Die, Ensign Redshirt, die!!!!!

So, I was going to dress up as a redshirt for Halloween (I actually wore the costume to school on Friday, and it was awesome), and I made a lot of jokes (and heard a lot of jokes) about having to be careful so that I don't die.

In case someone's reading this (doubtful) who doesn't know what a redshirt is (likely), allow me to explain: They're the people, security officers and cannon fodder, in Star Trek (the original series, mind you, by The Next Generation red was for commanding officers) who almost always end up dead within the first five minutes of the episode.  Their deaths serve to dramatize the seriousness of the threat that the ship faces.  They don't have names.

The only redshirts who survive are Uhura (technically a redskirt and damn hot in it, too), Scotty, and Rand (OMG do a google image search for "Janice Rand hair" - the results will blow your mind.  DO IT.)

I guess what I'm trying to say by all of this was that I was seriously tempting fate with my costume choice.  I was okay all through Friday, and Saturday - but I was struck down by an alien virus early Sunday morning.  My survival is doubtful.  My homework is most assuredly NOT getting done.  I am not going trick-or-treating with my younger siblings (which, thinking about it, might be the only good thing that's come out of this situation).  In fact, I am laying on my deathbed as I write this, with my faithful laptop as my only companion, my family having abandoned me to go to a neighborhood party.  

I suppose, this being an art blog, not a griping-about-your-impending-death-by-alien-virus-and-hoping-Captain-Kirk-will-say-nice-things-at-your-memorial-service I should probably talk about artsy things.  Like how I'm actually pretty indifferent to Rothko.  I mean, the guy just did huge swaths of color and, while I usually like abstract art (some of it can be really emotionally evocative), his stuff just doesn't do it for me.  I'm not turned on.  The colors are pretty, but not interesting.  I don't care how tragic Rothko's life was - I don't see how his art reflects that.

Whatever.

Also, while on the subject of artistic things - I feel the need to share the amazing amazingness of Yevgeny Yevtushenko.  He's not a visual-art artist, but a writer artist.  Seriously, they're not paintings or drawings, but his poems are fraking beautiful and I dare you to tell me they're not a form of art.  

It speaks for itself:

Fury


Kindness should have fists.

They tell me,
              shaking their heads:
"You should be kinder...
                         You are somehow--furious."
I used to be kind.
                   It didn’t last long.
Life was breaking me
                     hitting me in the teeth.
I lived
        like a silly puppy.
They would hit me--
                    and again I would turn the other cheek.
I’d wag my tail of complacency,
                                and then, to make me furious,
someone chopped it off with a single blow.
And now I will tell you
                        about fury,
about that fury
                with which you go to a party
and make polite conversation
while dropping sugar into your tea with tongs.
And when you offer me more tea
I’m not bored--
                I merely study you.
I submissively drink my tea from the saucer,
and, hiding my claws,
                      stretch out my hand.
And I’ll tell you something else about fury.
When before the meeting they whisper:
                                      "Give it up...
You’re young,
              better you write,
don’t jump into a fight
                        for a while..."
Like hell
          I’ll give in!
To be furious at falsehood--
                             is real goodness!
I’m warning you--
                  that fury hasn’t left me yet.
And you ought to know--
                        I’ll stay infuriated for a long time.
There’s none of my former shyness left in me.
After all--
            life is interesting
                                when you’re furious!