Missing out on the greatest experience of their lives because they both were too shy to say their true feelings…
I had a dream (The Minnesotan Schooler)
2/28/12 The Tuesday night of February 28th, 2012 was the most hopeful night of my life, like a little child on the hallowed eve of Christmas dreaming of the perfect tomorrow. I dreamed of snow, of ice covered roads, I dreamed of snow plows, and cars in the ditch, but most of all I dreamed of North Hennepin Community College Closing their doors and locking me out. Those dreams kept me awake all night praying that each snowflake would spring to life and begin mitosis like a germ, and cover the earth with its frozen sickness, so I can avoid a biology test. 2/29/12 OH Minnesota how do you tease me with such cruel and heartless jokes. Minnesota you gave me warmth in the winter and snow in the spring, but not enough snow to give school an ending. I begin to realize that the childish dream is gone that in today I will be taking my ass out of bed and shoveling the driveway, digging my car out of snow, praying to God that my 1996 Honda Accord will start today, and my two years of driving will give me the experience not crash into more than 6 mailboxes before I reach the end of my street.
The Color of Art
That multicolor spectrum of paints and pastels that reside on the canvas abuses the eyes with ghastly colors of browns, blues, oranges, reds and every color in between, but yet we call this a wonderful work of art. Is it wrong to believe that not all of the works of art in the museum should be there? That some of the starving artist are delirious from hunger pains? The definition of art is so loosely defined that the common high school art student has no idea of what art really is; therefore, calling art abstract, cubism, realism, and surrealism only confuses them more. As a child I have always wondered who decides what art is or isn’t. Is everything really art? All the answers my art teachers give me, lead me to believe that an art degree is only worth the paper it was printed on. I have had art teachers that claim to have attended some of the best art schools in the United States of America, and even others beyond these boarders. They claim that they truly know what art is, but they never explained it in a way I could understand. All throughout high school, the definition of art was the biggest conspiracy since I read somewhere online that the pyramids were built by alien cats and dogs. Most of the time my art teachers tell me that art is art because someone thinks it is, but that is too unbelievable to be true. How can someone just say something is art and it is such? I believe that Leonardo Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is called art; however, Rene Magritte’s Son of Man confuses me. In my opinion, the green apple in front of the man’s face just shows laziness. In art class that’s called, “You were too lazy to actually finish the picture weren’t you?” I once heard that statement after a self-portrait in which I drew glasses on my face (I probably was just being lazy). I’ve seen paint splatters in art museums that remind me of the stains on babies’ bibs, and I think those babies took more time and effort on their works of art, but those bibs aren’t classified as abstract art. I’ve seen multicolored boxes by Piet Mondrian called cubism but with a ruler and a few prime colors anything is possible. I can remember my own attempts of stardom as I put pencil to paper, paint to canvas, but with all my talent and effort, those haughty art school graduates claim it was only worth a “C”; while they judge me from their ever so prestigious four by five foot cubicle that they call the high school art room (the art rooms are bigger, but the size I give is the size of the standing room after you get past the “wonderful” works of art done by past students). They say an artist is never appreciated in his or her time, but I don’t want to die to become one of those random artists in the museums. Maybe I have a bad taste of art on my tongue, but who would be surprised when all my art teachers give me were sour criticism and bitter grades. I do enjoy art; I do love to paint on large canvases, create detailed pictures of a soup can, and draw many middle aged man with pitchfork standing next to his sister. Still to this day, no one has accredited my work with the title of art. I have no definition of art, and that is because my own works have not been considered such, and others (mostly the people I respect as artist and family) may feel that it’s all rubbish, but to hell with them, I like it, and I admire it all in my own elegant museum of my four by five foot bedroom (standing room), because mom is too afraid to hang it on the fridge.
Walking into the woods, on a cold December eve, no one around nothing but the snow under foot and the cold winter breeze at my back. The silence covers everything like the blanket of fresh snow, no sound of the tree frogs, or the grass hoppers that usually plague the forest in the summer. the first entry into the woods things seem to change, things seem to slow down. The only sound I could distinctly hear is this consistent breathing, and the sound of my boots crunching through the snow. The deeper into the woods things begin to change, the scenery changes; trees that seem to be dead old and dry, no brightly green colored leaves to block out the sun, the once grass filled fields are now white; just a few foot prints of what was, but I know to follow them would be a fruitless venture. The sky is dark grey in the setting afternoon with colors of magenta pinks and purples of different hues display a totally new world, that could even rival the beauty of the summer setting sun with its deep reds and oranges. Maybe on that day I learned the true beauty of Winter or something like that.
My name is Teddy Zubairu Bundu Junior, but most people just call me Teddy and I prefer that. I have had many problems with my name, and not only because my name is Teddy, but the worse part is being a junior, the fact that I will live my life being second in the world. I use to feel like that I was just another copy of my father and not an individual. Life changes, and you grow into things, you learn to accept that life gives you plenty of lemons even though you wish for oranges. I always wanted to change my name in elementary school, Teddy Bear, Teddy Tubby, etc., the kids I would meet could not be called unimaginative because every time I saw them they had a new nickname for me; I remember sitting in the kitchen begging my mom to change my name to something regular like John, Jack, even Theodore, but her only response would be, “I like your name that’s why I gave it to you and I am not changing it for any reason”. Now that I am older I realized that people grow into their name and not the other way around, I fit my name to a “T”, I am soft (but I have a tough skin), and I like hugs.
The unfortunate truth is that all life is continual weather we go along with it or not. I myself also gets left behind by lack of motivation but I promise to do better (15th time I promised that this month and there has only been 13 days this month). Like the little rain drop, the occasional effort can erode mountains.