Well here I am in creative writing, being totally and completely uncreative or in any other way artistic, so I’m just going to do this freewrite now.
Blueberry fields with huge bears noshing on anything they can get their hands on. Fiery volcano killing the town below with its molten death. Mud huts swallowed by the inevitable. Bicycles, plastic water jugs, fields of rice, pigs. Only the villagers are able to escape untouched. But they are touched. They have nothing but the clothes on their backs and the children in their arms. What will become of them now? Out of things, out of things, out of things, we are a society full of things. We want things, we need things. To feel important, to feel valuable. Life is more than things. It’s all about the skills you have. Non-perishable belongings that will never be lost, like riding a bicycle. Wow it just took me like ten minutes to figure out how to spell bicycle. I get the I and the Y mixed up for some reason. Sometimes I wonder if I’m dyslexic. Bicycle takes me ten minutes to figure out but I spell dyslexic on the first try. Something isn’t right with that.
I don’t know what to write about. I am really excited about making my newspaper dress. I hope it doesn’t rip and that it fits and everything. Working on it just makes me really happy. I’m so content when I’m sewing. Even though I’m not really sewing anything it’s just tape and newspaper. It’s going to be absolutely the coolest thing I have ever made, if it doesn’t rip. Now I’m going all catatonic schizophrenic with thinking about it. That’s what happens when I think really hard. I hold completely still and look off into the distance. It must seem really weird to other people, and I didn’t realize how much I do it until I started work on the dress.
I don’t want to write creatively... Most of what I have written has a secret meaning that only I know about. Almost every poem is written about some emotion I've had in the past. A lot of the ones from first quarter aren’t out of my emotional memory bank and they aren’t nearly as good. I hadn’t really experienced any of the things that I wrote about in those early poems, so I couldn’t do the description of those emotions justice. That and I was all about writing depressing things. Emo poetry tends to be my genre of choice unfortunately. It’s like Mr. Klofas said: "Happy people don’t do anything but daydream. Sad people write." Actually he didn’t exactly say that, but it was something to that effect. It’s really true too. I guess. Even the poems I write to be happy poems have bitter undertones. I wrote 1337 after poetry night when my friend and I were talking about how depressing everyone’s poetry was. I wrote it to be a happy poem, and it is (more than the others I’ve written) but you can tell that the speaker is trying to pull themselves out of some kind of depressing situation (“Happy and free from all that shit”) Like there used to be really big problems but now they’re walking away. It just seems bitterly happy. I don’t think I’d want to write anything extremely perky though, because that sort of poetry doesn’t reflect life. There aren’t many situations where life is just purely happy without any worries or concerns. I think that a life like that would be boring after a while, honestly. Nothing makes life really interesting like a good unrequited love or confusion over a life changing decision or maybe it’s just a lack of money. Really, those are the things that make us interesting and that drive us to express our pent-up emotions in writing and other art forms.
Mr. Klofas’ quote really doesn’t work for traditional art, mostly just writing. Happy people are probably as likely to paint something as an unhappy person. They would probably paint something really sappily cute though. Puppies and still lives of flowers leap to mind. But happy people aren’t going to write much.
Now, as I think about who’s in this class, there are some happy people. Funny though, they all seem to write sad poems, things about boys being stupid, family turning their backs on them, the stuff country songs are made of. I guess everyone has some kind of a dark side to them; they don’t necessarily have to be an angry person. I don’t think I’m unhappy, but I guess I could be a little dark at times. I’m having some pretty profound thoughts right now. Exciting! Too bad I’m running out…
I’m really glad about having a job, even though I kind of hate it. Well I guess hate is too strong a word, more like I’d rather not have to stand for like four hours straight and have to deal with angry people who want their Camel wide pack medium-light mentholated 100 ¾’s NOW or they might just leap over the counter and strangle me. There are only 5,784,754,827,483 different kinds of cigarettes and I’ve been working, what? … 3 DAYS.
Well class is over now… time to work on that dress!
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