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"Let us bring to daylight the impulses of midnight contemplation."

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barbara grossman

barbara grossman

 11 november 2011

art critique with visiting artist, barbara grossman, in the comiskey art center.

Open Mic Poster by Chris Cadena

Open Mic Poster by Chris Cadena

Open Mic Poster by Chris Cadena

say something

say something

 POWER TO THE POSTER: Posters For A Cause, Digital Art & Imaging I

Enough Is Enough Creative Prompt

 Here's an opporunity to create. Saint Anselm is currently involved in Enough Is Enough, a campaign against bullying, violence, and abuse. As a collective effort, we were asked to produce some sort of artistic, literary or musical response to the mission this campaign has set forth.

Enough Is Enough has provided us with some information they'd like to convey. The boundaries are grey and the space is unlimited; do with this as you will. I'm excited to see what comes out of this!

Guy Fawkes Day

Guy Fawkes Day

 

Blow up my heart
and leave its pieces
coalescing
slowly gathering in bits
protoplasmic slithers
crawling back across the
floor.
Reform the shrapnel shards
to unforseen configurations
captured by the phantom pull
of a gravity you do
not know you have.

Hope is dynamite
explodes the past
to ever branching, flowing outward,
starry fingered, curling trails.
Hope is a whisper
to the flying pieces
to settle softly
along the gradient
lines of force
that point in silence
to the future.

Hope is a bomb.
Blow up my heart.

 

Hide in your eyes, mirrors tell the worst lies.

Hide in your eyes, mirrors tell the worst lies.
 

     I’ve been doing a lot of observation lately. Not for any particular reason, I was just starting to notice commonalities in people on campus. There are a couple of different categories of which I’d like to elaborate on. The goal of my personal observations was mostly to answer the question, “Why is my school called St. C’s?” in addition to the question, “Why do people enjoy going home so much if they’re in college?” 

release papers

 with the snow and the wind and the confused chirps on birthdays, i wonder what it would have been like if i had left. not working with older, beautiful women and younger ones. not wandering through woods and mud and grass with officers at night. not making love to pulp fiction and watching it instead. not cruising through suburban new hampshire roads at three in the morning and not finding the frank lloyd wright house buried behind tree branches. not kissing in the snow and crying in the snow and falling in front of menacing statues of canonized saints. not laughing my ass off to archived conversations on skype. not listening to clean guitar rifts at the wee-hours of the morning in apartments that weren’t mine but felt like home.

imagine skipping breaths

 the snow was sad and pitiful and desperate. i dressed in the cold and the quiet and hoped for something daring to happen at the witches’ hour. beer and bullshit and dome lights. fog. ice and feathers. like old times.

 

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