New Page!

Hey all.

In case you didn't hear, we have moved The Compass over to Tumblr. Change your bookmarks: http://wethecompass.tumblr.com/.

See you over there,
Paul

Music Box

This is a song that has been in the shop for several months now. I first sketched out the idea for the song in the spring of 2009 and started writing it a few months later. I recorded an initial demo in September of last year but I wasn't satisfied with it. A year later, this newly recorded demo comes closer to the intangible idea existing only in my mind.




Watching the children, young
men and women
stumble from buildings on Sunday morning.
Sweatpants, sunglasses, concealed eyes
and muzzled mouths with
vodka breath.

And then
you see her walking
behind them
(because she thinks they can
let her sing out).
Spot scars that seem like
someone tried to erase her
to keep a piece.

They go in the cafe,
speaking of conquests, but
she keeps her night from being
sung out.

Eating the food,
greasy and heavy,
its only use is to fill up the void.

But you know where she was last night,
singing for him
while you sat in
the silent room,
except for the notes of the C scale
that drifted through the concrete walls.

Wonder why
it was his fingers that were able to
wind her --
a frail music box
designed to only play the song
that he wanted,
that they all want.

And Monday evening you see
her
again with her
eyes and ears open
to a blue jay perched--
cottonwood --
keen melody,
instinctive song.


The difficulty in translating one's perception of the world into a piece of art lies in the translation itself. Attempt to transcribe it exactly and the art is lost to the telling -- the blatant identification of an idea so there is no possible confusion for the listener. Keep it too close to the original, and you prohibit the piece from fully becoming itself -- you prevent it from evolving into something more powerful than the germ of a inspirational thought.

Finding the balance between the two was the major difficulty I had in writing this song. As I wrote above, this song is a year and a half in the making, and I'm still not completely satisfied. When I first recorded it a year ago, I was scrambling to accomplish something, to get some words and music down into a more permanent form than the loose threads of my mind. I had been writing a lot for my Request-A-Song project and I wanted an original to shake things up -- to focus on my thoughts and ideas instead of the words and suggestions of others. I recorded the acoustic guitar and my vocals and thought I was done.

I played the piece -- at that time, called "Salt Shaker" -- a few times at open mic nights but it felt unnatural. The lines were of varying lengths and I didn't have anything resembling a consistent melody. I enjoy straying from pop conventions, but I like my music to have some semblance of order that pleases the ear. So this past June, I decided to come back to this piece and try it again -- this time, with support from my drum machine. I changed the backing instrument from keyboard to electric guitar and spent the past two weeks completing it.

The biggest change was with the lyrics. I figured that a song called "Music Box" should rely more on musical imagery in its words. I think there is a little more room for the listener to explore, to discover his or her own meaning in the lyrics. When writing my songs, I focus more on the lyrics -- they're the most important part of a song to me. I hope that "Music Box" lets you come to your own conclusions about a little piece of the world.

-Paul

P.S. Consider becoming my fan at my ReverbNation page:

Subway Sketching

On my two trips to NYC through Elmira College, the one constant was sketching. My first trip we had to sketch on the subway just to help pass time and to constantly work. While on the second trip we were required to fill up two small sketchbooks a week so subway rides became valuable times to fill our quota.

Sketching on the subway is a great thing for any artist to try/use. There are so many variables that go into it. How long do I have to finish this person? What's unique about this person? Who do I choose? How do I draw them without them finding out and knifing me? There are a ton of poses, faces, fashions, objects, time constraints on each car. An hour long subway ride can easily give you 10-20 decent sketches if you time it right. It's perfect for honing in on a certain trait, like feet, poses, eyes, etc. because there are so many options and they are always changing.

Then there's the human element. These models aren't voluntary. Some may not appreciate you staring at them constantly then scribbling in a notebook. From my experience, most people don't mind, as long as you're good enough. Nobody likes to look uglier than they are. People like to ask questions and it's a great way to start conversation in a car full of strangers. You definitely run into people who don't like it, or freak out if there are a group of you all doing the same thing.

Each sketch is like a little battle. How well can I capture someone in the two minutes they're sitting in front of me or the 15 seconds they're next to me waiting to get off. Making anything competitive makes it more interesting so when you "nail it" and look at your page and see the person who just left, or turned away, it's a great feeling. Flipping back through the book days later and remembering exactly what that person looked like is also a great feeling of success.

Sketching on the subway is one thing I'll miss the most about being in NYC. If I ever get back there, I'll definitely make sure I have a sketchbook and pen in my pocket because it's a unique experience at every stop.

In the Works

Back in high school I used to visit this site called www.rocktoons.com (which apparently stopped updating in 2007). Anyways, loving music and drawing as I did, I was really inspired by the site to make my own "rocktoons." I even had a mini ripoff version of the website of my own. I think everything from back then has been lost or deleted, which is good because my stuff was not very good, hahahaha. Anyways the basic process was drawing a band/musician, inking it, then using photoshop to color it.

This past week I got back into that process when I obtained photoshop and illustrator again. A lot of what I know in photoshop I learned during this time in high school from tutorials, experiments and just solid work. I know a little more now and had some experience with illustrator in college so I wanted to see how much better things would turn out.

Anyone who knows me knows I love football and before the NFL season started I had the idea to make a piece every week for who I thought was the player of the week in the NFL. So I have a couple drawings of a few players through week 3 right now (week 4 just ended minutes ago). I didn't want to use markers for these and decided to try the old photoshop method. The results so far are iffy, but I'm going to post them for feedback and ideas.

There's an amazing tool in illustrator (Live Trace) that cleans everything up from the initial scan, so that makes my drawing look 50 times better than it is. I think it may even work better as a black and white line drawing. But I wanted to try color anyways and here are the results so far.


As I said earlier, the line drawings look really good after cleaning them up in illustrator. The color versions on the other hand I feel need a lot of work. I've never been good with realism as you can probably tell and I didn't spend too much time on the color versions. It was basically a refresher. I was trying a different method and I don't have a tablet and blah blah blah. Just excuses. Before the end of this week though I'm going to hammer at least one out as best I can and see how that plays.

I can already tell from these that the line drawings may need more detail, almost like a comic book. Varying the thickness of my lines will also produce better final images. And I tried in the Polamalu (black background) one to use a color line. Although that was out of necessity, coloring the lines will undoubtedly help as well.

I'll have another post tomorrow with more sketches, especially my subway ones, because I've wanted to post about subway sketching for awhile. And look for one or two more posts as well. Thanks for reading everyone and spread it as much you can. One of our goals is to eventually have guest posters, there's already a submission link on the side. So send us whatever you feel like.

Flash Fiction

Here's a little ditty I recently wrote for a class I'm enrolled in this term. I worked harder on editing this than I do for most of my pieces and further edits probably await it for the class, however when I stopped, it was one of those rare moments where I was completely satisfied with the piece. It is far from perfect, but I enjoyed writing it and I hope you all enjoy it.

Legs

Judging by just how black the sky seemed, Richard knew it had to be after midnight; he was pleased. He slowed his pace and rounded the final curve of another long but rewarding lap on the empty high school track. Happy with his time, he grabbed his backpack and began jogging at a brisk pace for the apartment. After arriving, he stood behind the hedges that lined the highway next to his complex so he could change unseen. He pulled a black t-shirt over his chilling shoulders and a pair of khakis on over his spandex shorts. With a frown, Richard removed his tennis shoes, gently wrapping them in his soaked track jersey, and replaced them with a black pair of high tops. He composed himself outside the front door and then slunk into the living room. As expected, his father had managed to find his way onto the couch, but not off, and was snoring quietly before the television. He opened his eyes sleepily, and focused on Richard. His relief was obvious, and he of course asked where his son had been. Richard spun a quick and easy yarn about a party at Frank’s place, and looked for the inevitable disappoint in the old man’s face and, as usual, Richard felt regret. He sat down and assured his father that there was no trouble and showered him with the customary apologies. After some time, things relaxed, and Richard saw his father begin reaching for the spoke of his chair. “Don’t worry about it Pop, I got you,” he said, rising and walking towards him. He lifted the man easily and carried him down the short hall, past the framed ribbons, podium photos, and shining trophies. He laid him gently in the bed, taking care to avoid bumping or bruising the soft rounded part of what was left of his father’s knees. Richard returned to the living room and sunk into the couch to watch the final minutes of the old VHS tape his father had been replaying. He saw a much younger man, a stronger man, one who knew very little about fear, insecurity, or car crashes; dominating the final leg of the relay, leaving his competitors far behind him. Richard turned off the tape just as his father crossed the finish line and then found his way to his bedroom in the dark, imaging the roar of the crowd. He unpacked his backpack into a small box kept under his bed, pausing only for a few moments when he was transferring two brilliant gold medals. He stared at the awards with the briefest hint of smile until the shrill sound of a car horn broke the still night air. With that, the medals were dropped into the box , hidden away, and Richard lay across his bed, thinking only of the long and winding turns of the track.

I'm Sorry, Dave. I'm Afraid I Can't Do That

If you haven't noticed already, a major source of my inspiration is paranoia. I simply just do not trust some things. So with this in mind, I decided to let it take over completely and see where that could go. This is a technology fueled, paranoid rant against the future. Plus, in the spirit of technology, I've also filled this article with videos as well, making it somewhat interactive.

Of course I do not live my life in fear, these are only just thoughts. This is intended to be somewhat humorous in a frightening kind of way. Nervous laughs. If things get too real, just watch this a few times:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7V7ehnWSUTs

Enjoy.
-Anthony

-------
I'm Sorry, Dave. I'm Afraid I Can't Do That



Before we begin, watch this first:

http://www.vbs.tv/watch/motherboard/motherboard_networked_city

Now I am going to ask you a series of questions in response to that video:

1. Do you feel good about the future?
2. Did that video make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

If you answered "Holy fucking shit, no" to any of the above questions, you may continue reading this article.

That is a portrait of what is to come if we let those psychotic (yet stylish) nerds continue with what they are doing. One of those losers described the city as a "game engine" or more simply, a basic foundation in which games and experiments are conducted. This is where you live your life. They want to play games with it. They want to invisibly rule your every move. And they also want to give "every grain of sand on the face of the planet 100 different internet addresses" for who-knows-what. Like I said, these men are psychotic.

These men can trace where you are going and what you are doing, all while disguising it as some sort of "game." From what it looks like, you don't get points and you don't play against other people, thus you never really "win." You just get followed. Some power-thirsty Geek Squad reject watches your day-to-day movement and makes it look like some shitty Coldplay music video. This information is then sold to companies who will use that data for marketing. Your reward for getting a high score is coupons in the mail.

But why is this what opened up my eyes? It should have happened much sooner. Why was everyone ok with Google sending camera cars to our neighborhoods in order to take 360-degree pictures of our lives? Did we give them permission? Why were we not concerned when Google Earth came out? "Oh hey! I can find my house from space! That's neat!" If you can find your house from space with the same machine you use to talk to your parents, other world governments can find your house from space very simply. And do you know what some of their satellites have besides cameras? Nuclear missiles. It's not like governments sit around and play with GarageBand all day. They strategize nuclear strikes. There might not even be a reason for it. The world may be at peace. But they do it anyway. Just incase.

Let me share something with you. In 1986, our government made these fun things ironically named "Peacekeeper Missiles." The missile would shoot up into space, find its targets, and then rain down maybe ten separate bombs, each roughly twenty times stronger than Little Boy, the bomb we dropped on Hiroshima (this information comes from this pdf, which I found on the Air Force's website: http://www.af.mil/shared/media/document/AFD-070618-036.pdf). These missiles eat childhoods and shit nightmares. This is what it looks like when it targets your bedroom from space, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons:

Fun Stuff. Luckily for us, they decommissioned all of these missiles in like 2005. Then again, that technology was developed in 1986. To give you some reference to where the public's mentality of technology was, Back to the Future was only made a year before. Where do you think they are now?

When the time comes, there will be nowhere to hide. Like they said before, even grains of sand have the capability to transmit gargantuan amounts data. Bricks can tell the enemy where you are and possibly what you buy most frequently at Starbucks. Forget using the computer; almost all of them have tiny cameras and microphones attached to them. The same goes for your cell-phone. All this knowledge exists and can be lethal if collected and utilized.

So-called "smart people" aren't really doing humankind any good on this front, either. Every now and then, the internet reveals videos of these scientists pretty much blueprinting armageddon. Watch these:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=geqip_0Vjec
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XSQarX2bNtQ

All you have to do is crank up the intensity on that ray gun to where it can microwave flesh, strap it on to that little helicopter thing, give it an infrared camera, and tell it to melt anything that moves and is around 98 degrees Fahrenheit. Now make a couple million of them. We had a good run.

Wait! That's it! "Run"! We can run to the mountains and into the woods where the robots cannot find us! Oh wait:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hh2nLWYnxkM

Well, fuck. The military made robots that can chase us through the woods. All it needs is a knife and some duct tape. It may just be me, but I think it could look a little bit more frightening. That thing actually looks like fun. If the scientists really wanted to keep us awake at night, they could have made it look scarier. Oh, hold up:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=W1czBcnX1Ww

That's more like it. Now it looks like a headless spiderdog. Great. Forget about ever feeling safe again. Why don't they attach one of these to it too, to insure I never sleep again:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dD_NdnYrDzY

This world is continually evolving into the movie Terminator. Defense contractors are getting richer. Your phones are getting smarter. Your social networks are getting creepier. Robotic spiderdogs are getting faster. You do not have to accept this. You have the right to privacy. I think. Well, at least you have the right to bear arms, which will be extremely useful when we have the great idea to give our computers an army. All joking aside, you really do leave a digital snail-trail of information everywhere you go. Just stay aware of who is watching you and you will be fine. And maybe work on running a little bit faster. But most importantly, always remember:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7V7ehnWSUTs

Bored

In keeping with the theme of Luke's most recent post, this week's selection comes from a song written at the age of sixteen. Things for most high schoolers appear in black and white;t his is certainly true of this song. It comes from an off-hand remark made by a friend. Back in my high school sophomore year some Monday at school, a few of my friends were talking about what they were doing while hanging out the weekend before, something that I had not been at. A friend turned to me and said, "Paul, you miss all the good things!" That comment inspired the following song.




Life could be better
From my point of view
Down here on the floor
with nothing to do

If I had a life
I'd have somewhere to go
But I know no one
So I'll stay here alone

Bored, and tired of living like this
Thinking of everything good that I miss
Bored, and wishing that I could just leave
Because around here it's too hard to breathe

Another great day
For me to forget
All these missed chances
I'll later regret

Just when did I let
My life pass me by?
I'd be out living
If I felt more alive

Bored, and tired of living like this
Thinking of everything good that I miss
Bored, and wishing that I could just leave
Because around here it's too hard to breathe

I watched some TV
But nothing was on
So I just sat there
For way too long

Wait by the phone
To see if it'd ring
Just a waste of my time
'Cause no one's calling

Bored, and tired of living like this
Thinking of everything good that I miss
Bored, and wishing that I could just leave
Because around here it's too hard to breathe

A friend - a different one than the one I mentioned before; I have more than one friend -- once told me that this is my best song and the only good one that I'm ever going to write. I certainly hope not. This song comes from a time in my life when I was not very cognizant of the world around me. I thought that my thoughts and feelings were paramount to all others, and my struggle to discover who I am and what I want was worth recording in a song. These false ideas are reflected in the lyrics: there is too much telling and not enough showing. By telling the listener exactly what I want them to realize about my situation, I am taking away any sort of intrigue or artistic merit to the song. Stating a fact does not involve any creativity.

But more importantly, this song does not define my current view of the world. It portrays too much passivity. A life unhappy can be changed -- but you must make the change. "Bored" assumes that we're stuck in our crummy situations on the floor. Yet we are capable of escape, even if it is only in a shifting of mindsets. Once you decide to cast off the shell of dismal gloom, you're capable of immensities.

This is especially prescient for me right now. My past three weeks with The Compass have been done with minimal preparation and I've scrambled to get something up. During the weeks preceding my week, I think about preparing but instead push the preparations aside to do other work that I claim is more important. But in for this blog to grow and for me to feel accomplished and satisfied, I need to break out the guitar and do some songwriting.

-Paul

Learning from the Past

This is a piece I wrote during term one of my freshman year at Elmira College. Its strange to think how much time has gone by. Reading it now feels awkward as I have never really thought this piece clicked, but I always liked it. Perhaps someday I will return to it, perhaps not. But as well as looking back at my own past, its about WWII and is an allegory of Henry's speech from good old Will Shakespeare. See what I did there, learning from the past...my past, the past. WOOOOO

D-Day

Captain Tony Rizzo stared into the faces of a dozen men. He swallowed hard as his shaking hand reached for what was probably his last cigarette. At 45, Rizzo had seen a lot, too much if he did say himself. He was a double dipper in World War II and right about now he could not remember why he had volunteered to serve a second campaign. These guys were a bunch of fucking kids for Christ’s sake, what was lady liberty sending them for? As the Higgins Boat ripped through the fog and waves, Rizzo watched the terrified kids, as their heads bobbed up and down like a dog begging for a treat. What could he say to such a pitiful bunch? Hell, Rizzo could hardly muster hope for himself. All he wanted to do was have a beer and watch the yanks play one more time or two, and as far as the army was concerned, this would have been his last mission as a soldier. However, now it seemed that Operation Overlord would be the death of him. They were about to attack over 100,000 krauts who had been dug into the cliffs of Normandy for months. The cigarette was gone before he knew it, worried and weary, Rizzo turned away from his men to face the raging ocean.

“What the fuck is Roosevelt thinking?” screamed a thin wiry soldier in the back of the craft over the waves. A few worried faces turned his way. The young Jewish man was named Jacob Halberstram. College was a joke now, for that matter, dinner tomorrow from his pack was a joke, he was sure death was upon him. His fears and insecurities had gotten the best of him, he continued his rant and said, “This operation is already FUBAR, you all know we’re gonna die don’t you? I mean look at us! Driving up as pretty as a little goddamn shooting gallery for the fifty calibers to tear apart.” “Halberstram is right,” muttered a pale kid named Danny Thompson as he clutched the plastic bag wrapped around his .30 caliber M1 carbine. “Maybe if there were about a hundred thousand more of us, maybe then we’d stand a chance! There is less than thirty thousand in our division, that’s nothing more than cannon fodder on this beach.” With that everyone fell silent, Rizzo shot a quick glance back at the men and Danny could swear he saw some fear in the old Italian’s eyes.

Greg Flannigan who had to be the only man there over thirty besides Rizzo finally gave way to his stomach and vomited over the side of the metallic vessel. It was either seasickness or downright fear, he could not decide. Greg or Mr. Flannigan, as he was known at PS. 118 in Brooklyn, was no soldier. He was a husband to a beautiful wife named Danielle and a seventh grade teacher. Sure he knew general history, and he could probably name you all of the presidents, but anything really about the military was, as they say in the army, above his pay grade. He did not have any idea how to check his six and he still could not figure out what Halberstram meant by FUBAR. This world was completely foreign. He mused in his mind about how he had not felt this nervous since he had to dance at his wedding. The happy memory managed to dig up Flannigan’s always-inappropriate sense of humor as he thought he would probably take death by the hand of a German soldier over polkaing with Danielle’s Old Italian grandmother again.

He had to do something, say anything to inspire these guys. He could not quite catch what was said but the privates sounded angry, mostly out of fear he guessed. Halberstram and Thompson were still going on about the impending “slaughter” and their “pointless” assault. Just then, Rizzo saw that Irish teacher, Flannigan losing his lunch over the side of the Higgins. Enough was enough, he thought. Rizzo planted his feet and pulled himself up by the latched front of the boat. Brushing water off his helmet, he turned to face his squad grasping for words to say.

“What’s that Halberstram? You and Thompson don’t think there’s enough of us here to beat the krauts? Well son, you might be right, but I would rather die fighting then wishing for reinforcements. There is no greater honor that you or any of us could do today than to die for Uncle Sam. We may be just a few thousand men, but I would not have it any other way. History will remember this day, privates, and in it, it will remember us. I am not a vain man, and living my life in Hell’s Kitchen has taught me never to be greedy, but you can bet your asses that I have pride. If I die here on this beach, I do it with glory and endless faith for my country and what we fight for today. To any of you that are afraid, that fear death, cease those thoughts. We are a company of heroes and we will fight valiantly. Any of you that are not willing to give your all for the United States of America can jump off this boat right now and fair your best in the waters. Because I would not fight in that man’s company that has no courage to fight with us. When the American flag is raised over Normandy, the soldiers left standing who return to the states will be known as such great heroes that the world has never known before. He, who is a veteran of this bloody battle will yearly, on June 6 feel his heart swell with pride for his country and love for his comrades in this infantry unit. He will yearly, on the anniversary, salute Old Glory and tell his tales of war to his friends and family, wowing them with his courage and resolve. Then, the names of your brothers in arms, Halberstram and Thompson, Flannigan and Rizzo shall be on that day honored in the highest. Our story will be taught in classrooms, and every June that comes by we few shall be remembered. We few, we courageous few, we band of brothers. For all of you men are like brothers to me, no matter your race, heritage, or age you are my brother. Because anyone who is willing to fight by me and die is my brother. And men of the world not here fighting for this cause will wish they had after this day. What say you privates? Are we going to lament and fill ourselves with fear, or are we going to take this beach in the name of America?”

With that, the entire Higgins nearly tipped over as every man present rose to his feet. Gone were the insecurities and the thoughts of death. There was only excitement and pride aboard the small landing craft. The soldiers felt such love for their captain that they were willing to follow him into the hell that waited. His words had inspired such miraculous courage that ever soldier no longer even saw death as an option. The cheering of the dozen soldiers riding upon Higgins vessel 27 from the first infantry division was heard on nearly all of the surrounding boats, and the shouts of goodwill and excitement carried on as the Higgins hit ground and the bullets ripped the air.

Long Tall Weekend - An Open Letter to a Car Thief

Brand new stuff here, Compassers! Can I call you that? No? Alright, we'll find something soon then. Maybe scouts or something to that effect. Compass scouts. Probably not though. We don't want to make you all sound like you're children strangely eager to identify birds. We'll discuss this later.

Anywho... this letter I wrote while watching the news again. There was something about watching this story unfold live that inspired me. So here you go.

Note to self: Stop paying attention to the news and go outside and climb a tree or something. Go make friends.

-Anthony

-----------

August 19, 2010


Dear Sir,

You don't know me and most likely will never meet me but I have to say you added so much complexity to my evening. You have put me in a position where, in several occasions, I don't know whether to thank you whole-heartedly or call you a colossal idiot. I just don't know so we will start from the beginning.

Walking into the living room on my last day at home for a while, I found my father watching the news. Your situation almost immediately interrupted the story about how horrible the economy is because President Obama hates freedom or something like that (it was Fox News, my dad is somewhat conservative). So this is where the first "thank you" comes in. We all know that we are all short on cash right now. The last thing anyone needs is a stranger telling them how fucked they are, which is ironic because that was exactly what I thought about you when they put you on the screen.

My dad and I are very big fans of seeing people getting hurt. That may sound terrible but as long as it isn't either on of us or anyone we know, we can't look away. I know for a fact that we aren't alone on this. Everyone enjoys watching a good tazing or trampoline accident every once in a while. A lot of people watch Nascar purely to see wrecks or fistfights. Cage fighting is very popular right now. At one point in the past, it was policy for public executions to take place. I mean, not so much here in the United States but it was huge in Europe for a bit. People would show up like it was the fucking movies or something, grab a slushy and Sno-Caps and find a good seat. Seeing beheadings were like silly bands and beanie babies to these people. The Romans had a whole tournaments of people killing each other. Being stuck at home on a saturday when the gladiatorial fights were going on was the worst! Not just Americans but powerful countries with happy citizens like to see violence. So don't judge. It's just instinct.

So once we heard that there was live video of your white pickup truck being chased by five cop cars and two helicopters, my dad and I were giddy with anticipation. Through the television, we were electric vultures circling until the first smell of blood would throw our senses into a frenzy.

The worthless anchor guy had no information at all. We didn't know why you were running for the police, only that you were... and at an incredibly slow pace. Even at that speed, the cops couldn't do anything but follow because you had not done anything too illegal to warrant crazy-driving maneuvers. Yet. We speculated that you were some old woman who ran over a group of school children but you didn't know you did because of your 95-year-old dulled senses and your cataracts that had effectively turned your eyeballs into slimy crystals. So perhaps you had no idea that Dallas' finest were behind you. But we tossed this out because it sounded ridiculous. Plausible, but ridiculous.

Your speed seemed like you were creating a satire of all other car chases before you. You wanted to show your audience that you had the police by the balls, that you were in complete control of your world. That was a cool thought for a while and I want to thank you for that thought but something tells me that you had no intentions of this. I have no idea what was going through your mind other than the probability of getting raped in prison. Plus, driving like someone's grandparents on the way to bingo isn't really good television so my excitement for this died down quickly.

The channel eventually went back to their routine fear injections and told us that if we wanted to continue to watch, we could get live, continuous footage on the website. So we turned off the tv and went online. I grabbed a popsicle from the freezer while the laptop booted up. It was one of the last ones left. It was orange. I had already eaten all of the Bomb Pops fairly quickly and then moved on to the remaining hidden Flavor-Ice tubes that had roasted in the freezer for a month or so. Now it was time to move back to the simple orange popsicle. No horrible joke on the stick, no logo on the wrapper. It was the best popsicle of the hundreds throughout the summer. Perhaps the tazer anticipation electrocuted the air in the kitchen.

My sister joined my dad and I on the couch. As we watched you meander through the surprisingly empty Texas streets, my puppy attacked us for the popsicle because for some reason, he really likes frozen things. This works out well because this means our fridge produces dog treat at the touch of a button. I wish I could get that excited about ice cubs like he does. Anyway, there was absolutely no one on your side of the road and you managed to safely glide through every intersection you encountered. But your speed was beginning to kill my patience. Car chase music could have helped us both. The Budos Band is a good choice. Remember that for next time, that is if you ever make it out of jail for your soon-to-come finale.

Because there was no audio, we still had no clue why you were running. I thought maybe you could have been another crazy astronaut but then realized that you were in Dallas, not Houston. But then I started to think more along the lines of NASA and how people there don't go crazy, specifically the people who study dark matter. This is just the way my brain works. I've written papers about dark matter before and know that it composes a vast majority of outer space but no one has any fucking idea what it is and no one is anywhere near discovering that. That must be so discouraging for those scientists. To go home every single day with nothing to show for it. Sure, the paycheck may be cool but it must be defeating to make no progress. A dark matter researcher would be bound to do something crazy or illegal eventually. That was when the puppy finally grabbed my popsicle and I snapped out of this odd, internal and somewhat stupid rant. It turns out that all you did was steal that car and you may have robbed a bank or two with a knife. Then I laughed because somewhere, someone was watching the news saying, "Hey, that's my fucking truck!"

We kept watching, the house phone began to ring, and things got interesting. My dad got up to get the phone, my mom came down already on her cell phone, and you began to drive around in a suspiciously large parking lot. My phone rang. It was my friend Tim, just to sing part of the theme song to "Goldfinger" but it turns out that he was watching you, too. We hung up, my mom hung up, and you began to scheme. We watched. You picked up some speed and by the time we saw you smash through the fence, we all were cheering because you had done the dumbest or most liberating thing you had done in your life. You were driving onto Love Field's runways, an international airport. In a matter of a second, you turned community service on the side of the highway into water-boarding at Guantanamo Bay.

Well, maybe not that extreme but you don't fuck with airports and expect to get off easy.

This is the heart of my dilemma. Driving in a big, open, enclosed, concrete field has major disadvantages. One of of which is that cops are going to come after you at all angles, which they did. When you entered the runways, you gave away your freedom. You passed the control to the authorities. You were giving up and because you didn't really think about it, you will now end up with a severely harsher punishment. You gave the middle finger to our country's founders. "Fuck my freedom" you said, as the cops dragged you out of the truck and into your jail cell.

This is what I thought at first until I thought about it a little more. Perhaps it is the exact opposite. Your freedom exceeds everyone else's in that no law can restrict you from doing what you want. Paper philosophies mean nothing in comparison to the beating heart in your chest. Most people spend their lives saying they live free but only exercise it small, lethargic spurts. You got the camera's attention and lit the fuse of your destiny in less than an hour. When you were driving, you weren't running from the cops. You were expecting everyone else to hot-wire the closest car and follow you down the highway, flying-v formation, windows down and stereos blasting, passengers screaming with tears of joy from their sunroofs. A parade of the liberated driving towards the coast, where upon arrival, everyone would rejoice and live the rest of their lives in happiness.

But you just stole a car. And maybe robbed a bank. A renegade without context. Rebellion in mute. And now your freedom is gone.

I shut the laptop and my family and I met my grandmother for dinner at a barbecue place. I drove separately because I was meeting some friends afterwards. We had conversations about why they don't make strollers for people all ages, my sister's recent auditions, my journey back for my last year as an undergraduate student, stealing salt and pepper shakers, gambling, popsicles and sneaky puppies. On the way to my friends', I put on the perfect summer playlist that is composed of four albums:
"Paul's Boutique" by the Beastie Boys, "St. Elsewhere" by Gnarls Barkley, "Prolonging the Magic" by Cake, and "Long Tall Weekend" by They Might Be Giants.

So you have thoroughly confused me in regards to what the hell you did and why you did it. But you taught me to enjoy my freedom regardless of what level it is at because we never know when it will all end. So thank you. Don't drop the soap.

Sincerely,
Anthony

An Open Letter to Akihito, the Emperor of Japan

Apologies for not posting something immediately: I have been computerless for a while. However I did have my notebook that I have been sketching things down in like usual. At first, I began to write a heavy, personal piece scrutinizing my current self after analyzing my earlier childhood but after looking at the posts so far, I figured that perhaps something lighter was in order. That piece will come eventually, when it feels right. This week will not be so deep. I want you to smile. I want me to smile.

So in the spirit of this, I will make two posts tonight, both open letters. This first one some of you may have seen before but the second one is new. This one I wrote at the very beginning of this year as a pep-talk of sorts for the people of the world because it was the start of a new decade and all the news was talking about was the usual doom and gloom. Network news is the worst.

Oh, and keep in mind that this was written in January so try and remember the news references. It shouldn't be that difficult but if you need help, raise your hand and wait for me to come to your desk.

-Anthony

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January 6, 2010


Dear Akihito,

Hi. My name is Anthony and I live in the United States of America, more specifically, Louisville, Kentucky. You may have heard of it. We produce baseball bats and we do that horse-racing-derby-thing every year. That's about it. But it's home and I like it.

I do not wish to be formal within this letter. Although I have great respect for you, your position, your lineage, and your country, you are not my leader and I am not your subject. All you are to me is another person on this planet. Earthen brethren. Another human being who eats and sleeps and struggles like the rest of us, and in that, we have our humanity in common. I will speak to you like I speak to everyone else because we are all born as equals. No offense, that's just how I feel.

To the point: I have a question. It's about Wii. Now before you get angry and have me killed, hear me out. I'll explain the problem, ask my question, and then explain why I came to you first. There is a good reason, I promise. It's not some racist joke. "Oh, all Japanese people know everything about technology, maybe this Akihito dude can help me." I'm better than that. Although, you probably own a Wii. Who wouldn't? Wii Tennis and Mario Kart are fun as shit; you should be proud it's from the country you rule. I would be.

Anyway, my sister got one for christmas this year and we hooked it up and everything and it looks all nice and shiny and stuff. Here's the problem. We connected it to the internet in our house and ever since then, it flashes blue constantly like its loading something. Sounds normal, right? Well, it does this while the machine is OFF. Here's the question: What the fuck is it doing and should I be concerned? Is it updating? Is it talking to other Wiis? Is it getting instructions from Mother Nintendo? It's obviously communicating with something somewhere.

I figured I should come to you for this instead of Nintendo. As somewhat of a nerd, I've seen my fair share of sci-fi movies where machines stage a revolt (e.g. "Terminator","Virus", "I Robot", "2001", even "G-Force" had some) and I thought that if Nintendo was planning something, they would just give me the runaround and then have the Wii murder me and my extended family that night while I slept. As a person in the highest position of power, if you were not aware of this, may this letter be a warning for whatever Nintendo is up to. If it's nothing, then great, no harm done. I'd rather be safe than sorry. If something is up and you are aware of it, or even implicated, I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop you. At least have the decency to let me know I'm right.

The whole thing has a huge Asimov-feel to it. The Wii just sits there with its brooding, plotting light, electrically mocking my mortality. If something does happen though, Hollywood predicts that Will Smith will take care of it. I'm not sure if i want the same person who wrote "Gettin' Jiggy With It" saving humanity.

But should I be concerned? You do not have to let me know your plans, just a simple "yes" or "no". I suppose the real question is should I buy some guns and hide somewhere in a mountain bunker? These are hard times, not just for America, but for the entire world. I don't have to tell you this, you are a leader. But America has been getting the shit end of the stick these past few years. Not to say we haven't instigated a little, but our morale is constantly under attack. As a citizen with no political say-so except once every four years, and granted, without Secret Service agents trained to take bullets for me, I feel scared sometimes. The followers of the world are open to every malicious infliction, and as long as people exist, there will be attacks. It sucks but that's what makes us human. Some people are out of their fucking minds and the rest of us have to stay suspicious and deal with it. Just look at these past few weeks for us. Yemen has it out for us for some reason and for some other strange reason, people recently really want to blow up planes. It really sucks. I haven't figured out whether or not these terrorists hate America or just Detroit's airport.

It hasn't even been a week into 2010 and already crazy shit has been happening. No one can agree on our health care program, Glenn Beck is chalking up pseudo-bravery in rednecks all across our country, CIA agents are being killed by double agents, yoga classes are breeding cults (whatever the fuck that means, I may have dreamed that), Google's making phones now, and according to CNN, apparently the g-spot is still a myth (http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/01/05/g.spot.sex.women/index.html). We don't even understand our own human bodies and we expect these same people to lead billions of people and dollars and handle a nuclear arsenal at the same time and keep their cool? Emperor, what is all this leading up to? What are we to expect from this year? How are you and the rest of the world leaders going to help us? And on top of everything, while me and the rest of the world silently panics, our Wiis knowingly laugh with that evil, blue light. It's too much.

Perhaps I'm just paranoid. Maybe this year will be a good year. No one really knows, anything can happen, perhaps good things. Maybe Detroit's airport will be shut down for a day because everyone felt like dancing. Maybe the Israelis and Palestinians will say "whatever" and stop fighting. Maybe the Wii is just downloading updates to make the games run smoother.

No one can see the future, no one can tell where things will end up. Fuck, we can't even see where our lives will take us in a week much less a whole year. I am a different person than who I was this time last year. We embrace change and deal with what we are given and grow from it, right? What else can we do? We have to stay optimistic and focus on what we can do, not worry about things out of our control. It takes a certain degree of "fuck it" but if it works, it works. So you know what? Bring on your Wiipocalypse, I'll be ready for it. We all will be ready for it. We all will be ready for anything.

You hear that, 2010? Do your worst. We can take it. That's what we do.

I digress.

This letter must be quite unorthodox in comparison to the usual letters a leader must receive. In first grade, my class and I wrote letters to President Clinton. We asked him stock, fluffy bullshit questions like "What's your favorite food?" and "What else did you want to be when you were growing up?" We didn't receive a personal response, only a generic poster with certain facts about him. "Did you know President Clinton plays the saxophone?" Shit like that. I think he said his favorite food was tacos. In retrospect, a vaginal joke could have been made then but
A) the whole Monica Lewinsky thing hadn't even happened yet and
B) I was like five and probably didn't know what a blow job was. The only thing I knew everything about then was Legos. That still might be mostly true today.

So what is your favorite food? Is it pizza? I hope not. If you weren't born into royalty, what would you have wanted to become? An astronaut? A race car driver? A sea monster? I wanted to be an astronaut and still do. It's not going to happen, I'm an english major. Not much of anything may happen with that degree. But one of the few goals I've set in my life is that I want to go to space. I'm dead serious. I'll make it happen somehow. What kind of music do you listen to? I don't know that much about Japanese music or culture for that matter. I have heard of the band Boredoms but something tells me that you don't enjoy them as much as I do.

Anyway, thank you for your time, good luck, and I'll see you somewhere out there in the world.

Sincerely,
Anthony Martino

Posters

The theme for this week is "moving." On Wednesday, I posted an essay about a book by John Steinbeck entitled Travels With Charley. Today, I am posting a song inspired by a comment my college roommate made in our last week as sophomores. Upon entering the room, he halted and stared at the empty walls that had, until a few hours before, been covered with my posters. "It's real," he said. "We're really leaving in a few days." A few months later, I wrote this song.




Down come the posters -
no more clinging to the wall.
They're starting out tomorrow,
a four hour drive ahead.
And though they wish to stay here,
if they don't move, summer's heat
will weld tape to wall.

It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.

Finish the pie slice,
the evening's fallen asleep.
Night's casino revolution,
the last thing that you see.
But recent friends return home;
you'll see them soon
when another world has become cooled.

It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.

The posters that I had hung in our dorm room were there for months. I had covered the walls with pictures of musicians and bands; they brought that white brick room some color and life. To my roommate and I, those posters helped make our dorm room our home. When they were gone, we were no longer in our safe space on the campus of Elmira College -- we were guests, transitory beings that would be gone within a few days.

It's a humbling experience, packing up all of your belongings every nine months to move somewhere else. Every poster, every trinket, every book and pen -- even your bedspread reinforces your existence. These things matter because they contain a bit of your essence, your uniqueness. To think that you can put them all in boxes and load them in a car, leaving behind a barren shell of a home -- you question whether who we are and the things we do can have any permanence when you see how simple it is to cleanse a place of yourself.

But this song is not just about the idea that we can disappear with ease. It's about the necessity of leaving when it's time. If I had tried to stay in that room over the summer or into the next year, I would have been attempting to recreate the past. What a hideous idea that is. The discoveries I made in the 2006-2007 school year were the discoveries of that year and they set me up for things I would learn the next year. To grow, to explore, to challenge ourselves in an unfamiliar land -- that is what living is all about. So onward we go, never staying in one place longer than we need to, seeking new ideas and relationships with others in a quest to become better human beings.

-Paul

The Constant Search: Steinbeck's Journey in Travels With Charley

This past Sunday, I changed homes -- just like I have in every late August for the past five years. I moved to Manchester, New Hampshire where I'll be serving with an incredible national service organization for the next ten months. To be certain, I relocated to ease my daily commute. But I think there is something to be said for the American fascination with movement and its influence on my desire to be in a new city. Below is an essay I have previously posted elsewhere on the internet. Consider it a teaser for this week's song, a foundation for my investigation of the American devotion to constant exploration and travel.

There are few things as fundamental to the American experience as the desire to move. We are a nation of travelers seeking new worlds. From the conquest of people in the first three hundred years of European settlement or immigrants searching for a better life in a more familiar world already formed, the United States has grown because of our restlessness. But not everyone can uproot themselves and start a new life somewhere else. The road trip is an attempt to quench the thirst for new experiences and locales without losing the home you have.

But a journey for the journey's sake is an indulgence. If you're going simply to escape, you aren't creating anything. It is only by describing your experience that the road trip is made worthwhile. Songwriters like Bruce Springsteen have spent their musical careers trying to explain the lure of the road. Authors from Kerouac to the present tell about their travels in cars. This motif stretches back at least as far as Mark Twain's Huck Finn, who traveled on the Mississippi to escape his father and the trappings of civilization.

Telling others about your experiences helps you reflect on how you've grown in the time you were away. A symbiotic relationship, road trips and personal development support each other. This has held true for me. The desire to explore the United States drove me and my brother to take four road trips in the past five years.

But I write today not about my own explorations, but about those of John Steinbeck. His road trip detailed in Travels With Charley is designed with a different purpose in mind than simple escape. The year is 1960, twenty-three years after the release of his classics Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath, and Steinbeck feels he has lost touch with the American voice. Though the sounds of America vary from region to region, populated by hearts and minds from many backgrounds, the American voice when considered in totality is distinct from that of those found in the European countries. For a man who once eloquently portrayed the American human being in realistic terms, it is essential that he rediscover the words of his people.

But "people" is a loose term when considering Steinbeck's companion, his poodle -- the Charley from the title. A fuzzy dog may not be the best copilot in the minds of some, but for Steinbeck Charley serves as an excellent conversationalist. The ability to communicate with a creature from another species is something that only a few possess. Consider Chewbacca, Han Solo's right-hand-Wookie from Star Wars, American film director George Lucas' 1977 classic. Speaking from experience, having another person beside you makes the journey survivable. There are some scary times that Steinbeck encounters on the road. A tire explodes, forcing the author to the side of the road in order to fix it in the middle of a rainstorm. Charley suffers from abdominal problems, and the duo also suffers from poor directions and end up lost. For a man driving solo, this could be a disaster. With a friend in the passenger seat, it's an adventure; obstacles are mere challenges to overcome together.

An important part of the book is found toward the end, when Steinbeck is passing through the South. 1960 was an election year and the buzzword of change floated through the air, an environment that reemerged two years ago. We know now that John Kennedy would be elected and integration would occur, but people back then, much like today, didn't know what the new day would bring. Change -- like the road trip -- can be a frightening thing because of the uncertainty of it. And when people are scared, they tend to lash out at those they deem responsible for their discomfort. In 1960, these targets were the young black children who were the guinea pigs in experiments designed to achieve social equality. What's worse is that this anger was not challenged, with logic and respect, but was instead supported and cheered on by the terrified crowd at a New Orleans school.

Steinbeck ends the book at home, though he declares his journey to have ended in Virginia. Some journeys, he said, end early while others continue on long after the vehicle has stopped. Though Steinbeck's journey in his camper truck Rocinante came to an early end, the desire to keep moving continued. Americans will continue taking to the roadways -- whether by car, hovercraft or whatever new form of travel comes along. There is an excitement beckoning us from the other corners of our country and we will seek them out.

But I must reiterate that the road trip taken for its own sake is a selfish act. To live without contemplation is to live as a tree; there is no reason to move if you aren't illuminated by it. Discovering the interconnectedness of all beings is a worthy goal. I believe the path to social equality will be lengthy and full of flat tires, stomach pains and wrong directions. But we will have our own Charleys, the fuzzy dog in the copilot's seat who helps reassure us that we will survive, that though the travel be rough it is one we must make. Those of us who choose to walk will march on the path that thousands have taken before and will take in the future, connecting us eternally to our American identity.

Check back Saturday for a post featuring a song with this theme of movement and journey. Until then, share this blog with your friends and submit something!

-Paul

The Process

If you take any art classes or spend any time in art school you'll most likely hear a lot about process or "THE process" or "MY process." It comes up a lot. Some people are very strict about their process and anything that messes it up will result in poor results. I have never been one for a set way of doing things. I have tendencies and habits while making art but I think a lot of what I make is sporadic, but there are certain steps I take when I'm working on a project. I figured I'd use this post to shed a little light on that.

For me, a large part of my process is mental. Obviously I can't show you that but I can assure you that I am thinking of and looking at things all the time in relevance to making art. Sometimes I don't see people, houses, cars, or trees, I see shapes and colors and the way things are put together. I don't necessarily make everything I say into a piece of art, but I try to take notes in my mind of all these things.

When I do decide on a topic, it's normally never too far out of my mind, and it changes a lot. Sometimes I'll talk myself out of something or think of a better idea. As I detailed in previous posts, a lot of what goes into a finished piece is experimentation and sketching. It helps you plan, sharpens your eyes, hands and mind, and opens you up to things you didn't think of on your own.

I've always had an interest in "grungy" things. I tried (and loved) painting on street signs, something I'm going to try and get back into. I really like graffiti and made a few paintings of that. And as you can tell from my first post, abandoned things really capture my interest. I am not sure why. It probably gives off the vibe of being lonely and depressed a lot which is certainly not the case. A main reason why I think this subject interests me is because of memories. They are proof of human existence and were at one time useful, happy, vibrant, bustling places. Now they are abandoned and their original purpose is lost. They do not really serve a purpose anymore. That fact I think really catches me but again I'm not sure why.

I did a few paintings about Chernobyl (most notably, Mechanical Graveyard, although that may be from Pripyat). Since I didn't want to exhaust a subject but wanted something similar, I did some research. I found plenty sources of inspiration and useful images that I will undoubtedly use, but the one that I was most interested in was San Zhi, Taiwan.

It contains this otherworldly quality, which may be another reason why I'm so interested in this subject. These are images that you certainly won't find in normal circumstances. It looks futuristic but ancient at the same time. The pod city that was abandoned due to hauntings looks too good not to draw or paint. So I started with a few sketches.

These are just pencils with some colored pens. They are also only three pictures from what seems like a ton of opportunities so I'm definitely going to throw down a few more and draw a couple larger ones and color them with markers before I bust out the paints. There is a lot to this to explore visually and I am pretty excited about where it could go.

That does it for my week. Next time I hope to have some paintings done. I have at least six or seven more sketch books so there will be more posts on that and I will definitely make a post about identity and portraits, which is another subject I paint a lot. So keep checking back to see what Paul gives us next week and Anthony and Luke after him. Thanks for the support so far and spread the word as much as possible, use the submission link on the side, and comment! I would love to talk about things that come up in our work with others. It's one of the reasons we started this. Thanks again!

Mastering Markers

Alright, this will be a lengthy post, I only started with a few, then I kept remembering more drawings that I had that dealt with markers so it grew.

Sketching for a month straight can get somewhat boring. Granted, it helps you very much, especially when the sketching is done straight from observation, but sometimes a little color helps. I had a couple color pens in NY that helped, but soon I got my hands on a set of prismacolor markers. They're supposed to be the best around. I don't know much about that because I'm not a marker afficianado. They are a way to add color to sketches and drawings without breaking out paints. Colored pencils aren't really my thing either. I haven't done much with them and I ended up being so busy in NY that I didn't have as much time as I would've liked using them.

I started small with a few drawings at the botanical gardens. I've never been a big fan of landscapes or just pictures of nature but it never hurts to use some things you aren't very comfortable with. I ended up with a pretty nice set of little drawings for the day. Most of these were done in pencil on site and then I colored them in back at the loft.

One of my favorite places in NYC is the Museum of Natural History. I've always loved animals and this is a perfect place to draw them because of the models. It's almost like having a live animal pose for you, without the threat of trampling, mauling, or death. As with the botanical gardens, I used pencil while I was there and filled in the color later from memory.

The biggest thing with drawing from life is that you'll have to make sacrifices with color. Unless you have a huge set of markers, you won't be able to match colors perfectly. Which is fine for me because I love messing around with unnatural colors. For most of these I didn't stray too far but I think once I get better at actually drawing with the markers, I'll experiment with those.

I've only done four larger drawings with the markers. The first was the view from the loft into DUMBO. The sun made awesome colors which didn't really translate to the drawing but it was more for practice than anything. It was mainly an experiment of filling in color. Should I use crosshatch? Should I use solid bands of color? Do different textures work?

Being so close to the waters and a brand new park they built by the Brooklyn Bride, we spent a lot of time there. I was always fascinated with the water and old docks and random logs in the water, I sketched them several times and eventually made a drawing of one old dock. They have taken all the top boards off of it so it's a collection of these logs poking out of the water, they were so fascinating for reasons I still can't explain.

Recently I drew a picture of Walt from Breaking Bad. This is a phenomenal show and I often draw whatever happens to be fresh in my mind. I watched a lot of Breaking Bad last month so I sat down and threw this on paper to see if I could learn anything. I tried coloring the back of thicker paper and letting the marker bleed through to fill in his skin, hoping that would add more of a blended feel and not just solid chunks of color. For the most part, it worked, but there is definite tweeking to be done.

Probably my most successful piece with markers was this drawing of the singer from Passion Pit. This was also done with some colored pens, which helped with the line work and they were also colors that I didn't have with the markers. I think using a mix of lines and chunks of colors really helped in this one. Too often with this markers I try to cover up everything with color instead of merely suggesting it.

Using the markers are much easier because there is very little set up. There are drawbacks in color range and blending, but for adding color to sketches they do just fine. They are great for intense, graphic images that focus more on shapes and themes rather than ability to recreate real life.

Sketches!

I was fortunate enough to be part of a very unique course at Elmira. My painting professor, Marc Dennis, designed a course where he takes 7 or 8 students to NYC to live in DUMBO for a month, which is the neighborhood in Brooklyn underneath the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridge. It's an amazing trip and I cannot explain enough how valuable it was. I was even lucky enough to go on it my sophomore year as well.

This latest trip was much different than the first, however. First, we had a blog. You can read it at http://ecnycart10.blogspot.com/ . The second major difference, was what work we were responsible for. My first trip, we had to paint and sketch. We were given traveling easels and allowed a mini shopping spree for supplies and we made paintings in the loft we lived in. This time, however, he only wanted us to sketch. We had to sketch on the Subway during the first trip, but this time we had to fill 2 mini sketchbooks a week. If we finished those two, we could draw whatever we wanted. So needless to say, I have a nice collection from that trip. We wanted to make sketching posts for the blog, but we never got around to it. There were trips to various museums and attractions where we could just draw all day, so I have more drawings from there.

Sketching is incredibly important. It keeps you sharp, helps you observe better and it retains memories. However, these sketches never really see the light of day. Granted, they're not really supposed to. They aren't always incredibly private, but they are practice, full of mistakes and experiments. I thought I would post some of them anyways because some are good, some are interesting and it might be something worth looking at.

These are only from one tiny book (about wallet size). So there is plenty more, but I'm going to save them for later posts. Maybe I'll categorize them for posts or find something more interesting for them. I also sketch regularly so the collection grows all the time.


These are from the Met, the park and the loft we lived in. Some are detailed little sketches, some are quick studies. There's even one with markers, but I'll explain that more later in the week. Keep checking back during the week for more posts. There will definitely be 2 or 3 more this week. And if you're new, make sure to read the past posts from Anthony and Luke who really stepped it up the past 2 weeks.

Goodbye

I want to thank all of my friends again for their support and help. Many of you have listened to my ramblings and confessions on the last few days and how hard they have been and without you, I could not have done it. With that said, I have a few things to share with everyone, I hope you read them and enjoy them. As Paul said to me, The Compass was made to be a celebration of human life and creativity, and my Grandmother deserves to be celebrated. A special thanks to Paul for that.

First, my mother, three aunts, and two uncles asked me to write my grandmother's obituary. As my mother said, it was a "labor of love" It's simple and heartfelt, and it will be in local papers tomorrow, for any of you who live in my area. From a writing standpoint, its like getting published in the worst way possible. Without further ado, here is her Obituary, for those of you who knew her, and those who didn't.

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Catherine “Kit” Bane of Elizabeth, PA returned home to her heavenly father on August 4, 2010, she was 87 years old. Catherine passed away surrounded by family in Jefferson Hospital. She was preceded in death by her beloved husband Robert Thomas Bane and 2 grand children.

She is survived by a thriving and devoted family; foremost, her four loving daughters: Patty Bales and husband Corbin of Lordstown OH, Marion Lewis, with whom she resided, Roberta Bashioum and husband Richard of West Newton, and Kathy See and husband Raymond of Belle Vernon, as well as her adored sons, Robert T. Bane Jr and wife Jenny of Fallowfield Township and Dennis Bane and his wife Crystal of Fredricksburg VA. An astounding 26 grandchildren, 50 great grandchildren, and 4 great, great grand children also survive her. She was enormously and undeniably loved by each and every one of them.

Catherine was born in Chaleroi PA on Augsust 19, 1922. She spent the majority of her life an active member of the local area. She worked for 30 years at K-Mart in Pleasant Hills as a sales associate, as she was always a very sociable woman. In addition, Catherine was very spiritual as she was deeply committed to her Catholic faith and her church. She often taught Sunday school classes and volunteered baked goods for numerous church related events. In her spare time, she thoroughly enjoyed cooking numerous treats and playing bingo with her beloved daughters and other family members weekly. In addition to the great mourning of her extensive family, Catherine will be sorely missed by her furry friends, Sweetheart and Princess. –Luke

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Finally, to end this post, a piece I wrote for her. It wrote itself, after I left her hospital room it was on the tip of my tongue, and has been until it all spilled out on paper roughly an hour ago. Its just as much for my mother and my family as it is for her. I understand many of you never had the chance to meet or hear of my grandmother, but as far as the post is concerned, her husband, my grandfather died many many years ago before my birth, before even my mother married my father. Needless to say,my gram has been waiting a long time in hopes of seeing him again, and now, in my words, she can.

I hope you guys enjoy it...

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A Reunion

It was as if she were gliding across the field, not walking. She felt light, airy, and relaxed. She let her free hand brush against the tall standing grass and chuckled as the wheat brushed against her bare legs. She held her suitcase against her hip and pulled up the base of her sundress as she took long, reaching steps through the endless field of gold. She lifted a hand above her brow, searching with her auburn eyes and all of the sudden, she saw him. The excitement that filled her spilled out like waves over a dam. Her heart thumped and her mind raced with all the things she had forgotten to say. She took off in a sprint, suitcase bouncing behind her and hand waving high in the air. She felt the wind in her hair and the sun on her shoulders and she could not remember a finer moment. She cherished the feeling, drinking it in as his beaming face came closer and closer to her own. In three quick steps she dropped her bag and dove into his open arms, planting a kiss that Clark Gable would admire on his smirking lips. And he held her, and it was perfect. They stood like that, a wonderful moment in time, for what could have been an eternity. Her hands found his, searching his palms for the lines, ridges, and calluses she knew so well. He smelled faintly of sweet tobacco, just as she remembered. She ran her fingertips through his soft hair and their eyes met, both running with tears of joy, and he whispered to her, “How ya been Jess?”

Many minutes later, when she had finally found her voice, the pair settled down under the large Oak tree he had stood under waiting for her. She had so much to share with him and could not even imagine where to start after a lifetime of waiting. She had missed him so unbelievably much. All of the bitterness, anger, and sadness that she once had felt as a young woman were not to be found. Such emotions and thoughts seemed so silly to her now. She started with their sweet children and all she thought he had missed out on after he left. He surprised her with how much he already knew. It seemed that he never truly left them. He was always close to their boys and girls, his own heart was just too big to ever truly cease. Instead of telling him about her life without him, they instead reminisced, about their life together, as he had never gone too far. She lay her head on his lap, her long dark hair spilling across his knees and spoke of the darkest times, just after he had been called away. His smile fled for the first time since their reunion and he listened sadly, nodding here and there, all the while comforting his love. Time progressed, and they spoke of their babies, no longer young spring chickens themselves. She told him story after story of their great accomplishments and their disheartening defeats. She was so pleased with all of them; her voice rising and falling dramatically as she spoke with such great pride of the many moments they had filled her with joy. He closed his eyes and imagined them, standing along each of them, filling their hearts with encouragement and love. He thought of the times his heart broke with theirs and he had laid a consoling hand on their shoulders and pulled them up, urging them to move on. Move on they did, all to start wonderful families of their own. His eyes lit up as she described each and every grandchild they both shared. And just as she did for her beloved children, she spoke of their accomplishments. He heard stories of dozens of graduations, marriages, and births. He laughed at her sprawling descriptions of strikeouts, proms, travels, and celebrations. As their wonderful afternoon wound down, she grew quiet and tired, feeling lazy in the sunshine. She patted his knee and said, “Is it time to go home yet, Tommy?” He smiled and shook his head, and she heard him say, “Not quite yet hun” as she drifted off to sleep.

When she opened her eyes again, she felt so very tired. She was in a dim room with soft music. Noises hummed around her and everything seemed quite far away. She realized she was in a hospital bed surrounding by machines. For a moment, she felt fear and panic at these new unfamiliar surroundings, but it did not last. She looked up and found Tommy standing next to her, he reached out his hand and took hers and looked at her reassuringly, telling her everything was going to be okay with his eyes. Just like that, she relaxed. She ignored the room and her whereabouts and instead focused on those around her. They came like a magnificent slideshow, an epic parade of love. One after another, all of those wonderful souls she had just so recently reminisced about came to fruition, and both her and her Thomas beheld them. There were no words for her, they weren’t necessary. She spoke to them each with her heart and her warm eyes. As more people filled the cold empty space that was just an ordinary hospital room, it transformed. They filled it and her with warmth, light, and comfort. When it seemed that there was possibly no more love to be had even in the entire world than she now possessed in her small bed, they all came to her together. As they entered, her sweet husband lifted her into his arms. They gathered about her and him, they’re hearts swelling, all outstretching, and lifting her with him. She shed the machines, the bed and her clothes and lifted up, completely free from her mortal coil. As Tommy pulled her up she felt the sublimity and pure perfection of this moment, and she could not help but cry. He bathed her in light and she focused on his face, smooth, handsome, and young…

She exhaled as she awoke from the dream. She was still in his arms, as he walked steadily away from the tree. The dream faded as dreams do and she wiped her tears on Tom’s flannel shirt, and whispered goodbyes to all of them. She looked back at where they had spent the afternoon and saw her luggage lying beside the beautiful old Oak, but she did not have the faintest desire to reclaim it. She was not forgetting her bags, she was shedding them, letting them go. She smiled and rested her head against his chest, as they walked through the field once more. As they reached its edge, she saw what she knew was their house, except now it was surrounded by the most beautiful white picket fence. The same fence she had so often dreamed of as a girl, and she was free.

-Luke