A Memory Box

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Have you ever heard of those little boxes where people store their favorite keepsakes from their first love, a corsage from a school dance, a sunburnt polaroid with their best friends smiling, a love letter from a lost relationship, a ring, or even a rock from an unnamed location.

Its so sweet to think how people house and store these little insignificant items in boxes that sit for years and years under beds, or at the top of a shelf that doesn’t see the sunlight just because these little items hold so many incredibly dear memories.

I think everyone should keep items from their past, because there will always be a day when you want to go back and look upon life before you became the person that you are today.

Personally, I regret ridding my life of my first love letter, jewelry from my first love, pictures from movie theater photo booths, corsages from some of the best nights of my life, rocks that I deemed beautiful, pictures that were drawn for me, and little odds and ends that reminded me of people. I wish I would have taken a moment to reflect and think about how significant these little things would be down the road.

photo credit: etsy.com

Fantasy

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Have you ever wanted to escape reality and live in an imaginary world? Well, I have. Through books and my wild imagination, I have been to many places.

One time I escaped to Hogwarts and it was amazing. I got to learn different spells and play quidditch, and I became a witch. Another place I escaped to was Australia. I visited the Sydney Opera House and swam safely around the Great Barrier Reef.

Photo credit: About my Brain Institute Blog

My imagination is a weird one. Sometimes I am in a scary mood, so I go to a haunted house, and other times I feel happy so I envision myself as a mermaid.

Escaping is a sort of coping mechanism for me. It allows me to forget about all my struggles, stresses of life, and calm down a bit. Although it is good for coping, I have to remember to live in the real world as well.

Platter

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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.

photo taken off of The Arts Center sight


Music

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Music is everywhere, even if you do not realize it. It could be playing in a shop you are walking by, or it could be someone playing the trumpet on Hollywood Boulevard.

There are so many different genres of music, for example, pop and blues. Radio shows like Kiss FM and the Heat predominantly play popular songs, like Good Days by SZA. You can find any music genre of your liking on the radio. Music streaming sites such as Apple Music and Spotify allow listeners to create playlists to their liking.

Photo credit: Spotify

Listening to music one thing, but making it something else. Being able to sing a song or play a chord on the guitar is another feeling. Making music is so moving and beautiful. Even if you are not good at it, making music is an art form. Depending on your mood, for instance, sad music is a very different mood than happy music.

Music is all around us, and it is being made and listened to every single second of every single day.

























































Better to stand alone than in the standards of others

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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.

knife painting done by Pino

Rain

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Cold winter days often seem to fall short of the media’s predictions. We scheduled an early departure from school in anticipation of dangerous storms, though we’re met with trickles of water creating small puddles in dry dirt.

I tend to dress dramatically for the cold. I wear two pears of socks, two jackets, and keep a spare pair of gloves in my backpack. I prefer to overheat than freeze from the brisk winds. My wardrobe has many jackets, though only one of them I have deemed warm enough for January weather.

Although the cold is difficult, I do hope for adventure’s sake that we experience more rain. I keep my prized umbrella tucked away in my backpack, waiting for the day when I can use it again. I enjoy the trek from classroom to classroom as I use my umbrella as a shield from the harsh sky. February is likely to bring more rain, and I won’t put my umbrella away until the sun is revealed.

Image Credit: Ali Berman

the chipping paint of time

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she sits atop the white picket fence

behind her sits the sturdy one story house with green grass cut in a perfect 90 degree angle

ahead of her lies the freshly poured concrete road

she does not see anything up the road, or nothing that she can see clearly

she’s drawn to the adventure of the clean and untouched road, but it’s intimidating

she’s even more scared to of what lies behind her

she’s afraid to fall into the tightly packed neighborhood and a life of plastered smiles

her hands grip the sun touched wood with the flaking white paint

the fence of youth will not hold her forever she must step down into her direction of life

Photo credit: Smalltown Stock-PhotoShelter

Falling in love with love

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Fall: To move downward, typically rapidly and freely without control

Why is it that we “fall” in love when falling is usually thought of negatively? Shouldn’t love be perceived as a positive thing?

I would like to say that most find falling in love to be terrifying and thrilling. In order for you to fall, you have to entrust someone with little insignificant details and life secrets that you store deep down. You have to lose control of your feelings and fears and hope that your person will catch them and keep them safe. You have to let go, take the jump, and fall…

You find yourself wondering if you are worthy of such affection and admiration from such an image of perfection once you’ve fallen. You’ll remember every little detail, how they like their coffee with the exact details, the name of the small country town they grew up in, or what movie comforts them in their darkest moments. All these little moments add up when you fall.

But falling in love is worth the momentary rush of fear and thrill that overcomes you. If one is lucky enough to find themselves falling, they should enjoy the fall, for it leads to a story of love for the ages. Even if that love fades or ends, you’ll never forget the rush of the fall.

So I guess you could say, in this case, falling isn’t such a bad thing. So let yourself go, jump, skip, leap. Enjoy the fall, take a chance because you’ll never know what you missed if you don’t take a take leap of faith and fall.

Photo credit: https://www.pinterest.com/

Mural

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Right now I am planning for a mural I will be painting on former OVS teacher, Ms. Pasqua’s house. She has inspired me to paint a scene of Ojai with the Topa Topa mountains lined with inspirational quotes. This mural is an outlet for me to express my passion in the fight for equity.

The Ojai Valley has given me so many opportunities to improve myself as an artist, and painting a mural visible to its residents is my way of giving back to the community. I have had practice with this form of art in middle school when we worked on large-scale projects. I helped to work on the Fourth of July parade floats as well as life-size paper mache projects. I painted giant decorations to add to our OVS float, and created letter-signs that spelled out the name of our school.

Growing up and seeing the beautiful murals in Ventura County, I have always wanted to add my own color to the town. I am deeply grateful for this opportunity to gain more experience with painting and share my art with the Ojai community.

The Ventura Mural that inspired me to paint on a larger scale.
Image Credit: Lu Ross Academy

On The Line

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When I knocked on the kitchen door, I carried only clammy hands, a thin resume, and a fascination with a world that I had begged to be let into. Cory, my soon to be Chef, gave me the once over, pointed to a cashier, and continued violently tearing apart poultry.

A week later when I came to interview, he saw in me something from his teenage years. At least that’s what he told me as I signed the workman’s comp forms in the hospital after I rammed my thumb into the mean side of a mandoline.

I started small and assumed I would slowly be introduced to the kitchen, but Cory had other plans and a short staff, so one night I was thrown an apron and instantly I became a fixture of the frier. I played tetris with time, organizing chicken wings and okonomiyaki style tater-tots. 

What they don’t tell you is that short order cooks are prep cooks, janitors, singers, and comedians. 

When we ate cold food on milk crates, the cooks told stories of long nights in food service, they told me about forearm sized scars, crazy chefs, and what homelessness taught them. The dishy had a stutter and sometimes he needed a ride home, José wanted to teach art, Steven was overqualified, and I was hungrily learning everything I could.

Working on the line roaring with heavy metal and a hot range taught me that kitchens aren’t about food, they are about people. They are about stories.