Arizonan's Dream, chapter 1
It was blazing hot outside, you could cook a raw egg on the sidewalk about now. But what day isn't in Arizona? It seems like summer never ends here and it's just one ongoing summer. Except, there's school. But in the winter it's nice. Right now the air-conditioning is blasting into the house from all directions. I was sitting on my bed staring at the blank white wall. How could someone like me, with an artist as a mom, have such a bleak house? I mean, there isn't one room in my entire house that's not white! But no matter, even if there was color on the walls it would hardly show anyway cause of all the posters I have tacked up on them. I have about 21 posters total on my walls. And my room isn't that big. But it's only me and my mom here and it has been that way ever since I was six years old.
So mostly I'm in my room blasting my music while she's in her room doing homework, because she went back to collage. So I mean sometimes it gets lonely but I mean, I don't really see it changing any time soon to tell you the truth. But the posters keep me company I guess, they're always there. I don't mean to sound demented or anything, because I'm not. I might be a little crazy and weird at times but I'm not demented.
Right now I am lying on my bed drawing my life away while blasting Green Day into the rooms and listening as it bounces off the white walls in my room and coming back at me. I wasn't sketching anything in particular. I'm never really. Whenever I have a blank piece of paper I can always find something to do with it. Either I fold it into some kind of shape and throw it across the room or I can draw on it. I mostly draw. But now, I get up and search for my acrylic paints and a blank piece of canvas paper.
I find it in the usual bag but this time it's shoved under my bed with a bunch of filled up notebooks. Well, no I take that back. None of my notebooks are actually full. I don't think I've ever had a completely full notebook. I love the feeling of starting over on a new page of a new composition or just a regular spiral to ever get to the end of one. Never the less, there it is, the big black bag with all my art supplies and canvas paper, shoved under my bed with all the unfilled notebooks for company.
I get up and get a glass then go out to the kitchen and fill it up with tap water from the faucet. Then I return to my room and take out a few brushes. I put on Holiday then sit down and as soon as the first note of the song starts playing I start painting. This is my way of painting music. Just to see where the music takes me. I let the notes of the music flow onto the canvas in many different colors. I pick this particular song because I can relate most to it right now. I find my paintbrush going in all directions, going diagonally, turning in arches and then just some reaching towards the sky. Once I'm done I find that my clear tap water is now a dark grayish brown, almost black. I take a minute to admire my work. Not too bad. I turn off my stereo and turn on the fan. Then I hear the sound of my mother's voice calling from the kitchen like she can't be bothered to come knock on my door herself and address me.
"Sierra!!" She calls.
"WHAT!? I yell back and give her the same courtesy she gives me. Then my door opens.
"Can you please come out of your room for a while and take out the trash and put away the dishes?" She asks. I set down my brush in the water, but then figure best not leave it there so I respond,
"I have to clean off my brushes first." I say.
"Okay." She nods understandingly. Cause after all, she is an artist herself.
I go out to the kitchen and rinse off my brushes. I have to move a few things cause after all, the entire sink is piled up with a few days worth of dishes. I squirt some soap onto my hands and rub the brushes into my palm making sure that all the paint is washed out. Or all the paint that can be washed out, cause after all I want my brushes to still have some flexibility after a week or two of having them.
After putting away dishes and taking out trash I head back into my room. Instead of putting on Green Day again I go over and look through my CD collection for something I haven't heard in a while. I find:
Violent Femmes
Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Yeah Yeah Yeah's
The Ramones
Fall Out Boy (older stuff)
Nirvana
The Misfits
and finally, Cake.
I take Cake's CD out of it's box and put it into my stereo. "Comfort Eagle" soon starts up. I lay back down on my bed and stare up at the white popcorn ceiling. I then get up and take a mechanical pencil off of my desk and grab an unfilled notebook lying next to it. I've been meaning to write them for a while. I click the back of the pencil and start to write.
Once I'm done I read it over about five times fixing grammar and spelling along the way that I didn't spot before. I look over my messy handwriting cause that's just the way it is I can't really do anything about that. Unless I type it. Hmm... That's an idea. I get on my computer and start typing the letter over in a regular New Times font. Once I'm done I print it out along with a few pictures then put it in an envelope. I slap on a stamp then seal it. I go out and toss it down on the kitchen counter then return to my room.
So mostly I'm in my room blasting my music while she's in her room doing homework, because she went back to collage. So I mean sometimes it gets lonely but I mean, I don't really see it changing any time soon to tell you the truth. But the posters keep me company I guess, they're always there. I don't mean to sound demented or anything, because I'm not. I might be a little crazy and weird at times but I'm not demented.
Right now I am lying on my bed drawing my life away while blasting Green Day into the rooms and listening as it bounces off the white walls in my room and coming back at me. I wasn't sketching anything in particular. I'm never really. Whenever I have a blank piece of paper I can always find something to do with it. Either I fold it into some kind of shape and throw it across the room or I can draw on it. I mostly draw. But now, I get up and search for my acrylic paints and a blank piece of canvas paper.
I find it in the usual bag but this time it's shoved under my bed with a bunch of filled up notebooks. Well, no I take that back. None of my notebooks are actually full. I don't think I've ever had a completely full notebook. I love the feeling of starting over on a new page of a new composition or just a regular spiral to ever get to the end of one. Never the less, there it is, the big black bag with all my art supplies and canvas paper, shoved under my bed with all the unfilled notebooks for company.
I get up and get a glass then go out to the kitchen and fill it up with tap water from the faucet. Then I return to my room and take out a few brushes. I put on Holiday then sit down and as soon as the first note of the song starts playing I start painting. This is my way of painting music. Just to see where the music takes me. I let the notes of the music flow onto the canvas in many different colors. I pick this particular song because I can relate most to it right now. I find my paintbrush going in all directions, going diagonally, turning in arches and then just some reaching towards the sky. Once I'm done I find that my clear tap water is now a dark grayish brown, almost black. I take a minute to admire my work. Not too bad. I turn off my stereo and turn on the fan. Then I hear the sound of my mother's voice calling from the kitchen like she can't be bothered to come knock on my door herself and address me.
"Sierra!!" She calls.
"WHAT!? I yell back and give her the same courtesy she gives me. Then my door opens.
"Can you please come out of your room for a while and take out the trash and put away the dishes?" She asks. I set down my brush in the water, but then figure best not leave it there so I respond,
"I have to clean off my brushes first." I say.
"Okay." She nods understandingly. Cause after all, she is an artist herself.
I go out to the kitchen and rinse off my brushes. I have to move a few things cause after all, the entire sink is piled up with a few days worth of dishes. I squirt some soap onto my hands and rub the brushes into my palm making sure that all the paint is washed out. Or all the paint that can be washed out, cause after all I want my brushes to still have some flexibility after a week or two of having them.
After putting away dishes and taking out trash I head back into my room. Instead of putting on Green Day again I go over and look through my CD collection for something I haven't heard in a while. I find:
Violent Femmes
Red Hot Chili Peppers
The Yeah Yeah Yeah's
The Ramones
Fall Out Boy (older stuff)
Nirvana
The Misfits
and finally, Cake.
I take Cake's CD out of it's box and put it into my stereo. "Comfort Eagle" soon starts up. I lay back down on my bed and stare up at the white popcorn ceiling. I then get up and take a mechanical pencil off of my desk and grab an unfilled notebook lying next to it. I've been meaning to write them for a while. I click the back of the pencil and start to write.
Once I'm done I read it over about five times fixing grammar and spelling along the way that I didn't spot before. I look over my messy handwriting cause that's just the way it is I can't really do anything about that. Unless I type it. Hmm... That's an idea. I get on my computer and start typing the letter over in a regular New Times font. Once I'm done I print it out along with a few pictures then put it in an envelope. I slap on a stamp then seal it. I go out and toss it down on the kitchen counter then return to my room.
