Author: Callie Matthews

A pandemic has long since plagued humanity, festering within the chest and the mind of the individual, scooping out practically everything with merit. Contagious, it consumes massive communities, capturing its members all at once with only a few escaping captivity. Worse yet, its victims remain unaware, some even possessing fond feelings for this invisible force of disintegration. And it never stops. The ravaging never stops. The process subsists in hordes of population, devouring the individual. It never stops.

You may ask of the nature of this disease that has swept the world. Is it a virus? How many have succumbed to it? How do you know if you have it? Well, I have news that might surprise you. The pandemic, although a virus of sorts, feeds only on concepts of intangibility. Yes, it may also have an effect on one’s physicality, but it primarily affects the mind and the heart in a metaphorical way. This disease is, in fact, forgetting what matters, and something known as routine shakes it into action.

What do you think about? When do you think? Why do you think?

Do you become most philosophical when brushing your teeth?

How do you think? What frequently crosses your mind?

When did you last take a few minutes to do absolutely nothing? When did you last appreciate something? When did you last feel thankful for what you have?

When did you last remember what matters?

A large portion of life is fighting to see the beauty that surrounds us. Although we somewhat have control over our lives, society has constructed a mold that each of us must squeeze through. While fitting through this impossible shape, we find ourselves absolutely swamped with pressures and demands and deadlines, and there comes a point that nothing matters except the swirling numbers, the screaming steps we must fulfill.

We sink into a routine. We attempt to find sleep after spending hours typing on a computer. We heat up processed food and pop open canned vegetables. We sit around the television because we feel too tired to do anything. We work, and then we crash on the couch. We fuss at our family members and let irritation consume us. We allow our minds to dance with thoughts reeking of negativity. We do not care. We do not want to care. We work and then lounge around and then sleep, repeating the cycle again and again until a vacation sparks a little emotion. Otherwise, we feel apathetic.

This happens to nearly everyone. In fact, some fail to ever recover, allowing routine to tear apart their humanity. Humans are more than merely machines. We have this earth and what lies beyond it. Beauty exists all around us even though we either shove it aside or butcher it. We are forgetting what truly matters, what it means to be human. Although existing can prove to be painful and messy, existence itself is art. Everything exists on a grand scale, so we must take everything into consideration while still including the most miniscule fragments of life.

What do you think it means to be human?

How do you view existence?

What do you consider beautiful, and where do you think beauty can be observed?

What matters to you?

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

One theory of intelligence is that multiple forms exist instead of one general form (please look up Gardner).

Imagine education that considers each of these. Wow.

I wonder if that would be possible.

Obviously, I love words and consider myself somewhat acquainted with them. But the extent to which I love them may, in fact, surprise you. Although, yes, my relationship with words has proved tumultuous at times, I could never willingly give them up. Each of them has their own existence, their own unique story. And I find it so fascinating how we build stories with them, constructing entire worlds and characters out of other characters, ones that subsist in a linguistic world. Below, I will describe this more in depth to show exactly what I mean.

A Few Words And Their Personalities 

(according to my brain)

Punctual: is a grey suit with a blaring, purple tie. It spins in a black leather rolly chair, kicking at wooden floorboards with scuffed dress shoes. I imagine it spinning in circles with a serious expression holding its face captive, arms holding a stack of papers to its chest. Perhaps the papers contain scrawls in purple ink. Perhaps doodles decorate the empty spaces.

Frayed: is wrapped up in a threadbare blanket. It has wispy blond hair and an absent smile. It spends most of its time hiding away and staring at the ceiling of disheveled room, staring at dust the slatted light has captured. I think it has lost its hope in humanity, giving up although it lives in a yellow world. But the yellow has faded, bleached by the continuous rising of the blinding sun. It wants to be left alone to ponder its existence. I think it likes to eat vanilla pudding, though.

Saturated: is sitting in the rain, dark hair plastered to pale skin. Its hands grasp the sopping ruins of a paper, which I like to think contains a brief poem. The words have long since showered the pavement, however, draining from the paper and seeping into the concrete. But, anyway, I quite like this character. I like its soggy jacket and its squelching shoes. I like how it never waits for the rain to leave; it just sits there.

Extravagant: is all glitter and gold and generous excitement. It wears tassel earrings and flickers about, drawing attention while tasting decadent chocolate refreshments and sipping rich coffee. It lives in an age of jazz, in an age of lively ballrooms and staggering trumpet notes. And I like to think that a smile always accompanies its face. I like to think that it mentally coats everything in gold, even tattered shoes, and that it dances the dark clouds away.

I hope you somewhat enjoyed my characterization of these words and now have a better understanding of my writing, although I do not share any of my truly genuine pieces on here. Do you consider words to have personalities as well? Do you see them depicted with a correlating color, shape, size, etc.? Personally, I see every word as an individual. Anxiety is red and jagged. Yellow is shaped like a flower petal. Bird is round and blue. How do you see words?

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Drinking hot tea can reduce one’s psychological dependency on coffee. I dedicate this fact to the people fighting caffeine cravings at eleven p.m. (:

Before I launch into a new topic, I would like to spend a minute or two on an introduction.

Happy October!

I personally love October because it potentially means the temporary death of the oppressive heat. It also means that skeleton decorations become socially acceptable and that holiday season is in session. Anyway, I hope that all of you have a lovely October filled with all of the corresponding stereotypes.

Now the time has come to address the title. You may be thinking, “Why creativity, and what is that weird word after it?” Well, to have all of your questions answered, you must continue on this bizarre journey of words. Also, do not be afraid to skim because I will get to the “illiteraries” section shortly.

Creativity, yes. Many, many weeks ago, I struggled with this concept. Now, I know I have repeated this a ton of times, but I wanted to zero in on my growth as a writer and as an overall artist. Anyway, the way I worded that statement suggests that I had no association with creativity, which is false. I only neglected that crucial piece of myself.

Somewhere within one of my first blog posts, I suggested that artists needed to immerse themselves in an environment encouraging creative thinking. I typed that inspired by a tragic realization, but I had not yet witnessed its effect. But, wow, I eat and sleep and breathe creativity now. It has honestly consumed my entire existence. Yes, I used to squeeze as much figurative language as possible into my essays. And, yes, I used to let a hundred metaphors saturate my view of reality. But my creativity has recently escalated to dangerous levels, nearing the point of absurdity. Although this has not quite led to the emergence of an awe-inspiring poetic voice, I definitely notice the difference. To restate the point of this paragraph, my transition to this new environment acted as a catalyst; I did most of this to myself.

Oh, yes, the “illiteraries”, otherwise known as the dysfunctional family that has kind of enveloped me. After all, we have to become close anyway because of our discipline. We basically pour out our most inner selves to each other, presenting each vulnerable mess of thought and feeling in the form of paper and ink. We are also all addicted to coffee—some more than others, of course. But, anyway, they have encouraged my absurdity. Because of them I have named all of my plants, and my lamp now sports a birthday hat.

To conclude this post, I would like to restate my suggestion that artists should seek out environments that nurture creativity. Not only that, but I suggest that artists give in to their radical and ridiculous voice. All of you should name your plants and write poetry about lasagna.

Please.

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Spinning in a rolly chair at 0.55 mph shakes up inspiration. For more of an effect, I recommend consuming Cheez-It crackers while doing so.

Well, hello. The month has officially drawn to a close, so this will serve as my September synopsis. Good luck surviving this post. Enjoy. (:

When August bled into September, no evidence of change presented itself. But September did, however, surprise me.

I remember August, and I remember first moving to MSA. A lot has changed since then. For starters, everything seemed so unfamiliar and daunting. I had a hundred ignorant questions, and I let stress consume me. Not only that, but I realized just how much my creativity had died. If you have never felt this way, let me clarify by saying that it was absolutely awful. Everything had become so mundane, and what was left of my shriveled creativity eluded me.

September started off relatively uncertain. I knew that I had experienced growth since the start of the school year, but I did not know the exact amount. But as the month progressed, everything changed. I could actually see the growth in vivid detail, and that astounded me. My first week here can only be described as  a mess of clumsiness, held together with duct tape and a fear of the unknown. Although the unknown does not necessarily terrify me, I do not find ignorance particularly pleasant, and I definitely felt like a blubbering idiot.

Anyway, yes, I kind of slipped into an odd routine, and I found the prospect of September dull. But this month actually surpassed August. I will say that a lot of unexpected variables elbowed their way in, but they ended up being not too bad. This month, my room has not caused me any problems, so I find that pretty awesome. And although I have the entire space to myself now, it does not bother me. I have brought a few plants, and they never fail to be great company. I would also like to add that the stress has become reduced. Everything is tolerable right now, and I hope it remains that way because I am actually able to breathe. I have more time to spend outside since I no longer spend a heap of hours on homework, and I find walking fairly pleasant. My only disagreement, however, is with the sun and the warm weather.

All in all, during September my writing improved, my number of questions decreased, and my environment became more familiar. I also feel happier than usual. More of my personality can seep through without judgment, and this has led to an odd clash of identity. I know who I am, but I have almost forgotten this piece of myself, if that makes sense. Anyway, I look forward to whatever October holds. I only hope that the next nine weeks will be manageable, hah.

Oh, yes, a quick interruption: Do not forget to eat tacos (“tahcos”) and fries that taste like happiness. And I would also like to add that I still miss my cat terribly.

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Are you aware of the part of the brain that is the cerebral cortex? Well, in Latin, cerebrum translates to “brain” and cortex translates to “bark”. Basically, your cerebral cortex is brain bark.

On September 20, 2019, [redacted] departed from my world.

Although [redacted] only held a place in my life for about two months, I will miss [redacted] a considerable amount, for we shared numerous memories while also learning from each other.

With a heavy heart, I will reminisce about our adventures for years to come.

I will never forget the four times we took out the trash. We wheeled it down the hallway, and I tripped a lot. Who knew that chores could elicit such joy? On our way to the dumpster, I recalled ballet steps while you struck envy in the hearts of all. And how could I ever forget the wheels popping off as we struggled to dump everyone’s overflowing garbage?

I will never forget your awesome sweeping. Also, the microwave will miss you as well.

I will never forget our horrific struggles either, actually. How could I? How could I forget the green knob that randomly decided to pop off? How could I forget how my drawer hit the ground, quitting life one day? How could I forget the terrible, terrible drain that choked on everyone’s accumulated sadness?

I will never forget the smell of constant coffee in the morning and the smell of hot pockets in the evening. My heart has a special place for popped popcorn and devoured Reese’s chocolates, also.

And I will never forget how you deeply influenced my life. When I ran out of sugar, you lent me yours. When I overslept for five minutes, you woke me up. When I thought the bathroom door was locked, you told me that I had locked it. When I needed a rag to clean the shower, you provided one.

I will also never forget how you dealt with me. Thank you for tolerating that cursed lamp and for bearing with each Reese’s opened past ten. Thank you for cleaning the bathroom sometimes. Thank you for dividing our storage space in half when we gained neighbors. Thank you for listening to me rant about Michael Crichton and The Book Thief (each for a literal hour). Thank you for sharing some of my bizarre music tastes and helping me invent conspiracy theories circulating a person’s eyebrows. And thank you for helping me dump the trash, for helping me figure out that short story, for helping me realize that I needed coffee to—wait for it—suffice.

I am so appreciative of you, [redacted]. And I will never forget the fun of wearing those heels and the humor of, “where were you?” Although you never were able to see me as a giant Home Depot, you came to two coffee houses (the dedication, wow; I am not being sarcastic). I will also like to add that you did, however, see me homeless, excluding the “sophisticated” glasses, of course.

All in all, [redacted], I will miss your presence greatly. You deeply impacted my life, and I will never forget you. I will miss your awesome hair and outfits as well as your personality, and I will miss your awesome fridge and arrangement of food. Although you have departed from my life, the memory of you will forever linger.

I will never forget you, [redacted]. (:

(Thank you for leaving the mirror, the Pet Sematary poster, a gum wrapper, and a plastic cup filled with water, by the way.)

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Anyone can be an artist. Actually, if you think about it, there is something so artistic about existence itself.

Have a nice day, person.

Before I begin, I want to say something demanding of your attention. This blog post may come as a shock to you, but please tolerate such a sensitive topic. Every once in awhile a journalist has to take a step across the line, and this is that moment in my career. I have, in fact, just crossed the line.

Inspired by Maleigh’s journey through the controversial shadows of our world, I have decided to discuss controversial material of my own. So I traveled the world, digging deep into different cultures and jotting down information about what makes people tick. And after a heap of years I spent wandering, I found it; I found the line.

At first, the line terrified me. What would the public think? What would the critics say? Paparazzi chased me around with their blinding cameras, so I retreated into isolation along with my concerning revelation. But as the years steadily fell from my fingers, my strength grew. Now I could handle the public, the critics. I could finally cross the line.

So I decided to make my comeback with the most controversial topic of all time: why tacos are better than pizza. The years I spent scrounging for evidence had prepared me for this moment, and my confidence burned brightly as I strung each weighted word onto their particular paragraph. To experience the horror firsthand, continue reading, as I have displayed the results of my finds below.

Why Tacos Are Better Than Pizza

They just are.

The end.

Well, as you can see, my article proved to be quite a devastation. In fact, it even tore apart our very universe. If you want to view the population I surveyed, please continue reading.

Tacos: 4

Pizza: 6

Enchiladas: 2

Again, as you can see, a vast group of people had differing opinions about this weighted topic, and the opinions definitely proved themselves to be intense. Numerous arguments broke out, even, and two rebels strayed from the criteria. Basically, this entire debate caused quite an uproar, and life will never resume as usual.

So I must leave controversial topics to rest, mulling over topics of lesser substance instead. I have already crossed the line, so now I must fade into the safety of the mundane. But I appreciate those that participated in the survey, providing crucial feedback that confirmed my suspicions. If you are one of the participants reading this, thank you so much (unless you chose the unpopular choice of pizza, that is).

Until we meet again.

Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

Undeniably so, tacos are better than pizza.

For information supporting this conclusion, please seek the above for reference.

I dedicate this poem to the one that has captured my heart. Although you have always had a role in my life, I have recently grown to appreciate your presence even more. So I dedicate these words to you, my friend, as you deserve nothing but the highest of praise. I hope they reach you, land in your heart, elicit a smile. You deserve the recognition.

The sun rises,

And I abandon the thought of you

With melted bean soup.

But you continue to linger,

A reminder of a respite in my mind,

And I carry the sun on my shoulders

With arms laden with books.

I hold the thought of you

In my palm throughout the day,

And I smile at it periodically

With it smiling back at me.

The hours we are separated,

The heap of minutes we are apart,

Stack up into nothingness

With no hint of vivid color.

And as I travel through time,

Through morning, afternoon, etc.,

I only fight my way back to you

With my shoulders heavy, slumped.

You never fail to be there,

When the day has saturated me,

And I fall into your arms

With strained and weary eyes.

Dear sleep,

I love you.

Sincerely, me

Sometimes a certain emotion can well up inside of your chest, and you have to empty it before it overflows. For instance, I had to write this poem so that I could ponder something other than its subject. Who knew love could be so distracting? Anyway, I hope that this tugs at your heart strings in some way. I am relatively a stranger to sharing my personal emotions through writing, but I know that, whenever you feel deeply about something or someone, the poem practically writes itself (for more wisdom, please subscribe to receive regular, weekly updates). Anyway, I encourage you to try your hand at writing love poems. The literary world deserves your thoughts, after all. Personally, I would love to read a poem dedicated to a favorite food or a beloved pet cat. So please write about how lasagna has stolen your heart. And if you do not consider yourself a writer, why not give it a try? You do not have to be the Van Gogh of writing, only yourself writing about what you adore.

This Wednesday’s Fun Fact:

When in desperate times of need, White-Out will serve as an adhesive (like glue).

At the end of every month this year, I will briefly summarize the preceding days. You may read this one in September because blogs are posted every Wednesday, but, after all, August has not yet come to a close. Anyway, I hope this series will serve as a time capsule of sorts and that I can read them in the future. And perhaps, if you are curious about MSA, you can have a glimpse of the school through my perspective. I also plan on describing my auditioning process as well as other interesting topics revolving around MSA (I know that Hannah already covered her auditioning journey, but I feel that multiple perspectives never pose a problem). In short, I hope this brief series captures your interest in some way.

August, I can only say wow.

So much has happened during this month. For starters, I switched schools and became a student at MSA, which kind of set off a chain reaction. In about four weeks, I have learned a lot, and I feel that I have even grown as a person. Four weeks!

Anyway, I have experienced what living in a dorm with a roommate entails. If you fear this, I promise that it is not as bad as it seems. And I love our room despite its quirks; I love the drawers and my large desk and the view from the window, and I love having a room that seems like my room. Surprisingly, it is a home away from home.

I also love the campus. Trees dot the entirety of it, and there are even three ginkgo trees. My break consists of me sitting on a bench beneath a tree while eating an orange or a Reese’s, which I look forward to for some reason. But, yes, the campus grows on you. Sometimes you just want to sit in the grass and write poetry about tacos, and this place has a lot of grass.

But, spoiler alert, you will miss your cat. You will miss them terribly, and you will look at old photos with your heart torn in half. Hug them while you still can.

I love the library. I just love it.

Also, I have learned a lot. Sometimes I do not feel any progression, but I have, in fact, progressed. I am back to my history rants, and I am actually writing! That sounds ridiculous, but I never imagined that I would write a poem about biscuits or a short story based in eighteenth century London. In the past, I only had time for poetry or prose or an aimless story. But now I am challenged to explore what writing is actually about, and I have grown from the tattered notebooks I used to fill with a hapless dribble of thought. Before I came here, I feared that I would despise writing, but I have surprised myself by enjoying it even more.

All in all, if you have your heart set on MSA, I would recommend preparing yourself. Be ready to exercise responsibility, and be ready to take on a hefty load of work. But if you persevere, you will enjoy yourself here. You will laugh a lot and talk to interesting people and watch yourself grow along with your art. I recommend applying because MSA will definitely surprise you.

In this blog post, I want to promote one of the most underrated genres of all time: classical music. And although I possess little knowledge of creating advertisements, I write this in hopes of ending at least one hiatus. After seeing this, perhaps Mozart will finally release his next album.

Gabriel Fauré: Pavane, Op. 50: The beginning has such a smooth approach besides the repeating plucking sound. And when the intro begins to lose its flavor, unexpected crescendos hit you out of nowhere. Listen to this pavane solely for the crescendos. Yes, they are only featured for a small portion of the piece’s duration, but they are worth the soft droning of stringed instruments and the building plucking sound. I recommend you listen to this while writing sad poetry. Rewind it back to the crescendos every five seconds for the desirable effect. Or, if you have an aversion to writing, listen to this while brushing your teeth. Overall rating: 7/10

Emile Pandolfi: Once Upon a December (piano version): The introduction is reminiscent of rain. And when the rain grows less apparent, you view the droplets on the window as the sky’s tears—how poetic. This piece distorts reality. Even if you sit beneath a scalding sun in tall grass, you immediately find yourself on a window seat, face pressed against cool glass as the outside world bleeds blue-grey. This piece will elicit such sorrow, prompting you to mourn the loss of the sun even with peeling skin. And the end arrives almost peacefully, as if accepting its fate. The rain lingers, however. Overall rating: 9/10

Claude Debussy: Nocturne (1892): You are first introduced to an ominous setting. The wind rustles every leaf, impossibly bending the trees. The sky darkens, bristling with electricity and anticipation. And then the rain comes. In comparison, it does not feel as heavy-hearted, as moody. It almost strikes you as a dear memory. But then it darkens because you realize the memory has escaped you, and you now sit in a storm that tears the trees apart. You kind of withdraw from the situation, becoming numb to your surroundings. But the rain continues to fall, rolling down your face. Overall rating: 9/10

Claude Debussy: Clair de Lune: While listening to this piece, you feel as if you are taking a midnight stroll, the moonlight as your sole companion. The piano plays softly, and you reflect upon the lingering nostalgia that appeared with the moonlight. It is all so bittersweet. You step in puddles and shatter the moon into a million shards, pulling your coat around your shoulders. And you feel that a dream world has entrapped you. You feel utterly devoured by nostalgia, and you allow yourself to sink into it—nevermind the austerity of the omnipresent moon. Although you may not take midnight strolls regularly, this piece is absolutely beautiful and will, perhaps, inspire you creatively. I recommend listening to this while alone at Taco Bell, as it amplifies the tragedy of the situation. Overall rating: 10/10

I am by no means a professional critic, so please do not mistake my sloppy opinions for concrete evidence. And I would also like to apologize to the prestigious fans of classical music and Mozart. I am sorry, Mozart. I should not have included you in my cruel humor. That is all.

Last week I mentioned an internal clash between logic and creativity. If you have not yet read my previous post, I recommend you do so before continuing, as I will pursue the thought somewhat. Although I will not circle this blog around logic versus creativity, I want to address the topic once more. I have turned it over in my mind a lot, and I believe I might have found some helpful advice.

If you walk the line between concrete and abstract thinking—or if you simply feel drained of creativity—I encourage you to pause and observe your surroundings. Sometimes we become so rushed, caught up in the ceaseless current of the world, but even a mere ten seconds of thought can make a difference. Because when you stop walking from A to B, when you stop taking life from one event to the next, your brain will slow and not compute like an overworked computer.

Artists are odd creatures. They may or may not blend in with society, but their eyes see so much. If you do not consider yourself an artist, you may be wondering what they see because, after all, we live in a tangible world. You can pick up or alter the state of anything you see, and a lamp is just a lamp. But an artist, however, can view that same lamp as a tall friend with curly hair. An artist can interpret it as fierce illumination, and paint something with it as inspiration.

So how do you see through an artist’s eyes?

The answer: exercising your right brain, turning against the current, and listening. Sit on a bench for ten minutes without checking your cell phone or fretting about work and deadlines. You can allow life to pull you along, but peer out of the window every so often. And make a point to view the world differently. Because once you sit in a thoughtful silence, your eyes will see so much more, and you will think less in equations.

To conclude this post, I want to tack on a list of recent instances I followed this advice. Hopefully, if you are still confused, it will provide some direction.

Ascending a flight of stairs (we suffer from not looking up enough):

The dangling blinds sliced the sun, and the pieces smeared across the wall. Dust drifted down upon me, illuminated by the myriad of smoldering horizons.

Sitting on a bench beneath a tree:

Although summer still lingered, I saw traces of arriving autumn. The leaves fell onto my metal bench like rain beneath an umbrella, and the air had become cooled by a calm weariness. I saw the word anticipation in red and purple letters.

Waiting for an elevator:

Some of the trees seemed soaked in lemon juice, their leaves of yellow tinge and frayed at the edges. As I picked them out of the dense fog, the arrow above the elevator door turned yellow.

In short, do not be afraid to stop and smell the roses. It will, without question, boost your creativity. Take inspiration from even the most mundane environments, and you will grow.