Angel of Hope...

       My Humanities class was enjoyable at times.  I wrote a paper on West Side Story, comparing and contrasting it to Romeo & Juliet.  That fulfilled the cultural event requirement from the list of assignments for the semester.  Mr. Fiske wanted us to not only observe the arts, he expected us to partake in them.

       He talked about four groups of people.  One he referred to as Uncultured.  The second group he labeled Observers.  The Observers only watch other people’s artistic renderings.  The third group he called Poseurs.  He claimed that most people who call themselves artists are nothing more than Poseurs.  Everything they ever create is a variation of someone else’s work.  The fourth and final group he deemed the Artistes.  An Artiste creates something new and original.

       He used an analogy that everyone could understand.  A new style of modern music comes out.  Everything from the sound to the clothing is a new artistic creation.  The inventor is the Artiste.  As the style becomes popular, other people come along and try to imitate the creation, thus the Poseurs.  The Observers sit back and watch until they get bored.  Then the next Artiste comes along, and the cycle starts all over again.  The Uncultured have no idea what’s going on.  Mr. Fiske said that all art can be broken down with that formula, from architecture, to theatre, to music, to fashion.  Honestly, I thought he was a bit dogmatic at times.

       Whatever his opinion was, I had an A to earn, even if that meant getting dirty.  Literally, we were supposed to try to create something original from clay or paint.  My cousin Caleb could have done a better job.  I realized I was an Observer.  I had the ability to admire other people’s artwork.  I could even play someone else’s music on the flute.  At the turn of the millennium, I would have been referred to as artistically challenged.  Mr. Fiske kept pushing.  Along with our report on an artist, he wanted us to create “something original”.

       Humanities had me somewhat distracted from everything else in life…

*     *     *     *     *

       Lucas followed me back into the mall.  My makeup was a mess, with mascara running down my face.  I grabbed my purse and my keys then ran out of the store. I couldn’t deal with Lucas or work.

       I bellowed and moaned guttural sobs as I drove home.  I went straight to my room and slammed the door.  Flopping down on my bed, I buried my face in Chang’s fur.  I cried and cried.  I lost track of all time.  I cried until my tears ran dry.  I had an empty feeling in my chest like I had never felt before.

       I don’t know why I picked up my PDA at the particular moment.  I wrote straight from the gut, because my heart was gone:

Now I know the truth,
It started in my youth.
I feel the wrath,
       I’m split in half.

Part of me asks why,
       The other wants to die.
       I’ve lied and cried to make it go away,

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