|I'm an ever evolving artist. I don't do well staying in one place. Mostly I call myself a writer.|
Propaganda - Enemy of FictionPropaganda - Enemy of Fiction by OokamiKasumi
The Enemy of Good Fiction
~ PROPAGANDA! ~
Many people have asked me, "Why don't you watch TV anymore?"
I do, sort of. I play movies that I buy and rent on my TV regularly. However, I Don't watch cable TV or local TV, and I NEVER watch sitcoms or Reality TV of any kind. If I want the news, I go to the internet.
Why Not? Because there's too much Programming going on in those programs, and not one drop of Reality in Reality TV -- especially the Law & Order ones.
TV = The Tool of Propaganda
By Phil Cunningham
Posted WITH Permission.)
Propaganda and Advertising, affects us all. The two operate using the exact same techniques, so it can be very difficult to recognize one from the other. The only major difference between the two is that advertising sells Products, while propaganda sells IDEALS.
Increasingly, the corporate advertising of goods and services is being coupled with political, "moral", and religious value messages - Propaganda.
Dearest Art Thief2Dearest Art Thief,Dearest Art Thief2 by badspoon
It does not take paper and pen
Nor canvas and paint
To create great works of art,
Which may strike the soul, amuse the mind
Bring serenity to the soul
Or joy to the down heartened.
True art comes from within,
It is not scribbles and lines on scrap paper
That is not ink, chalk or acrylic paint.
Those special selected pages,
Are the embodiments of someone's soul
Pieces of mind and
Deepest thoughts and desires.
Even with our mistakes,
The not atomically correct,
Seplling mishaps and
Pieces of pure art,
Maybe not amazing,
But they are ours.
So, dearest Art Thief,
You may steal our work, grab attention
False respect and admiration.
But without the love, cherished
Mistakes or aching wrists
It'll NEVER be yours.
We, the artists, shouldn't hate you
Just pity you,
Your lack of inspiration, creativity, talent
And, sadly, soul.
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.Yellow by Betnii
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that