when i was little
i used to collect shells at the beach
i saved all the little broken half moons
in a little white pile in the sand
i'd keep them far away from the raging tide
whose cold bit at my toes
(more) and draw a circle in the sand, to
protect them from harm.
but the problem, darling, is
that i cannot keep you safe forever
i can't keep you close to me
nestled in the sand. i cannot
save you from the water that will
wash over you, or shelter you from
danger. i can't do anything to protect
you, so my love will have to suffice.
that is absolutely nothing to
be relied on.
For the third hour in a row, his sketchbook is blank.
Well, not exactly blank. Grey smudges mar the paper, in some places worn through with all the attempts to get rid of his mistakes. He glances at his neighbors. They are all happily sketching away, the contours o(more)f the model's body effortlessly captured on paper.
He stares back at his own paper, and sweeps his pencil across the paper. Again, the circle is lopsided, a completely unsuitable base for his drawing. He bites back an angry growl as the eraser meets the paper again.
A tear echoes through the studio; his sketchbook has finally given up. Everyone looks up as if they had just been roused from sleeping, searching for the source of the noise. The professor manages to notice the clock, and declares the class finished for the day.
The hum of chatter and closing sketchbooks fills the air as the students stand up and the model puts her robe back on. Soon, the studio is empty. He hangs back, pretending that he dropped a pencil, that he needs to finish a last detail, anything to buy him some time alone. The frustrated sigh three hours in the making escapes him. In one last attempt to make something of his wasted time, he brings the pencil back to the paper and sweeps his hand like he was taught, and smiles.
Finally, he's drawn his circle.
He widens his grin, closes his eyes, and remembers the contours that the other students had just finished drawing.
subject cringes at the shape on the paper, more duck than circle.
subject is dissatisfied. the circle is too wide. the paper is thrown into a provided trash can.
close, but far too small.
subject seems visibly aggravated by paper(more) and pencil. he asks for a protractor, mutters a plan to make many small curving lines. finally, subject rips paper.
the pile next to the provided trash can is overflowing. researchers request another garbage vehicle, preferably a recycling bin.
subject is incredibly agitated, refusing to remove garbage vehicle from head. subject repeats only "no more circles" when given prompts by researchers.
subject angry; throwing paper, scribbling on walls and table
subject screaming, throwing protractor. subject draws one last harried scribble on smeared paper, walks out door with garbage vehicle raised offensively, slams door with flourish.
"harried scribble" revealed to be astonishingly close to perfect circle. subject recommended for further testing.(less)
Here was the objective of our homework. Seems simple, doesn't it? Well it's not. I mean, it's easy to remember events, but there are so many, I can't choose. Plus, at 21 years old, my life isn't even decided yet. I'm just starting to live!(more)
I decided to remember my teenage years. 13 years old, I was lost, I didn't know what to do with my life. 14 years old to 16 years old, I was on a "drugs, sex & rock n' roll" mode. At 17, I stopped all of this. 18 and 19, I relapsed. I was on more and more heavy drugs. At 20, I was lost again, I didn't know where my life was going. Today, at 21, I'm here, in my university class, trying to draw my life. I thought of this one last time, then drew my life.
She cries in frustration. It might as well be a jellybean. It might as well be an egg.
"Why, Bailey, that's nearly a perfect circle!" Mr. Ross, the art teacher, exclaims in appreciation.
She clenches her fist. Because not perfect is not good enough. Why doesn't anyone understand? It's(more) such a simple concept to her.
If the circle she draws isn't flawlessly sketched, she might as well be drawing the goddamn Eiffel Tower.
Euclid's Elements, the monolithic mathematical masterpiece, a ten-book geometric universe, composed of a vast network of hundreds of propositions and proofs, is founded on the humble request to draw a circle.
I am not the greatest artist. I can hardly draw at all. I get that it's probably impossible to draw a perfect circle but you get close enough.
Close enough for other people to recognize it as such and I guess that's all that matters. Mine always en(more)d up as ovals or don't connect right at the end.
I end up cheating and using a CD. People can always tell when I do though. They say, "that's TOO perfect". Whatever balance between perfect and imperfect is needed to draw a good circle, you have it.
But my circles are fingerprints. People look into my circles and they see the face of God. My circles are ovals and circles and eyes and mouths and faces and almonds and unicycles. My circles are everything.(less)
Saraswathi let the boy lead her to the bed. He reeked of beer and pot - just like the last one.
She wondered why she always preferred the stoners. If anything, it was maddening for the Human Fireball - as her fellow fighters, who knew, called her - an(more)d not to be able to light their joints herself. She'd started smoking both cigarettes and weed the previous year partly so, when she had a moment to herself, could steal away into some dark alley, she could light up and relieve her fingers of their craving to burn.
But maybe their fire-hazardous ways drew from her a strange sort of empathy. She let this one - Dave, his name was? - plop her onto the bed, sloppily. They were both already shirtless, although their pants hadn't been taken off yet.
He assaulted her lips, wet saliva dripping all over. Saraswathi resisted the urge to wipe it off with her hand, instead, drawing it down the boy's back. He groaned as she drew a circle, then a cross, and he began to fiddle with her bra straps
A part of her - a part she desperately wished didn't exist - wanted to draw flames instead of circles on his back, to snap her fingers or clap her hands and let his moans of pleasure turn to screams of terror. She shuddered. When had she become so sadistic? Or was it her, or was this power really some - thing? - within her?
Dave or Dan or whatever his name was took her shudder as one of sexual excitement, and he lifted her straps and moved his mouth down, toward her breasts. He would never have to know. And Saraswathi would make sure he wouldn't, ever.(less)
I've been thinking about this for a while. Our lives are ruled by external forces. We understand them, but do we understand ourselves?
The truth is a scary, the future is bright. -Ism's and -ology's make us who we are. They overlap and weave together and we have both(more) complete and a complete lack of control over it. The worst part is that it doesn't make any sense. But maybe that's for the best.
Because if you could draw a circle around your life, contemplate and quantify everything that makes you "you," understand all of the intricacies of your fears, hopes, and insecurities, how would you ever be content?(less)
Henry panicked as the red lights flashed above him, their flickering on clockwork. Sweat was beading on his forehead, daring to drip down and ruin everything.
"Sargent! We are under pressure - gather yourself! This is life and death we are talking about!" Henry's teammate yelled at him throug(more)h the old 90's television screen, the static tingling Henry's skin from over a foot away.
Slowly, Henry stared back at the television screen, his eyes drawing weary, his bottom lip quivering in the slightest.
"Sir, I don't think I can."
"Henry, I swear! Pull yourself together! Grab the stick, grab the pad, and swish!" The face on the screen back away, talking to others. "How did we send in the one guy who can't draw a circle?"
"I can still hear you!"
"So you understand that you need to draw a circle, then, right?"
Henry grabbed the stylus and the pad, his mouth agape. "Does it have to be perfect?"
"Does it have to be perfect? Really, Henry? It's a giant O!"
Henry glanced up at the television screen. "An O? Really?" With a smooth motion of his arm, Henry swung an O on the pad, allowing Yoshi to collect all the fruit on the game pad, winning the round.
"You've got to be kidding me, right?" Henry's teammate said, exasperated. "Never letting you draw me anything."(less)
She's never been good at art. Always had trouble drawing shapes, her lines coming out crooked and wrong. When she'd try to color, her attempts always ended outside the lines.
'It's okay,' her teacher had assured her. 'Coloring outside the lines shows your creativity! You're showing off yourself.'(more)
Even through her veil of youth she could see the words behind the sentences, the truth of the matter: that the self was wonderful, but only for so long, and after a while you were expected to color inside the lines.
That's what she remembers now, as the thing-that-is-not-Laura steps through her trap, smiling at her with bleach-white teeth. Laura's crow's feet aren't showing. She doubts a demon would have cause to smile true, anyway, so she knows she'll never see them again.
If only she had studied her traps more, if only she had practiced, if only she had paid closer attention -