4 of 5.

As far as my classes for the spring semester, there is just one territory left that I have yet to tread. I do not have high expectations for the second leg of Art History (having heard from others about the ways of my teacher), though I am completely open to and hoping for surprises. That being said, the other 4 classes that I have been to thus far in the week have been WAY more than I was expecting. I spent probably two hours total reading and responding to my very first assignment for Evolution of the Mind, but I leave the assignment with (seriously) a completely different view on humanity and evolution. I am sad for those stuck in schools that refuse to expose its students to the studies of Charles Darwin. It has nothing to do with whether you believe in God or not, whether you embrace Evolution or the Creation Theory. Plain and simple, the man was a genius. With technology, books, school, we are privileged to have access to the ideas and the teachings of numerous people from all parts of the world. The thought of excluding any great mind from that opportunity is disappointing. If nothing else, if of his evolutional findings were left out completely, we could at least have a model for nearly flawless, objective critical thinking. I am, however, thankful for the timing- that I am just now at this age and at this point in my life being pushed to delve into what Darwin found.

...I lost my train of thought.

"For my own part I would as soon be descended from that heroic little monkey, who braved his dreaded enemy in order to save the life of his keeper, or from that old baboon, who descending from the mountains, carried away in triumph his young comrade from a crowd of astonished dogs-as from a savage who delights to torture his enemies, offers up bloody sacrifices, practices infanticide without remorse, treats his wives like slaves, knows no decency, and is haunted by the grossest superstitions."

You go, Charles.

New camera.
New eating habits.
New breath.
New realizations.
New outlooks.
New love for a very familiar human.

For the first time in my entire life, an actual new year.

My new iPod is broken but my old heart is working just fine.
Everything looks a lot brighter these days.

I haven't been giving Chicago the love it deserves.
Sorry, girl. :)
This is going to be such a damn good semester.

Whose standards am I limiting my work by?
I'm ready for rolling waves of fresh ideas and new approaches.

I've been watching an absurd amount of LA Ink lately.
If you are any sort of artist
and you need any sort of inspiration,
you should do the same.

Did I mention that I can't stop writing Sestinas?

(Also, I've been taking the six words for each Sestina from particular poems that we've read in my Into to Poetry class. These Sestinas are my final "creative project" for the class.)

from Rorschach by a poet I'm too lazy to look up right now.

----

I hear the flutter of wings
like the twisting of a road
on a map, a stain
on the lips of one who's been kissing a flute.
Every time you light a cigarette,
someone awakes on a deserted island.

On the shore of this island,
the sun rests in the ruby wings
of birds, glowing like a cigarette
left on the side of a road.
The wind blows here with the sweetness of a flute,
but it leaves marks on the sand like stains.

Did you notice that stain?
It's shaped like an island,
abandoned like the cry of a flute
in the night. This night that came in on wings,
and left its footprints on the road.
You pierced that night with your cigarette.

I put out the cigarette
on your shadow, but it left a stain
on your mouth. Your tongue is the road
that I take to our island
where the wind comes in on wings
and sings to us like the whisper of a flute.

We put the world on pause to listen to the flute.
The sound fills our ears like cigarette
smoke, and I can see the morning's wings
approaching. The newborn sun leaves a stain
on the sky, and the clouds sort of form an island-
a sacred place at the end of the road.

Our sacred place is at the end of that road,
where we speak with the purity of a flute.
And when we get to this island,
I will meet the sand like a mouth meets a cigarette.
Until then, you leave yourself on me like a stain,
and I could swear I have wings.

This island is our final road,
and we'll depart on wings that hum like flutes;
a cigarette forever illuminating our stain of sky.