In english we were asked to demonstrate the truth behind our message by writing a narrative, or a personal story explaining why we believe that the message we chose is the one that shows us best. The goal was to expand our writing skills and be able to take real life experiences and put them on paper, or in our case computers.
In WebAudio, we enhanced our personal essays by turning them into podcasts. We used Flash for producing our podcasts. Along with a recorded version of our essays there are also pictures to correspond with the messages inside of the essay.
One Smudge Towards Perfection
Dancing specks on a pallet of black. Such an amazing spectacle, how they group and swirl. Closer examinations shows an inconsistency however. A single speck, surrounded by faded lines and rustic colors. This speck, a child, numb to the excitement of the other children, stands stationary staring at a large green wall. As his imagination brews, his small hands matted with chalk dust jitter and slide, making doodles and shapes. When he runs out of space he smudges a masterpiece and continues drawing on top of it. In all of the mess of doodles and smudges, he leaves one untouched, a small misshapen smiley face. This is his Mona Lisa, his Starry Night, and it is his perfection.
This child is not unique, there are millions like him. A born artist, he prefers brushes to rackets and paints to balls. His notes are more filled with doodles than they are words. He is an inspiration to others who were not born with such a gift.
The smiley face. The masterpiece. Things people like myself will chase their whole lives. As a younger child, I was the opposite of that child. I did not spend my lunch and recess alone drawing, I did not prefer art to sports. However, I admired that child. I wanted to be that child. I wanted to make something that I knew was perfect. It didn’t need to be art even, I just wanted something to be perfect.
My room. I’ve had my own room for the majority of my life. It has always been messy. But only because I wanted it to be. While other people would cringe at the sight of my unkempt domain. The organizational skills of a toddler, yet I kind find everything. Its unique. Almost perfection.
Socks. Something so simple, but so detailed. Every stripe shooting up toward my matching outfit. Constantly being adjusted so they are neither to high nor to low, they must represent me. My social ranking labeled my clothing, stooping as low as the orientation and length of your bleach white crew socks. The nike swoosh, resting perfectly on the side.
Hair. A part of my passion for tidiness that developed later than the others. Before, the mop I called style rested where it pleased. After, each individual strand glued into a perfect wave crashing across my head. With even the slightest imperfection setting off an impulse to reorganize the wave into its un-natural flowing pattern.
Perfection is in the eyes of the beholder. Whether it is an obsession for appearance or having your room messy in all the right ways. No matter way you look at something you will never think it perfect. You shall always set a higher standard than your current best. Whether it is matching your shoes better with your hoodie, or smudging that chalky smiley face just a little more.