A Biography
For most of my young adult life, I was in training to become an Artist. As a high school student, I attended a school offering programs in Performing as well as Visual Arts. Along with basic academic courses such as math, science, history, I also had two studio classes a day dedicated towards the visual arts - such as painting, drawing, and sculpture. It was great. It granted me so many opportunities to express and learn more about myself. As those four years came closer and closer to their end, it was encouraged to begin applying to Art Universities and Colleges. And I was more than eager to. I applied to as many as I could, earning various scholarships and grants to each one.
Eventually, I chose to attend University of the Arts in Philadelphia. The idea of an institution dedicated to the advancement and training of not just the visual arts, but of all art genres as a whole was incredibly appealing. That was ten years ago.
For those first few semesters I attended UArts, I cherished it. I had such great dreams and fantasies of becoming a grand painter. It was everything I had imagined and more. Yet still, something felt missing from the equation. I couldn't place it, so I just assumed it was the discomfort of being in someplace new and unfamiliar. But as the semesters and years passed, I grew more and more disillusioned with my place at the school. What had gone wrong? Why did I no longer feel that excitement for painting, creating, or expressing myself? I honestly did not know. I just knew that I was losing the desire to be an artist. It wasn't that I couldn't. I knew I could. My professors knew I could. They brought me into their offices, told me to call them on their off hours, told me to take control of my desire to express myself. But I had no wish to. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew I wasn't happy with the decision I had made to become an artist. It no longer felt right. So I decided to take a leave of absence from the school. And so for the Spring Semester of my junior year, I surprised all my friends and teachers by just not showing up.
My parents were obviously not pleased. My weekly phone calls turned into monthly phone calls. The monthly phone calls turned into every other month phone calls. Then they turned into an every few months email. Until, like that, my communication with them came to a halt. Now, I'm not close to my family at all.
After a couple years of wasting away in Philadelphia, drinking, smoking weed, even fucking pretty girls from time to time, I looked in the mirror and was not happy. The Tyler Durden philosophy of life was dead. Nine Eleven had come and gone. The world was changing. People were voicing their opinions, trying to make a difference, expressing themselves. And through it all, there I was, sitting on the sidelines. Well, I got tired of sitting around doing nothing. So I told my friends I was going to join the Marine Corps.
They all looked at me as though I were insane. I was living in the heart of a liberal and artistic subculture within Center City Philadelphia. Those hip, cool, self proclaimed independent thinkers who hung out in small privately owned coffee shops, working and talking about their art, debating and cursing Bush for his illegal wars, were the people that I hung out with. Needless to say, they were not thrilled about my decision. In fact, I'm pretty sure it pissed a lot of them off. But the decision was made.
So now I'm trained how to kill. I practice drills on efficient killing. Patrol. Contact Front. Hasty Ambush. Fire Team 3, sweep left. Team 2, envelop right. First Fire Team, rush, assault through. Fire and Maneuver. I'm trained with numerous weapons. The clean and graceful M16 A-4 Service Rifle, aiming in for those perfect shots. The M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, simply known as the SAW for its beautifully destructive machine gun fire. The M203 Grenade Launcher, attached to the hand guards of the M16, allowing for even greater destructive force to that already capable service rifle. The M136 AT-4 shoulder fired and then forgotten rocket launcher, I learn to kill with all of them. I train to wreak havoc, inflict casualties, lay down utter and complete destruction, to efficiently and expediently annihilate another human being. Destroy. Annihilate. Kill. This is my trade. War is my profession.
I used to be an artist. For years, I trained in that profession. Now I train for the opposite. The Artist is a Creator. The Warrior is a Destroyer. But in the end, we both make a difference.
I haven't touched a paintbrush in years.
For most of my young adult life, I was in training to become an Artist. As a high school student, I attended a school offering programs in Performing as well as Visual Arts. Along with basic academic courses such as math, science, history, I also had two studio classes a day dedicated towards the visual arts - such as painting, drawing, and sculpture. It was great. It granted me so many opportunities to express and learn more about myself. As those four years came closer and closer to their end, it was encouraged to begin applying to Art Universities and Colleges. And I was more than eager to. I applied to as many as I could, earning various scholarships and grants to each one.
Eventually, I chose to attend University of the Arts in Philadelphia. The idea of an institution dedicated to the advancement and training of not just the visual arts, but of all art genres as a whole was incredibly appealing. That was ten years ago.
For those first few semesters I attended UArts, I cherished it. I had such great dreams and fantasies of becoming a grand painter. It was everything I had imagined and more. Yet still, something felt missing from the equation. I couldn't place it, so I just assumed it was the discomfort of being in someplace new and unfamiliar. But as the semesters and years passed, I grew more and more disillusioned with my place at the school. What had gone wrong? Why did I no longer feel that excitement for painting, creating, or expressing myself? I honestly did not know. I just knew that I was losing the desire to be an artist. It wasn't that I couldn't. I knew I could. My professors knew I could. They brought me into their offices, told me to call them on their off hours, told me to take control of my desire to express myself. But I had no wish to. I didn't know what was wrong, but I knew I wasn't happy with the decision I had made to become an artist. It no longer felt right. So I decided to take a leave of absence from the school. And so for the Spring Semester of my junior year, I surprised all my friends and teachers by just not showing up.
My parents were obviously not pleased. My weekly phone calls turned into monthly phone calls. The monthly phone calls turned into every other month phone calls. Then they turned into an every few months email. Until, like that, my communication with them came to a halt. Now, I'm not close to my family at all.
After a couple years of wasting away in Philadelphia, drinking, smoking weed, even fucking pretty girls from time to time, I looked in the mirror and was not happy. The Tyler Durden philosophy of life was dead. Nine Eleven had come and gone. The world was changing. People were voicing their opinions, trying to make a difference, expressing themselves. And through it all, there I was, sitting on the sidelines. Well, I got tired of sitting around doing nothing. So I told my friends I was going to join the Marine Corps.
They all looked at me as though I were insane. I was living in the heart of a liberal and artistic subculture within Center City Philadelphia. Those hip, cool, self proclaimed independent thinkers who hung out in small privately owned coffee shops, working and talking about their art, debating and cursing Bush for his illegal wars, were the people that I hung out with. Needless to say, they were not thrilled about my decision. In fact, I'm pretty sure it pissed a lot of them off. But the decision was made.
So now I'm trained how to kill. I practice drills on efficient killing. Patrol. Contact Front. Hasty Ambush. Fire Team 3, sweep left. Team 2, envelop right. First Fire Team, rush, assault through. Fire and Maneuver. I'm trained with numerous weapons. The clean and graceful M16 A-4 Service Rifle, aiming in for those perfect shots. The M249 Squad Automatic Weapon, simply known as the SAW for its beautifully destructive machine gun fire. The M203 Grenade Launcher, attached to the hand guards of the M16, allowing for even greater destructive force to that already capable service rifle. The M136 AT-4 shoulder fired and then forgotten rocket launcher, I learn to kill with all of them. I train to wreak havoc, inflict casualties, lay down utter and complete destruction, to efficiently and expediently annihilate another human being. Destroy. Annihilate. Kill. This is my trade. War is my profession.
I used to be an artist. For years, I trained in that profession. Now I train for the opposite. The Artist is a Creator. The Warrior is a Destroyer. But in the end, we both make a difference.
I haven't touched a paintbrush in years.