Montevallo

I don’t go anywhere special. I don’t even do anything. I just stand in front of the rain, right outside of the apartment building. I’m letting the rain fall over me and staring up at the sky, smiling. I close my eyes and let it fall over me, marveling at the way the water slicks off my raincoat sleeves, admiring the droplets hitting my cheeks, my palms up and open. This moment is not really about me, I am not really in it, I am experiencing this open sensation and basking in it and feeling utterly alive in a way that will go on to be rare and hidden to me for the rest of my life. But briefly, then and only then, I am Present and the Nothingness inside of me is quiet,

I’ve walked these streets my whole life, I know them like an old puzzle that’s etched into my skull; it feels like home. But not tonight, tonight my heart pounds so hard I think it’s cracked a rib. My ears begin to ring, and for a moment it feels like a daze. I listen to the muffled gunshots that are fired blocks away. It’s the city that never sleeps, drowned in their own luxurious lifestyles with the haves and the

There are things, people or events that I would often miss. Moments I overlooked or discard because initially I believed them to be inconsequential. They did not pertain to me. I sat last summer in a crowded Portland, Oregon, airport waiting to get on a plane to take me home. I had no books with me that I had not already read and did not want to demonstrate the stereotype of my generation and glue my eyes to my phone. Instead I took the next forty five minutes of waiting for my flight to watch the people around me. I subconsciously found myself imagining what it would be like to be that mother rushing with her three children, the tired looking bartender serving drinks or else the worker behind the flight counter being barraged with demands and questions from passengers. I found that I have started to see more of what is around me. I care how that stranger is treating the worker behind the counter. I understand how tired that bartender is while having to serve customers that sit on the high stools around the counter. I feel harried the women dragging her children down the concourse. I had, in that short period of time, done what Stacey White had been trying to teach to her students. I was working, consciously, to “stretch the field of constraints from which they [I] see [saw]” (114). I found it illuminating and exhilarating to realize that I could understand at least in the smallest of

Living in the inter-city can be hard, but living in the center of vilatance and death can be traumatizing. As a young girl, I seen a lot that can did damage to my eyes. The crimes that was going on around me clouded my mind, my wisdom. Its hard to stay up when bad thing pull down at you, grabbing you by the arms and all you want to do is make it to the clouds. That was me, reaching, trying to get to the clouds, everything felt so impossible.

In contemporary music, composers will use bridges to change the tone of a song. When the song needs to change, they will include a small section that stands out from the rest of the piece so it can bring a smooth transition to the rest of the song. Similarly, Claudio Monteverdi became that bridge between the Renaissance and the coming Baroque Period. The world was so focused on humanism and darkness throughout the Renaissance, but Monteverdi was born on the edge of darkness, and helped show the path into light. Claudio Monteverdi exemplified the shift in worldview from the Renaissance to the Baroque Period through his music.

You can hear the vibration of car’s engines humming as you walk down the busy streets. Everyone is talking loud so they can be heard by the person next to them. Store merchants with artificial smiles on their faces are usually standing in their storefronts trying to convince people passing by to patronize with their business. Music is screaming in your ears, lights are flashing in your eyes from oncoming car headlights and nightclubs while running wind from the ocean’s shores plays in your hair and disorganizes your clothes like infant babies. No one seems to

Pleasure and feelings, they are a big factor in why people try this art. Why graffiti artist feel the need to do it. It is their own way of a adrenaline drug. For instance, “graffiti is, overwhelmingly about pleasure and desire in the act of writing” (Halsey & Young, 2006, p.2). Many of the artist believe they have some type of connection with the art and everyone involved:

People are rushing by, it’s lunchtime, and it’s chilly. I look up at the old buildings of this small city and wonder why no one is paying attention to them. Turning the corner there is an alley decorated with an archway and vines, the brick has been painted to look like windows full of vases of flowers; children smiling; curtains. Looking back at the street I wonder if the passing cars can see the group standing in the alley. Approaching a local coffee shop, there is a stand outside the door selling tacos, or was it taco soup? The owner comes outside to chat with the group and I think about how nice is. We gather around for a picture, I try to hide in back but suddenly I’m pushed to the front, damn my height. Standing in the shade I look at

On the rooftop of our apartment’s building, I can feel the chill of this summer night wrap around my frail body in a cold coat, silence was a palpable barrier between me and the luminaries, the curiosity that they vivified was like a paper dipped in a candle flame, it was up to me to smother the embers or to nourish the fire. I choose the latter.

I step outside; the air is like a warm blanket around me, completely still, it is slightly relaxing. The sky is completely black, again. I cannot remember what the sun looks like, all I seem to recall is the darkness of night, and the soft, but yet artificial radiance that is fluorescent lights. I walk amongst these abandon city streets. Signs broken in half, buildings with massive jagged holes through them, sidewalks completely torn down the middle, almost as though it was waves crashing against seashore. Once again, I was reminded that I am alone; it is by the poster of photo shopped friends holding hands, smiling, laughing, and feeling this joy that is in togetherness. There is a feeling that stirs up in one’s heart, and in the upmost depths of their bodies. Some call it the mark of injustice, when something is not right. We as humans feel it as our sole purpose to make it right.

As I walked merrily back from my friend’s house, I noticed that heavy traffic covered all the roads. The streets were like busy bees surrounding their hive. The hooting of cars and buses boomed through my ears. The sun glowed gently over the horizon as the blast of warm breeze diffused over my body. The sun dipped through the sky as it replaced its yellow stains into black, dusky shades of ink. The crowd imperceptibly disappeared as I changed my way to the other side of the street. As the sun settled down; desolate, pure blackness began to sneak in.

The story does relates the real life experiences and “lonely is not been alone it is the feeling no one cares”. This story starts

It’s cold, alone, with headphones in my ears, I see and feel the breeze dance with my music picking up the wind and hugging me, it gives me a sense of belonging, joy and appreciation. Looking at the light reflecting from the sun onto my surroundings it always gave me that feeling growing up. I’m friendly happy today. I’m standing at the bus stop downtown, santa fe. I am not waiting for a bus. I am working with the wind to escape the breeze killing the flame from my lighter, I’m trying to combust the sticky herb, which left residue on my thumb to smell from all day.

That night I got up to go to the bathroom as usual. It was a small apartment where the only bathroom was in my parents’ bedroom. As I entered the room the fresh night air hit me, and the smell of an oncoming rain filled my lungs. The open window drew my attention. It was an old wooden casement window almost as big as the entire wall and nevertheless my favorite spot in the house. The stunning and panoramic scene from that window placed facing west was the perfect place to talk. There, we spent a lot of afternoon together with pointless conversations and a live picture. However, that night, gray threatening clouds were filling the sky. There was not any star to see.

We would walk through the city every night. It would not be an 80 degree night, no, more like a 68 degree night, where all you need is warm sweater to shelter your kidneys. No wind, no rain, just the empty air. You and I and the empty air. As much as we adored hanging out during the shinning days, we always favored the night. The night had more intimate and exclusive qualities. The night has a misty glow that makes the world shine in a way that the sun fails to achieve. The night conceals itself behind an unlit cloak and requires effort to unravel the true beauty underneath. That’s how it feels existing around you. It’s similar to having an exhausting day and all that is anticipated is the night. You can stroll to relaxation and contentment. You are my night. When we are together, I suppose, it is only for the moon to see.