Virtual Artist’s Dates

Ideal dates can be fascinating and thrilling, but then again submerging yourself in unreality has been a big deal for me. I had thought so many times and time again, that something would be perfect if I just tried, traveling the world, seeing the Eiffel Tower, Stonehenge, Colosseum, Alaskan fishing, hiking mountains, Vegas, beaches, I have done it all. I believe that my ideal date now days would be, dial back to reality, people do not really do things that I do. Maybe this is why I seem so broken lately, I need to stop and be real. How about this, my new artist date is, stay home, take care of my kids I love and make my life a new. This would be ideal, and truthful, because you can only live in a fairy tale for so long. I just need simply real life once again.


Week #4

Practice “scanning”

Shakespeare’s plays are written in blank verse (unrhymed iambic pentameter). Look at the following lines from Macbeth and note any obvious irregularities. Can you see a reason for any of the irregularities?


She should have died hereafter;

There would have been a time for such a word.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day

To the last syllable of recorded time,

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more: it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

I see many reasons why there are irregularities. It seems as if the written word was to express more emotions with them, or to differ from most rhythmical poetry, to stay away from “normal”. It also seems to set the stage for a second rhythmical pattern differing from the first, they seem to be separated by an irregularity and then a rhythmical pattern once more.


Play with rhythm & rhyme

“Write a children’s poem.”

One Little Piglet

One little piglet alone in the stall,

One little piglet he was oh, so small.

Daddy had taken the others away,

I begged to my daddy,

“please, let this one stay!”

And so, he did! My new friend can’t you see.

He’s alone as I am, no brothers for me.

We’re best friends now, no more lonely for us!

But now he’s as huge as a house or maybe a bus!

Bigger and Bigger I don’t care how he gets,

He will always be my little “bacon bits”.


Writing Your Own

Write a long poem with no punctuation and long lines. Then, write the same poem with punctuation. Then, write the same poem with punctuation and varying lengths and stanza breaks.

My heart may not know if one day to the next if it’s going to love or its going to vex time may move on and it may be all bad but I rather try then give up so fast for love isn’t a game and its not to be won just simply a prize that is bestowed upon someone for you never know where your heart may wander but maybe today it doesn’t go yonder so maybe you’ll stay or maybe you’ll go just remember this you are your own gold

My heart may not know if one day to the next, if it’s going to love, or its going to vex. Time may move on and it may be all bad, but I rather try then give up so fast. For love isn’t a game, and it’s not to be won, just simply a prize that is bestowed upon someone. For you never know where your heart may wander, but maybe today it doesn’t go yonder. So maybe you’ll stay, or maybe you’ll go, just remember this you are your own gold.

My heart may not know if one day to the next,

 if it’s going to love, or its going to vex.

 Time may move on and it may be all bad,

but I rather try then give up so fast.

 For love isn’t a game, and it’s not to be won,

 just simply a prize that is bestowed upon someone.

 For you never know where your heart may wander,

 but maybe today it doesn’t go yonder.

 So maybe you’ll stay, or maybe you’ll go,

 just remember this you are your own gold.


  1. Which version of the poem do you like best, and why? The last poem I wrote was my favorite, because it was easier to read, and write. I felt tempted to write and use punctuation, it did not feel right to me when I couldn’t use it.
  2. Which part of the poem did you enjoy writing the most, and why? I enjoyed writing every part of my poetry. Poetry is something that flows from the soul itself, so writing anything is an expression of the soul, and that makes me happy.
  3. Which version of the poem is closest to communicating the feeling and meaning of the poem? Why? The last version creates a more clear and flowing image to dictate the meaning and feeling of my poetry. Poetry seems like a block of words without emotion without using punctuation and spacing.


“Writing to Warm up”


We Real Cool

By Gwendolyn Brooks

The pool players                  

Seven at the golden shovel

We real cool. We

Left school. We

Lurk late. We

Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We

Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We

Die soon.


What Shall I Give My Children?

By Gwendolyn Brooks

What shall I give my children? who are poor,

Who are adjudged the leastwise of the land,

Who are my sweetest lepers, who demand

No velvet and no velvety velour;

But who have begged me for a brisk contour,

Crying that they are quasi, contraband

Because unfinished, graven by a hand

Less than angelic, admirable or sure.

My hand is stuffed with mode, design, device.

But I lack access to my proper stone

And plenitude of plan shall not suffice

Nor grief nor love shall be enough alone

To ratify my little halves who bear

Across an autumn freezing everywhere.

 Notice how different these two poems are in structure, rhythm, sound, and dictation. One poem is a sonnet, and one is written in couplets, but both are written by the same poet. Gwendolyn Brooks.

  1. Which do you like better? Which is more successful in fulfilling what it tries to do? The sonnet What Shall I Give My Children? Resonated more with me, I enjoyed it. It is also more fulfilling in accomplishment due to the fact it has more imagery, to submerge the reader.
  2. Brooks is quoted in poets and writers magazine as saying that “Poetry is at pains to select.” What does she mean by this? I believe when writing poetry, you select the words before you select the rhythm, I assume this is how she does it as well, making “poetry a pain to select”.
  3. Do you feel that you should study recognized poetry forms? Why or Why not? I do not believe I should necessarily study recognized forms of poetry, because poetry should flow naturally, I think knowing that there is “correct” ways to write poetry takes away the creative edge.
  4. Do you like to write poems within a metrical pattern, or write the lines in varying patters and rhythms? Why? When writing poetry, it usually flows onto the paper without second thought or hesitation. I do write some metrical patterned poetry and some not. It all is determined by the endless possibility of my mind, not by planning.
  5. Ultimately, is a predetermined poetic structure important to you at all? Why or why not? There is not importance to a poetry structure in my own works, I write what happens to flow from my fingertips, no predetermining.


Genre Assignment: Poetry


Hearts are intertwined,

He loves all parts of her mind

She is his savior.

By the Gods Design

As he caresses my neck pure love flowing though my body,

his breath making every moment more intentional.

He tries to calm my fears.

I assumed anxiety would push me to tears.

This time it’s different.

He is sweet, and caring, he inhales every sip of my essence.

I become more in love, knowing he would from now on embrace me,

with every thought and every word.

He is in fact, what I have been looking for.

For he is my savior.

How can I tell the earth that this one human can be so admirable yet, I know all others shall be condemned?

They will never know of my essence, only him.

His embrace sparks a light in me that nobody has ever seen.

The Envy in the Gods, even Odin would see us as a competition.



Stuck together,

Bound by the universe.

Inseparable they are not.

It’s Love.


Everything I feel

Is because he gave me ire,

Everything I see

Is nothing now but light and fire.

He was my every desire.


A heart enflamed with bright desires,

Who can seem to extinguish the fires.

It’s not me that made this mistake

For burning love and wonderful fate.

I cannot seem to put them out

The fires that had started, help?

Letter to the Professor

Dear Professor,

Poetry can be anything from a few simple lines, such as a little haiku, to a larger scale sonnet. There are many variations of poetry, I had never known until recently. My experience with poetry has become more open and vast. I was so unaware of the so many techniques that I would use but never knew what they were.

Poetry as a reader has never been one of my strong suits, I am more of a writer myself, I can understand and see the images other authors crate, but just not as vividly as I can when I write my own. As a writer, I do however think it gives me the advantage to see their creative imagery better than most who were just readers who never wrote.



Week #3

Writing for Ideas and Practice

List the five greatest simple things in life. Think simple be specific: a hot bubble bath, a great meal, salt water fishing.

The smell of fresh cut grass.

A rainbow after a storm.

The cry of a newborn puppy.

A smirk from a crush.

The smell of sulfur after a firework shoots off.

Choose one of the items on your list and paint a word picture of it. In your description, show us the joy that exists in it. Share your picture with others.                                          

A smirk from a crush.

His face so pure in love, pouting lips slightly dampened, that small slight smirk while gazing into my heart filled eyes, felt like static running through my veins.

Think about a specific moment in your life. Now think of something concrete to you associate with that moment. It could be a wedding ring, a baseball glove, or the vinyl upholstery on the back seat of your car. It could be anything, but it must be yours. Describe the experience by using the concrete image as a focal point. Make the reader see and feel at the same time.

Sweating, yet, she looked so beautiful with her red aura. She, I knew surely would be the death of me, but tasted so crisp. She rested alone by the side of the pool, I knew she was waiting for me. Beautiful, I would call her, yet I knew she was bad for me, I went over and had a sip of her bitter sweet body. From there on I knew she in fact, was the most wonderful mistake I would ever make, mind blowing. To this day, she still drives me wild. Budweiser, you beautiful girl.

List ten clichés as quickly as you can. You will find that there are reginal differences in your collective repertoire here. We’ll help you get started. “He’s as busy as a bee”; “She’s as fat as a hog.”

“He’s crazy as a fly’s eyes”

“She’s happy as a squirrel eating”

“Beauty is the Mistress, the Gardener Her Slave.”

“A carrot on a stick.”

“Dropped like a hot potato.”

“For want of a nail the shoe was lost.”

“Free as a bird.”

“In a difficult situation.”

“Happy as a duck in water.”

“Scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

Now rewrite all five of your clichés, so that the comparisons are vivid and original.

“He’s crazy as a fly’s eyes”

Multiple mirrored, hyperactive, buzzing eyes, glistening buzz, buzz the fly is. Glistening he was, with the smell of shine on his breath and the buzz he had going, of course he was hyperactive, seeing multiple mirror visions.

“She’s happy as a squirrel eating”

Bright eyed, bushy brown hair, she sat their nibbling at her food, starring up at me only to let out a little giggle, she knew she was acting like a little animal.

“Free as a bird.”

As she walked through the tall grass in the field, she lifted her arms as the flowing breeze made her white gown levitate, she was beautiful, and for that moment, it’s as though she could have flown away.

“Between a rock and a hard place.”

As the doctor opened the door, he looked at my wife concerned and hopeless. He said “Either you will not survive or the baby.”, you must decide now.

“Happy as a duck in water.”

As they frolicked through the tiny blown up pool, their laughter echoed through the perfectly placed trees of the backyard forest. Like little ducklings taking their first bath, they were utterly content.


(Joy Harjo”I Give You Back”)

I release you, my beautiful and terrible
fear. I release you. You were my beloved
and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you
as myself. I release you with all the
pain I would know at the death of
my children.

You are not my blood anymore.

I give you back to the soldiers
who burned down my home, beheaded my children,
raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters.
I give you back to those who stole the
food from our plates when we were starving.

I release you, fear, because you hold
these scenes in front of me and I was born
with eyes that can never close.

I release you
I release you
I release you
I release you

I am not afraid to be angry.
I am not afraid to rejoice.
I am not afraid to be black.
I am not afraid to be white.
I am not afraid to be hungry.
I am not afraid to be full.
I am not afraid to be hated.
I am not afraid to be loved.

To be loved, to be loved, fear.

Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash.
You have gutted me but I gave you the knife.
You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire.

I take myself back, fear.
You are not my shadow any longer.
I won’t hold you in my hands.
You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice
my belly, or in my heart my heart
my heart my heart.

But come here, fear
I am alive and you are so afraid
of dying.

Writing to Warm Up

As you read the poem aloud, what did you notice about the construction of the poem?

The construction of the poem, seemed as if she was writing a song.

Is the speaker referring to the present here? Is she speaking of her immediate life? If not, what is she referring to?

This poem is a combination of past and present. It seems as if the speaker is referring to hardships of her forefathers and mothers before her, and possibly the rough life she had to endure simply because her future was determined by their pasts.

What I have taken from this poem, is that the speaker is…

The speaker seems to be in a way forgiving fear and the despair it had brought to her, releasing it by forgiveness is the strongest of emotion, and it shows through the words like fire on ice.

The speaker uses the second person (you) here to create a mirror image. Is the speaker looking at herself and what is inside her? To most of us, fear is “terrible” and “hated,” but we don’t often call it “beloved.” Have you ever seen your fear as something to be treasured?

I have, in fact, looked fear in the face before, and sought out the beauty in it. He lifted his head to mine, antlers taller than my body alone, he looked as if he wanted to kill me. I took my hand out and offed him a simple gesture, he gazed into my eyes and slowly backed away, he knew then, I meant no harm. I am sure the fear spread through us both. Pain is beauty, and beauty is in everything, so don’t be afraid to be in pain, or to be beautiful.

Write a poem that can be set to music. This could be a blues poem, a pop chorus, a hymn, or even a song for jumping rope.

My Ghost

Say that you need me,

say that you want me,

 say that you are the one thinking of me,

 say that you hear me,

 say that you breath me,

 say that the world would only be empty.

If I weren’t with you,

Would you still miss me

Would you still want to virtually kiss me?

 Say that you will,

say that you are,

Say that you’ll be the ghost in my heart,

I will love you, I will care,

I just hope we always will fare.

Inside this world, dismal and cruel,

You are to me as I am to you.

I am your one you are my only,

Now we will never have to be lonely.


Write a four line stanza employing alliteration.

He calls to me, a savior’s despair.
He morns for love a true spoken repair.
Just love me blind, I’ll love you too.
Say not that you love me, if it is not true.


Week #3 (Discussion)

Inspiration for me, can simply come from a pin drop, a conversation, a crack in the street, about love or sorrow. I have experienced a lot in my short years on this Earth, but I have come to find, I do not need a certain push of inspirational things to guide me. My mind alone is a busy, buzzing bee gathering and rummaging. Lost memories found and words I could not think of remembered. There is no real need for inspiration when your mind is filled with a thousand fantasies, like a door opened to another dimension, I walk through and gather my notes to come back to reality. I’d imagine the key to my infinite mind may suffice.


Poetry Defined

Like the spark between two souls, a passion, ink drops on a solid background. Shameless depictions of flowing thought, a mindless self indulgence. Emotion with unconfined imagination. Truth, sorrow and inexorability of madness. Our true undoubted free form.

Week #2


“Writing on Your Own”

What are you/have you been most afraid of or what have you found most difficult about writing? Are you afraid of grammar? Spelling? That someone else will read your writing and find out your secrets? That someone else will read your writing, period? That you will be graded by a teacher or judged by a peer?

Writing, for me has never been an intimidating subject, though I never been to Hogwarts and had a wizard hold a wand to my face and zap me every time I spelled something wrong. There has never been a time I though “Oh, I don’t think I want to write something, they might find out who and what I am or what I do!” I mean come on, I have a Facebook! I assure you everyone knows a lot about me, and maybe some I didn’t even know about myself, statistically speaking. I am an extremely open and outgoing person. I wear all my failures and triumphs on my sleeves, with not a worry in the world. Honestly, literature, the arts, creating new things or even having failures are not a fear for me. I see failures as attempts, and I will keep attempting things until I succeed, so in the end is a failure really a failure?

What is the worst thing that will happen if you keep writing?

Once upon a time, I kept writing stories, these stories grew to a terrifyingly large size, so monstrous that even the carrier pigeons with talons of a tridactyl couldn’t deliver the paper upon which they were crafted. This was a sad tale for I, the writer, would never feel the blissfulness of a dull mind. Stuck in a land of creation for many years to come.

What is the worst thing that will happen if you stop writing?

It’s a possibility that without writing, I may lose some imagination and become more statistically normal. My imagination likes to breath, and for my mind, I think the breath of fresh air is a piece of paper, and a newly carved pencil. If I cannot seem to find the words at least the pencil still moves and art forms emerge, making the simple white sheet dance with creativity stroke by stroke.

This Is Why I am a Writer.

Writing is not just a form of expressing myself, it is a form of relieving my energy and bringing my dreams, hopes, creations and imagination to life. If I could share the wonders of my erratically profound mind with people and bring them to another place, a bigger brighter or possibly, darker deeper world that they can enjoy, even for just even a moment in time, to skip that portion of reality, a little great escape, then I am accomplishing my goal as a writer.

I was expecting applause, but I guess stunned silence was also appropriate.

“Warming Up”

What kind of writing space do you have?

The space I have when I write is my own, secluded, quiet, peaceful, full of things I love, decoratively speaking. There are two big windows facing my farm animals. They tend to give me a lot of inspiration. I mean, how could you not look at all those cute faces out there! I have a big long desk, and almost everything and anything I need to write, from scratch paper to computer programs. I wouldn’t change a thing about it.

What kind of writing space would you like to have?

The desk and computer I do most of my writing must be clean, without it clean and organized I cannot think straight. My ideal work space is a pristine environment. Though I tend to get a little messy if I am using note paper, I jot down thoughts and ideas like the mad hatter, notes everywhere!

“Writing for Ideas”

What do you do to get your own writing process started? Write a paragraph that describes your work habits.

Personally, I do not have a certain process to get started when I write. I guess, if I did have one, my process starts with getting an urge to write. The rest would come natural, sit down at my computer or, take out my old notebook, grab the keyboard or pen and just start writing! There has never been a time that I could not think of something to write. Perhaps my mind always has something to say, even if I necessarily do no

What thoughts run through your head when you sit down to write, why?

Thoughts, especially about writing, that is something that comes in a natural wave of insight, or more so like a tsunami but repetitive. The beginning thought is always outlandish, followed by small little inspirations, then details and more inexplicable thoughts. I am not sure how these thoughts come to manifest. My brain is just an incomprehensible, beautiful, perplex disaster of imagination. Now, that is a brain full. 

“Writing for Ideas”

Ambelina was an immensely bright girl, and always obeyed her parent’s orders. She lived right outside a small town with very strict rules; rules that few towns would have, or even consider. They had one rule in particular that no one shall break, that was never be outside past eight.

Years had passed and Ambelina grew older, more daring, more curious, and full of wanderlust. It was Friday morning, and her parents were off to work in their small town as a baker and a cook. She figured it was time to rebel and break the rules, for once in her life she might be cool. She headed off from her small farm house as if she were going to school, ran down the streets towards it, but took a sharp left and darted for the town square instead. Her friends had noticed her odd behavior and called out to her, “where are you going, what are you doing!”, but Ambelina did not respond, she just kept running.

Finally, she was close to the bell tower, she figured she would open the front door slowly, go inside, sneak past the bell keep, and head up the stairwell without being caught, and so she did.

She was lying there full of adrenaline, out of breath, on the cold cement floor of the bell tower, through small cracks in the stone walls, she could make out the bustling silhouettes of the many towns people and hear all their chatter. Ambelina was there, it seemed forever. Time was blowing by without a clue as to how many minutes or hours had passed, bored, uncomfortable, and cold, she found solace in a wicker basket filled with old books.

Hearing footsteps encroaching upon her, she ran and hid behind an old dusty oil painting of a plump woman holding a small dog. In fact, she was not supposed to be in the bell tower, it was forbidden. The door swung open to the room where she claimed sanctuary. It was the bell keeper, he would surly catch her, and punish her, or so she thought.

She watched on intently as he reached above his head to grab the prickly thick rope attached to the bell top, he pulled the rope to his knees, ringing the bell, he then walked over and sounded the carillon as well. This was the sound Ambelina was familiar with in her everyday life, the bell of seven o’clock. The bell keeper, however, looked as if he was terrified at the site of the big bell and carillons chiming loudly through the town, “I wonder what that was all about?” She thought to herself, he opened the door back up and headed off back down the stairs. She could hear his footsteps dissipate, she put her ear to the cracks of the tower once more. This time, not a peep, not a sound, not a pin drop, the city so still and eerie, but where were the towns people?

It had been pitch black outside for over an hour now, but as the moon slowly danced its way across the sky, it, and its collection of stars lit up the whole town. Ambelina could finally see. The wind was howling and it blew specks of dust between the perfectly placed cobble stone in the roadways. For once in her life Ambelina had felt utterly alone. She fashioned herself a bed from the old books she had found earlier in the wicker basket and let the thoughts pass as she slowly drifted to sleep.

Thwap! Scratch!

Ambelina jolted up from a deep slumber, “Hello! Is someone there?” she screamed out, shaking and heart thumping so hard she can almost feel her eyes pulsing to the beat of it.

Peering through the moon lit hole, she saw it for the first time. The reason, the reason you are not supposed to stay out past eight.

She gasped, covered her mouth with her cold trembling hands, jumped back, pressed her back against the stone wall and thought to herself, “I never should have stayed out, I should have listened!”

The scratching was getting closer, almost as if that THING was climbing the walls of the bell tower! She could soon feel its breath on the nape of her neck through the small crack of the stone wall.

Ambelina felt and knew in her heart that this was in fact, her ending.

 “Writing for Ideas”

The early lilacs became part of this child,

And grass, and white and red morning-glories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phoebe-bird,

And the Third-month lambs, and the sow’s pink-faint litter, and the mare’s foal, and the cow’s calf,

And the noisy brood of the barn-yard, or by the mire of the pond-side,

And the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there—and the beautiful curious liquid,

And the water-plants with their graceful flat heads.

Walt Whitman, from “There Was a Child Went Forth”

The house was more dilapidated than when I was last there, barely a shack, but it was overgrown with

yellow roses, which my family had planted many years ago. The air was heavy and sweet and very peaceful. I felt strange walking through the gate and up the old rickety steps. But the strangeness left me as I caught sight of the long white beard I loved so well flowing down the thin body over the familiar quilt coverlet. Mr. Sweet!

His eyes were closed tight and his hands, crossed over his stomach, were thin and delicate, no longer scratchy. I remembered how always before I had run and jumped up on him just anywhere; now I knew he would not be able to support my weight. I looked around at my parents, and was surprised to see that my father and mother also looked old and frail. My father, his own hair very gray, leaned over the quietly sleeping old man, who, incidentally, smelled still of wine and tobacco…

From “To Hell with Dying”

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his faces,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues-

From “Dulce Et Decorum Est”

Choose one of the passages and list what was being described with specific sensory detail-smells, sights, sounds, tastes, temperatures, textures.

The passage from To Hell with Dying held the most sensory detail. The house felt as if I may had been there before, the rickety steps and the smell of the heavy yet sweet air, it brought me back to the South. The description of the elderly made it seem to me, as if I was greeting my great grandfather again in his old rocking chair on the porch, and as just how she stated she always jumped into his arms as I had with my grandfather, yet was afraid he couldn’t handle it due to his aging. She had shown how frail people become in old age but their love seemed to never fade, they as well still seemed the same.

Which of the passages are most descriptive, in terms of the details included?

The passage from To Hell with Dying was extremely descriptive. I could feel myself being a part of her world, like I had been there before. I felt I was walking into one of the scenes form my childhood but, we all seemed to be much older than I dreamt, or remembered

Which of the passages creates the strongest image in your mind or feeling for you?

The passage from Dulce Et Decorum Est created a strong image for me. Death felt all too real and the descriptions of seeing his untimely body in ruins made it seem like time had passed slower, as if there was a moment I may have known him myself.

Week #2 (Discussion)

Writing has always been something that just comes natural to me. I do not really have a certain method, or technique to get started. I tend to just sit at my computer and start letting my mind and imagination take me where it wants to go. In fact, most times I do not even realize what I am writing about until I take a second and look up to see words flowing off the pages like little ink doves. It is almost like some entity takes over to brain dump and the rest of me naps until the work is finished. I think I have a little spark in my brain that kicks on, goes into overdrive, and takes over my sight and fingers, not too shabby considering my work tends to be inspiring and fundamentally hilarious at times.

I am certain that my brobdingnagian personality must play a big role in my writing, just as well as my adventurous lifestyle and experiences from traveling around the world. Without these things, I think it would perhaps be much harder to be creative. Without experiences, my writing would be stifled.

I assume that it is always easier to have a certain topic to get my brain started. Though writing has always been one of my most favorite things to do. Fantasy stories, or even real, yet unbelievable stories are my specialty.

Sit me in a room, hand me a tall glass of wine and let’s get started!



The Creator in Me

So here is the scoop, If you haven’t already picked up this little tiny detail, I am an outgoing, eccentric, “please save me from this weird person”, person. I am always looking for new adventures in and out of my mindscape. I enjoy outdoor activities such as hiking, fishing, shooting, hunting, swimming, snowboarding, off-roading, pretty much anything you think a 16-year-old boy born in the 70’s would enjoy, or maybe its 14? I enjoy the activities that most people would be fearful of trying. My only real fear is butterflies anyway. Yes! I know, it’s weird, butterflies! I can ride a bull, skydive, swim with sharks, eat weird disgusting foods but my biggest fear is that winged Satan spawn of death! No thank you!

This is a trip…I caught the first fish! A 15lb silver and made the guys jealous, of course I should have just lied about that and said it was like 98lbs or something. I always forget to lie, but I’m great at story telling! So anyway, I guess it is safe to say that creativity is all around every aspect of my life. I don’t think I would be the weird little girl, yes little, I am only 5 feet tall! Anyway, the little girl that I am without creativity. I feel like the right side of my brain is just uncontrollably intense, and my left side only gets mad when the mess isn’t picked up after the right is done having its fun.

Collage Experience

I have always known that I am a very creative, and eccentric person, without a doubt.

I believe I use my right brain extensively more than my left.  However, a critic barking out from my left side to my right says “ARE YOU SURE THAT IS GOOD ENOUGH! BLAH, THAT IS ALL WRONG!!”. My right tends to hush it with a “Alright, let’s put a little more color there and a dash of vivid.” They come to a compromise, a bit, and I am left with my creation of wonders.

Not every creation is perfect, but with perfection only comes normality and conformity. My reality may be a bit obscured, but I am pleased with my outlandish nature and the creations that come with it, now hush you critic!