I Am Not an Artist

I am not an artist.

Said nobody about me ever.

Which is funny because even though I never tell myself that, I've been questioning it a lot. What makes someone an artist in the eyes of another person? Is my artwork really that good enough for others to recognize me as an "artist"? 

I've been drawing ever since I could remember--which dates way back to like the first grade, where I brought a little plastic toy to school (a Neopet, because I was insanely into those and probably need therapy now because of it), and I sat it down in front of me and started drawing it. Not even kidding, at least half the class came to breathe over my shoulder as I drew. If I could find that drawing now, I'd probably laugh at it's poor proportions and zero shading technique--but considering I was around 7 years old, I suppose it's not too shabby.

By the time I was in high school, I started painting and drawing far more complex things. Instead of plastic toys, it was more like Iron Man and any really cool-looking angel dude. I drew during class all the time. I remember in history class we were going over an extremely important test review, in which I knew most of the answers to, so I doodled people and angels and eyes and whatever all over the margins. I hadn't realized we'd have to turn in the review to the teacher once we were finished, and I was a bit worried because I drew everything by pen so I couldn't erase anything! But when the teacher got it, he loudly spoke from his desk to me, "Allison, I'm curious about what you'll draw on your next test review!" And he wasn't even mad. 

I received the Best Drawing award in my art class when I was a senior, which was probably one of the greatest feats I've ever accomplished in sight of being an "artist" only because I loved my art teacher and wanted him to see how much potential I had. 

When I graduated, I was voted Best Artist in our class of 2012--and I was astonished as to how many people even knew my name to vote it.

But.

After I graduated and moved to Canada for bible school, I slowly forgot how often I loved to draw and even paint. I was so focused on the dreams of others that I forgot about my own. When I moved back to Texas, it took a long time till I realized that I felt drained for not even crafting my own angels or dragons on paper.

The reason why I'm sharing all of this isn't because I want to put myself in a spotlight--understand that much at least! But if I could have you walk away with one thing from this post, I'd say: Don't forget your own dreams in support of someone else's. 

About a week ago I was hanging out with my awesome sister-in-law Tammy, and she wanted me to individually draw the letters for Happy Easter. I was like, heck yeah I can do that! But it only took the first couple of letters before my forehead was planted into her table and I was on the verge of tears. WHAT HAD BECOME OF ME?! They were just simple letters! But for some reason I just felt like I couldn't get them right, that I was letting her down because she might have high expectations of me. I should have never felt like that, but I did! Anyone who even knows me to the slightest bit of a degree probably knows that I can draw. That's a lot of pressure in itself, and I was feeling it.

Well, after having had such a miserable time drawing something as simple as lines, I decided to make up for it a few days ago. I wanted to make sure I could still be called an artist by anyone who thought me so.

I took out my watercolors and just went ape crazy in three hours, and finally turned out with the painting you see above! Of course it's nothing worth gasping and weeping out of sheer artistic revelation at, but to me the result showed me I am too an artist! I looked at no references for such a painting. I just listened to the soundtrack from Narnia and BAM. A mysterious person with a red cape in a storm of some sort! Who even knows what that means!

So please, my dear readers, know that if you have a passion for something, pursue it. Pursue it above the desperate attention of others' dreams. If you like to draw, write, golf, swim, bake cupcakes--do those things, lest you forget what God has designed to bring you personal joy.

Lest you forget the fine, fine life!

Thumper Bit My Face

I was probably three or four years old, waddling around like a little derp and secretly shoving chocolates into my mouth behind the couch with Taran when my parents brought home a black dog. I don't think he was a quite a puppy anymore, but nonetheless, we kept him and my older brother named him Thumper (after the bunny on Bambi, which made complete sense to him I guess).

Now I have to be honest with you, my fellow readers, that in my mind palace I hold not a single sliver of memory about Thumper. No memory of the moment I first saw him, not a memory of the first time I petted him. Nope. I was but a wee little lass and memory at that time meant only trying to remember what Mom gave me for breakfast that morning (probably oatmeal).

But.

There is one memory within my mind palace that could never be lost about Thumper.

On one fateful day, three/four-year-old me wanted to play outside with Thumper. It was just me and the black dog, having a fit of giggles and whatnot, when I noticed he had a large bone in his food bowl. Quickly I recalled all the shows I watched of Clifford the Big Red Dog (which was about as good as my memory got beyond breakfast that morning), and I realized that playing fetch with bones was a great way to make play with dogs. So, little ol' me grabbed the bone and started to jog so Thumper and I could begin our bonding experience.

But Thumper thought otherwise.

Everything past this moment was a blur--and not just any ordinary blur. It was a horrifying one. I realized that Thumper did not want to share his bone, and that in fact fetch was not with a bone but with a stick. He was running after me like a crazed monkey or a black rider out to get my soul. What was I to do? Drop the bone? Of course not.

I ran as fast as I could to the front door, and I vaguely remember trying to climb the fence that was the patio that connected to said door, but the next scene was...was truly horrific.

Thumper bit my face.

I don't know what happened after that. I must have dropped the bone while I let out a mighty roar of a scream (I had to make sure my parents knew their most precious child had been inflicted with pain), and I quite literally can't remember what happened thereafter. I must have wiped the memory clean from my mind. And probably all the memories of that day, including what I had for breakfast.

In the end, Thumper inflicted a small but deep wound on my face that now shines as a scar on the left side of my face right next to my nose. It was only a few days later perhaps that Thumper mysteriously disappeared. Rumors said our neighbors kidnapped him. But me? I believe Thumper is still out there somewhere.

Protecting his precious bone. Biting little children's faces if they come too near.

The End.

Also my older brother said he was watching from the window the entire time and that I wasn't playing fetch--that I was actually taunting Thumper with the bone and not giving it to him. Which is probably true. But somehow I don't even remember it that way.

The THE End.

Guitars Make Cupcakes Delicious

Have you ever been forced to sit down and listen to somebody play guitar and sing for you? Well...if not, swing by my place and I'll fix that problem. I serenade to anyone.

Ever since I was 12, I wanted to learn guitar. Honestly it's because my older brother Jaymian started to play the electric in our youth group, so I would always watch him and wonder how the hoopla he could move his fingers in a sequence without having to look down at them.

I thought to myself, I'm gunna learn how to play a guitar one day. And I'm gunna be BOSS at it.

I quickly got my own electric guitar (in which I named Sparklez...cuz it made sense), and learned how to play it EXACTLY never.

It collected dust in the corner of my room for four years. I tried to teach myself but NOTHING made sense. I tried to get people to teach me but everyone was too busy. For four years, I told myself and others that I would learn, but I never did. Nothing ever gave me enough umph.

BUT THEN...One day...I discovered a song. A very simple, very soft acoustic song called Boats and Birds by Gregory and the Hawk. It somehow set off a spark in me, and I couldn't not learn how to play guitar any longer. That one spark from one simple song has kept me going 3 years later. I taught myself everything I know now, because this time I wasn't forcing myself to learn. I just wanted to.

And today, I've truly felt the sheer joy in playing guitar! It has nothing to do with a perfect performance or a song or anything--but from my student who's only about five years younger than me.

The funny thing was that I wasn't looking for somebody to teach at all. But people just come and ask to learn, just like I did when I was 12. Even though I was horrified by the thought of teaching anybody for the first time anything, I agreed to it. I wanted to give her that chance that I never really had.

Well, on with the story, Allison! Today, five months since her first lesson, as I walked into our practicing room, there waited for me the two most delicious-looking cupcakes I've ever seen.

"These are for you!" My student said to me, "It's your 'For Being a Good Teacher' gift!"

I don't think any words can properly express how I felt right at that moment. A few weeks ago I had given her my own cupcakes that I had made, and told her they were her "Good Job" rewards, the first gift I've ever given her for being my student--but never in a million years did I ever think about receiving a gift for being a good teacher.

I'm a pretty schizophrenic teacher though, honestly. Often I think faster than I can talk so my words fall out of my mouth all jumbly dumbly, and I don't know specific words of certain things so I can be really vague sometimes, but she gave me CUPCAKES.

And not just any cupcakes, you see. Chocolate chip, cream cheese, chocolate cupcakes. That...is the cupcake of champions. And she gave me two.

You see, my fellow reader, I'm sharing this story for a bunch of reasons and it would be a complete waste if you didn't catch a single one of them so here's you a list:

1) The guitar is possible to learn if you truly want to. You will hunt down a teacher. You will hunt down random YouTube videos. You will learn somehow if the spark is there.

2) Try something you've never done, to receive something you've never received.

And lastly,

3) Guitars make cupcakes delicious.

Why Gum Should Be Thrown into a Fiery Chasm

If I had a penny for every time someone's asked me if I wanted a piece of gum, I'd be on the TV show Hoarders because I'd have too many pennies to know what to do with (and would probably have some sort of psychological problem with copper).

The answer would simply be...[refer to picture above].

I'm not sure where my sudden passions to rebuke gum originated, but it must have first begun many a'year ago. For you see...

I was but a wee little lassy in the 7th grade. I wore glasses and had long hair that touched my mid-back or so, and I was the best writer in my Language Arts class. My teacher would swoon over my stories in front of all the other kids, read them out loud and the students would laugh. Give me an essay to write about laundry, and I'd write a story about venturing into the deep depths of a world filled with dirty clothes my brothers never cleaned up. So I suppose...I became a target by the envious. A target for gum.

One day, as I walked out of my LA class, I had a hankering to brush my fingers through my hair. Therein my fingers came across the most vile, disgusting, repulsive and absolutely grotesque texture all the universe could ever contain. Gum. Chewed gum. In my precious hair.

The ground opened up and all hell broke loose. The sky started falling. The sun turned black. The flowers started to cry.

My LA teacher sent me to the nurse's office, and I sat there with malice and horror as she pulled on a pair of nylon gloves. This is it, I thought. I'm going to meet Jesus early.

Clearly not, because apparently peanut butter works magical wonders. I had to walk around the entire rest of the school day smelling like an awkward sandwich, but at least the gum was out of my hair. That vile demon.

Since that day, I've grown to detest gum. I cower in the sight of it's brainy textures when people leave it on the cement. I almost enrage into the Hulk when I see people play with it. Play with it. Of all the toys Santa's ever made, people choose gum?! Where has humanity's common sense gone?

And, who was this supervillain who created such an atrocious not-even-edible chewy thingy?

Dear friends. I warn you, keep gum out of the question. Make better ones like, Do you want a piece of cupcake? or Do you want a piece of Thor? Those answers would obviously be yes. But gum...

That answer is no. Cast it back into the fiery chasm from whence it came.

And there you have it. My little story about why I hate gum. It was told to perhaps give you a little laugh or two. If not that, then it was to ward off the evil gum-doers out there waiting to ensnare me in their anger because I am such a fabulous writer!

*Allison pulls out a sword made by mints* BACK, YE EVIL GUM-DOERS.

I am the Blue Lion

Lately I've come to realize how much I love superheroes. I watch the Marvel movies all the time; Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, all of them...If you're talking about a superhero, odds are I was probably born for that conversation.

So one day, as I was chatting away with a cousin of mine, it dawned on me. What if I...were a superhero? ...What would I look like? What would be my superpowers? What would make me so special, and how did I become that way?

So this is where you, my fellow and beloved reader, come in. You're [most likely] going to delight in the story I'm going to [on-the-spot] conjure from my overly-active imagination of how I--Allison Charmaine--became a superhero. Sit back and enjoy, for what I am about to write--not even I know thus far...
________________________________________

One day, there was a girl named Allison who took a bus to Isengard--a far away land where no mere traveler travels for fun. She was a witty and creative little lass, you see. She loved to dream about dragons and giant eagles and whatever massive creature came to her head. So she learned that in this far away land of Isengard--if you climbed a tall, black tower all the way to the top and looked to the farthest snowy mountain in the north, and squinted your eyes really, really tight--you could see perhaps a dragon or an eagle flying about. When she heard of this (the strange man with the one wrinkly eye vanished after he taught all this to her), she was of course excited. She had to go see!

So Allison wondered through the cosmos of Seminolenheim, searching for the bus to Isengard. She stumbled upon it when a small man with hairy feet shouted something about hobbits in a hair parlor somewhere, and the bus appeared in magical fairy dust before her. Seeing this, Allison burned the rubber of her shoes clean off tearing straight into those bus doors (to this day, some say you can still smell the smoke of her soles in front of that very same hair parlor).

As quickly as the bus appeared, it vanished. And as the bus spiraled into a vortex like that of a rainbow road, she suddenly sat at the foot of the black tower of Isengard. The bus was gone, and there was no small, hairy-footed man to be seen.

So Allison climbed to the top of the tower--up, Up, UP the stairs she WENT...until she was finally atop. Hundreds and thousands of feet high, she could see the snowy, white peaks of the mountains far north. Her heart pounded in her chest with excitement as she squinted her eyes to see these magical creatures of myth and legend.

But she could not see anything.

She squinted harder.

Nope, she thought simply. I'll just scoot closer to the edge.

And with that...

SHE WAS FALLING TO HER DOOM, RIGHT OFF THE TOWER. EVERYTHING WAS FLYING BY SO FAST, IT WAS AS IF THE UNIVERSE BECAME A BLUR OF GIANT CAPS LOCK LETTERS. THIS IS GOING TO BE IT, SHE THOUGHT VERY LOUDLY. I'M GOING TO DIE BEFORE EVER RIDING A DRAGON.

But when she opened her eyes...the blur of caps lock letters were nowhere to be screamed. And beneath her, a giant eagle carried her. She gasped, and shoved her face in it's feathers. I've always wanted to shove my face in feathers, she smiled with extreme fulfillment.

The eagle landed her on the very tip of a small mountain and spoke to her.

"I have saved you," the eagle said.

"Yes. Yes you have." Allison responded, thinking not even twice of the fact she was talking to a giant eagle.

"In return, you are going to save others!" The eagle belted mightily, spreading it's wings dozens of feet around her. "ABRA-CADABRA!"

POOF.

Allison woke up that next morning. The sun was beaming in her eyes. The dirt smelt like dirt. I'm back in Seminolenheim...? When she flopped out of her bed and looked in the mirror, her hair was blue. Just kidding; it was still brown--but she was wearing a lot of armor with a blue cape! This made her raise a brow. But as quickly as the one brow was raised, so was the other!

"Oh my gosh!" She squealed. "I'M A SUPERHERO."

She ran into her brother Tarantitus' room and woke him from his slumber.

"Brother! I am a superhero!!"

Tarantitus looked at her armor with weary eyes and let out a sigh. "They took you to Isengard, didn't they?"

"Who?"

"The hobbits."

"The what?"

Tarantitus sighed again. "Nevermind. What are you going to call yourself?"

Allison stood there frozen for a long time. Superheroes have different names, don't they? She looked at her armor. Her cape was as blue as the sky, and a roaring lion was imprinted on her breastplate. A sapphire sword hung at her side, and her shoes looked awesome. Oh! I know!

"How about Captain Cana--"

"No," Tarantitus said. "Blue Lion."

Allison grinned from ear to ear (well hopefully not actually ear to ear), and let out a mighty ROAR. Tarantitus stared wide-eyed in terror. Then simply got up to go to the bathroom, for he was that much startled at the roar.

"I'm sorry, brother," She apologized. "Little do I know what I am capable of yet so far." With that, Allison began to test her new capabilities (but away from Tarantitus). She learned she could roar like that of a lion, and break solid objects with it. She could also walk through things, if she thought hard enough (this took many tries and many bruises). And, after many failed attempts, she learned she couldn't fly--but she could jump hundreds of feet in the air like an astronaut on the moon!

And so it was that Allison discovered she was the Blue Lion. But...she had yet to save anyone...

[To be Continued...]

And also she quickly applied to join the Avengers.

The End.
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The Spider Slayer

There is nothing more horrifying than picking up your shampoo bottle during a shower and discovering a spider clinging to the wall with perhaps a sheer terror that the Great Allison found him out. If I were a spider, I would quake in fear as well having my hide-out destroyed in a matter of seconds by me. Well I think we can agree that the spider and I were both equally surprised.

But it's come to my attention since last night's duel-to-the-death that...I am the Spider Slayer. It's as if I am the only soul in the family burdened to slay the foul beasts within our home. I keep our territory safe. If it wasn't for me, our floors would be crawling with these eight-legged freaks of nature.

So I am here to bestow advice upon the weak, who have not the talent I possess in slaying spiders. Hear my words, O' weakling! For they might very well save your life one day.

Slaying spiders not only requires the focus of one's mind, but also the knowledge as to which weapon one must equip in any sort of terrain a sudden battle might break out. Here are your weapon options when suddenly coming face to face with a Bathroom Spider:

The Shampoo Bottle - the most common choice of weapon. Also great for hair.

The Towel - whip that demon back into Hades.

The Plunger - one of the most versatile weapons. Easy to slay spiders hiding behind the toilet fortress.

The Soap Dispenser - an easily breakable weapon, but used out of desperation. Can get the job done but continue with extreme caution.

When coming face to face with a common House Spider, the following weapons may be used as directed:

The Giant's Shoe - you know that one sibling who's feet are twice as large as yours? Go find that shoe. And use it. Use it with all your might, for this weapon is the mightiest weapon of all. It will never break, it will never betray your aim, it will never spare a spider's meager life. The Giant's Shoe is the Ultimate Weapon.

The Flip Flop - though a flip flop is not as large and mighty as the Giant's Shoe, it is as fast as lightning and gets the job done before you can even release a battle cry.

The Book of Never-Letting-Go - this weapon can only be found in households carrying bookcases. Though a book might be a bit difficult to wield, once it hits it's target at full force, it never has to hit it again.

These are some of the most common weapons a beginner spider slayer must learn to equip. Once the spider has fallen in battle and no longer can recoil itself from the corners of death and despair, now is the time to dispose of it's body. 

Rip out a giant's handful of kleenax/tissue, paper towels or most commonly a roll of toilet paper and grasp the black scribble left before you. A giant's handful will prevent you from even feeling that it is betwixt your fingers!

Next, cast it into the chasm for whence it came. Toss it into the fiery depths of Mordor. Dispose the demon into the toilet of Hades and flush it's sins out of your righteous sight. Then at last, you have successfully defeated your adversary. 

And that, my friends, is how to slay a spider properly. Perhaps one day you will be as great of a spider slayer as myself *chuckles*...but until then, I wish you a fine life!

A fine, fine life, indeed. One without spiders hiding behind your shampoo bottles.

The Perfector

There's something that happens to the human soul when a family member dies. There is a part of you that has disappeared and you know it can never be replaced. But you have to do your best to somehow move on in this world that hasn't even stopped turning for your loss. Allow me to share my story, from the eyes of a distant niece.

On November 24th at 2:25am, my uncle Bernie passed away. He bravely fought cancer for two years and Jesus came to take him home earlier than any of us expected, but I suppose Jesus was too excited for such a jolly good man to be with him that he just couldn't wait any longer!

Uncle Bernie lived in Canada, where my brother and I lived for 8 months. We are insanely close to his sons, so we happened to come over every single Saturday, Monday or Tuesday, and Thursday--on average, 3 days a week, to hang out with them! We loved coming over, and my aunt would cook up that farmer sausage lasagna, which was probably a recipe she borrowed from the kitchens of heaven. We would eat with our cousins' whole family and so we got to know Uncle Bernie really well. One thing I will always remember about him was the way he let out a hefty chuckle that made his whole belly shake every time he told a joke! I am so thankful that God wanted us to live in Canada during that time, because then I wouldn't know just how great of an uncle I really had.

Because of his passing, my whole family quickly packed our bags and drove 25 hours straight through the night to be with his family and see him at the funeral. The drive was totally worth it, to be able to hug my cousins so tightly that it felt like I could hold some of their breaking pieces together. I could be there for them in person and do my best to make them smile and laugh at least for a moment.

On the day of his funeral, it happened to be Thanksgiving for the Americans. This holiday is a big deal for most of us, and so it was a very strange experience to have it in Canada at a funeral. But, as I sat there and listened to uncle Bernie's sons and daughters speak about him, I realized how thankful I really was to have known him. I cried so hard listening to their words and watching them naturally break down. And so Thanksgiving was painfully and yet preciously spent.

I will never forget the sight of the burial afterward. I stood there in a foot or two of the fluffiest snow I've ever seen. It glittered at me, and fell off the evergreen trees in slow motion. My breath flowed unevenly from my mouth as I cried watching my cousins and aunt take flowers from uncle Bernie's casket before lowering him down. I was allowed to take a flower of my own, so I mustered up my courage and stepped out to take the beautiful red flower that had my attention all afternoon long. Uncle Bernie gave me that flower, at least that's what I told myself, and I clung to it the rest of the night.

Being back home now and thinking over all the things (and yes, with the flower by my side) that have happened in only a week has brought back to my attention a powerful song that has helped me mull over the loss of my irreplaceable uncle. If you've ever lost a family member and are still hurting from it, pay attention to these lyrics because they can help put in perspective for you what death really is:

I'm still a young man so I think very little of death,

but who really does till it's coming for them?

And I know with each breath I come one closer,

but death is just a hook behind the door where I'll leave my dirty clothes

They may dump my body in the sea

or spread my ashes miles wide, but it won't matter,

all my parts will realign

They will rush to find each other when they hear their Lover's cry

and death will be abandoned when He comes back for His bride

Saints are never buried,

they are seeds planted who bring about a greater harvest

when they burst forth from the earth that needed their fruits,

but it could never hope to make enough room for their roots

Death is swallowed up,

it owns nothing in me

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His faithful ones