Reddish Musings

Simply put, I don't think it should be done. I wrote a really florid piece of drawl whilst waiting for Art to begin on Monday morning, and I'm not going to repost it or even really pay that much attention to it, but at the very least I'll get the point across again: Art should not be defined.

You can show me the history timeline of Art, and show me how it has changed and what we accept as art and as not art, but you cannot, and should not, put a certain criteria out for it. Also, you shouldn't tell me that writing is not an artform. Jerk teacher.

Also he made us listen to a Charles Ives piece. I know nothing of the composer other than at this point in time, I hope he died a horrible death for making whatever it was that was just injected into my hearing places. Augh. I'm sure he had other stuff that was notable and not ear-raping, but the piece we listened to was detestable.

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I feel this unstoppable urge to write. I don't know what I want to write, or how, or in what style or for what story or if for any story. I don't think I have a point or twenty just waiting to come out in insightful essays, and I certainly don't feel like writing for class, but the need to make words come out of me is there, just the same.

Maybe it's the hypnotic sound of the keyboard, or the indisputable "rightness" of how a white text box appears once it has been filled with substance. I don't know what it is, but I have that bug again. Maybe it's the reading I've been forced to do for class. Reading more always produces an urge to write more.

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Also, I'm dying of hunger and I do not want to go to my next class. No specific reason, just History is boring and I'm tired and crampy and hungry.

Pain + Hunger = :(

Anyway. Job search must begin. :(