THE BEAUTY OF TERMINAL ILLNESS

I met a boy, we fell hard. "Your olive skin is so alluring, Bee", he would compliment me. Our parity ultimately became our ambivalence for one another. Now I'm dying. "Bee", I recall him suggesting;" learn how to live, your disquiet will for sure be the death of you". Now I'm dying, I was cocksure that he would be eager to gloat about his faultlessness, but he didn't. He just stood there in utter disbelief. Silence was ill suiting for him. "Miss. Bee Taylor we have your results; my doctor announced grievously. "You have Systemic lupus erythematous ", ironic right. Now everything hurts and the worst part about it is knowing that there is no cure. Like other diseases, like love. "Learn how to live", I recall him saying. How do I?, Is it to late now?, Is it possible to teach myself how to live now as my body collapses' in on itself from the inside out. "Just take each day as it presents itself to you, don't take a second for granted", he spoke with such charisma, such optimism that it made me question if it was possible for the disease to be cured. I fell for him again, this time harder then before. I'm learning how to let go and just be, It feels so good to exist. Even now as my joints lock up my hair thins, and my skin lacks in its hue, I'm alive and though not as pretty, in the flesh. "You are even more beautiful now then the day I laid my eyes on you, you give me a reason to live Bee". You give me one to die. My day gets closer I can sense it, the closer the time comes the more alive I feel. What are you going to do when I'm gone? "I don't know, I don't want to think about it either", Aw come on. "I don't know Bee, I would probably think about it everyday, I'd probably Die slowly everyday inside. Just knowing that there's nothing I could do is torture". There's a beauty in it you know. "What?" Terminal illness, you taught me that. "How does it feel". What feel? "To have a soul as beautiful as yours?"  So cleverly dead and know so cleverly alive; I exclaimed dramatically. "Elektra". I'm just as strong too you know. "And stubborn". As I lay and reminisce about my love and the appreciation I have learned for life, as my organs rot away I feel more alive then ever.

Artwork accredited to Nana Johnson
Soft anatomy

How the World Views Playwright (From a Defense of Poetry Rewrite)

Playwrights, are the voice of the subconscious. The masters of bringing light to the darkness and darkness into the light. Dramatist from as earliest as the 5th century.  playwriting involved poïesis, "the act of making". This is the source of our word poet. At one point, the word playwright carried a negative connotation and in some ways still do today.


"Romeo, Romeo where art thou Rome?" spans across ones mind when they hear the word
"playwright" is it that type of historical verbiage that most think of when the philosophical, poetic one-of-a-kind talents publish work?  Do playwrights  provide a thirsty audience with more visions than that of powdered wigs, awkwardly written sentences and over the top costumes? Absolutely; they are the are the foundation of the entertainment realm. They are the livelihood hood of the "forerunners" of which our hearts and minds crave daily; Entertainment. The director has nothing to direct without the mindful soul of the playwright. Playwrights are the epitome of creativeness, the masters of a blank page. Without playwrights, or dramatists as they are sometimes called, directors would have nothing to direct, producers would have nothing to produce and actors would have nothing to act out.

Playwrights are the rebirth of the poet, re-incarnation with the perspective of the new world. The gatekeepers between realism and the sub consciousness The key holders to your deepest most undetermined and haziest dreams. The subconscious of a playwright is metaphorically similar to a black hole beneath the earths surface, full of people, pictures and colors without the five senses.  

Playwrights are the voice of the subconscious.


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The Magnificent Wonderous Great Quest of Charming

After Reading the awesome chapter Every Trip is a Quest (except when its not) from Thomas C. Foster's, How to Read Literature Like a Professor (which might I add has some great humor in it almost better then mines! Cue awkward drum sound...now). Foster explains and provides a great example about how every storyline has many different elements but all have the exact same structure! It totally makes since it's just one of those things that you don't really stop to think about. Any-whoo It inspired me to toy with the idea of "structure". Here is a quick pitch of my story that knows not of structure!
We see this big, buff, perfect Prince Charming looking guy and he is hastily and precisely getting ready for something epic, something that is very important to not only him but to the world, something heroic. Once Charming is all geared up, weapons ready, sexy face on; he shouts out "I'm coming for you My love!" In his deep, smooth suave but angelic voice. He walks outside he stands in his heroic-like stance he opens the door and the day is... perfectly quiet and still. He stands there looking around and his determined face droops into a look of dumbfound, he scratches his head and looks around he cries out again. "I'm coming for you my love!!"Still nothing. He goes back into the house and each moment is very specific like something could happen at anytime just as his preparations for the day. He steps into the kitchen, he is making a peanut butter jelly sandwich a little to enthusiastically, he grows ashamed because this is the highlight of his day so far he walks to his room takes off his bottoms and shoes just as he put them on, he lies down on his side in his underwear and the rest of his costume on, with the peanut butter jelly sandwich in hand and begins to cry. FIN.
pictureofthecharmingeffect