaming metal feel. Dead Confederate definitely keeps the songs varied and neat; you’re never sure what they’ll decide to throw to the listeners next.

But even Dead Confederate has its soft side. “It Was A Rose” reveals a whole other side of its composition skills, as singer Hardy Morris cries, “This sweet encounter / Is it a flower / Is it pretty / Is it a rose?”

The singer declares, “I was crazy / And in love, too.” We have the classic mistake of love even among the hardcore sounds of the band.

We also have the classic broken man image in the last song with the same name as the album, when the focus is on a man. And apparently, “God knows he’s seen it all / Been hit by a wrecking ball.”

Now, we know the album is complete: Love and broken figures are the requirements for any good rock-oriented album.

The only downside is that lyric fans might have a hard time translating Morris’ throaty voice through the churning drums and growling guitars.

Still, the music is worth the sound, and it gives the songs a mysterious feeling all around. As a Rolling Stone “Artist to Watch” band, Dead Confederate has more to look forward to than the wrecking ball."

RKYV #6 - Details Matter

Column 6 - Creation In Our World: Details Matter

A very happy New Year, readers! I hope your holiday season was an enjoyable one. Mine was amazingly decent, considering the years of personal trauma my house has to offer in memory storage.

There was, however, one thing not related to the past that bothered me. I noticed it when I was eating my chocolate. Who remembers the days when you opened a wrapper decorated with a Santa, and inside the chocolate was detailed with lines that recreated the Santa in your chocolate?

Sadly, the Santa chocolate I had was line-less, a simple mundane piece of chocolate without a defining figure. The details that created the tiny image were gone.

I was appalled at first. Where was the effort to create something wonderful for eaters? Where was the attempt to bring a smile to the person’s face when they saw how much energy went into their food to remind them of good old St. Nick? Clearly if they bought chocolate with a Santa wrapper there was no need to worry about offending them with political correctness.

It didn’t take me long to make a connection back to the art of writing I myself miss at the moment. We can have a fantastic idea in our heads, but let’s admit it: without the details to complete it, we aren’t going to go far in a book.

Details need to be everywhere. The character design in writing ought to have a fairly good background to make it consistent. Even when no one reads your character profile, the writers themselves ought to know everything possible. The scene must be set and no room must be left for confusion.

Even you artists out there can’t abandon detail. There can be a minimum number of defining lines in the artwork, but let’s admit it – there’s always at least one.

I can’t go too into depth myself with this one, unfortunately. Every writer and artist has his or her own style, so I can’t critique everyone as a whole. What I can safely say is that, just like the lines on my Santa chocolate were missed, the details in your works will be missed if you don’t put forth the effort into them.

Work hard to make your craft as complete as possible.

Happy New Year,
Larissa

RKYV Column #5 - Let That Creativity Flow

Column 5 - Creation In Our World: Let That Creativity Flow

Hello there, readers! I hope our holiday season has begun on a good foot; I know mine has! The day I wrote this Pittsburgh experienced its first real snowfall of the year and my entire dorm floor was celebrating.

Time for a recap: last month I gave out a list about encouraging creativity in a society that has an unfortunate tendency to scorn it. Well, encouraging creativity in others is the easy part. Getting yourself to be creative is the challenge.

For this month’s issue I have searched and thought about as many methods of creativity as a busy college girl can – so unfortunately a slightly limited list. Hopefully I can jumpstart your own minds even if you don’t like my suggested methods.

So, here’s this month’s list of ways to let your creative spirit flourish, whether you write, paint, or just want some style in your life.

1) Decorate the house. It sounds simple enough to organize a house and pick out the color schemes. But if it’s so simple, why do we constantly feel the need to redecorate? If your creative muse calls for redesign, well, acknowledge it. Come up with new ideas that will make your visitors and yourself realize, Wow, this person has creativity in this simple aspect of their life – I wonder how else they use their minds to make the mundane exciting?

2) Cook. Again, it sounds commonplace, especially in this day and age where I can’t go to my e-mail from Yahoo!’s homepage without seeing some new recipes to try out. But that’s why it’s a great way to create. Food is a basic necessity; and if you need a way to jumpstart your brain then what better way to do it than while feeding your growling stomach? Cake designs, creative patterns on serving plates, tweaks in recipes to fit your personal quirks for the day – whatever it is, if it’s different and it makes you think, it’s a great thing to incorporate into your life.

3) Paint the shower curtains. First of all this might actually make those old and faded looking curtains last a few more years before you need to replace them. Second of all, this is another part of the house you’ll (hopefully!) see during your day. Here in the dorms our bathrooms are fantastic examples; our white curtains transformed into an ocean mural over one weekend. If there’s a certain setting you’ve found to inspire you, paint it onto your curtains in as rough a form as your craftsmanship allows. You might be surprised by what ideas come to your head.

4) Speaking of decorating – what about simple things being in plain sight? Our bathrooms also have cut out shapes of fish and sea creatures hanging from the ceiling. My floor neighbors have an entire section of wall decorated in Christmas lights and tinsel, as well as leftover spider webs. When I find a piece of artwork or a photo that inspires me, I think it and hang it somewhere in my room. It’s all about bringing those inspirations to your eyes, and putting them where you’re guaranteed to see them. Inspiration is a quarter of the battle; and hopefully, if you see it enough, you’ll be motivated to sit down and get your ideas out onto paper or canvas.

5) Sing. It’s so simple, singing along with songs you know or just creating random lyrics in your head. But seeing as songs are a basic emotion being manufactured, why not use that emotion to create a more specific and complex picture from the base up? I’ll be honest, songs tend to give me many more ideas than I come up with while sitting in my room.

6) Create snippets of personal language. I’m not asking you to be the next Tolkien. Instead, if you have personal quirks and words that you like to use (because I do!), write them out. See what you can come up with. Just let go and let it become as simple/complex as you want. After all – it’s yours!

It should be pretty obvious what my theme throughout all of these ideas is – simple evolves. The smallest things can create the biggest; it’s that snowball effect we hear about.

I hope this gives you many new ideas; and once it does, just let everyone flow and see what happens. Surrender yourself to that creativity and never let anyone tell you it’s ridiculous or crazy. Ask them what they’ve done that makes them have the right to judge you.

Best of luck,
Larissa

RKYV Column #4 - Scorning in Society

Back to e-zine column reposting.
If you'd prefer to read a short story, it's only one entry back.
Otherwise, enjoy this and the weekend. :)

**

Column 4 - Creation In Our World: Scorning in Society

Greetings, RKYV readers! I hope everyone’s fall season is starting off splendidly. Pittsburgh right now has been surprisingly beautiful; we have had almost no rain and many colorful leaves illuminating the sidewalks.

Between my classes I’ve found time to consider another flaw in our society when it comes to the creative. This month’s topic is a contradiction that was brought to my attention years ago.

My concern involves teachers telling us to be creative, and parents saying to us that we should go for whatever we could imagine. We’re told these simple ideas from a rather early age, and yet…things just don’t seem to work as they should when it comes to cultivating this creativity. On the average, citizens are only partially encouraged to actually listen to this piece of advice, if encouraged at all.

The two most obvious ways I can think of this are the mocking of games and professions that require imagination, and the cutting of any classes that could stimulate the mind.

Dungeons and Dragons is the most scorned of the creation branch that I can think of. While we see published novels and art galleries every day, D&D books are usually hidden in a back corner and cost a wad of bills more than what those of us with an arts-interest budget want to pay. Plus, if anyone plays D&D they become a sight of laughter for everyone else, especially before the college years roll in.

And frankly, this just seems a shame to me. I never played D&D, but it wasn’t from a lack of interest; more a lack of fast-on-my-feet creation reflexes. I’m the type that needs time to play with my ideas and develop them.

My friends, on the other hand, were obsessed with the game throughout high school, and I could see why. The creation within D&D gave them complete control of a world they created, an escape from reality that even offered solutions to reality problems when they came back to Earth.

In simple terms: it was healthy for their minds. Imagine that.

Yet it seems that anything worth creating is scorned more often than not. How many artists were mocked as no good, before their art began to make history? How many authors were ridiculed and written off, left to die before their works became best sellers?

For a more recent example – the mocked TV shows known as “Pokemon” and “Digimon”. I do dare say they have lived far beyond their years and deserve to rest in peace; but I also dare to admit I was a loyal fan to both in their beginnings, when the idea of the monsters and the lessons from the people in both were appealing to my little girl’s mind. Look how much they’re spoofed on now. It’s almost disappointing, to see almost no acknowledgement of their possible good.

My beginnings as an aspiring fantasy writer came from creating monsters to fit in with those two TV shows. I even dare to say a few of my good qualities came from watching that show, with its nutty main characters who never seemed to grow up and still just kept learning.

Speaking of writing, how about the jokes surrounding liberal arts majors about how they’ll never live a satisfactory and wealthy life? There’s a stigma about liberal arts majors that actually leads to colleges not declaring themselves as liberal arts colleges (yep; just saw that in a local newspaper). While adults who work in these professions and college know better, the public doesn’t; and let’s admit it, what the majority says usually passes as the truth. It shouldn’t work that way, but it does.

The ignorance of creation benefits is not limited to the above, sadly; creative and musical classes are being cut from school curriculums in America’s attempt to boost intelligence scores. In my high school, students were encouraged to take Honors and AP classes rather than music and creative writing. The only creative writing courses were offered for my Senior year (and I know that the school has reformatted the curriculum in the single summer since I left). Any other writing courses were designed to analyze specific questions and spit certain answers back at the teachers.

It seems it has never once occurred to our superiors that classes that allow creativity and beauty to bloom are what help our intelligence in the long run. To play the violin and to sing was to create and learn how alter and adapt to various keys and dialects within life. It sounds bizarre, but I can say from experience with both throughout my life that it’s true. Besides, they’re relaxing and stimulating at the same time. Music is creation at its peak; although from the recent bands hitting MTV I dare to see even this creative avenue is being butchered.

Either way, the people that run our country called U.S.A. never stop to think that the meager task known as reading can help increase vocabulary. Certain games have the ability to tutor in basic math, the simple math that is prevalent in all higher levels.

In other words: our skills and our greatest lessons lie within exposure, not a coddling and memorizing education and a life sitting in front of our computers and TVs. (Hm...does any of this sound like a “Fahrenheit 451” utopia existence?)

My advice to everyone who reads this is:

1) To broaden your horizons. Listen to more forms of music than you do now and see what you learn; check out a genre of book you never tried in the library before. I think you’ll find you learn more from that than anything else.

(And yes, if you so desire, form that D&D group of yours.)

2) To raise public awareness of the benefits of creativity. Get enough people on your side to campaign for the return of the music and creative writing classes. Don’t limit it to your own neighborhood; go national if the situation calls for it. (Remember – it’s supposed to be a democracy. The politicians and leaders should obey the public demand for fear of losing their status. This applies to every societal problem, not just this one.)

3) Encourage any couch potatoes you know to join you in some creative fun in one form or another.

And “creation” is not limited to writing and art. I think next month will call for some ideas on letting out a muse in some other fashions.

Best of luck until then,
Larissa

Wired Instinct (a short story)

Currently undergoing revisions, this is the version of this story the e-zine I write for published.
Enjoy.

Wired Instinct
Year: 2101

With a curse on her lips, Amy stared at the entrance to the old Pittsburgh Zoo & Aquarium. Somehow, the newcomer to Pittsburgh had managed to find the only down-trod section of the area. The city that had managed to economically flourish for the first time in over a century could be seen from the curves of hills surrounding the parking lots and exit of the zoo. The sun had decided today would be worthy of postcard images. Its rays slipped over Pittsburgh and created a blue sheen over its three muddy rivers, illuminating the edges of tree leaves and flowers that had started to bloom in the multiple parks. The glimmering buildings of downtown looked brand new, despite the fact that had been replaced in recent decades. Even the run-down neighborhoods peeking out from behind the tallest trees had lost their gloomy appearance during the day.

Amy sighed at the glorious sight below. It was a relief to realize she was no longer back at her old home in Idaho. Nothing had been wrong when she was young and growing within the safe walls of her parent’s house. Unfortunately, a bad college relationship had left the young woman bruised and battered beyond her physical limits. It had taken two years of work from her and both of her parents to pay off her medical bills.

Driven by the need to escape the setting of her abuse, as soon as the last debt had been settled, she had gathered her savings and moved out to Pittsburgh. Here, she was sure she could rediscover herself spiritually; here, she could speak with a therapist in a new setting and come to terms with what had happened in Idaho; and here she could begin to work again without the distractions of the past.

Tearing her gaze away from her new home below, Amy observed the setting her apparent wrong turn had led her. The zoo had been included in recently published information and history books; she remembered reading about it when she decided to move to Pittsburgh just a few months ago. Its beauty was long gone. Its multiple hills of various heights were plain and empty, aside from the occasional tree stump infiltrating the bareness; both the concrete and asphalt of the parking lot and sidewalk were cracked to the foundations. The distant ticket booths Amy could just make out from the road were missing their roofs completely, allowing the inside of the cubicles to deteriorate as the ever-changing weather of the city pounded down day after day.

Amy sighed as she surveyed the lot. The old zoo was shut down for repairs, and had been for the past five years. Orange cones and yellow tapes blocked her car from entering the lot; another set of the colorful markers was laid out before the crumbling ticket booths.

Still, she flipped her key to the left and let the engine of her car sleep. She needed to enter that zoo and find help. The small businesses around the zoo had all closed, leaving their tiny buildings as empty and useless decoration. The GPS in her car was malfunctioning, leaving her without assistance. Since all cars carried GPS systems, very few places sold maps. Even if she knew which direction to try heading to next, it would take far too much time.

However, the construction workers would surely know their way around the city; even if they didn’t carry old maps to hand out to confused drivers, they could give reliable directions.

As she stepped out of her car and touched her flats to the concrete, Amy felt the air press down onto her back through her white blouse. The gloom seemed to rush forward, and as it did so, it overcastted the sun directly overhead and swallowed the gleam of her car into its belly.

With a slight shudder, Amy clicked on her key ring. The car behind her beeped as it locked; she hesitantly began the trek towards the entrance, each of her jeans’ legs swishing against the other to fill the silent void.
---
After a careful ten-minute walk over the pieces of sidewalk and up a towering escalator, Amy could see inside the actual zoo. On the left side of the continuing sidewalk, two separate gift shops sat on either side of a small plaza. The signs in front of all three had faded away, leaving them nameless. Each sign still wore part of a name of a food or toy they once had sold. As she strolled past the third of the buildings, she spotted the Merry-Go-Round, a relic of the past. Dust covered the horses, elephants, giraffes, and lions that lived on its wheels. The paint on all had worn away, and parts of legs and backs had been chipped away to reveal rotting wood. A pile of metal across the sidewalk from it represented what was left of a brief train ride.

Amy looked up the separate branch of the cracking path to a large, long building that clearly had been a center of organization for the zoo workers. It sat unlit; its doors were locked, the windows covered with a layer of filth. It didn’t appear worth the effort to walk up the hill to it. She walked forward instead, down another slope.

As she walked down the hill underneath a bridge, she shivered yet again. The entire zoo had a feeling about it that she didn’t quite understand, or like. As she crept through the darkness, a car rumbled overhead, making the unstable ground tremble.

Back out in the faded sunlight that reluctantly glanced over the branches of dead trees, she walked past the first exhibit. Behind grimy glass slept a mechanical cat, curled into a ball with its head upon its impressively large front paws. The patches of white fur that had not rotted away from its metal structure were littered with black rings. Beside the exhibit, a faded green sign had white letters slapped across it:

SN W L PA D

Amy eyed the sleeping machine meant to represent a snow leopard. The so-called construction of the zoo clearly had not reached a point of recognition. The animals were not activated. The grounds were cracked as the lot, and the land as dead as the hills outside the zoo gates. She had to wonder what any workers inside of the zoo were laboring on.

She strolled past the snow leopard, not realizing it had opened blue eyes. She continued on towards a large enclosure that contained a gap between its fence and its land. The sign for this section had fallen to the ground, and was covered in a dry but thick layer of mud.

Stepping onto one of the wooden steps beside the fence, she peered down the gap, and gasped as she saw the metal paw of a striped cat poking the ground deep within the man-made ravine. What had once been a pond for the machines was nothing but rock for them to walk and pace over. The enclosure inhabitants, several tigers with visible metal legs and orange and black fur backs, were analyzing it and growling in loud rumbles. A bold machine reached his claws up onto the rock and tried to grab hold, hoping to scale up the cliff.

Startled, Amy backed away. This zoo was supposed to be shut down for construction and maintenance! How could its animals be walking?

With a quickening heart rate, she ran. She ran away from the tigers, back towards the dark tunnel beneath the bridge. As she did so, a loud roar deep within the zoo rushed over her ears. Then there was a loud crash of metal upon concrete; though further away than the tigers, it was an impressive sound. In fact, the tigers could be heard clattering out of their ravine towards the back of their exhibit, trying to hide from the cause of the crash.

Amy screamed, confused, frightened, and unable to stop her expression of the emotions. Past the snow leopard exhibit she ran. She didn’t look inside and therefore didn’t notice the ripped hole in the weakened chicken wire around the enclosure.

As Amy ran under the bridge, what she saw as the first sight of life within the zoo appeared. A blonde man in a forest green suit was standing on the path above the pile of train track. At the sight of her, he yelled, gesturing for her to run closer. Amy was confused; she wanted to run for the exit, to leave the zoo; the directions she needed were forgotten in her panic and desperate desire to leave the place far behind.

She then slammed to an abrupt and painful stop as she saw the reason he wanted her to come to him; exploring the wooden animals on Merry-Go-Round was the mechanical snow leopard. In its sleepy state, however, it didn’t seem to notice her. Instead, it crouched and slid underneath the silent, wooden animals towards the dust and rotten trees and bushes, looking for small animals. Its multiple joints clicked against each other rather loudly.

Amy looked at the man again, still breathing hard and praying the snow leopard would not notice the jerky noises. He gestured slowly at the building she had written off earlier; despite the lethargic movements meant to clear the snow leopard’s attention, the man’s arm trembled in nervous desperation.

Amy took in a breath and began to run. A piece of wood snapped behind her as the machine turned to her. The man grabbed her hand, and the rough material of his glove hit her skin. Ignoring her gasps, he pulled her along to the top of the hill, where he pushed her into the long building and slammed the door. He looked down the hill; the snow leopard was still standing on the Merry-Go-Round. Without a care for the humans, it continued its search for weaker game.

As he locked the doors behind him, the man looked back at Amy. “What are you doing in the zoo?” he demanded, clenching his gloved fists. There was an element of fear behind his concerned, deep voice.

Amy stuttered as she leaned against the chipped and faded white wall of an education center lobby, recovering from the shock the machines had delivered.

“Looking…for…directions…” She took a breath and tried to continue. Her voice slowly stabilized. “My GPS system isn’t working, and I took a wrong turn…I had hoped I could find help here.” She realized her hair was loose from its ponytail, but refused to adjust it in front of the man. She felt as though she had to prove she could handle whatever was unfolding within the zoo, without a sign of what he would view as feminine weakness.

After a brief moment, the man responded. “This part of the city was abandoned for a reason.”

“Construction, I thought,” Amy said, convinced she was heading for the correct answer.

“Ha!” The man laughed, his head tossed backwards to expose his Adam’s apple in his throat. “Construction – what a joke! More like malfunctions!”

“Huh?” What a ridiculous and dumb response, Amy realized. But it was all she could muster at the moment. She felt more lost than she had back on the streets in her car.

The man crossed his arms and drew in a deep breath, looking at Amy directly. “The zoo you’re standing in lost funding when a machine malfunctioned eight years ago. They had to close the place down three years later after that, since the population of visitors dwindled. People were too afraid of the machines.” He chuckled scornfully. “Too afraid of the creations that came about when they asked for the removal of real animals in the zoo. They just didn’t think it was worth seeing live animals anymore. Stuffed ones in museums began to suffice. In a museum, there’s no risk to loss of life and limb in freak accidents. You’re only viewing the dead within a cold hallway to match the creature. There’s no organic or synthetic wiring running the beast and waiting to malfunction one way or another.

“So the place shut down. The owners decided to say the entire place was under construction. Really, though, they’re just waiting for the fear to die down. They’re saving their money until the reopening, too, so they can get extra funding to replace everything with better technology.”

The smile of humor and hope disappeared. “But here’s my problem. Do you know how this place knows when to run and activate its animals?” He didn’t wait for Amy to shake her head no; of course she didn’t.

“Heat sensors. Once someone walks past the front doors, the park stays active until they walk out. It counts how many people come in, too, and waits until the last one leaves. I…have my own way of avoiding being counted by the sensor. You, though…you walked in and activated a zoo of machines that have had no maintenance in years. Even better: the machines were built to be animals, down to their last bloody instinct. They’ll be feral mechanical animals by now, there’s no doubt in my mind---“

A crash against the door brought a scream from Amy’s throat. The man yelled as well. Outside, two lionesses struck at the door with metal claws far stronger than those of a real lion. Their legs were patched with yellow fur, while their metal and wired backs were almost completely exposed.

“What do we do?” Amy asked the worried man beside her. Her voice trembled more than her knees.

“Hell if I know. No one’s been stupid enough to walk in here before!”

A gaping hole appeared in the door as one of the metal paws slashed straight through the softer metal. Amy screamed again at the sight of the large paw pulling away for another swing. She stood against the wall, unable to stop herself from trembling.

Then the clawing stopped. There was a screech outside. The man peered between the grime covering the door window. Outside, a smaller piece of machinery ran from the two lions to another old sign that once welcomed visitors. The small machine jumped onto the large wooden sign, screeching as a child would. Once still, the shape of the petite machine could be made out. It was catlike and dotted with patches of white and gray fur. Its impressive, long, black-and-white ringed tail was dabbed with white fur.

“The lemur’s escaped,” the man stated calmly; his voice was steady, which reinstalled some of Amy’s confidence in him. “I’ll have to round them up now. Still, the little escapee helped us out.” He looked back at Amy. “You need to get out of this park. We’ll both be safe once you escape!”

Amy stared. He expected her to run out the door, past the mechanical lions? They had already sliced through the posts that held the structure up. As the sign collapsed, the lemur ran back under the bridge, screeching; the lionesses followed, their exposed paw structures clicking against the ground.

As they disappeared, the man unlocked the doors. “C’mon, now’s the time!”

He entwined his hand with Amy’s again, and yanked her out behind him. Amy tried to resist for a single moment; then she accepted she had no chance fighting him and truly did need to escape. The man was slow and intently observing and listening the park around him. Amy merely followed his lead, trusting his experience with the land to keep them both out of harm’s way.

They had not managed to cover half of the hill when the man halted. There was a chorus of yips and howls from the path the lions had just galloped up. Three African wild dogs jogged along the concrete. They weighed considerably lighter than the lions had, and so the clicking of their legs against the ground was not as intense. The fur along their frame was more complete than the other animals had been. The splotches of white, black, and tan mingled with wire rather elegantly.

“Relax,” the man whispered to Amy as her breathing began to roughen. “I’m not worried about them nearly as much as I was about the lions. Be still, and they might very well turn around and ignore you.” He smiled at the sight. “They’re rather beautiful.”

One of the dogs yelped loudly as he looked over his shoulder. Then the three began to draw into the bare wood in the same direction of the snow leopard, tails between their legs. The yips diminished to faint whines.

The man frowned at the events unfolding. “Not good. Run!”

Amy forced herself to run at the same speed of the taller man. The two worked in sync, the sight of the other runner beside them urging them to continue at a fierce pace. They dashed down to the intersection of the paths and towards the gift shops and exit.

As they passed the plaza between the gift shops there was a snarl behind them that Amy desperately ignored. Paws hit the ground with loud clangs as Amy and the man rushed past the first of the gift shop. The man beside her let go of her hand and shoved her forward, past more tree stumps, and into the escalator shaft.

As she stumbled against the glass walls, the snarls stopped. She turned and yelped despite herself. A mechanical tiger was frozen in place just behind her savior, a paw extended towards him.

“Good running there.” The man began eyeing the claws that had almost hit his back. He hardly seemed phased. Then he blinked as he remembered what she had said inside the building.
“Now, then…how about we fix that GPS, so you can get out of here?”
---
After Amy had unlocked her car back on the road, the man opened the driver’s door and sat for a moment. Amy watched, startled, as a fingertip clicked off to reveal wiring beneath. While the fingertip hung at a deep angle, the wiring inside of it connected to one of the GPS outlets. A few sparks flew back against the man’s skin.

Well, she shouldn’t have been surprised, she realized. Who better to care for the mechanical zoo than a machine? Clearly, if the man were mechanical, he wouldn’t give off a clear heat signal. That explained why the zoo remained comatose.

As he worked on her GPS, Amy eyed the green suit that remained completely zipped to the neckline and dropped down to his ankles and tan work boots. She hypothesized that it allowed the man to keep his power source on while the rest of the zoo waited in their Sleep setting.
The man slid out before she could ponder further.

“There. It needs a full recharging when you get the chance, that’s all.” He smiled at Amy, completely calm and friendly now that the woman was safe, as he extended his arm to indicate she was welcome to enter her car. Carefully, she sat down and turned her key. The car rose from its nap, the GPS on and ready.

When Amy looked up to say thank you, the mechanical man was already walking back towards his zoo, hands deep in his pockets. Then again, a machine only did as it was meant to. If he were following the Laws of Robotics, as all other robots did throughout the world, she had no reason to say thank you. Still…it felt…rude.

The need to leave the zoo behind won out over her guilt. With etiquette on her mind, she slammed the car door shut, turned back onto the road, and slowly began lowering her foot onto the gas pedal, resolving to not speak about the zoo again. Programmed or not, the robot didn’t need to feel worry for invaders again. Best to keep rumors from urging pranksters and teens into the zoos confines, until it was safe to enter again.
---
Year: 2117

“Mommy, look!”

Amy smiled as her pale five-year-old daughter ran away from the sleeping tigers within their exhibit. The ravine below was filled with water, and leaves sprinkled its surface and floated with the wind. The sight no longer interested either mother or daughter.

Far up the path, both could see the top of the lion enclosure. Inside its confines, the two massive queens slept, stretched out over the freshly mown grass and allowing their complete golden fur coats to absorb warmth from the sun.

Amy followed her daughter, and remained close enough to be able to watch her without having to approach the animals she feared the most in the zoo. She stood by an exhibit to the right of the lions. There, an enormous white rhino grazed. Amy observed his gray skin, wrinkled and lifelike. His large lips delicately plucked at grass and flowers, though it was impossible to tell if he actually swallowed it.

“Enjoying the zoo, ma’am?”

Amy turned to see who had spoken. In the khakis and green shirt of a zoo worker stood a blonde man she recognized from sixteen years prior. His skin seemed cleaner, fresher, since when she had last seen him. He had probably undergone maintenance along with his charges.

“Yes.” She chuckled slightly. “Your animals seem better mannered than my last visit.”

“A little reprogramming goes a long way,” the man admitted. “And with care their instincts can be suppressed and managed. I don’t know if they should be, but hey, what do I know?”

He frowned slightly at one of the waking lions. “Still, it takes far too much work to manage these things…I think there’s more chance of them hurting a human than there was the originals. There’ll be an accident one day. I can sadly guarantee it. I just hope it will be when the visitors are all almost out the door.”

Amy’s daughter ran to her side and clutched her hand before she could even feel terror at the impact of his response. “Mommy, let’s go see the monkey house!”

The zoo worker smiled at the sight of the girl who had been born since Amy’s escape from the zoo. “Be sure to see the lemurs,” the man told mother and daughter. “One of them is a good friend of mine.” He looked at Amy meaningfully.

“I’ll be sure to see him. Perhaps if he sits in the window I can even say thank you,” Amy told him.

The man smiled. “We all do as we are programmed, be it to run the zoo or run from hungry renegade lions. There’s no need to thank me or yourself for instinct, ma’am.”

“Mommy, enough! Let’s go!” The impatient daughter, too young and ignorant of the past to understand, tugged forcefully at Amy’s hand.

“But thank you anyway!” Amy insistently called over her shoulder as her daughter began dragging her away from the lions and rhino.

The man chuckled as he crossed him arms. “Like I said: I’m just doin’ my job.”

RKYV Column #3 - Defining & Tolerating Art

The definition of art is a long, complex page with multiple branches for each division of work covered by the simple three letter word. To even try to focus on one definition would be rude. It would be a claim that one single definition rules supreme over the others, without question.

Therefore, for this column, it is best to state that art is a product of mankind, one that is meant to bring pleasure or stimulate the mind in some sort.

It is now safe to say that this definition is incredibly broad. Then again, the amount of artwork one can find around the planet is staggering. Some of it, at first, might not even appear to be creative works. It is only upon another person’s exclamation that one realizes exactly what they have on their hands.

This, of course, may explain why some people walk through a museum exhibit and find that another human being designed the exact same creation they once did, and now it’s the other person’s work that is being displayed. Perhaps creators themselves, in their desire to simply create and satisfy their raging muse, do not realize what they have on their hands. To them, the creation, the art, is nothing more than their baby.

Take my own experience. While wandering through our local art museum during this past late August, I saw many things that looked as if anyone could have scribbled. Everyone has seen this before. I think many have hurt themselves asking, “Why didn’t I think about making a living doing this? I could do it!”

This form of self-attack is not limited to hand paintings or painted clay mounds. The simplest of photos in a gallery are often the most powerful. Backgrounds captured at just the right moment; animals in the perfect pose; people in candid photos; all of these are often items in one’s own personal gallery.

Most art forms are still completely respected. Carvings, which take hours of dedication and resources, are often sold in stores as little art replicas. I myself have a perfect wooden fox figurine that cost me 50 Franks while in Switzerland last summer; it is in fact my own motivation to continue until I think the details are complete.

Other art forms are not quite revered as much as the woodcarver’s. In 2007, Pittsburgh’s local greenhouse took in glass artwork that imitated plant life and built the glass structures into their exhibit. This included seaweed-like tentacles in shades of purple and pink reaching for the roof, and an entire golden glass flower set up to appear to be dropping its withering petals into the water beneath it.

I went to see this and was stunned by the mastery the craftsman had over glass, to create such elegant and monstrously oversized structures.

Yet groups of people had the audacity to claim that this entire project, a series of masterpieces of color and observance in nature, was not art. The skill of glass blowing and sculpting, one that none of them could ever have achieved, was almost blocked out of the greenhouse by one group’s intolerance.

And this intolerance goes on into everyday life. Rap, a “music” form I myself cannot consider music by scientific definition, I will begrudgingly admit to being an art: it is badly written poetry to background beats.

In fact, my high school Imaginative Writing teacher could recall poetry readings and contests he would take his students to around Pittsburgh. The students from well-funded schools usually placed higher because of their usage of all elements within a good poem, because they could develop poetry to its maximum potential. Despite that, there was no denying that the minority competitors would indeed always have a good sense of rhyme and rhythm, two aspects of poetry they certainly learned from mainstream rap music.

I still hesitate to call it music, because while I may sound good to some, it certainly does not to me. Yet many people listen to this and consider it tasteful. I myself might be more tolerant if only the listeners would respect my displeasure and not blast this noise from cars and buildings.

Tolerance is the key to this issue.

Tolerance from all parties is as important as the artwork itself. Art, in all of its forms, is universal. It is universal in the fact that all cultures and all people have their own style of it. It is universal in the fact that people dislike it utterly or relish and bask in its glory, and in both cases there is some thought process as to what they see in the artwork.

Always be sure to give all art forms the benefit of the doubt and a good analysis before you write it off as terrible art completely. It just might not be terrible; it just isn’t made for your tastes.

Best of luck,
Larissa

A Band & A Book

Today's band review:

The Pitt News page.

Margot and the Nuclear So and So's are so, so good
Grade: B+

"Meaningful lyrics and variety in its musical style can make a good album, but hate references to alcohol and body parts can break it.

Not Animal, released by Margot and the Nuclear So & So’s, carries both of the above. The band is one of the few that calls on detailed, realistic situations while still making depression sound gorgeous.

Margot and the Nuclear So & So’s is a different sort of band. The name is lengthy. Founders Richard Edwards and Andy Fry met in a pet store. The list of instruments the two play includes guitar, bells, bass, synthesizer, lap steel, melodica, banjo and percussion. That doesn’t even include the other two members, Emily and Tyler Watkins.

To say each song’s background changes is an understatement. This band gets kudos for its variety and its originality. In addition to a lengthy list of instruments, electric guitar, a harmonica and string instruments appeared.

Overall, the band resembles The Shins and Arcade Fire. Indie-rock bashers, please hold your horses and give this group the reins, because they deserve it.

The 12 album tracks include titles such as “Pages Written on a Wall,” “The Shivers” and “The Ocean (is Bleeding Salt).” Each track offers a different take on music.

“Broadripple is Burning” has a child focus. This one is like a depressing fairy tale. Like, time to drop profanity to the children mentioned at the beginning of the song, right along with a “being wasted” part. Yet, it’s gorgeous and poetic.

“Cold, Kind and Lemon Eyes” is about one drunken family and how the vocalist would go cold just to be left alone. His words, though, sound better than that: “Please don’t drop bombs on me / I beg of thee, just leave me in peace / I’ll have cold, kind, and lemon eyes / Oh lemon eyes. My God!”

“As Tall as Cliffs” is the most popular of the album tracks on iTunes for a reason. It has the relationship-gone-bad feeling, although I don’t remember the last time I heard bad relationships put this way: “You’ll hang like the rest. / We’ll leave a noose on the attorney’s desk / And take to the streets / Chant like an army / And doctor up this disease.”

After the list of slightly depressing songs, it’s odd to hear “Stop crying and start smiling” on the last track of the album.

However, that seems to be the point. Everyone in the songs’ tales is alive despite their problems. The best way to improve a situation is to smile and keep going."

---

I was surprised by how much I actually enjoyed Margot. While I certainly listen to all music, without really defining modern rap as music the majority of the time, I don't necessarily like what I hear. Margot had a different music style, but their lyrics fascinated me. I liked the mild poetry and deciphering my own meanings from them - when I could hear them; I have a hearing problem that led to a lot of attempts on lyric search engines.

So, yes: they're worth buying and not just downloading.

***
The Amazon page; just in case you want it.

The book I read yesterday, straight through, is titled "Why Girls Are Weird : A Novel"; written by Pamela Ribon, the 2003 book centers around a birthday present writing blog envolving beyond the creator's hand.

It's decently written without any fancy vocabulary that will leave you scrambling for the dictionary every other word. It's a decent topic, and I found it to be a relief from the scientific anthropology textbooks.

The clincher for me, however, was a personal preference. I'd be lying if I said otherwise. The reason is because when the character travels to Pittsburgh - my hometown, and the place I am shivering in right now as I suffer through college - the narrator nailed this city down pat:

"What do you think of Pittsburgh?";

"I think it's f-ing cold. And why can't I find a place to eat?"

Yep, that's us. Not doubt in my mind; it is freezing cold in the winter; chilly for us means 30 degrees. Not to mention everything closes between 9:00 in the evening and midnight.

So - good writing style, decent plot, and personal jokes for the people of Pittsburgh. Maybe a couple for Texas, too. Give it a shot.

RKYV Column #2 - Artistic Relationships

This is an older column being reposted; stay tuned for the caught up version.

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Column 2 - Creation In Our World: Artistic Relationships

My deadline came up almost too soon for me to even begin working on this month’s feature; I’ve spent the past two days of sparse free time writing it. If the readers will be patient and read about my lifestyle, they will soon find that it has a significant meaning and purpose. Be patient, and enjoy the story being told.

I spent all of August packing and planning. I am a volunteer at the Pennsylvania Trolley Museum, and out of tradition I camp on its grounds once a year during the Washington County Fair. Though always incredibly fun, as preserving old trolleys with people bordering the line of sanity always is, this took away a full eight days of my life at home.

At the same time, I had been asked to help plan a friend’s party while he was out of town. This meant the stress of getting RSVPs and an affirmative head count for the mother. Yet another friend asked me to pick her up from the airport and flew in for the party as a surprise guest; she is doing badly financially and I ended up paying her $100 to help with her ticket. As a college student, this is an amount incredibly hard to give to anyone, good friend or not.

And throughout all of this, we must add the joys of worrying about college. I fretted about textbooks that I ordered online through Amazon and the competitive eBay; this stress was well worth it. Five books costs me about $80 or so total with shipping. Two textbooks on campus, at the cheap store, were $220. I don’t even have one class’s books yet, unfortunately.

I didn’t pack my suitcases and boxes until the day before I left my house; and even though I live extremely close to campus, my house is not a friendly environment. I was very excited to be gone. I went home briefly yesterday because I was under the impression people wanted to see me; and in seconds I wanted to leave that grumpy household and go Home. To my dorm, where I had already settled throughout the chaos of move-in.

The arrival on the University of Pittsburgh campus brought on a vast number of things to do. Other than walking up and down the streets seeing what shops take our various forms of money, and making friends with our dorm neighbors (no room mate for me, and no complaints thus far!), hours upon hours have been spent in mandatory programs. Most have had their highlights and otherwise were incredibly boring, which gave me time to think about writing.

But of course, after I would go to my dorm with the intentions of looking over some things I haven’t in a long time, the computer would call. I don’t even mean the seducing that Youtube can pull off, although I did satisfy my “The X-Files” lust while waiting for the other things I had to do. The campus gave us multiple CDs for software and network configuration. The software has been a hassle, and I have yet to finish upgrading. I haven’t wanted to work on it.

So when I needed a break, I could walk down to the streets and explore the vendors that have been out and about. I have a magnificent artwork copy in my room, titled "Entre Les Trous De La Memoire" by Dominique Appia. It’s taped to the wall above the bed with beautiful sheets that I can’t help but stare at in joy, especially because it is just so overwhelmingly comfortable at night. Out of my window is a view of the street and one of the chapels where I could go to church if I desired.

You can see how this list has gone on and on. I haven’t even mentioned the multiple clubs I was interested in; even though many were eliminated because of the dedication my new job on the campus newspaper requires, I know right now I will never make all of the meetings for any of those clubs. And believe it or not, there was a point to this two-page story in the form of a list. I have thought of many other column ideas during the last two days, and wrote every one of them down to prevent forgetfulness (as I recommended last time, if you remember), but those are for the future alone. I have one main point to make in this one.

Art is like a relationship. And when you can’t hold its hand in public any longer, it’s time to think things over.

I heard this comparison made to something else, probably our studies or one of the multiple organizations, during one of my numerous required programs, and I immediately connected it back to crafting of all forms. As anyone could tell by this long list of joys and stress on and off campus, during the last two days I have been unbelievably distracted. Some of those have been for reasons I couldn’t help (the mandatory programs and the computer set-up, since I need the laptop for class).

But the time I have spent chatting with my new friends, though useful and extremely important during these first few weeks, did not have to be as extensive as I allowed it to be. Youtube, obviously, has probably not helped, even though I have spent minimal time on it.

I make many, many excuses for why I haven’t been writing more than a couple minutes a day. For example, when writing the outline for this, I could have stopped when one of my posters peeled off of the wall. But let’s face it; it doesn’t change the fact that I have not made any progress on a single project until now. Even my job interview works for the Pitt News had been forced during my free moments. Luckily I was able to smooth them out.

My relationship with my writing is not the best that it has ever been. We once could have strolled anywhere holding hands and brainstorming together. Now, Writing is sitting in the corner of my desk, neglected other than the occasional glance over to remind myself what is there. And I have already entered the excuse phase for why this is so, claiming that it’ll work its way back on track without assistance.

I have no intention of letting this phase go on for much longer. I will find time to write; I have written down on my calendar when I should give myself time to do it, for as little as fifteen minutes until I am more comfortable with my schedule as a whole.

Life is never that easy, as we all know. It will take some considerable discipline to get work done at first, even during as little as fifteen minutes, until I find a comfortable routine that satisfies all of my desires for this college experience.

Be sure, my readers and artists, to discipline yourselves. This crazy time where people in families or you yourself begin to go back to school is wonderful, as it should be; it is also potentially devastating if you never get back on track.

Find that routine, ease into it (even use the list I gave out last month), and hopefully you’ll be able to make enough progress to be content with all aspects of your life.

The Avett Brothers: CD Review & Thoughts

The Pitt News Link Is Here. Grade: B+

"Indie roots. Folk-punk. Grunge-grass. Call it what you want, but The Avett Brothers mix rock and folk like few others.

The band’s acoustic origins lie in experimental songs that Scott Avett played with friends while the band Nemo was still together. Seth Avett joined in the experimentations briefly before Nemo disbanded, and the two brothers continued with their ideas.

During the last eight years the band has released eight albums, with the newly released EP hitting the shelves earlier this year. The Second Gleam is truly the middle child — it’s longer than a single but shorter than a full album, with only six acoustic songs occupying a grand total of just over 20 minutes of playing time.

The only other instruments in the group are the occasional piano, drums and a banjo. A cello joins them in concert. But this lack of hard rock sound shouldn’t dissuade potential listeners. In fact, the quiet, relaxing music is perfect in that it works with the lyrics rather than distracts.

The lyrics themselves are more advanced than the average “emotions only” song — the words are quite poetic and even take on a slight scripture feel as they flow together. The entire composition overall sounds a bit like a Simon and Garfunkel work with updated instruments.

The EP launches off with “Tear Down The House,” an account of losing one’s house. That almost sounds like one recent situation in America, doesn’t it? Except our houses weren’t scheduled for demolition. As his house is considered for destruction, the narrator remembers his childhood and all of the memories he made within his old home’s walls.

There’s a touch of civility with the stanza: “Ever since I learned how to curse / I’ve been using those sorry old words / But, I’m talkin’ to these children / And I’m keeping it clean / I don’t need those words / To say what I mean.”

A handshake ought to be offered to the Avett Brothers for reminding society that the young don’t have to be brought up in a sea of low-quality language.

Tranquility and peace occurs two times over because “Murder in the City” is nothing more than a will and remembrance as the singer says his feelings to those he would leave behind if he were murdered. Not only that, but the first two lines are a blatant plea for revenge to stop and for people to live peacefully even if one of the Avett Brothers die.

And no hippie setting is complete without a sense of love to go with the peace. “Bella Donna” is the love song all albums must contain somewhere on their track listing — and this one has the singing Avett Brother begging a young girl to listen to what one man has to say. “The Greatest Sum” follows “Bella Donna” in that it preaches to a loved one about how nothing could hold the singer away from her.

However, the setup and words used to describe the story in both songs is different than the usual whiney boy in pop mainstream. It’s much more mature, and this is what makes the Avett Brothers’ music better than average.

Twenty minutes of listening are well spent on this album. In an age when lyrics are more often than not mindless repeats of simple human emotions, the depths that the Avett Brothers explore is indeed a blessing."

---

I won't lie, I had never heard of The Avett Brothers before I picked this CD up off of our meeting table, and they still aren't dominating my iPod.

Wikipedia says the following - The Avett Brothers combine bluegrass, country, punk, pop melodies, folk, rock and roll, honky tonk and ragtime to produce a sound described by the San Francisco Chronicle as having the "Heavy sadness of Townes Van Zandt, the light pop concision of Buddy Holly, the tuneful jangle of the Beatles, the raw energy of the Ramones."

Me talking again.
I wasn't b.s.ing when I wrote my review. The CD I now have is indeed a meaningful EP; it has quite the calming and eye opening experience, although it doesn't exactly hold the mysterious aura of the infamous "Sounds of Silence".

So for the older folks - say, older than college party days and reminiscing said days - it's a worthy purchase and a band to look into. Sadly, there are very few teenagers I know that are ready to slow down and listen.

So depending on your age, the Avett Brothers retains a grade anywhere from a B- to a B+. Maybe an A- for the real folk lovers.

RKYV Column #1 - Tips for the Artistic

This is a re-posting of a very old column, which will eventually be in sync with my current work.
For now, I hope this advice helps any struggling in the fields known as arts.

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Column 1 – Creation In Our World: Tips for the Artistic

This is the first column of, as I will greedily state, my own that I will have ever had the privilege and joy of writing. My writing experience thus far has been limited to short stories and poetry, with one memoir and one guest article in my high school’s paper. That makes this yet another little journey and step out of my comfort zone to allow expansion of the horizons.

So, to learn more about me: my name is Larissa. I am a soon-to-be college Freshman at the University of Pittsburgh, studying as an English writing major and beginning the quest to find a double that will actually pay my bills in the future. It’s a sad fact that writing alone is no longer a satisfactory job in the economical sense for the author. The environment that we live in today just does not support a single-path lifestyle.

Oddly enough, “environment within society” was the theme I presented to good old Randy when I saw he was looking for new columnists. The very first thought that came to my head was, well, I’ll be living in a city that serves as my college campus – surely, one of the best times to sit back before bed and observe how the day went in the artistical sense.

First, though, I better focus on the present. I’d hate to overstep the now and fail to see its potential. It’s a bad habit some people have, always expecting good in the future to the point they fail to see when the future becomes the now.

This summer was the first that I truly began to feel the taste of being an eighteen year old, and by that token, an adult. I finally earned my driver’s license (although it was a cheap trick: I took it with my school’s instructor rather than the tough money hogs). This meant that as long as I had a few bucks to pitch in for the all important and almost always hungry gas tank, I could drive my ’98 Camry wherever I wanted – and frankly, the car is so reliable and the mileage efficient that it is worth paying the money I do for driving her (yes, her; her name is Clarabel, after a coach in “Thomas the Tank Engine”).

This taste of freedom, however, did present a major change that had to be conquered in the aspiring writer’s lifestyle, and swiftly. See, with a car available, and a steady income from cleaning, redesigning, and painting the house as a form of cheap labor, the mall and the movie theaters were much closer than they once were. There was no longer the need to discuss times with my parents while working around the schedules of my friends, three family members, and myself. I called and planned the event with friends, piled the friends into their safety belts, and off we went.

This meant less discipline and restriction on my part, other than following the rules of the road and ensuring I arrived home in one peace. With more freedom, it became harder to write.

Well, I shouldn’t say that. I would have such amazing nights out I would come home, blab in my LiveJournal, and write a few poetic lines for the future. The problem came when I decided, hey, this experience would make a good memoir, or hey, this poem could be so good…if only I would settle down and design the idea.

As it seems is our habit, I developed a sense of fast-lane ADD: work for a bit, loose interest, and forevermore want to return to the project only to never do so. All the while, I created an ever-growing list of things to do that would probably never see completion.

Luckily, within a few weeks I did manage to quench this roaming side of mine. I wrote several poems and short stories, and with the sparse critique I received, managed to better it enough to send it in to several contests and publishers. No positive results yet, but then, that is the way it always is: a wall of rejections, one gold star for payoff.

There are a few tips I picked up as the summer went along to help myself improve my writing. I have a feeling, though, that these could be applied to some of the other crafts on RKYV. So, for those of you serious about your artwork, here is the best advice I have picked up or come to understand over the summer thus far.

1) Writers, write out morning pages. Just write whatever comes to your mind: the chores you’ll do that day, how you slept the night before, dreams, how you feel in the morning about events from the previous night, ect. These may eventually be able to provide you some inspiration, and if nothing else, can act as therapy to help you sort through your priorities and see just why you are having trouble writing.

2) Work on your craft early. Not necessarily when you wake up; I know plenty of people would fall head-first on their work without an hour to read the paper and drink a cup of coffee (or in my case, milk). However, beginning to write, sculpt, draw, paint, just work on your craft early in the day is the best way to go. There’s two reasons. One, you will have accomplished some progress before your schedule becomes swamped with that surprise call from a friend who made dinner reservations or bought movie tickets to the most anticipated movie of the year already. Two, if this doesn’t happen, you will have stimulated your creative side early, allowing more ideas to flow freely. Many times over, I found I had a better idea or that it was easier to restructure my drafts just by starting earlier in the day.

3) Keep some part of your craft near you whenever possible. I highly recommend an available pen and paper, just to write down the ideas as they come. Otherwise, you’ll lose them. Not everything that goes up comes back down, and that definitely applies to our ideas.

4) To best ensure you work on one thing, limit your time spent on other hobbies. I had a problem with TV for a time. Luckily, I discovered the magic of the DVR, cutting away twenty to thirty minutes of commercials. Now, I can watch the shows I want, often learn something new to use later on, and still have enough time to work and do chores after I’ve begun writing. Like I said: earlier in the day is a life saver.

5) No excuses for why you aren’t working. Even if you think something is blocking the ideas, keep going at it. Many brilliant artists of all sorts have said 95% of their material found its way into the pits of a muddy hole in an outhouse. Well, OK, they didn’t say it quite that way, but I think it makes the point they themselves said: most of what we begin with is indeed garbage. Believe me, I have scraped entire drafts that I spent two long and frustrating weeks crafting because I had to accept: the idea was fathomable, but the work was not quality and it had to be redone. Discipline yourselves to ALWAYS work on your craft for fifteen to thirty minutes a day, minimum. Even if you scrap the work because of its poor quality, you will be keeping that part of you alive and well by practicing.

So, the way I see it, we have one more month of possible summer work. Keep it up, fellow artists. I look forward to the next column. If you have your own complaints about something in your artistic environment, find my name on Facebook and message me, or else pass the message along through Randy.

Best of luck,
Larissa

Poetry Day - Midnight Train

Previous entry here.

Today's quick poetry post hosts an older poem titled Midnight Train, which is the first one I think I wrote for my creative writing class in high school.

The original version placed 5th in a contest and can be found at the following link:
http://www.weeklyreader.com/readandwriting/Bowler+Runner+Up+5+BrMidnight+Train.aspx

Since the poem is probably considered published even if revised, I don't mind posting the updated prose version:

"I once picked up a dusty violin with a flimsy, cracking bow. It felt lonely, and screamed in my hands at the thought of being returned to its case, to the shadowy corner. Instead of putting it away, I lifted the wood to my shoulder. I softly coaxed a tune from the quivering wood, until I recognized the whistle being thrown out by the calming instrument.

It had matched the nightly call of my old machine companions. With their creaking pistons, and gears, and proud smokestacks, they marked the trail constantly traveled until their message was lost in the clouds. The old ladies and Big Boys that ruled our land have diminished now.

Yet my violin, my newfound friend, was mimicking the night I crumpled into the soft leather of days behind me. I rode along to the next station in the engine’s favorite coach, watching fields illuminated by lover’s lamps, and marshes filled with fireflies blinking their SOS – come to me. Now. The places came and went with the rattle of the Midnight Train.

My trip, with no destination in the mind of the leader, carried me on, and on, and on. My only companion was peace. What a quiet pair we were. We rumpled and rocked along; the motions began soothing cracked fingers, and massaging beyond my limbs into a weary back; the motions began nudging, opening constricted capillaries –

Yet as the clogs I had obtained began to dissipate within me, the whistle suddenly screamed her shrill cry.

It pierced the quartet circle in my attic corner. My eyes snapped open, the emptiness of carved wood still draped over my shoulder; it began quivering as it realized it had lost its companion. The shriek of bow-on-string ruined the chemistry. The dream we had created was now echoing,

Echoing…

Echoing…

Leaving me nowhere appreciated."

Cast In Bronze

http://www.castinbronze.com/

Weighing in on the 4 Ton Carillon (this article is one I wrote for the Pitt News)

"To the lords and ladies of this good land, we bid thee listen — for there is a festival in town complete with one of the world’s most unique instruments.

Playing at the Pittsburgh Renaissance Festival for the second year, the Spirit of the Bells, or 35-year-old Frank DellaPenna and his traveling carillon, have returned to mystify audiences. But traveling is not such an easy task — the festival’s carillon is composed of 35 bells and weighs 4 tons.

A carillon is an instrument, but not in the sense of a piano or saxophone. Defined as 23 or more bells that are attached and played through a mechanical keyboard, the carillon has bells hung and tied to a peg on the keyboard. The smaller ones can be played by hand, while one’s foot must stomp on the largest and heaviest bells. The level of intensity used to press on the keyboards decides the intensity of the note played.

And the Spirit of the Bells, performing at the Pittsburgh Renaissance Festival, is in fact a fairly local guest — he began his journey with the carillon in Valley Forge, Pa., as a teenager searching for a classical piano teacher.

One private teacher, Frank Pechin Law, was the carillonneur for the Washington Memorial Chapel in Valley Forge and made the deal that if the young DellaPenna was to study piano, he would also study the carillon.

The carillon quickly became the dominant instrument. DellaPenna went on to become the first American to graduate from the French Carillon School in Tourcoing, France, with a degree of Master Carillonneur. He returned to the United States and took over Law’s position.

Continuing in DellaPenna’s storybook reality, eight years later, a complete stranger walked into the chapel tower when DellaPenna forgot to lock the chapel door. DellaPenna welcomed the stranger and played for him. The stranger stated that people should be able to see DellaPenna play and soon bought the instrument on the condition that its player share it with the world.

“It’s really hard for most people to believe that things like this could happen. But, I always envisioned that I could bring the carillon to people, but I never knew how,” said DellaPenna.

DellaPenna and the carillon now play under the name, Cast In Bronze. Dressed in all black and wearing a gold bird’s mask, he performs for the entire world to see — by hiding his face, he retains the seclusion that the original “spirits” would have had in towers. The performance is hypnotic and beautiful to say the least.

DellaPenna plays at Renaissance and music festivals. All performances have been outdoors, except spots opening an Alice Cooper benefit concert and playing the opening mass for Pope John Paul II.

The carillonneur has recorded six CDs, has performed at countless shows and is booked 10 months out of the year for various shows and gigs. The remaining two months are spent doing administrative work and inspecting the carillon.

Between all of this, DellaPenna has written out a musical script and score. Titled, “The Bells,” it focuses around the carillon, its history and how it impacted the people around it.

DellaPenna is cautiously optimistic about his show, despite it currently being reviewed “by someone powerful in the theater world. This is the guy that could make it happen. This is the guy who has already put 120 shows on Broadway.”

He has the right to be cautious — though the screening showed positive response to the musical, the same cannot be said for the rest of the world’s instruments.

Carillons were created about 500 years go in the Netherlands and originally placed high in towers, where a designated “spirit of the bells” played the instrument to announce special events, including weddings and market days. The result was that over time, the almost invisible instruments lost their appeal and power over villages and towns.

“The carillon is in big trouble because it is so unusual. A lot are [sitting in their towers] doing absolutely nothing,” said DellaPenna.

Part of bringing the instrument into the modern era includes a Web site. The Cast In Bronze Web site is reachable online through e-mail. The Web site also includes a newsletter, merchandise and live clips. YouTube also hosts a number of homemade videos.

But DellaPenna will not be alone in his efforts for much longer. He was called when another company and player bought a second traveling carillon to work in the United States. The group was concerned it would be competition.

DellaPenna is welcoming the newcomers, offering as much as to assist booking them. He’s mostly excited about the chance to talk to another player with new ideas of how to share their marvelous instruments — his ideas include college workshops in the future.

His carillon has already made an impact — the Spirit of the Bells has collected three full binders of letters of testimony from his show listeners, all describing how the instrument affected and inspired them.

For example, children who might have disliked practicing piano began to practice more after learning DellaPenna started as a piano player.

Adults who have tried speaking to him after a show have broken into tears instead.

“It opens up a part of them they didn’t know existed,” said DellaPenna.

“I would have to say that this is the only carillon in history that has ever been solely supported by listeners,” he said. “I get to share my energy with people, and they feel something enough to support me by taking a CD home.”

The original mission, to share the carillon with listeners, has also evolved over time with the carillon’s style.

“I think maybe we’re all just here to help each other. And maybe Cast In Bronze can inspire people to just achieve their own dreams.”

Poetry: Antennae Lips; A Useless Disguise

Well, I figured I might as well post something other than a "here I am" entry. Hm...well, this needs to be quick - I need to change and go find my friends. It's Superbowl time after all!

Anyone who knows me has learned by now I'm an English writing major. Believe it or not, though, I have managed to have a couple tiny things released into the published world, via anthology contests. They aren't huge things to brag about, but they exist. So I think it's safe to share them, as it is known when checking that these are my work (so seriously: don't steal anything).

One was an essay on politics that I am not too fond of. I don't think I even have a hard file anymore, so that will not be posted.

The others are poems, written in 2008.

Antennae Lips

Kneel before me on our picnic spread
so that your eyes of midnight
meet mine.
And sit with me as the local insects
almost noiselessly flutter
by this old, withering apple tree.
When ears strain, I can hear
frustrated wing beats
as they are playfully tossed
by summer's winds.
They long to suckle on a drop
of golden nectar hidden
in the scattered gardens,
but never quite exert enough
strength to reach their Eden -
just like us, two fluttering youngsters,
always hoping to feel petal-soft lips
brush ours, as two butterflies in greeting
might lightly glance a pair of velvet antennae
over the other's.

A Useless Disguise

Beautiful blue lakes shimmered, and sunlight played
By peeking its corners out from behind leaves,

Flashing on hooves that clattered on cobblestones
As they traveled towards their locked doors.

Old Iron whistled from the mountains by day
Breaking silence up and down the forests –

And by starlight the lamps were blown out, violently,
Becoming shards of flying wax, as the villages hid.

But this morning, the men share embraces by dawn’s cloak
And lover’s eyes glitter as their blue lake once could

And the children run off with strips of tattered clothing –
The now useless disguise of poor folk apathetic during war

So that the men can trade hoods for a red uniform, darkened
With unforgiving, never forgetting stains

And the wearers can do nothing but hike up Old Iron’s
Mountains, wishing they could hop onto a ride back down.

---

Go Steelers!