8:00am english class

It changed

Thu, 10 Apr 2008 05:35:01 GMT

RESOLUTION

WHEREAS, the North Carolina School of the Arts (the “School”) was established by the General Assembly of North Carolina in 1963 as the first public conservatory for the performing arts in the United States; and

WHEREAS, the School has established itself as a premier professional school specializing in the training and development of performing and visual artists; and

WHEREAS, the School became a constituent campus of the consolidated University of North Carolina System (the “UNC System”) in 1972; and

WHEREAS, the Board of Trustees of the School has determined that it is appropriate to consider modifying the School’s name to reflect the School’s longstanding and significant ties to the UNC System;

NOW, THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED:

1) The Board of Trustees recommends to the Board of Governors of the UNC System that the name of the School be modified and shall become the University of North Carolina School of the Arts; and

2) Such action does not affect the original mission of the School or the vision of the School’s founders including the admission of students based on auditions, interviews and artistic portfolios and the appointment of faculty on the basis of their professional experience; and

3) That the addition of the term “University” is intended solely to better define the School as a constituent campus of the UNC System and shall not affect its unique educational mission or culture or in any way imply a lack of respect or support for its high school component; and

4) The Board of Trustees strongly affirms its commitment to maintain the School’s unique culture and mission within the UNC System and the School shall continue as the professional training institution for performing and visual artists in the UNC System.

This resolution is approved as of this 9th day of April, 2008

I saw Cloverfield

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 05:14:17 GMT

If a giant alien was destroying Charlotte, I would try my hardest to get to Dae.

For the World (Austin)

Sun, 30 Sep 2007 04:21:36 GMT

Of Montreal.
We were on risers in the back so we weren't in the sweaty pit but we had a good view and room to dance or sit.

As far as costuming, this was a very low key show. Kevin went back only once and came out with a Jack the Ripper (i guess) mask on.

As always the animations were very enjoyable.

This was difficult considering the complex titles and that I thought of doing it after the first three songs.
Translation:
OF MONTREAL
Gronlandic Edit
Du Og Meg (so says Sam, but I am doubt that they played it because I would have remembered)
Party's Crashing Us
Bunny Ain't No Kind of Rider
I Was Never Young
Sink the Seine
Cato As Pun
Requiem for O.M.M.2
Our Last Summer As Independents (a new song)
October Is Eternal (allowing Kevin to change)
Lysergic Bliss
Slow Jam (new)
Labrinthian Pomp
She's A Rejector
Oslo In The Summertime
Faberge Falls for Shuggie
Redundancy Is The New Creativity (new)
Skeletal Lamping? (the title of thier new album not the song)
Promethean Curse
ENCORE:
Suffer For Fashion
Rapture Rapes the Muses

a short video for the feeling.

This was an especially good concert.

the past week and a half

Fri, 31 Aug 2007 05:18:37 GMT

The birds are panting, Lord
The rain dodges our town because it knows
It watches the stupid soak their yards in midday heat
When the water becomes air before it even reaches the hungry blades
A drive to the country reminds me
Yes, grass is green, Lord and thank you
I knit scarves and ignore the humid
Watch movies until I rot with the upholstery
I forget the end of one and the beginning of another
Far from home in my nameless car
My wipers remember their purpose
And my window glides down
So I can feel the sharp rain
And smell the wet black asphalt smell
Of summers not so dry and drought
I turn to my passenger who cannot smell
Who is like being with myself in sixty three years
But she thinks yes there is a whiff
It is gone soon except the drops that reached my leather
Half the city asks You for rain
And men leave Walmarts with arms open at the sight of clouds
Big full, fat clouds that lumber by
And collapse elsewhere on the radar
I try not to think of the exhausted earthworms
Who long to come out and cross sidewalks
I watch the sky
And hate the feeling of dead grass under my feet
I dream of the storm, Lord

For Louie

Tue, 21 Aug 2007 04:08:44 GMT

Long ago we napped
Head to head on the tweed couches
With the tumbling of clean clothes nearby
We ran the world
With two sets of blue eyes
And two heads of curls
From the exchange of names onwards
There was no separation
Miles made no difference
Talking did not cease
When the dorms were emptied
And the fun times were tallied
And we spread out like constellations
Sharing five weeks of companionship
You remain a voice to me
Loud and thrown about the air waves
A sound that splashes onto me like oil
That loosens my bones and tongue
Nothing is not done on these air waves
No politeness is considered
No etiquette is made
And so the miles dissipate
And the closeness is unbearable
Until when you laugh I see you laugh
And when there is silence
I see the expression that you are making
At my whining words and wimpish tales
We close our eyes to the highways
And someone asks “Is that Louie?”
And before I look
I know that the ringing is you
Tapping me on my shoulder
Or yelling my name across the quad

for my new friend...

Fri, 10 Aug 2007 23:33:46 GMT

Here there are llamas
Here there are llamas that didn’t exist the first three days
And here I am the youngest
Except for Giulio
With his backstage pass
To where the metal music blares
And the glass skulls sit on tables
Looking hollow and clear
Giulio is my longtime friend
From breakfast to one AM
In the field watching fog
Fickle fog
Elusive fog
Unfaithful fog of the llama field
The salsa is in our bones
Late at night on a dried beer floor
With the disco light rolling
Papa Emilio says give to Giulio
He knows that where there is a Brooke
There is a Giulio
Slipping sentences of Italian
Into string that they cast at each other
A net of Venice above the dining room table
And if the fog ever reaches the craft house porch
There will be us two
A pear and a kiwi
Sitting for conversation and the moths

Tue, 17 Jul 2007 21:13:15 GMT

Dizzy Gillespie and I were born on the same day.

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 00:30:35 GMT

EMINEM

Mon, 09 Jul 2007 01:10:01 GMT

a true member of the boskoviches...

Prince Charming and the Infestation of Seaweed

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 03:19:15 GMT

Here, there are shells with little tongues that reach out and stand upright for a moment, like a little army of tight lipped clams, and then they sway their way back into the sand, turning out to be cowards anyway.

My vulture eyes downcast
Raking the grains of sand
With my retina
That is two milimeters larger
Than the avergae humans'
I am the girl who wants something special
Who believes above all else that anyones
Trash is her treasure
But trash trash, unrecycled and rejected
By cackling seagulls
Is all on this beach and tricking my eyes to hope

Excuses for shells are washed up
Cracked jagged by merciless beating
Little sac filled seaweed is piled
From a days worth of tireless
In out In out
The girl who would pick up anything
Rusty, rotten, run over or otherwise
Can find nothing on the low tide
The alien planet is revealed
Which used to offer so many finds
Is now barren except a honking party of birds
The wild hermit crab population
I still recovering from a genocide
And even the depthy edges of the canal
Who used to bear large blue-clawed crabs
Is decidedly gloomy

By the corner, by the house
After fruitless beach walking
My large retina discovers a figure
Stately fuschia pants
Sky blue shirt with gold cuffs
It is the Prince Charming of the dirt road
Standing at a grand inch and a half
He is headless and gracious
A clean cut stump leaves you wondering
About his lucious black hair
His stunning blue or brown eyes
Cinderella would remember their color
But she is no where to be found
His outstretched arms, in perfect formation
Dance with no one
His lumpy hands are empty

His identity so easily recognized in body
But lacking the defining facial features
Is, I believe, left blank for me

i got this today. timing is everything.

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 14:39:41 GMT

(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Monday, November
28, 2005, and sent via FutureMe.org)

Dear FutureMe,
i hope youre in love. drink more orange juice and eat more pasta.

Thoughts on Music

Fri, 22 Jun 2007 01:17:12 GMT

If I made a body out of music (though these could never coexist):
Sufjan Stevens
I will always return to you
You are my Bird Man
and eternal singer of my faith
Modest Mouse
you with your frustration
and raw vocal chords
would be the ID
When I hear you I can become an animal
Your heavy substance would make the body
Wilco
with your pure voice
Your many flowering guitar solos
and your crashing endings
would be the soul
because you speak to mine
Avett Brothers
with your stories and your wisdom
with your screaming and your banjo
sweat flying off every limb
you would be the heart and the life source

Instruments to be buried with me in my in my tomb:
a banjo for happiness and spunk
a violin for love waltzs and things that one cannot express
brushes and drums because it is what i sound like inside
and bagpipes for my grandmother and when other people join me

There is so much music I do not know, all the more to find.

English Exam

Wed, 30 May 2007 17:34:58 GMT

When I say goodbye to NCSA I want to say goodbye to the places. I would like to sit down with the lumpy green couch in the well and tell it how much I appreciated those many shy moments that built my character. I would like to wink at Hood as I walked by and almost feel the vibration in your pocket of a happy little alarm saying “it’s 9:55pm, time to go back to prison”. I would caress the last cafeteria plate I used and throw my bag a little more gently into the cubbies. I would climb to my perch on the side of Watson and pay my respects to the absorbed sunlight of the cement. Most importantly I would sit for a very, very long time in the gallery; until I could feel my hair grow and every part of my body go numb. And once it was thoroughly numb I would sneak out and crawl back into the darkness of my locker and smell the wood and feel the dusting of charcoal and graphite. These places are not just buildings, windows, concrete, and wood, they are the body of NCSA. And I will eat of the body and drink of the blood to remind me of my story.
These places are the people. We posses our surroundings and tie ourselves to these buildings. We are trapped, but we are banging around in our cage together and the togetherness is heart.
But none of us will say these goodbyes, and I won’t pace around the school and be nostalgic. We will all arrive at graduation and suddenly turn around and say “this is the end” and a ripple of awareness will run through us. The end will come before we realize it’s on its way and the fact that I only have four days left here is a fact that sits on top of my brain like oil on water. So, truly no goodbyes can be said on my part, because my goodbye will be through the back window of the van when Sanford slips behind the trees and I realize that it will never be like it was.

some things i ran across while going through my pictures tonight

Mon, 21 May 2007 02:48:53 GMT

a poem about a phrase ive heard a lot

Wed, 16 May 2007 03:51:22 GMT

Keep in mind the nearest exit may be behind you
You might have to crawl backwards with great difficulty
Like a very large bug
You might have to escape back into your memories
Like pushing through invisible cobwebs in a crowd of chattering people
Keep in mind you have to look over your shoulder to find this exit
And in the process will either make akward eye contact
with the well dressed man behind you
Or face the back of some other anxious person's head
And if you are the only one who finds this exit behind you
Then in the case of a fire or mass panic
You will also be the only one pushing your way to this exit
And fighting against the herd of white eyed people
choking programs in thier sweaty palms
So please do keep in mind the nearest exit may be behind you
But also please consider whether you should use this one

The Splinter

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 20:41:55 GMT

I extracted a splinter
It had been an intruder for twenty four hours
Plenty of time to be saturated with my body juices
And swollen with angry narrow eyes
I watched in fascinated disgust
As the tiny blade severed the barest layer of my skin
Freeing the pallid little sliver
That had been rubbing abrasively against my epidermis
It left a cavity that breathes with the movement of my palm
Like a little gaping mouth

my favorite word just so happens to be my favorite food

Tue, 10 Apr 2007 14:46:29 GMT

The ovaries of the avocado hide in long silence
I can mash flesh into gaucamole
Serve it to an attractive customer

When given the word watermelon...

Thu, 29 Mar 2007 14:42:49 GMT

Of July

My love for you is a watermelon
Firm and green
Until slice
The sound of little membraneous molecules pulling apart
Lucious and juicy on the inside
Juicy I can put my fingers into
Pull out the seeds
Toss them onto the grass
Where they will never grow
Because if I swallow them
The night before the first day of school
A green quivering leaf will creep out of the corner of my mouth
And my belly will swell with your love
So instead they live in peace among the ants
Of July

one last picture

Sat, 24 Mar 2007 22:34:10 GMT

sigh. the lamassu...

The Earth (Worms) of New York

Thu, 22 Mar 2007 16:30:23 GMT

While I was sitting beside the Earth Room I thought a lot about the worms..
Either they are still alive and wriggling around in that sterile dirt or they have died and become just as sterile. Maybe they worked themselves to the bottom of those twenty two inches where moisture lies and worked so hard they came out through the ceiling of the person below and landed in thier house plants if they were incredibly lucky or if they weren't so lucky, in the soup cooking on the stove. Maybe some of them didn't make it through the floor and now stuck in the rafters and the people living there will hear their murmuring little movements at night when it's really quiet. Maybe a few made it out the cracks in the window, but their fate was to either slip to their death or be eaten by a very lucky bird. A couple probably made it out into the little lobby and if the desk worker was a saint they got carried on a napkin to a tiny patch of grass outside.

swoon.

for Miranda. oh look, is that a roebling?

Another World

Wed, 21 Mar 2007 02:12:32 GMT

New York is a country within itself. I have heard more languages here than any place I've been. The subway is rather like contra dancing, you just have to jump in with all the experts and screw up some and hope that they'll help you.
We made our flight by some miracle.
Our taxi driver from the airport gave us some advice on life that I will pass on to you. "It don't matter. Be happy, God is good, man."
The first night we were able to see Wicked, another miracle, we got the last three seats. The sets were elaborate and complicated and beautiful. The singing was amazing, half the time I couldn't believe that these people were singing and that there was an orchestra in the pit.
Sunday was a day of art. We spent four hours in the Met. So much history and so many altarpieces. I stood by the Lamassu and loved them even more.
My utter satisfcation and pleasure was found when we visited Walter De Maria's "The New York Earth Room". The most beautiful room filled with Earth that I have ever seen. The earth was perfectly dark, from a farm in Pennsylvania, and 30 years old. The room was rather difficult to find, you had to buzz in at the base of the building then climb a very narrow, steep stairwell and across a creaky wooden floor and then there it was. I spent some time there and then the man at the desk (who happened to be De Maria's neighbor) said that we should go see his other piece down the street. So we went there. This was "The Broken Kilometer" and it was a Kilometer of brass rods cut into pieces and lined up 100 per row in 5 rows down a large room. I was considerably shinier than the Earth Room. I returned to the Earth Room alone to sit some and sketch some while my parents walked around. SoHo is the happenin' arts district in New York City. It was pretty artsy.
The way we ate in NYC was to randomly select a restaurant that was convienent and eat. It was the perfect way to eat, we ate at local places the entire time and never had bad food.
Monday was another day of art. This time the Guggenheim which was unfortunately under repair so you could not admire the outside view. But the inside was full of Picasso, Dali, Velasquez, and other famous people. But soaring above all of these was El Greco. They had "The Vision of St.John" which was enormous and beautiful in all its twisted bodies. A more refined and wonderfully detailed El Greco was "The Adoration of the Name of God". I spent a considerable time at both. Oh El Greco.
Monday night we had dinner with relatives, refined food, and good stories. Who would have guessed that the Works Progress Administration would come up at dinner. Then it was on to Spring Awakening, a modern musical about being a teenager. Pretty blatantly sexual, hilarious, sad, creative. Those sets inspired me even more than Wicked because they were economical and allowed us to use our imaginations.
Tuesday we made a German friend in line for the Statue of Liberty. He happened to be on the testing team of the Air Bus, the three story airplane that was just built in Europe. He and his colleagues spoke the most beautiful German I've ever heard. The process of getting to the Statue of Liberty involves two security checks, one when you board the ferry and one when you get to the island where you have to walk through a bomb sniffer. She was beautiful and green. Ellis Island was the second stop and I liked watching my dad walk around and think about his grandfather. You have no idea how many times US History came up on this trip.
I waited on stand by for a backstage tour of the Metropolitan Opera and actually got in. The resources they have are incredible. The stage moves and shifts and enormous sets can sink into the ground. The inside of the theater is breathtaking, its all red velvet and gold leaf. There were famous opera singers in the rehearsal rooms as I walked by and its a shame I didn't know who any of them were.
It was an odd feeling to see so many famous places and have five days to get to know them all. By the end we had mastered the subway and walking fast. Our days were so full and fast that the extra hours we had morning we left I couldn't spend sitting in the hotel and instead walked down to a coffee shop.
This trip verified my future and discouraged me all at once. There is so much to live up to and so much competition. But I love it too much.

If We Were Birds - A Dream

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 04:15:24 GMT

You and I, we were little celibate birds living in a cage. I with my grey little breast, and you with your white rooster feathers. "Violence, maybe we should be violent." But you said "no" and I wouldn't have done it anyway. Other birds made suggestions, but we took none of them. Content, in a way, with the state we were in, but my mind wandered to the other side of the bars and I thought about why we didn't do something.

filled up

Fri, 09 Mar 2007 03:03:29 GMT

Sometimes I don't think we could live without our art. Like now, like these nights when you can feel it, when it becomes tangible. And you tear up, no you're not crying, it's just there's so much energy so much passion all rushing inside of you and what else is there to do than let it come out your eyes. It's there, it really is. And if it weren't for these nights then I don't even know why I would be here and why I would care so much about that look on thier faces when they get it, when they can't help but grin because it's there.

i wanted to give you more today than usual

Tue, 06 Mar 2007 05:11:02 GMT

I found paradise in my dream during my nap about a week ago. It was a beautiful place but in a completely normal and plausible way. It reminded me of Sunset Beach. There were the canals with rows of houses on stilts. Houses with rough wood siding painting muted beachy colors, in fact, there was a mutedness about everything that made one very calm. There was a tower off in the distance peering from behind pine trees that had grown bent from the sea shore wind. I was walked between a row of houses. There was a man speaking Russian on the phone and pacing his balcony. There were three middle-aged Mexican men sitting on their front porch cat-calling at ladies. They called me "mija" and I happily responded. The air was perfect the feeling was perfect and I was very much at peace. It was perfectly occupied and at once solitary.

My Love,

Mon, 05 Mar 2007 04:17:34 GMT

Gregor it is you that I love, will you not come out from under your poorly draped sheet and say hello to me? Will you not show your horrible face for fear that I will run in terror as your family has done? There is nothing that betrays your emotions more than your movements. Your sorrow is more clearly expressed in your feeble attempts to retreat than any words you could ever speak. You “[can] not stop yourself from panting with effort” from turning around and can only execute this movement by “bracing [your head] against the floor over and over again.” But do not feel ashamed because I will “[note] your good intentions”. I will always notice when you are trying so desperately to appear harmless. It pains me to think of you “just [lying there the long nights through without sleeping at all, scrabbling for hours on the leather.” I see your sadness in your “long, unpleasantly tense scar” and your “one little leg… [trailing] uselessly behind [you].” It is these attributes that render your awful bug-ness irrelevant. I can overlook your “armor-plated back” and “dome-like brown belly” with all of its “stiff arched segments.” It is nothing to me if you are happy. It is because of all these distraught ailments that I find such joy in your pleasure on the ceiling; in your “blissful absorption induced by this suspension.” I wish for you, infinite ceilings and infinite times of peace so complete that they make you fall wistfully from your hold. I feel pity for you than when you are immovable on your back with your “numerous little legs which never [stop] waving in all directions and which [you] cannot control in the least.” It almost makes me believe you are indeed one of the bugs on my kitchen floor who have the unlucky chance of getting stuck onto their backs. But you, Gregor, are not one of them. You are a bug who enjoys looking out the window when you cannot even see the building across the street, “obviously in some recollection of the sense of freedom that looking out of a window always used to give [you]”. You are a bug who is too polite to frighten others and compassionate enough to enjoy music. “[Are you] an animal, that music [has] such an effect upon [you]?” You are careful of your movements whenever you come out of your room so that I don’t “take as a piece of peculiar wickedness any excursion of [yours] over the walls or the ceiling.” You are not like a bug to me because in panicked situations you are often “the only one who [retains] any composure.” You may speak to me Gregor whenever you wish, I will listen to your voice with its “persistent horrible, twittering squeak behind it” and though I may not understand, I will still pay attention. Gregor I would “come into [your] room with [my] violin”, even though I don’t know how to play the violin, and “stay with [you] of [my] own free will, [I] will sit beside [you] on the sofa; bend [my] ear down to [you] and hear [you] confide” whatever you wish. “After this confession [I] would be so touched that [I] would burst into tears, and [you] would raise [yourself] to [my] shoulder and kiss [me] on the neck”. We will live like this, trapped together in your room, and some days I will join you on the ceiling and we will “[rock] lightly” together.

Yours Always,
Brooke