Commitment (just for you Amy)

Are you ready for the time commitment? But what does commitment really mean? Webster defines it as pledging oneself to a postion on an issue or question. Well I think webster can take it where the sun don't shine. Just because you pledge yourself to a position means nothing. A person needs to act on something in order to be fully committed. Just this morning my friend had to act on her commitment by doing a cartwheel. But what ever happened to trust? Perhaps this is the downfall of us Americans. Perhaps we are ready to trust too easily. Perhaps we should all just be like Amy.

(yeah, this whole blogging thing is way harder than expected... it is way to hard to think as complex as amy and give kickers every other sentence to knock you out of your chair... maybe if I start earlier to give myself more time the next blog will be better... hope your not too dissapointed)

A question:

If humans were to manufacture food that digests with perfect efficiency(no waste), would the large intestine eventually disappear from the race? Or, like nipples on a male, would they remain as just so much evoluvtionary excess baggage: no purpose, but no harm.

Oh, the pesky paradox with entropy and evolution.

Blank

Really, what does it mean when someone says that they have a blank mind or a blank page?
Perhaps this is not a bad thing, perhaps it is the ultimate form of perfection. A quick illustration(oh, you'll get the pun in a moment, it's a good one!): Often times I have tried to draw. I'm told I'm good, but I'm unable to make anything appear as I want it to,which, I'm pretty sure, makes me a failure. If art is supposed to be communicating what is in my head, and I create something that falls short of that vision, then it just is, it is not art...But to my point. I always start with a blank page. At that point, the page has the potential to be anything at all, perhaps even what I want it to be. It is clean and pure before I touch it, but the moment that I do, it is transformed into something else entirely. Creativity is destruction. Now, go back and read that sentence again, you haven't thought about it enough yet. And once more, for good measure. Are you back yet? Peachy. Now read that sentence again, it's actually really trippy.

If your mind is blank, that should mean that you are receptive to being changed for the better. Or will your mind, like the inadequately expressed-upon page, be destroyed by a moronic artist?

If there is so much that you could say, so many lines that I could make, then why do we not content ourselves with a silence of sorts. If all we do is fail, why do we try?

Blankness exists only in nothingness, which does not exist.

Is this plaigarism, since I stole from Hillary's post idea?


Hillary, what I do is look around the room and then decide on a subject. I'm shocked you couldn't tell. I never have any ideas for blogs, per se. I'm not gonna let you get away with that excuse anymore. And I'm really excited that you've decided to join me and I no longer have to talk to myself on the internet. I feel bad enough about all the talking to myself that I do in real life(Ooh, that's a good one. Is the internet real life? I'll let you swing at that ball if you'd like.).


In case you care, the things I said about drawing up there...they are the reason that I color. In coloring books, the lines are already there. Much less stressful.

Blank

In awe of Amy's awesomeness I have decided to start blogging more. The only problem is, my mind seems to be blank. But how can it really be blank when I know there is so much I could say. We'll just have to say the cat's got my brain. Maybe I'll have a more intelligent to amaze you all on a later date.

And thats the way the cookie crumbles.
(^^does anyone know what movie thats from?)

Beuford

I had recently attended a play at Aquinas by the name of Lobster Alice. It was possibly the best play I have ever seen in my life, a story about Salvador Dali set during the time that he was at Disney, creating some whacky animation which, sadly, I STILL have not seen. One of the props used during the play was a number of bright red lobsters which were scattered around the set, delightfully random little buggers, lobsters that I fell in love with the moment I saw them. I decided that I must have one, so naturally, I sulked around after the show attempting to goad my fellow playgoer, Kyla, into asking the director if I could have one. Given that we are both probably equally lacking in the whole ‘social graces’ thingy, it was only a marvelous generosity(coupled with some masterful sulking on my part, mind you. I kicked the ground pitifully and stared at a windowsill for some obscene amount of time, making comments about how strange a shade of yellow that the paint was, and what poor craftsmanship on the aluminum guide, and please oh please would she get me a lobster. I will never admit to not being childish and immature.) on her part that she would talk to a stranger for me. And-success oh happy success- I walked away with a lobster to call my own. Well, I called him my own, and also I called him Beuford. I can’t possibly think of any better name for a rubber lobster than Beuford.

Now, both being me and coming away from a play about a surrealist artist, I was already well primed for absurdity, and, man, there’s some good absurdity to be had. Think about this: No one would make life size rubber lobsters unless there was a market for it, correct? One cannot help but wonder who decided that hey, I bet I could make some serious bucks in the rubber lobster business. Do people really want these things that bad? There are machines, massive, noisy, violent machines who churn out naked rubber lobsters. There are rooms full of hopeless children who will spend their entire lives painting eyeballs on rubber lobsters. There are warehouses full of rubber lobsters. There are boats and trucks who will bring these rubber lobsters all over the world. What is the point? Is a rubber lobster supposed to be a child’s toy(or perhaps a toy of another sort...), or an educational tool, or some sort of decoration, or do they rely on a large amount of income from peculiar plays? This, my friends, is a vision of absurdity. What would happen if all the resources that went into making incomprehensibly useless junk were to instead be put to work in a way that would feed and clothe and educate the parts of the world whose people spend their life making our junk?

Well, capitalism would be destroyed, democracy would splinter, and the earth would probably explode. At least, I’m pretty sure about that. It’s what I’m told.

In conclusion, I sure do love my rubber lobster Beuford a lot, and everyone should have one.