Friday, August 28, 2009

Essay: Understanding the Stick Figure


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i wrote this at the age of 17, nothing has been changed so don't judge my writing skills....

Sometimes, the simple things in life are overlooked. But these things deserve credit despite their lack of glamour or excitement. So let us begin by looking into the life of one underrated simplicity: the stick figure. Everyone has drawn these little people at one point or another. So why do we choose to deny how essential the stick figure really is? It is finally time to explain the importance of stick figures and slowly erase the stereotypes that developed over the years.

Many people think of the stick figure as boring, or unappealing. People who do not consider themselves artistic draw stick figures, thus allowing other individuals to label the sticklike as too common and all together silly. Why must stick figures continue to be unappreciated by the public? What's more is they face humiliation every time their simple angled body shapes are laughed at. Can they help it that they were made perpendicular? Did they choose to like...well...sticks?

If the stick figure is so terribly unsatisfying, then how can we justify letting them help us so much? While the rest of us are in our nice warm beds, the stick figure is working. Who shows us which bathrooms are for men, and which are for women? Who is plastered on road signs reminding us to 'watch for pedestrians'? These are just two examples of the sacrifices that stick figures make all year long.

Since the beginning of time, humans have found a way to persecute those who are different. Stick people have now become the new and easy target. Really, the stick culture as a whole is very misunderstood. Fortunately, one needs only to be taught to understand. For the most part, stick figures have been used as a quick from of art. Sadly to say, all too often they are interpreted wrongly. One common misconception is that stick figures have hair. Unfortunately, somewhere down the line an artist decided to add this feature by drawing cults, pigtails or light brown hair parted to the side with gel. The public just needs to accept that stick figures are bald and proud of it.

Another little known truth is that stick figures don't wear hats, shoes, mittens or anything else. In fact, the female stick person wears a simple triangle as a dress. This style is smart and classy, as well as elegant. Why must our nation continue to draw these people with funny looking ties and bows? It is simply insulting.

Although the sticklike have endured many misgivings for quite some time, one feature has always been right: the face*. Their perfect circular heads have been beautifully enhanced by emotion. Smiley, angry, scared, embarrassed and surprised faces have graced the faces of stick figures for decades. For this reason it's impossible to support the idea that stick figures are over done or too simple. How could something with endless emotional possibility be boring? And why must we continue to sneer at their simple form? If one is bored with the appearance of the stick figure, adding an expression can easily solve the problem. As mentioned before, there are many to choose from.

Many who were ignorant in the way of the sticklike finally understand. It is becoming more and more clear that without these wonderful, flat little people...our world would be entirely too 3 dimensional. So the next time you are playing a game of hang man, remember to do the stick figure some justice and thank he or she for all the time they put into your everyday life (and for goodness sake kill them quickly).

*you may notice that stick figures do not sport a face when on road signs and bathroom doors. This is simply because they are working and do not want to appear unprofessional*




A Poem

kicking stones is quite a game
stones always look at you just the same
they never lie
they never die
stones don't forget your name

Thursday, August 27, 2009

the art of crashing into an suv


In fact, there is no art to it. Just follow my lead, because apparently it's my one hidden talent.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

Telegram

If there is a hannah webster out there...stop....and she has a blog address...stop...I must know it's whereabouts immediately...stop

Monday, August 24, 2009

The Long and Short of It

I do not plan on making many vulnerable entries at this site. Living in Portland, I have found that we (including myself) all take ourselves, our problems, our pain, and our artistic license....entirely too seriously. With this in mind, most of my thoughts will fall in the range of silly and the all together ridiculous. Because what better way to cope than to just laugh.

And so I will keep the following endeavor short.

I have given up, because in the event that I should fail...I surely will, fail.

Ladies and gentleman, such an event has finally happened upon me. It has become strikingly clear that I can no more fix myself than a home schooled child can burn his or her jumper. And the imagery of a friend, foe, counselor, pastor, mentor, or parole officer showing up for the fight has faded from the hopeful dreams in my head. In this moment I feel utterly alone, useless and dare I say it...broken?

Yet, I do not crave "authentic community", "home community", "artists community", "community gardening", "intentional community" or anything of the sort. Also, please do not elevate my brokenness to a god state that excuses the weight of sin or consequence. Diminishing the uncompromising beauty of purity and holiness will only aid my withering state. I need no more excuses, outs, pats on the back, conversations, self help books, medication or compliments.

But rather, push me out into that fearfully dark unknown called, submission....and wave to me as I take my holiday at the sea. Alone. Hurting. And with Him.

To put it plainly? What I so desperately need cannot be found in this world, and though my head always knew...only now is the ache in my heart completely in awe of such a truth.

And now...if only...if only I weren't so tired.

These are my thoughts for the few who read, and the many more who do not.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Captain Jack Sparrow?




Yet another odd van I encountered..apparently this one sails the high seas. You cannot tell from the pic, but it's actually covered in pirate gear. I find the skeleton a little more disturbing than funny. Maybe it's because it looks like Cindy Lou Who from "The Grinch" died rather violently on the freeway.....

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Gentle

The most important voices in my life are so gentle, I cannot hear them.

Monday, August 17, 2009

If I Could Get Free

"We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered to us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased."
CS LEWIS

Inbox: Hannah Webster

Ms. Webster,

You are not a horrible friend. One of the things I enjoy about this friendship we have is that we can always pick up where we left off...no strings attached...no pressure...no worry if you are busy :)

Now, as for your "busy" ness. I relate to this problem completely. In fact I relate so much, it may serve as a good topic for my blog. Yes, blog. You read correctly. I am obsessed. Blogging masquerades around in my mind like something of power...making me believe that the world is reading right along with each key I press down. Logically, I know this isn't true, but it sure beats the anxiety associated with all the unfinished journals molding in the back of my closet (and underneath my bed). (and in the cellar) (cellar? Am I 95 years old?)

It is American to be busy, so they say. Whoever 'they' are. Yet, at first glance my life is simple. I work approximately 40 hours in 3 days. Assuming my quick math skills do not abandon me, that leaves 4 days a week completely free. All the time in the world right? Here in lies the problem. Each week, those four days of bliss escape me, and I do not know how it comes to pass.

Ideally, I'd be hiking in the Gorge, getting lost in the red room at Powell's Books while trying to find the pink room, or maybe drinking a good mocha from anywhere but Starbucks. Why not sit by a willow tree and watch people who love dogs flirt with each other? I could put my most beautiful dress on and lounge in lobbies of the fancy hotels downtown! I could stay up all night writing a heartbreaking, extravagant novel (or um, blog) involving me, tragic romance, and Gerard Butler (from PS I love You). *Note to self....you use too many parentheses*

There are many wonderful acts of service I could take part in. How fulfilling to work with refugees, aiding them in finding jobs and getting acquainted with culture...or I could actually talk to that homeless woman who stands at the on ramp to 1-84 West at Sandy Blvd. I could tutor a child in math er how about recess...I could walk dogs so those people could flirt more!!

But do you know what I do on my days off? I generally marvel at how exhausted I am at the ripe old age of 26. That takes up a few hours, usually. Then I drive all over town meeting up with the few people I can for coffee or a quick happy hour. This is followed by balancing my check book (okay, I don't do that), doing my laundry, cleaning my room, folding my laundry (sometimes), making my bed, doing a little sketching, going to church (sorta), trying to work out, attempting healthy eating, getting caught up on sleep, stressing about healthy eating... and when that's all done, if I have time, I feel tired again. Too tired to do any of the more worthy ideas I mentioned earlier.

And thus, when people ask me what I'm doing in life I feel embarrassed because all I can offer up is work and laundry! But I do speak truth when I say it sincerely feels like that's all I have time to do. Were did I go wrong? Is this rat race really what I take part in for the rest of my life? BAH!

So, my friend, I'm busy with nothing as well. Don't feel too badly about it. However, I have made a recent decision that if I don't change something very soon, I will end up with regrets...and that is a sad sad thing.

AH! I've got it! I'm going to go to school to become a midwife. Yes, you read correctly. A midwife. I'm going to help women bring babies into the world... I will teach them to bite down on a stick while I say a blessing over them using mango juice. Wait, that was the Lion King...but no matter. I will travel around the world and do this.... Man or no man, bad complexion or good, skinny or fat, ten fingers or nine, style or mom jeans...I'm going to do it.

And I'm not kidding.

Now I just need 40,000 dollars, some more free time, a bit more work ethic and a place to live for free. Oh and a way to pay bills....

How are you?

Jenni

Saturday, August 15, 2009


I encountered this van while walking in Hawthorne...those are some first graders I do not want to mess with....









Friday, August 14, 2009

Lovin' The Rain


Keep Portland Weird? I say keep Portland wet.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Germs and Children: The Ultimate Partnership

The better half of my twenties has been monopolized by a sad obsession with germs. No, it's more than that. I am at war with them. Let me explain, however, that I actually don't hate germs....nor am I afraid to be in their presence. In fact, you wouldn't know that I even cared about them unless you could read my mind. If anything, I am a secret admirer of their power to bring my social life to an utter stop, and melt my work days into tedious oblivion. I am in awe of the germ's dark magic.

It could be that I've become crazy or maybe just more practical. More acurately though, Ive been humbled by years of slow and methodical beatings from nearly every toddler in the greater Portland area. My job title is Nanny, which is so drab. I prefer Child-Germ Conflict Resolution Therapist or Household General Manager Substitute. To be realistic, it doesn't matter what you call me, because at the end of the day, everyday, there are four things that I have always done. And done well.

1. in the nick of time, successfully wedged my body in between a toddler and countless dangerous objects and/or vehicles

2. been thrown up on

3. completed various amounts of manual labor while holding an infant on my hip, such as folding other peoples underwear and then folding it again when a toddler (see above) destroys my hard work

4. practically snuggled up to and spooned with a million germs, while in vain, trying to snuff out their existence

5. been thrown up on (wait a second....)

I never thought of myself as a germ-a-phobe, until I noticed how much lotion I was going through. I actually hate lotion, as it's similar to covering yourself in yogurt, but I digress. So how on earth did I purchase and harbor so many different kinds of the awful stuff? Well, I wash my hands obsessively. So much so that my knuckles are nearly gone, requiring that I rub yogurt, er uh, lotion on my hands almost hourly while at work.

Do you know what children are? Well that was a very sweet, heartwarming answer...but you are wrong (and a little stupid). Let me tell you what they are: carrier monkeys.

All they do, all day long, is find unique ways to infiltrate this world with new and colorful germs. It's a premeditated plot to destroy anything taller than them with the capacity to say, "no, you may not climb up on the top of the house and jump off with that umbrella." They do it so that when you are laying on the kitchen floor convinced you are actually going to die from the chest cold that has plagued you for 2 weeks, in that moment that child can run over and with all it's weight jump onto your sternum, thus propelling itself onto the counter, where the TV remote is laying, and in turn... switch on "Elmo's World".

What's even worse, is when they barter germs with one another before contaminating you. This is how they efficiently handicap as many adults as they can within a one block radius. It's genius! While they get extra ice cream, TV, affection and grape flavored Tylenol...you bust your body to keep them comfortable, only to get sick right about when....no, exactly when, they are well enough to absolutely manipulate your sick sorry ass into doing just about any ridiculous thing they want.

I'm not bitter. I'm not. It's a circle of life...kinda thing.

Okay, so I'm irritated. Okay, I'm bitter. Why is it that for every sanitary wipe I wave in the air, declaring a surrender...germs (or their child partners in crime) never show me grace? And for every mac and cheese meal I have shared with a 2 year old while crossing my chest hoping for a consequence free bite, I repeatedly am left cursing KRAFT and it's counter parts. Will there ever be an end to this on going conflict of interests!?

As I guzzle the NyQuil on my nightstand while applying a fresh coat of yogurt to my knuckles, I can only dream. Dream of a time when my germ radar will fail to guide the whole of my subconscious thoughts during the day, or, at the very least.... it will finally reward my solid understanding of my frailty next to the united front of germs and children, with a nice strong handshake (preceded by purel of course).