Creativity. Its boundless. it keeps you up at night. U can feel it smell it touch it. Its everything. whether u mean to or not u are bound to create. take American slang for example. slang can be seen in two ways, one very empowering, one very limiting. Lets attack the latter first. When slang is compared to grammatical english, as if the person using the slang wishes to speak book english and is simply unable, then it is considered dumb, stupid, ignorant, etc. Limiting. But, if one approaches slang from a creative perspective, there is a much different picture to be painted. If i, for example, say bruh, i do not mean to imply that im unable to pronounce, spell or define, brother, since the person im talkin abt is most likely not my actual brother. But, wat i mean to evoke, is adhesion to a subculture, as small as it may be, of people that understand wat im saying. Those that understand my meaning, they realize that we have a common bond of exclusive language that others cannot participate in. If one has agency over his speech, they control everything, who can listen, who can understand, who can b close to them. Empowering. not to mention the creativity. Etymology. when u think of Etymology, u think merriam-webster, u think dictionary, u think latin, u think obscure dumb yadda yadda. NO. Etymology is creativity. Its exciting. Y? take the word, eating. If i say Im Eating, bruh or Steph Curry was eating in the tourney i do not mean he was having {Hamburgers n Franks}, Gus. im saying that he is winning, which comes from doing well, which comes from more societies where weight is equated to wealth and prosperity, where if u look like jabba the hut, ur prolly the king. Thats Etymology. thats crazy and mindblowing. and thats wat excites me about slang. Not that i cant speak properly. But sometimes i dont want to. I want to say bruh… and i can agency over my speech, over my interactions, over my subculture. the world is amazing.
Based(on a TRUEstory): Mason
2 AprIn the infinite time i spend chopping it up with the weebles, be it online, in person, on the phone, through skype, ichat, watever, i learn alot abt that non-animal animal that we refer to as human. I was talking to a friend i met from the states, Mason Sills, and we were talkin abt love and lust, always a great topic of conversation. The result of our conversation was not a conclusion, if u couldnt see that one coming, but a story, not abt me, or involving me at all, but a great story nonetheless. I had never really considered writing fiction, but little short stories might be fun. I dunno, this story left me inspired. creativity and art for its own sake. agency over creativity. reminds me of this TED.com vid i watched on my boys blog C+. Well, with no further anticipation: SLOW MOTION
I guess I didn’t mean it, but man you shoulda seen it. We drove through the star polluted night going ninety-five down ninety-five, well, he did. I sat. Motionless. Clenching the Sky in my sweaty palms as the car beat in rhythm with my heart. Music blasted while I polluted my veins anticipating them to be filled further. We arrived and parked nowhere as the liquor blacked out my life. He jumped, an unwanted Spiderman hero here to breakdown my hardened womb. Enter. Trapped in neon light halls, white walls surround us. He’s lost, and I follow. A recipe for disaster as he sings “but girl, if you would let me, Ill take your pants off”. I let him, maybe? I told myself I wouldn’t loose this time. Images float in when it’s over, when it’s done. He leaves my side and I lie there alone in quiet space, more alone than when I am flying solo. Regret stained all over the bed as I poke his tender skin. “Come cuddle,” I say. “Hold on” his deep voice coarsely replies, yet, he never comes. I guess we have something in common that night. Heart hollow, I lay my spinning head against foreign sheets, not flesh. Sunken hope surrounds me. Maybe we’re both young urban psychopaths.
At nine a.m., the sun rises the most beautiful ruby red. His smile wakens my tired eyes, permeating butterflies into my dehydrated system. And I too, smile back. He holds me with forearms that are softer than any felt before. Yet, his muscles look all too familiar. Gentle and dangerous? They always go hand in hand. Sweat sickles down my un-toned body as we begin to make lust. Lips lock and he tastes sweet despite our un-brushed teeth and day old bodies. I want him. His gaze radiates wetness between my legs, I hardly remember him drinking me last night. Delicious. What other word is there for breathtaking first encounters? Sigh, oh my. We bury our souls inside one another, orgasms for breakfast. Luscious, our flesh explodes. Later bathing in the afterglow his touch is missed already, even though his masculine palms clenched my baby bearing hips three seconds prior. Will it fade? Too scared I am, for he seems imperfectly perfect.
We go back the way we came, ninety-five, driving slow, not wanting to leave the irreplaceable sweet scent of passion mixed with incense and Nantucket nectars to quench thirst and panting. Five days young together. What is he to me? What will he be? I can’t tell, I can never tell. Slow motion. See me let go (aaahh). Oh yeah…
- Mason Eve Sills
¡Its ProVENCE not ProVINCE!
2 AprAs i said before, I am a little bit behind right now. I think three weeks ago by now, i headed down to the south of france to Provence, more specifically to Nimes and Saintes Maries de la Mer in the Camargue region of France. If weird southern accents (yea they have the same funny stigma in france) or sunny days wasnt enough to draw you down to these quaint towns then the bulls and horses will. Apparently, Camargue is famous for their unique bulls, rodeo and their horses that turn white with age. So much so that Sarkozy (current and controversial new French President) came down during his campaign to the very ranch (Mas lou Rayas) that we visited. This entry can only cover the beginning of the trip, since it was bursting with fun times and cultural factoids. To start, we took the TGV or the Trein Grand Vitesse, which travels at abt 175 MPH to my knowledge. Either way its real fast. Made me a little dizzy. We got down there on a beautiful day, the type that is nearly impossible to come by in grey and gloomy and rainy and cold PAREE. That first day, we hit this crazy roman aqueduct called Pont du Gard. Its real nice, and they put it together without using mortar or concert. Some pretty crazy stuff in the words of the smart shop owner in Holland. Then we hit the Arenes, a roman coliseum that is supposed to be just a well preserved as its bigger counterpart in ROME (though, admittedly, i have never been to rome so i cannot compare). Learned of Romans and Gladiators in anticipation of a bull dinner and flamenco dancing… and anticipation that you will now participate in with a {TO BE CONTINUED}
The Du0 back at it again, southern fried, taking it around the outside (get ur MACdre Game up)
Failed attempt at kicking the stationary metal bull. sad, very sad, but amusing all the same.
…. And success, though i cannot say thats how the Matadors would handle the situation.

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