Deface Value

The following is a paper I wrote for a class with the topic "Rap is to music as graffiti is to art"

Rap is to music as graffiti is to art; that is the topic I have chosen to write about. I find that this statement is very true, because I have always noticed striking similarities between the two only slightly different subjects. It is not that they’re both related to a form of art, but that they are both a form of art in themselves. They’re not only both a style of defacement, but also a style of pure self expression. Any way you slice it, aside from being different mediums, graffiti and rap have something going on.
Let us look at art in general; what is art? One definition of this is ‘the product of human creativity,’ or ‘a superior skill that you can learn by study and observation.’ My personal definition of art is simple, ‘any form of emotional self expression.’ Whether you paint a fresco, sculpt a skull out of cigarettes, or just throw water balloons full of poster paint at a canvas, you have at least attempted to make a form of art. Unfortunately, those book definitions would lead you to believe that art is an elitist, almost complicated ‘skill.’
Try to think back far, way into the past to before kindergarten. There were not real shapes, no real colors, no theory of depth and spatial recognition; for me there was only a long sheet of paper and a box of 96 different Crayola colors. This would often translate into, on the surface, little more than scribbles and scrawling. It was crude, it was sloppy, but it was how I truly expressed myself without throwing a tantrum, or food into a wall. These scribbles and scrawls were my art; they were my defacement of a piece of perfectly good paper
Graffiti, specifically modern graffiti, on the surface looks like nothing more than obscure lines, curves, and spots; a laugh and a spit in the face at even the mere attempt to do proper calligraphy. And yet, within graffiti we see words, we can derive moods from the choice of colors; we can find symbolism in the shaping of not just the words, but each individual letter. Graffiti is, albeit almost childlike, a near absolutely pure form of self expression. Even though it often used in defacement of a perfectly good wall, it’s no less art than the scribbles and scrawls of a toddler not even in kindergarten.
Music is also a form of art, and ‘experts’ will also tell you that this is complicated. They will show you music theory, sheet writing, notes, half notes, quarter notes, pauses, sharps, flats and a whole mess of unnecessary jargon all to tell you what good music is. Good music, like good art, cannot be taught or told, it can only be found or heard. You could say that any fool will tell you that a symphony sounds better than a man breaking glass with his face; but I believe it is any fool that will try to give reason why one is superlative to the other.
Another form of art, of self expression, is slam poetry. Often explosive, often emotional, often dropping the idea of ‘rhyme or reason,’ abandoning the rhyme for more reason. To perform slam poetry in a coffee house is to be an artist, to be a ‘genius.’ However, if we attempt to translate this poetry into music, setting it to a beat and calling it ‘rap,’ people will shoot it down as noise, a defacement of the music industry. Sounds an awful lot like something else dismissed as defacement, as some lower form of expression… Like graffiti, when in truth graffiti and rap can be more pure, more emotional, and more expressive than what the general populous consider ‘art’ and ‘music.’ Indeed, graffiti is to art as rap is to music.

Postmodernism after 1945

In 1945, the United States of America was engaged in the second Great War, World War II. Announced and heralded as the ‘War to End All Wars,’ it showcased humanity at some of its darkest hours. From the deaths of millions in concentration camps, to mass suicides in Demmin, Germany, the world had thought it had seen the worst. Then, in May, on the 6^th and 9^th, Japan saw two cities disappear off the face of the Earth almost entirely as splitting atoms and imploding hydrogen boasted power that was said to be only the will of god himself. People looked at how the world was after these days; it was the true face of humanity at its finest, darkest, most abominable hour. In a way, WWII was the world’s first postmodern war. Postmodernism in itself is a play on modernism, which showed the world in terms of good and evil, right and wrong, with no blurring of the lines. Revenge, coincidence, the anti-hero, all are tools of a good post-modernist piece. Essentially, to be postmodernist is to look at life through the eyes of one who has lived and truly can say they are alive, as opposed to the subtle innocence of modernism.

The Future

So, I'm not ditching the blog again, I'm actually storyboarding my next story. Its another horror/kidnapping story thats a little more realistic than Crocotta was; The name is either going to be Little Sister or Distant Relatives.

The other reason that I call this 'the future' is because I'm weighing the option of not going to college, and for many good reasons. First of all, all I want to do for the future is write, make art, make music, make films, and take photographs. These are things that I don't feel I can learn from another person, but things I must discover for myself. I understand that getting a stable job normally requires getting a college education, but for two years now I've had stable part time work with Parks and Recreation of Manchester. If I'm wise about my money and live within my means with a couple roommates I can make a decent living. If I keep working in Parks and Rec I can move up within a few years.

I'm scared of telling my parents this because I don't want them to feel ashamed of me, and I don't want to let them down. I really want them to be proud of me, and I feel like going to college and passing is whats going to do that, not pursuing a humble mediocrity that I can be content with. I know and understand they only want the best for me, but I want what is best for me, and I really don't think thats college.

And another thing, I'm really interested in a school called Chaotic Training Center, a Professional Wrestling school that is related to The Kowalski School of Wrestling. Doing this would definitely put me in a good position to make money as an actual professional wrestler, which is a profession that genuinely appeals to me. The most fun I ever had in recent years was the two months I spent in WAW Wrestling ( http://www.wawwrestling.com .) I made some good connections, met some great people, got some real exercise and really enjoyed myself. I proposed this idea to my parents and they were... less than supportive. I guess they're worried about me getting hurt, but... I really think pro-wrestling is for me.

The Crocotta, part five

Getting lost in thought is a bad habit, but I never thought that it'd get me lost in the middle of the woods in the middle of the night. I don't even know where I am, much less remember how I got here. The clouds have broken and I can finally see by that dim starlight, and all I can see is hundreds of thousands of trees, thick like a brick wall surrounding me. I listen closely, listen for that poor little girl, that girl who's been shouting Help me, Help me, for what feels like hours now. I stand there for a good five minutes in complete silence; nothing. I'm rushing through the woods now, stumbling over my busted knee and all sorts of roots, leaving that horrible piece of human anatomy behind. What a horrible way to go, that poor kid. It had to be her, that Ashland kid who went missing. She must have been kidnapped by those damn drugged up bastards, killed and god knows what else, then left for wild dogs to find and... God, I have to stop again, just to throw up one more time, but I can't. I'm staring straight down to throw up and I can't, because i'm staring straight down at a human skull, weathered and old, small like the head of a nine year old child. I stare at it and I see it completely in the faded starlight. The toothmarks are much more visible, more area to leave a bite, I suppose. I swallow whats left of my dinner in my throat and stand up, staring straight ahead. It looks like there could be a clearing ahead, its a little brighter beyond those trees. I've got to save this girl, I've just got to find her, I've got to do something with my life worth doing. I hear it from the clearing, the wicked laughter of those horrible fucking teenagers. They're high now and they're out there, shooting up the same things I did at their age, heroin and crystal meth, god damned bastards. I should avoid that clearing, avoid it altogether, but then I hear something else, clear as crystal as the laughter dies down.
"Help Me"
I act without thought, without needing to think, I know that that little girl is in there and she is in danger, extreme danger, and I can save her. I grab the nearest tree branch and snap it off, pure adrenaline pumping through my veins as I crash through the trees into the empty space. The thin moonlight casts its glow over the clearing, and on the other side is a dog. No little girl who's hurt and alone, no kids shooting up heroin and god knows what else, just some god damned dog and it doesn't make a lick of sense. I stare at the dog for a good minute before I burst out laughing, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all; the woods, the time, the girl, everything. The branch falls out of my hand as I stare at that damn dog and watch as it turns its head to look at me. My eyes adjust a little better and I see it a little clearer, and it looks like no damn dog I've ever seen in my life, more like a damn lion. I watch it turn to me and hear the clopping of hooves, the stamping a horse makes when it walks. I stop laughing. I watch it pad into better lighting, look at its long lion tail, its hoofed feet, its striped markings, its mouth burst open in what I swear is a grin that pulls back into the mane, a mouth too big for its face. I watch it stop dead center of the clearing and open its jaw, move its lips, like a person. I wait for its roar, or bark, or whinny, anticipating anything, anything but what comes next. The sound out of its mouth is words, words in the voice of a scared, sad little girl.
"Help me..."
It tilts its head back and cackles, like a crowd of human voices cackling and laughing like teenagers on drugs, a cackle that carries all around the clearing and fills my ears with such a horrible ring. I step backwards, still staring at it, back up against a tree, watch it encroach... closer, closer...
"Help me... Help me... Don't let it eat me..."
Another cackle, and I think to myself that I was wrong about those teenagers, those kids are alright.

The Crocotta, part four

Jesus Christ, what a day this has been. Fired, thats an ugly word that they try to cover up with 'laid off,' I guess they think any term with laid in it is going to sound better. Ten years working for a man I shared a room with in the clinic getting clean, ten years of blood and sweat and tears in the local city parks and recreation departments. I shoveled snow in the winters, planted flowers in the spring,  mowed lawns in the summer, raked leaves in the fall and picked up trash year round. Even now I'm looking around as the clouds break, a pale starlight cast on the ground so I can spot the trash in the woods, broken bottles and scraps of cloth; but its not my problem anymore, I've just gotta remember that.

"Help me..."

Good 'ol Chuck, he always looked out for me, always paying me back for that help in the clinic. Never saw it coming when he kicked the bucket last Tuesday, poor 'ol Chuck. Heart attacks are pretty cut and dry, no mystery there about what did him. Everything would have been fine if that prick hadn't taken over Chuck's job, fucking Tommy. Thats twice he screwed me over in a lifetime, twice too many. Fresh out of the job corps and with a clean slate, Tommy swings in and takes Chuck's job from me, the job I was right in line for, the only thing Chuck left me to remember him by and its in the hands of some drug dealing, pill popping sadist. Two times too many he screwed me, but the third times the charm; that third time that comes in the form of a medium sized pink piece of paper. I'm so mad about it that I don't pay attention to whats in front of me, I didn't even know that I was still walking until I tripped over my own two feet, face first into the mud. Jesus Christ, what I day this has been. I look down and see my foot tangled up in some roots in the ground, some white roots that I pull at with my foot. The root is pulled out and kicked right up beside me, and I see that its not a root; Jesus Christ.

"Help me..."

I can't believe what I'm looking at and now I start praying that is isn't what it is. I try looking at it a different way; try to think its a weird rock, try to think its some kind of bark stripped branch. But theres no way its anything but what it is, no way its not something straight out of my old x-rays, a smaller version of my own human femur. I turn around, pick it up, and turn it over, feeling every indent and imperfection; has to be deterioration, couldn't possibly be teeth marks, thats just too disgusting to think of. I almost throw up while looking at it, and then actually throw up when I realize that at this size, it has to be from a child, maybe eight or nine years old.

"Help me..."

I wipe the excess drool and bile from my mouth and look up into the distance, where I know the sounds are coming from now; never thought about how each call for help has been exactly the same. Are those really calls for help, or are they just echoes... Its too late to not find out.

The Crocotta, part three (revised)

The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little as I took that first step onto the 10 yard starting line; I stumble a little over a stump as I take that first step into the woods. First string running back in sophomore year, can you imagine how proud my dad was? They said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me.

"Help me..." 

I can't believe I still hear that girl over the shooting pain in my knee, that old battle wound from sophomore year. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.

"Help me..."

Christ, she sounds even farther now, I've gotta get up and keep going, forget the damn pain. No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.

"Help me..."

She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.

The Theory Toolbox working question

Ok, so regarding The Crocotta, I'm not abandoning it, I've just let the well run dry by updating twice yesterday. So, when I went to update it today, I found myself grasping at badly written straws rather than coming up with anything good enough to submit to you. Instead, I decided to answer the following question from my college textbook not only for homework, but as a blog post.

In the 1950's "queer" was a particularly derogatory and hateful word to use when referring to homosexuals (and the word "dyke" a specifically pernicious subset of invective referring to lesbians.) Half a century later, however, these words seem to have been reappropriated by the homosexual community itself; one often hears of "queer theory" or "queer politics," and many lesbians like to refer to themselves as "dykes." (A popular lesbian comic strip is named "Dykes to Watch Out For.")
how does this happen? Are "queer" and "dyke" hateful words to be avoided or affirmations to be celebrated? Or both? Does the answer somehow depend on a reading of the situation to figure out which is the case in a particular context? And do you have to "watch out" when using a word like "queer," if you don't identify yourself as such?

There are few socially accepted terms of endearment used by ethnic groups that originated from offensive or derogatory terms, and it seems that words like ‘queer’ and ‘dyke’ fall into this category of new ‘friendly insults,’ as I like to call them.  These words, like with any word, are all about context and how you intend to use the word. For example, when I was young and out riding my bike one day, I took my eyes off the road for less than a second and ran into a telephone pole. For a long time afterwards my friends would call me a dumbass in a semi insulting way, and I’d just retort it back to them. Nowadays, whenever me and my circle of friends greet each other, we just say ‘what’s up, dumbass?’ We don’t mean any offense by it, even though it’s a generally offensive term, but it’s come to really be a part of us. If I were to greet someone who wasn’t in on our meaning by saying ‘hey dumbass,’ I guarantee you I would not make a new friend out of them that day, or any other day for that matter. Long story short, sometimes with an offensive word, I suppose the best thing to do is take it and make it your own rather than let it get to you.