HitRecord has
a new beta site.
Try it out, and let us know what you think.
Hello, RegularJOE here. HITRECORD is an open collaborative production company, and this website is where we make things together.
Writers, musicians, filmmakers, video editors, animators, illustrators, photographers, photo-shoppers... Wanna work with us?
I direct our community in a variety of collaborations. When one of our productions makes money, we split the profits 50/50 between the company and the contributing artists.
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I don’t know how to do this... So I guess I’ll just start talking. I wanted to create art and To say something or do something or create anything That might make a difference So listen closely or you might miss What I have to say, cause my point is this I have dedication to fulfilling expectations Of my mom and dad and sister and brother and cousins and neighbors and people I’ve never even met. You’re going to make a difference, they say And I say okay, After meditation and prayer and supplication I decided education, do what we can to make it better, So here’s my question: Where’s your dedication? Is it to animals or children Or schools or religion Politics or music Cooking or slapstick I don’t know what your passion is, Maybe it’s Michael Bay movies Or chips ahoy cookies Poetry, symphony, equality, literacy, Natural hair, daycares, solar flares, clean air, Here’s what I know. I once knew a man who was like me and you He worked and played and lived each day Never hurt a fly, but never dared to care, When I asked him why, he would sit and stare, And this man, he’s fine, He’s well and alive, But he could do more, You could do more. I could do more. No one is born special. We’re brought to this earth and we’re given a gift A talent, a charm, something, But we have to decide to do something Anything, to give back. Nothing is spontaneous, Art isn’t instantaneous It may not be glamorous, But change isn’t guaranteed to us, We have to do it, So choose your passion, Make your difference. Set no limitations and exceed expectations. |
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Today I watched a small girl pick a dandelion in front of the church. She had black eyes that shone in the sun like an onyx stone set into a ring, skin the color of a fresh baked peanut butter cookie, and a light pink dress with yellow polka dots and yellow trim. After she leaned over and plucked the stem from the sparse grass, she took a deep breath, stretching her cheeks like two small balloons, and blew the dandelion gently. The tiny white seeds scattered and swirled across the church yard. She closed her eyes to make a wish, and I closed my eyes too. I closed my eyes and wished that I had my own dandelion. That I had breathed in deeply and filled my lungs up with my prayers and desires and fancies. That when I released the air, I would send the seeds into my future, planting my hopes and dreams and giving them life. But when I opened my eyes, the small girl with the pink dress and dark eyes had run off and I was left standing alone in front of the church, feeling all of my twenty-one years. The cool spring air brushed my hair across my face and I thought about picking a dandelion myself and making my own wish. But I didn’t. Because I knew that when the petals floated into the sky, they wouldn’t disappear into the clouds. They wouldn’t make my wishes come true. I knew they would land in the church yard and grow into weeds, pulling up grass and making the gardeners grumble. And I thought to myself... that realization was the saddest thing about growing up. |
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