The most important thing you need to know about Poptart is that he is imaginary. He is an imaginary character that was once used to fill the storyline needs of a particular group of girls in the midst of middle school. We called ourselves TKO.
If any thing in this wide wicked world should be subjective most certainly it must be belief. A matter of perspective is as varied on the various perspectives one might hold from any place on earth.Consider observing an apple on a table. At a mere centimeter from your eyeball that very fruit might tower to you as a massive light blocking dark red structure. It may be so wide as to hinder your view of the table, it’s apple fruity scent may over power the scent of the wood. Perhaps you are so close it’s stem tickles your hairline. A pestering light hover that somehow makes your skin tingle more ferociously than any slap might muster. I find a furious smack to be more numbing than anything but then that’s just my perspective.
Counter point: view that apple from outside the window in your back yard. Go as far away as you can to still see the apple upon the table. Now that red fruit may seem to you insignificant. A small red dot upon a shiny wooden circle.
R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me, so goes the famous song by Aretha Franklin. We the American people are a nation built upon the ideals of freedom and respect. Did we not break away from England when they looked upon us a colony far lower than the homeland whom they could tax with no just cause? Had we not a civil war over the unfair slavery and dehumanization going on in the south? We have had civil marches to bring a stop to segregation and we have protested wars. We have equality acts and freedom of religion for a reason.
This is supposed to be the land of the free and equal right?
Well what of our chosen representatives?
The old man who I never really knew and yet for years after his death I aided in cleaning the house he nearly suffocated with hoarding. Like sifting through sand for gold I dug through countless boxes of junk that he had held precious and priceless. Stacks of newspapers and empty cereal boxes reached near to the ceiling creating a chaotic city of rubbish. And did you know he had a sister? How appropriate to be named after her. This Katherine was a smart woman who lived to be 96 If I’m not mistaken. I recall visiting her in at the old folk’s home in Florida. A small room featuring one window open to a view of the tropical garden. Stacks of books in large print spines cracked and torn from the rough love of reading. Books full of crosswords and various paper puzzles lay in a wicker basket by her bed. And did I mention Katherine was always happy to see us? Did I mention that she spelled her name K-A-T-H-Y-R-N? Thus provoking the spelling of Katy to end with a Y. Why indeed because my mother put K-A-T-H-E-R-I-N-E on my birth certificate so according to the government that is my name.
In the front yard of my house is a tree whose branches I know as steps to a ladder. Looking straight up the sky becomes a mosaic where brown boarders frame various hues of green. It is a church of its own to the faithful. The patch of bark raw from my clumsy climbing feet is the welcome mat of an old friend.
Being outside, some distance away, the sounds of the storm from inside is muffled. Turbulent waters can calm suddenly sometimes. Think gently shaking water surface beneath the rolling dark grey clouds.
One tree can lift up to 100 gallons of water out of the ground and discharge it into the air in a single day, think of a heavy morning fog wrapped around you, think of shelter from the sun, shelter from a storm.
There is a point at which the hill is its steepest. A point when your face gets red and your breath gets short and you really have to force your legs to peddle up up up even when your muscles are screaming. There is an old man’s house and it’s such a place I rarely stopped or thought about. He had a perfectly manicured yard and no trees. He had flowers and bushes. He was a retired old black man and nothing more to me.
Until one day I was riding my bike and I stopped at this place within the steep of the hill. It is a strange land where the trees grow out sideways, and the bushes are cut with more care than my hair had ever received. No trees to cover, bigger driveways but not the bigger everything like you’ll find from the houses at the very top. This was some strange in-between place and even stranger yet I found a rabbit there.
Brown creature with flecks of gold in its fur. Its big eyes are glossy black marbles. Its nose bounces up and down as it chews on some grass very casual like. Its ears twitch to the side as it hears all of Queensbury, all of it at once. Acutely aware of many things it was like an omnipresent being.
I do know it’s been a while.
I have been quite busy.
On behalf of Kate E Lore as an independent freelance writer for Dayton City Paper I would like to make a formal retraction and sincerest apology to Folks of Dayton Music Festival to whom I have greatly wronged in my error a few weeks ago.
I’m listening to Kveikur by Sigur Ros and there couldn’t be a better thing to be playing right now. Keep in mind this is my first time listening to this particular album. I’m drawn in initially by the pulsating bloodstream beat. The digital cords wash over and crash against the rocks as the vocals sail overhead in the open air above it all. The vocals swoop down then ride gracefully just above the waters glittery but stormy surface. It sinks and slowly dissolves into a fragment of a tune.
For any writer you may feel at times like you are standing alone on a rock off the coast of a jagged shore. The water is turbulent and it is constantly crashing at the limestone under your feet with the fury of raging bull. You may wonder how much longer this weak stone can continue to hold you up. And what are you doing here anyway? You are standing here making things on paper forming and shaping these creations that you feel are art. You spend hours and hours creating this thing which is to you a magical wonderful world, it is a glimpse of something more from inside you. This art, this magnificent creation, you set it upon the water and it sinks slowly before you. It disappears below the surface like it never was at all. You realize what you did wrong. You know you can do better so you start all a new. Sometimes it is reworking the same idea and sometimes it is an all new creation. Whatever this may be the result is always the same.