Today I sat down and threw a platter on the wheel. In the end, it will be a chips and salsa platter once I attach another bowl I made to it. I was throwing with a larger amount of clay than I’m used to, and I was seriously struggling. I’m sitting there, sweating, in my stiff wooden chair, cursing and extremely angered at this lump of clay that won’t center for anything. Finally, it centers enough so I can continue. I get it into a nice shape and feel better about my ceramic abilities. Then I go to smooth it, can’t find my usual smoothing rib, and use this old one. Suddenly it slices my finger. I’m bleeding all over this platter, exhausted and mad. I finish the platter with thick clay water, bloody clay water all over my hands and the platter. And surprisingly I feel more accomplished than I have for a while (after finishing a thrown piece).
Moral of the story. Perseverance will not only end with a nice platter, but you will finish your task feeling satisfied and accomplished.
Skin sunk around bones in protruding starvation is beauty.
Normalized with eyes melted into pits of blackened seas. Salted water burned pain into a sickening sensation of emptiness.
Body twisted into a sensual blur. Collar bones puppeteering her breasts.
Blossoming from spirited youth into the world of never ending expectations and misdirections.
Bones expected to be filled with feathers, skin expected to be tightly pulled against every crevice, face expected to be whipped with unreal and unnatural smoothness.
She mustn’t let the words of broken societies control her body, though she’s tempting to hurl herself into the vortex of self deprivation, rising above will unleash her true beauty wrapped in a pleasant blanket of happiness.
The Kenai National Forest tucked away on the twisting coast of Alaska is home to a tall Quaking Aspen tree. The mustard yellow bark plotted with dark-colored knots protrude out of the tree to form slender but sturdy branches. The blackened forest seemed to sleep, but 25 feet up the great aspen tree, curved claws wrap tightly around the bark. Built with a slim body rounded with slick feathers and two ears that spike out of its head like horns, the western screech owl sits still. Every root stopped growing, every leave stopped falling, and every gust of wind ceased to blow as the owls piercing yellow eyes stalked down upon the scavenging rodent below. Following its prey between the plots of rotting yellow leaves and moist forest soil the owl begins to pick up its clawed feet, one after another. Preparing itself. Finally, the creature tilts forward, letting itself be taken by gravity, and with a sharp and intentional swoop, the hunt was over.
I recently watched the notebook with my friend, we will call him John for now. So my friend John practically begged me to watch the notebook, and I agreed and give him the normal run down. I warned him that he will absolutely cry. So we get to the part in the movie where Noah and Allie are LITERALLY in the rain in the boat. She’s about to find out he wrote her 365 letters and that he still loves her. I’m sitting there stuffing my face with popcorn, and I start to hear the sound of logs being sawed. John is snoring. He has the audacity to fall asleep. So I do the thing any dedicated notebook fan would do and I pushed him off of the couch. The movie continues and we are at the end where they die together and I am crying, ugly crying. And I look over and John is asleep AGAIN! I asked him how he liked the movie the next day and he said that it was “alright”. And that is the story about how I stopped being friends with John.
I picked up the large and awkward 25-pound bag of Laguna Specked Buff clay and set it on the canvas table with a thud. Getting my wire, I slice a piece of clay that measures out to be exactly 1.5 lbs. The thin silver wire attached to green handles slides and slices the clay so beautifully. The clay, not wanting to be sliced, holds some resistance which makes the process all the more satisfying. Once set up, I wedge the clay using my leverage along with the firm table top to push and elevate any air bubbles out of my freshly cut piece of clay. Once done, I take to the wheel. The centering is first, the specked buff clay, rough and sprinkled with sand turns round and round the wheel. The sandy texture rubs and grinds the blade of my hand, but at the same time moves and bends at my will. Finding the middle of the clay, I press my finger in with a strong and precise motion, bowing out slightly. The clay spins quickly but stays perfectly in the center, completely content on the wheel. Taking my fingers, I press into the right wall of the clay and start to form my walls. Squeezing and holding the wet clay between my two pointer fingers, I begin to elongate my piece. The walls become delicate and thin. I grab the metal rib, flexible, I bend the awkward, thin, metal oval around the wall of the clay to smooth out and nicely finish the mug. After I trim the bottom and smooth out the lip with a rectangular piece of leather, I take it off the wheel and it begins its’ drying process.
Going back 10 years ago, a 6-year-old blonde-haired girl went into the rabbit shelter in Santa Barbara (that to this day does not exist) with a determination. As she comes into the outside rabbit room, she laid her eyes on hundreds of bunnies. She walked around the shelter saw some cute ones, but not staying more than a few seconds to thoroughly examine the rabbits until she comes upon an odd pair, two brothers one bright white with blazing red eyes and the other another jet grey. She immediately sat down as began to play with the bunnies. His mother seemed shocked because these two bunnies were not particularly young and not particularly friendly. Not more than half an hour later the little girl left with her new bunnies, chewy and sweetheart. Sweetheart, the white rabbit got his name from immediately coming up to the girl and resting his small head on her equally small foot. While the grey one simultaneously chomping on a carrot, moving his mouth in a circular motion made the child burst into laughter. As the girl began to grow, so did the bunnies. Stages of their life passed by quickly. Skipping ahead two years. The girl left her house with one of the Dork Diaries in hand and walked out to the back yard where the hutch sat. She climbed through the bunny door and sat in the wood and chicken wire cage. The bunnies would hop over to her, lay down, and not move until she got up to leave. Every day, she would read aloud to her bunnies, all the way until she graduated the fifth grade. Going into middle school the bunnies became a second priority, but she still fed them twice a day and would do monthly spa days for the rabbits, which they thoroughly enjoyed, until that next summer came and the white bunny that had glowing red eyes died. She held him in her arms for the last time before her dad took him to the bunny clinic. He had bladder stones. That night the not-so-little girl, her mom, and brother sank onto the living room carpet embracing one another in each other’s sadness. The girl had never truly lost anything to that extent before. But life went on. The girl in the fifth grade, about a year before sweetheart died, had gotten two more bunnies. Chewy lost his bother that day, and at 7 years old decided to keep living. As middle-school continued, the girl grew more distant from the bunnies, she became more interested in drama and “life”. She still took comfort in them and would visit them when she wanted to take comfort in something so innocent and that depended on her. Although she loved all of her animals, she would always hold chewy longer and give him extra carrots. She loved the way he would eat them. Although it did not make her burst into uncontrollable laughter, she smirked and watched until he finished chewing. In eighth grade she lost one of the bunnies and she buried him in her yard. She spent the rest of that day with chewy and the other bunny. Chewy looked happy as ever. His jet grey coat was sprinkled with white. His eyelids dropped slightly but his eyes sparkled the same that they did nine years ago when she got him. Now, skipping ahead to the present day. At 10:13 on November 22d, 2020. The girl’s mom comes in and says that something is wrong with chewy. Immediately the girl, who has turned into a young woman, begins to sob. Running outside she sees chewy laying on his side. Shaking. His head hung low as he tries to stand. She picks up chewy as he lays on his side. Turning him over she sees that he has an infection. Putting him down gently and stroking him in hopes to provide comfort to him as he had done for her. Her mom and her get into the car with Chewy. They decided that the best thing to do is to end his suffering. Knowing that a piece of your childhood is dying is something hard to face. Arriving at the 24-hour clinic, she carries the box to the front door. Her mom fills out paperwork as she sinks into a patio chair looking at Chewy. As a man approaches the door to the clinic, she opens the box and gently strokes chewy’s back and says goodbye for the last time. Standing up. Not being able to stop the tears, she hands the box to the doctor. And at 10:55 pm, Chewy and the girl are separated forever. Turning to her mom embracing each other like they had done so many years before with Sweetheart, they drive home. Sinking into a coma of emptiness, the girl thanks Chewy and wishing him the best where ever he may be going. She hopes that he finds peace and that he is relieved of all pain that he felt.
Thank you Chewy for all that you have done for me. You will be remembered and loved forever.
The rays of sun beamed down from the sky laying a thick layer of warmness on the Earth’s surface. The dark yellow school bus happily chugged along the valley’s floor and up the hill to drop off the captives for their usual morning classes. Steeping briskly, as I do, I made my way to room two where I took a seat on the chilled plastic chair that I was expected to stick to like glue. My heavy books were plopped on the table as a sigh of reality takes hold of my lungs. The confining walls lined with large glass sheets let my eyes wander the landscape. The mountains breathe deep breaths of fresh air, I see their lungs fill nature and freshness. The trees sway as the mountains exhale long and slow. The room that I sit in is atop a tall hill that oversees a field. I look down upon the land that lays many feet below, just observing. Until suddenly a small scrub jay painted in blue and black leaps off of the chipped greed roof. My first thought was that his small wings and small body would plummet down to the field below. Instead, he gracefully soared through the open air. He seemed weightless and unbelievably free. I wish with all of my mind and body that I could be that scrub jay. I wish that I could weightlessly jump off of buildings and without a care float through the sky. Instead, I sit heavy and flightless.
OVS Journalism Blog 
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