Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Created January 6, 2020
Community? Engagements? Arts? Well, for starters this is a class taught at Transylvania University in Lexington, KY by professors Kremena Todorova and Kurt Gohde. The goal of this class is to form a relationship with the community by engaging in artistic projects with the community. The outcome of this will manifest itself in many ways, some recognizable and others not so much.
CETA 2020: Our first 2 emojis (of hundreds)
Created January 6, 2020
Individual Tasks
Collect addresses, make & write thank-you cards, design pronoun buttons--Anna Davis
Blog Manager--Paige Wessling
Recorder/archivist for This I Believe essays--Sarah Metcalfe
Social Media--Lydia Baggett & Garrett LeVan
Photographic Inventory (3 people)--Yousef Alsdudi, Sarah Bennett, & Faith Boles
Space, raw material, & tool inventory manager AND order enforcer--Emily Neat
Quality Control & Class Ethicist--Alex Toney
Software Design Team (3 people)--Shelby Barker, Emily Cecil, & Abby Pearson
Fabrication Team (3 people)--Brooklyn Greer, Will Hemingway, & Marissa Price
Finishing Team (4 people)--Nannie Baze, Emon Daneshmand, Ally Frederick, & Madison Phillips
Additional photographic documentation--Kremena and Kurt
Working with production design at Kre8Now Makerspace--Kurt and Kremena
Publicity for the class--Kremena and Kurt
Securing materials needed--Kurt and Kremena
Pillowcases and Chessboards
ReplyDeleteMadison Plucknett
When I was six years old I fell and broke my arm rollerblading at a friend's birthday party. I knew it hurt really badly when it happened, but a few days later I was in my driveway throwing snowballs with my dad. After that when I kept complaining of the pain, my dad finally took me to have my wrist looked at. It was a clean break, and there was no swelling or indication of an injury. Just me saying, "I dunno I guess it still kinda hurts." They took me to the orthopedic immediately and I had my arm encased in a hot pink plaster cast. I thought it was pretty cool.
In first grade, my best friend in the whole world was a boy named Phillip. Phillip was what my mom called a toe head. Meaning simply that he had really blond hair. We did everything together. We sat together in class, played transformers (and dolls) during playtime, and we even held hands. Six year old me was adamant to anyone who made a remark that we were JUST FRIENDS. When I broke my arm, Phillip did the nicest thing for me, in fact, it might be the nicest thing anybody has ever done for me . He made me a pillowcase. More specifically he made me a hot pink flannel Scooby Doo pillowcase. Scooby was our favorite show, and we talked about it all the time. Phillip really wanted to be Fred, and sometimes when we played pretend I'd let him. Most of the time though, I'd insist he was more of a Velma. So, Phillip made me a Scooby Doo pillowcase, with his mom's help, and he brought it to me in class. I took it right home and made my mom help me put it on my pillow.
A few months later, and not to be outdone, Phillip broke his arm. His cast was navy blue, so to sign it you had to use a silver sharpie. It was fancy stuff. At the time we had both joined chess club, and we were all about it. Anytime we were together we played chess. There was only one problem, I was getting a lot better at it because I had my own chess board and Phillip didn't. One day after chess club, I told my dad about how much better I was at chess than Phillip, and why. My dad's response was to go buy Phillip a chessboard, since he had been so kind as to make me a pillowcase when I broke my arm. I thought it was perfect. The only problem was it wasn't personal enough. To fix this I had my dad help me "artfully" carve Phillip's initials into the board. He loved it and he took it everywhere.
At the end of the school year, my parents and teacher and Phillip's parents and I all had a meeting. Phillip and his family were moving out of state, and the two of us were so close they decided to tell us together. I was only six years old but I remember hugging him and saying it would be ok because I had the pillowcase he made me and he had the chessboard. We agreed to be friends forever.
I haven't heard from Phillip since he and his family left Lexington. But, stowed away in my closet is a pink flannel Scooby Doo pillowcase, threadbare, and well loved. I believe in keepsakes.
This is a beautiful keepsake of a memory. Thank you for sharing it with us.
DeleteI’ve had insomnia for as long as I can remember. My parents usually worked 2 jobs each when I was younger, so they were always too soundly asleep to notice toddler me roaming around the house at all hours of the night. After a while, I started reading the dictionary in the hope that it would bore to sleep. It didn’t. I actually fell in love with words in way that I ironically can’t even describe. And thanks to my insomnia, I had a college reading level when I started first grade. Once I worked through the torn up, mildewy dictionary that I discovered in some dark, dusty crevice, I started reading the random encyclopedias my father found in one of the cars at the junk yard where he worked. Obviously we didn’t have the full set, but I can answer pretty much any trivia question on topics that start with the letters A-H—and for some reason R—if it happened before 1992.
ReplyDeleteAll of my reading never did succeed to putting me to sleep (that problem was solved by my dear friend Benadryl), but it did allow me to come up with a life goal: to do something so incredibly noteworthy that I become immortalized in an encyclopedia myself. I was around 8 years old when I decided that this was my mission. Even at that age, I was overflowing with bitterness. My rationale was that I didn’t ask to be in this world, so the universe could at least do me the honor of remembering that it put me here. The people most often written about in my beloved encyclopedias were those who were somehow involved in the formation or transformation or operation of their country, so I decided that I wanted to go into politics and law. Of course, the most peaceful way to become a lasting part of history is to be an extraordinary government leader within the existing regime, but that’s not necessarily the only way (volume H included Hitler). I still remember mapping out extremely detailed possible life paths for myself in crayon while the other kids were trying to land on their feet after jumping out of a swing in midair. Plan A was essentially to go to law school, work my way up in different public offices, and eventually become someone so greatly admired and respected that I get chosen to fill one of the highest offices (I’m not picky about which one). Plan B was to become the benevolent head of some massive underground mafia that eventually becomes powerful enough to topple the government. Plans C through F are probably a bit too much to even tell you about….
I came up with all of this before my elementary school graduation, and it’s all a product of not being able to sleep when I was 3 years old. Even when I find it difficult to believe in myself as I am now, I will always believe in that bitter little power-hungry girl with big dreams, and I’ll try my best to become someone she would respect.
Kacy, your 3-year-old-self is amazing. You are too.
DeleteThat "unknown" one is me, Kacy. Now you know.
ReplyDeleteOn the days that are dreadfully long and going wrong you have to believe that the next day is going to be better and brighter. When you get that last exam back and you failed that one as well so you try to have hope for that final to pull you through. Crying and stressed, you never know what is next and if you should even look that far ahead. Giving up on everything because of one failure which causes you to have negative thoughts on your life. Why is it always stressed that failure is not an option? Reevaluating steps that you have taken that has gotten you this far because you have no idea on what is next. Those steps aren't just one, two, and three but they are hundreds of step that makes the climb harder and more treacherous. That mountain does not move but you have to have faith to get over it and be willing to roll back down when you have taken the wrong step. Not only does your body have to adjust physically but your mind has to adapt and transform for understanding. Pondering on why the things that have happened even came about because you swear that you took the precautions to avoid all the issues that you've sought. But you never give up because you know that it is not forever, and is only temporary. Short term is the word that needs to be recited in the mind. If not, you will remain pessimistic for eternity. Life is more than just pessimistic pondering. However, you can’t get through life if you believe that the process will never get better. But, you can avoid the negativity because deep down inside you are stronger than that fiend telling you conscious lies. I believe that the higher power in which you confide in will pull you over that mountain. I believe that everything is fatalistic. That's why I believe in trusting the process because life is a process.
ReplyDeleteOn my birthday 17 years ago, I filled tires of strangers with air at the Super America on Broadway. Though some gas stations announce “FREE AIR” in all caps on small metal signs, at Super America air costs 25₵. I had a fresh stack of quarters in my truck, enough to fill all 4 tires (and one spare) of 5 different cars.
ReplyDeleteOne afternoon last spring, I filled my belly with 12 flavors of Albanese gummy bears sold in generic bags at the Speedway on Euclid. Though most convenience store snacks are either stale or made shelf-stable by tilting the balance between actual food and chemistry heavily toward red food dye number 3, Speedway sells gourmet candy at prices typically reserved for confections so old that store managers hide in the back room removing the freshness dates with WD-40.
On my way home six years ago, I filled my tank with gas at the Marathon on Loudon Avenue. I watched a man lift his sleeping bag from the tangle of weeds separating the parking lot from that of the adjacent Dollar Tree. He shook the bag to clean it and tucked it back into the tangle.
For the air they sell at prices low enough to grant me the birthday gift of purchasing it for strangers, for the generic packaging wrapped around gourmet candy, for the conversations with people I would not otherwise meet, and for their willingness to let a man who sleeps outside use their bathroom without a question, I believe in gas stations.
…
I also believe in the woman who handed me 3 quarters when I ran out, one to finish filling her tires and two more to fill the tires of an older man who had pulled in beside her.
I found out from a 6:15 am post in my neighborhood Facebook page that someone had been hit on Richmond Rd. The person was dead. Traffic was being rerouted. Expect delays driving your kids to school.
ReplyDeleteBecause my children and I walk to school, I didn’t worry about the added traffic. We had to be extra careful crossing neighborhood streets flooded by rush-hour traffic. By then, news had spread that the person killed was a woman.
I decided to walk home on Richmond Rd. I wondered if seeing the place where the accident happened would yield information about the victim. I felt connected to her. I wanted to know who she was. My family and I cross Richmond Rd. on foot a few times a week. There is no crosswalk near us. At times, the busy traffic keeps us waiting a long time. We discuss how great it would be if there was a safe way to cross some place between Chinoe and Ashland Ave.
The policemen gathered at the place of the accident didn’t reveal anything. A neighbor told me she heard the person killed was a woman in her 40s. The woman I was talking with said her friends had been texting her all morning, making sure she was ok.
At the place of the accident, the road was marked with orange chalk paint in two places: the exact spot where the pedestrian had been hit and the spot where the car came to a stop afterwards. The collision had occurred next to a small evergreen tree someone had decorated with Christmas lights. I noticed the tree every time I drove home from work. Every time I wondered who had wrapped a string of colorful lights around it, if it was the same person who used to embellish a 20-foot-tall tree in the Richmond Rd median every Christmas. The tall tree didn’t get decorated this year.
No information about the accident was made public until a few days later. We found out the victim was a 73-year-old woman on her way to a 6 am yoga class at the nearby Y.
I knew it was dark at 6 am. I wondered if the woman had headed for the tree aglow with Christmas lights because it lit up her way across Richmond Rd. Or maybe she needed a little cheering up on that dark night in December, while most people slept. Maybe the lights signaled a welcome warmth, a way to feel connected to others.
I believe in Christmas lights.
Sometimes when I speak, I hear my mother’s voice. Sometimes, when my mother speaks, I am certain that she hears her mother’s voice. I was raised in a “pretty Catholic” household. When I was very young, my parents erected a “Pray to end abortion” sign in my front yard that remained there for much of my upbringing, until my brother Andy’s buddy Jeremy rammed his face into it while trying to sled down our hill. His face was fine. The sign wasn’t.
ReplyDeleteI was raised not to think about sex, and certainly never to talk about it. I was raised to frown at sex scenes or sexual references on the TV in our living room. I wonder sometimes how two people who managed to have enough sex to create eleven humans managed never to address it in my household. Did my mother just forget that she hadn’t talked to me about it, or was she hoping I’d figure it out on my own? OR was she afraid of what she might say if given the chance to influence me? Was she afraid of her mother’s voice coming out of her mouth, telling me to wait until marriage? Was she more afraid of the prospect that I wouldn’t wait until marriage if she gave me a proper education? Life is complicated for a Catholic hippie woman.
I hear my mother’s voice when I hear women apologize. I hear my mother lecturing Katie Crowe and me in the back of her minivan, “Never, ever apologize for something you did not do.” Every night as I swallow a tiny blue pill, I hear my mother’s voice making my first gynecologist appointment for me, an appointment she did not attend in order to give me the space to make my own decisions, even if they differed from hers. I hear my mother’s voice when I raise my own. I believe in Catholic hippie women.
Rachel, you write with attentiveness to complexity, with love, with some questions, too. What a beautiful reflection.
DeleteA warm limestone rock that has been alive for centuries now, provides me with the perfect indentation that my body lays peacefully in. It overlooks the Shawnee national forest where rolling hills are covered with deciduous deep green leaves. The rock formation overhangs a pond filled with runoff water and soot. Here there are no sirens, no cars, no voices, and no worries. The only movement comes from the wind that rustles the trees and the birds that speak for anyone to listen. As I lay there, I start to quiet my mind, for in this moment I listen to this stillness of the forest and welcome it into my heart. Slowly the sun melts every worry or fear I have away and replaces it with a warmth beneath my skin. The stillness then helps guide my breath to the pattern of the wind flowing through the trees. As I continue to breathe the suns incredible warmth and energy starts to build within my stomach. This golden ball of energy and happiness begins to spread. Just as the sun radiates to the entire solar system, this golden ball within me reaches every being in my soul. As I continue to breathe with the wind, this positive energy within me empowers and loves every cell within my body. I am filled with love and admiration for every being that surrounds me, but most of all I feel the sun is a part of me.
ReplyDeleteThis warmth the sun unselfishly provides to us stays with me, it fuels my mind and soul. It builds and supports me when I feel the materialistic world drags me down. The brightness brings a clarity to the earth ending the darkest of nights. I believe in this massive ball of energy that makes all life possible. I believe in the stillness of nature where we can listen to the sun. Where we are able to use more than just its light but its love to fill our hearts. I will not ever stop living by the sun for it will never stop rising. As I live by the sun, I have to also radiate my own warmth, energy, and love onto other. To live for the sun does. To share these moments of stillness and love.
My second week of college and I was already sleep deprived, homesick, tired of eating in the cafeteria, and drowning in work and anxiety. This was not good for my perfectionism--the get A’s on every assignment, go to bed at ten kind of perfectionism. Failure seemed to be imminent and, in fact, it was. My first college nightmare was a sign of things to come. I remember waking up in the dark, heart racing, and the feeling of electricity throughout my whole body. I had just seen the RA’s on my floor standing over me, waving around my unfinished animal mask. All they kept saying was, “You better get it done, you better get it done, you better get it doonnnneee.” I blame all those long hours licking packing tape. The moment I thought I was an elephant should have been an indication that I needed to step away.
ReplyDeleteI digress. I remember walking into class the next day, sick from the knowledge that I was behind and all the adhesive I had ingested. I looked at Kurt Gohde, my sculpture professor, and asked if it was okay that my mask wasn’t finished. I’m pretty bad with sarcasm so I wasn’t quite prepared for what happened next.
Kurt: [laughs] That’s okay, you get an F minus.
Me: Okay…
I walked to my work space and prepared to curl up and die. An F minus? I didn’t even know there was a grade that low. Holy crap! There’s no way I’m going to recover. I’m going to lose my scholarship and and...So beneath my calm outer shell I was spazzing out. As I had frequently done throughout those two weeks of turmoil, I texted my mom.
Me: So I told Kurt about the mask. He said I got an F-
Mom: There’s no such thing as an F-
Me: Haha okay. I wasn’t for sure if he was joking
What I was really thinking was: How would she know?! She hasn’t been in school for like a bajillion years!
About an hour passed of working dejectedly before I felt a hand on my shoulder. “I forgot to tell you there’s no such thing as an F minus.” My shattered life seemed to put itself back together again. I laughed out of relief, but also out of embarrassment. Despite my resulting shame, the whole thing drove home something I’d been struggling with for a while: a failure here and there is not the end of the world. An F minus every once in a while is good for perfectionists like me who have a hard time seeing beyond the assignment in front of them.
Now I know what's going on beneath your calm outer shell :)
DeleteSo glad you didn't give up on college and on Transy!
ReplyDeleteI BELIEVE THAT THE MATRIX IS SO INTELLIGENT AND EVERYONE SHOULD WATCH THE MOVIES!
Okay, so for those of you who haven’t seen the Matrix movies, here is what you missed. Humans go to their 9-5 jobs walking around as if it is the present day. In actuality though, humans are hooked up to a computer program in their brains from birth, and they spend their lives living out their consciousness in a computer program that simulates reality. Everyone is hooked up to these machine organisms that use humans for fuel in exchange for hooking them up to this computer program that makes them think everything is fine. In actuality it is not. In the real world, humans and machines are at war, and the humans born outside of being connected to the computer program want the other humans released. But the machines don’t want that because then they done have fuel. So there is a war going on outside in the real world. In comes Neo, and he is sorta different and doesn’t really fit in. And he feels like everyone in the world is actually so boring and mundane...almost like we are part of some massive system of checks and balances and systems and rules? Sound familiar? Okay you know where this is going now right?
Anyway skipping to the point of the film. It’s true. This world is a matrix when you think about it. We aren’t who we say we are. Not really. Most of the time we are what we portray.We all live in a system that is manipulated with one thing: cash. Cash is identity. Spirit is what is underneath. We are spirits having a HUMAN EXPERIENCE that is limited. But the system doesn’t want to factor in the fact that we all come from the source and once we connect with the source (our inner neo) we are our own skeleton key. Neo is a metaphor for realizing our own potential. And that’s why so many people seem “off”. They haven’t been unplugged. They would rather believe in an easy system and identities than connect with the source. If everyone was on we wouldn’t have a torn world. If everyone asked what movies are about, or read books, or remained vulnerable then this world would shatter and we would find peace. Neo says it at the end when asked by the machines. They say “what do you want” and after three movies all he says is “peace”. Anyway, I believe the key to piece is realizing that the system we have right now is limited, flawed, and changeable.
So so true...
DeleteHi! I published it late, but I had it handy in class if that counts!
ReplyDeleteWe know!
DeleteThanks, Joey.
In a small, silver cage, three sets of brown eyed brothers glanced my way as I gushed over how small and precious the kittens were. I was at the humane society after months of planning and careful consideration on if I could care for a kitten financially and time wise. Two of the brothers were identical and the one that stood out to me was the little orange kitten that was different from his brothers. I visited each cage where a pair of brown or green eyes stared back, but I knew I wanted the orange kitten. We played in the room designated to bond with your future new pet and I fell in love with the tiny paws pouncing at stuffed mice and big brown eyes that stared up in curiosity. It was not part of the plan to find a cat on my first visit and the lady at the desk could not be convinced to reserve the orange kitten over 24 hours. The humane society cannot afford to have people break promises. My husband warned me not to be too attached to the orange kitten because the chance of him still being there was slim. It was too late though, I already loved him and when I went back to the humane society and he was no longer there, I knew I should have listened to my husband. Later that night I went to PetSmart, where the humane society had a small branch in the back of the store. When I heard a woman talking about a little orange kitten with the same name as the kitten I wanted, I sprinted over to the cage. When two brown eyes stared back at me with the same information written on his blue tag, I knew it was meant to be. He needed care because his ribs and other bones were visible from eating just enough food to keep him breathing. He coughed frequently from being in the shelter and he needed medication from the parasites in his bowels. After several vet appointments and weeks of love and lots of food, Thomas grew into a healthy, happy kitten that still pounces at stuffed mice and never gets in trouble because of his big brown eyes. This is why I believe in adoption.
ReplyDeleteSweet Thomas...you write so lovingly about him, I can picture him and his stuffed mice.
ReplyDeleteThere are a lot of great things about being a girl.
ReplyDeleteThere are also a lot of not so great things about being a girl. Dealing with a period every month until you hit menopause, which is like going through puberty a second time, except this time you start turning into an old man, is easily at the top of the list.
You deal with everything from crippling cramps, to back pain, to mood swings, to hot flashes, to cravings, to bloating, and a weakened immune system. Not to mention that you’re literally dealing with blood loss and the potential effects of that- low iron, light headedness, being extra tired, and dehydration.
To top it all off, it’s probably ruined more than one pair of cute undies, if not other innocent clothing articles, bed sheets, and towels.
And this happens EVERY. MONTH.
But despite this, I love being a girl, so I’m willing to put up with it all.
Except for one thing:
Walking around feeling like I’m wearing a bloody wet diaper.
I believe in tampons.