Dear Marc,
     This week has been a rather easy one. Considering I have had several days off from school just through luck, I've been able to recharge and do some pleasure reading and writing. Notice how it's not called pleasure writing, but I actually write to survive. Anyhow, it was just business as usual for most of the week. I cannot wait for the semester to wind down so I may start to relax without any guilt.
     On Thursday my parents left for vacation. This is the first time they're gone to the Dominican and I haven't gone with them. But to be honest I'm not all that upset. I get to have my own batch of wonderful experiences. I get to celebrate the holiday with Raph and that time with her is worth more than vegging out on the beach and then stuffing my face with seafood.
     The last time my parents were gone I freaked out. My anxiety just destroyed me and I am happy to report that right now that's not the case. In fact, last night in particular I slept pretty relaxed. That's not to say that I don't still worry, but it's nothing compared to last time. This Saturday I went to New Hope with a friend from college whose name is Kevin. New Hope is one of my favorite places because it has everything I love in it. We spent the majority of the day jumping from art studio to art studio, admiring certain things and playfully questioning others. It was so nice to take a day trip like this and just forget about responsibility for a little bit. But it also scared me, I don't want my life to end up in that cycle of constant work and hoping for small blips of escape. But more on that later. We had these homemade, gourmet waffles for dinner and they were incredible. The art galleries were great too. There were so many glass blowing shops as well and all of them held new collections and some of the collections that I remember and love as well. I also fed some ducks, which needs no explaining because ducks are wonderful. I even stumbled upon a hole in the wall studio, aptly named "The Cellar Door" because it was in fact just a cellar door leading straight down into a photography studio. I was so excited because I thought I knew all the hot spot places in the town and realizing that I had been literally passing by this place made me excited because it reminded me that just when you think you're done, there's always something else out there to catch your eye.
     Today I was reading this book by this one punk-cabaret singer that I really like. It's her first book, and it's all about asking and why it shouldn't be shameful. It's also part autobiography. But mostly it's just a very honest account of an artist trying to come to an emotional peace within herself. The honestly of her emotion was so moving that I breezed through almost half the book in just under two hours. Then of course it got me thinking about how much I want to be a true artist. I mean I am an artist now, but to be a true artist means that I have to have people who connect with whatever art that I put out. That would mean so much to me. She talks all about these three things that artist crave. Collecting, connecting, and sharing. Collecting experiences, and then connecting them together into a piece or a thought or a line is something that I really live for. And then of course is the all important sharing. I want to share everything I love with someone or a group of people. And that is something that has always been scary for me. Mostly because I'm used to the situation where I say, "Look at this" and no one looks. The book I was reading tackles that too. She talks about this concept of the Fraud Police. Those nagging voices in your head that tell you that your art and who you are are full of shit and they're going to tell everyone how much of a failure you are. The Fraud Police are the ones who scare me off from going after things that I have a feeling will make me happy. It's hard to live with it, but I think that's something every artist has to get over before they can really focus on their art.
     The next letter you get will be detailed with my first Thanksgiving experience, and all my eclectic observations on the scene. So I am rather excited to share that with you, and I am also excited to see what inspiration comes from it. But now we move to the writing that I did this week.
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Firstly here is a poem:

Pictures

I remember the first time I drew a picture.
It was ugly but I was proud.
Of my tiny wrists
Of my tiny mind
Of my tiny heart
For bringing something into existence.

I remember the first time my picture was taken.
It was a surprise.
I didn’t know I had to smile.
But the photographer was so pleased
When he realized that he had
Crystallized a moment,
And kept it safe from expectations.

I remember the first time I connected with a picture.
I was outside and it was cold
Cold, and so it was dark
Because no one wanted to be outside.
I saw a handful of dots.
Someone told me they were called stars.

My eyes moved from dot to dot
Processing, line by line
A simple smile that was once lost on me
In that sea of dots called stars.
They smiled at me and I smiled back.
I see you, I said.
We see you, they said.


(In case it doesn't come up, "stars" and "I see you" and "we see you" are italicized and the final "you" is also bold)

_______________________________________________________________
 And now for the latest installment of Ellory:


	*
He wasted no time when we arrived! Unlike the Wood, where we had time to explore the unmarked and unheard of, Jasper assured me that we had to stay on the map. Jasper told me I would have a difficult time appreciating the unseen unless I visit the center of Driskol first. You’d think the center, the city, the home of the bustle… father you’d think that would be the main event, wouldn’t you? But Jasper tells me that in Driskol things are very upside down. In fact, he says most things in Driskol are very upside down. Everything that is left on display in the center, as Jasper explains, is an intentional demonstration. I would be lying if I told you I fully understood what that meant, and we both know I do not lie. But here is a truth: I am so curious as I write to you now! Overwhelmed in the best ways.

		*


“How do you think it got so foggy, Iyan? I have an idea, but I want to hear yours first.”
“I’d like to hear yours first, if you didn’t mind.” I watched Symon’s motions. I watched him
experience a lag in his thought.
“Well, okay… I read about these things with big names in one of our school books. It’s
all about science and what happens when people use since to do bad things to the world.”
“Is that your answer?”
“Is what my answer?” Symon asked, not following my line of thought.
“Is ‘things with big names’ your answer?” I took a pause and tried to add in something to not make me sound so disapproving, “I think it’s a good answer, Symon.”
“Thank you, Iyan! I wish I could remember those big words, but they were very big and very important. Now, what’s your answer?”
“It’s funny, Symon. My answer turns out to just be some big words, too.”


Ginjo grew up not too far from the not-main event. Regimes ran both ends of the
spectrum over and over in those times, and though it was frustrating it kept the city lively. Ginjo spent a year of his life tracking the thickness of the fog that Driskol had been made famous for. He noted that as new regimes set in and the glow of political victory went away, the fog became denser as people reupped their complaints. Of course, he had no means of measuring this. But sometimes pure observation held more truth to it than a statistic. Ginjo’s journals cite the numerous times anger led to a whitewashing of the political system that the higher ups could pass for change. Ginjo never hypothesized about the state of the fog if all political back and forth were to end. He was always more focused on his frustration with the people, and his desire to get away from them. Every note on fog density included a long remark about how little the people understood. Eventually Ginjo surmised that the people just liked to be angry and dissatisfied, not to mention severely unproductive. I wonder how he would feel knowing that all of the fog is still there. All the anger, and dissatisfaction, and unproductivity still hangs over his birthplace. I bet he wouldn’t be surprised to know how much of a commodity it had become.


Driskol’s center wasn’t very difficult to find. Ever since several travel and story books named it a hotspot. People came in droves to experience the fog, and the history.  In addition to the detailed map that Symon kept a death grip on, there was a trail painted over top the concrete leading anyone willing to be led. Sadly, not all people are so eager to enter new experiences single-file. And so, after several mishaps, a trolley system was also put in place to make sure no one else got lost on their way to the city.
“What’s a trolley like, Iyan?” Symon had never been on a trolley, and surprisingly enough he had never read about it in our textbooks either. For Symon, curiosity was only a short step away from panic.
“It’s just like the ferry, Symon. Except instead of water we’re going to be moving on the land.”
“Just like the ferry… Well… I liked the ferry!” After that he stopped moving his hands. His qualms subsided for the time being.
The trolley station had little t-shaped lights to guide us towards it. The further away we went from the lunching area, the harder it was to see any more than a few inches ahead of us. I could feel Symon next to me, breathing heavy as he battled with his worry. If I looked down I see the lights reflecting on my shoes, but that was all. Being in Driskol forced me to be alone. Even with Symon next to me, I couldn’t see him. So I started to wonder if he was even there. The only thing I could be sure of was that I was there in the moment. Everything else was rooted in trust. I trusted the lights would take me where I wanted to go. I trusted that Symon was beside me. I trusted that everything would be okay. Being so trusting wasn’t easy, but it was helpful.
Once we got inside the station I noticed that there were lights along the ground leading you to various kiosks. The system was color coded, and the light for tickets was blue. Arm in arm, Symon and I followed the string of blue lights up to an empty window with a blank price board. The hollowed out work station surprised the both of us. While Symon began to fidget, I tried to understand what this could mean.
“Are we not going to the center, Iyan? If there’s no trolley man to sell us trolley tickets we can’t take the trolley to the center, right?” Out his mouth the qualms poured.
“Who told you we weren’t going? We’re going.” Symon looked at me as if to remind me that I had forgotten the most important part of my message and so I added, “I promise.”
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As always, I look forward to hearing your thoughts and I hope you have a great holiday next week, Marc!
-Donna-Claire