My Communist, My Villian

I spent most of the day alone, without music, people or movies.

And I've figured something out. A question many fellow art students may have wondered several times.

"What's with all the Communist paraphernalia?"—shirts, hats, posters, art, ideas...

It was endless, or so I thought.

I figured it out when it started to dissolve. When I stopped looking for pins, books...etc.

I like to exploit the population's irrational fears.

Not that I'm done doing this. The propaganda style still dominants my empty canvas.

It's just that I've been studying another feared group. Here's a hint. I picked up the Qu'ran, I'm writing about transnational feminism, I know the difference between Shi'ite and Sunni.

That's right, I'm playing on Islamophobia.

The Communist thing just made me laugh, this time I'm stocking my arsenal for future ignorance.

The Veil

Let me get this straight. As a female, there are a lot of things in this world that make me roll my eyes or turn my stomach when it comes to women's rights. Until about a week ago, the perspective of the veil was one of oppression. And like many humans, I chose to make my own mind about it without searching further into the matter.

Lately, I have been working against this habit accepted by so many. It's not easy to undo 20 years of accepting that Arabs are out to get Americans because they hate 'freedom'. Especially after 9/11, as a 13 year old... the confusion and media takes over; it was so simple to ease into it.

I knew nothing about them, not even in "world" history had we even geographically come close to talking about the middle east. World history was WWII. Nothing happened before 1939.

Never had I considered where this "hatred for freedom" had come from.

What I found was quite the opposite. Like any other religion, culture or race, they longed for freedom.

The faulty alliances made for oil nearly forced me to pack my bags that moment...

Wait, I'm suppose to be talking about the veil—anywho...

I found that eastern femininity and western femininity are quite different.

For now, I've only scratched the surface or this topic— more to come later.

Boylan, Round I

Half page AD

Root beer.

Notes to my Mother—

Root Beer Co.

I don't put my copywriting up. Although very unlikely the company finds this, loves it and steals it— I'm taking a leap.

Below is some long copy, something found on the side of the bottle or packaging.

My question is: Who is speaking?

I was an accident. Part of an experiment trying to create an elixir, Boylan made me, Boylan. The best stuff comes from the ground and that’s all he had. Extracted from the Yucca plant mixed in with yeast and pure cane sugar, there I was; a dark, sweet, bubbly foam overflowing test tubes. For over 100 years, the strong, frothy blend hasn’t changed. And there wasn’t any reason to.

Not bad for a pharmacist.

Why I Read—

This was written for my World Literature class.

—to gauge how well I write.

I come about discovering books I eventually read and finish by means of design. I can’t ignore these things anymore, I knew I was officially a design snob the moment I turned away a brand of cereal because of the kerning. I honestly cannot think of a book I’ve recently read that did not have acceptable typography and art. But that is only the first element that captures my exhausted eyes. After I’ve given the book a quick weighing— not too heavy, I have things to do, the back cover gets a quick scan. Mildly interesting, I take note and move on. If the library supplies such a book and holds my interest within the first two chapters- no matter how horrible it becomes, I keep reading and finish.

From last June to November, a repetition occurred. Each book I analysed, weighed and read contained a plethora of suffering, loss and pain. Such books were City of Thieves, What Is the What?, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and Everything Is Illuminated. The typography gave no such hint of this. Since I thought these books were good, I decided to abandon my technique and actually search for suffering, loss and pain. I ran into just as depressing stories, but failed to go beyond it.

The things I’d never do is take advice. People have a terrible track record of recommendations. All tainted by how great the film Eraserhead was described, I haven’t taken any suggestions since.

A grade school teacher once told me that reading books will make you smarter. I’d like to think this while I’m reading, since it’s a relaxing time, becoming smarter in the process sounds easier than a three hour lecture. I can’t really back that statement up with evidence, nor can I deny it. What I do know for certain is that it makes me sleepy.

But I’ve come to realize that I read to know how other people think, to experience another life or culture without leaving my apartment and to see another picture of the past without a photograph. I don’t know if my I.Q. will increase, but at least I do feel smarter and more worldly.

It Happened and Now I'm Here

I read it for the first time last Friday. I might have learned more from my family's past here than through stories told after Christmas dinners. There were grammatical errors, which I didn't expect. Typos riddled each page like a third rough draft (you might've thought they've all gone—)

Amazon does not have a picture. The customer reviews are positive, 2 five star ratings and reviews written in the late 90's and early millennia. Only a blockbuster film could stir any interest in purchasing such a book; people don't think about one of the worst sea disasters everyday.

Although, Pirate Radio stirred a sickness and fear in my stomach during the scene where the cold sea rushes into the rooms of the ship— that scene was entirely too long.

And when I hear Celine Dion, any song, really.

There is a blanket of sadness that lays over me when I think of her. The questions she could never resolve, not matter how many times that night replayed in her mind. Did she ever know where Pekka went?

Having raised my grandfather, something from that traumatic night may have passed onto him, ran through his blood and now rushes through mine.

Several years ago, I decided to look for Pekka. My would be great grandfather, I suppose. Through Finnish specific encyclopedias, interviews, short stories— many have incorrect information. Where do they get this crap? "I'll go out and see, what's going on." Never left Pekka's lips.

Some references have the wrong names completely. Erin and Pekko?

An interview was finally recovered from a man that claimed to have been running around in the chaos with Pekka that night; even the last seconds of life Pekka had in the freezing Atlantic.

So, did Elin ever find out what happened to her husband on the night she became a widow?

Having died on the day my uncle was born, sitting in a chair with A Night to Remember laid on her lap, I'd say the Titantic had actually taken her life too, so many years ago.

http://www.amazon.com/Going-See-What-Has-Happened/dp/0965717402