Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Challenge with revision
One of my main challenges with revision is when to let things go and move on. It's easy to let it go when it is a school assignment, but personal work is something I keep working and tuning. It's that balance where the revision is just enough and it's time to work on other things. Miles Davis would create these great musical pieces and then move on, never looking at them again. I'd like to be satisfied with my work and then move on to something else. I want to write like Davis plays: “I'll play it first and tell you what it is later.”
Thursday, November 19, 2009
FINAL PORTFOLIO GUIDELINES
Final Portfolio
Due - Thursday, December 10, 2009
Note: If you cannot make it to class on December 10, make sure to put your final portfolio in my box in HUM 380 BEFORE the end of class that day. I will not be returning to campus to pick up late portfolios, and I will not accept portfolios by email or snail mail.
Your final portfolio should consist of a careful revision of one poem, one short story, and a one-act play or substantial scene. In addition to the final versions of these three pieces, you must include the original exercises used to develop each one, as well as any in-between drafts.
Unlike the mid-term portfolio, the final portfolio will be graded. Your revised works should be substantially different from the original exercise, and though they may not be better, they will almost certainly be more deeply explored, they will likely be longer or more concise (depending on the form and style), and they will definitely be free of spelling and grammatical errors! They will likely also have employed some of the revision techniques detailed in the Revision handout.
If you would like your final portfolio returned to you with comments, please include a stamped, self-addressed envelope along with your portfolio and I will mail it back to you. Be sure that you have affixed adequate postage!
Due - Thursday, December 10, 2009
Note: If you cannot make it to class on December 10, make sure to put your final portfolio in my box in HUM 380 BEFORE the end of class that day. I will not be returning to campus to pick up late portfolios, and I will not accept portfolios by email or snail mail.
Your final portfolio should consist of a careful revision of one poem, one short story, and a one-act play or substantial scene. In addition to the final versions of these three pieces, you must include the original exercises used to develop each one, as well as any in-between drafts.
Unlike the mid-term portfolio, the final portfolio will be graded. Your revised works should be substantially different from the original exercise, and though they may not be better, they will almost certainly be more deeply explored, they will likely be longer or more concise (depending on the form and style), and they will definitely be free of spelling and grammatical errors! They will likely also have employed some of the revision techniques detailed in the Revision handout.
If you would like your final portfolio returned to you with comments, please include a stamped, self-addressed envelope along with your portfolio and I will mail it back to you. Be sure that you have affixed adequate postage!
Week 13 Assignments
Writing Assignment
Choose One
1) Find a piece of writing that you find difficult, frustrating, or confusing, and write your own creative response, copying as many elements as you can (form, style, tone, rhythm, development, themes, etc.)
2) Compose an ars poetica in any genre (look back at "Paradoxes and Oxymorons," "Ars Poetica" and "Personism" in the course reader for a few examples)
Read for December 3
Not Knowing, Donald Barthelme
Against Epiphanies, Charles Baxter
Blog
1. This week, post a challenge you have with revision, or post a revision method that works well for you, or both!
2. Post comments on at least three other entries. Remember, this is not a place for critiquing each other’s work. Instead, identify something from the piece that strikes or interests you, ask a neutral question about the work, or suggest ways the author could deepen or expand it.
Choose One
1) Find a piece of writing that you find difficult, frustrating, or confusing, and write your own creative response, copying as many elements as you can (form, style, tone, rhythm, development, themes, etc.)
2) Compose an ars poetica in any genre (look back at "Paradoxes and Oxymorons," "Ars Poetica" and "Personism" in the course reader for a few examples)
Read for December 3
Not Knowing, Donald Barthelme
Against Epiphanies, Charles Baxter
Blog
1. This week, post a challenge you have with revision, or post a revision method that works well for you, or both!
2. Post comments on at least three other entries. Remember, this is not a place for critiquing each other’s work. Instead, identify something from the piece that strikes or interests you, ask a neutral question about the work, or suggest ways the author could deepen or expand it.
Online Literary Magazines
Two of the online literary literary magazines that I have recently begun reading are Toasted Cheese Literary Journal (tclj.toasted-cheese.com) and Carve Magazine (www.carvezine.com). Carve is devoted to fiction, whereas Toasted Cheese contains flash fiction, fiction, poetry and creative non-fiction. They are both interesting sites for finding emerging authors, and I think the writing they publish is thought-provoking. I would definitely recommend checking either one of them out.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Weird One
www.sicjournal.com
I'm really into a local writer named Aaron Cometbus. He started a fanzine in 1981 called "Rip it up." These are stories about the bay area, fiction, and anything entertaining. One issue talked about how to not be bored in the city, which bart route has the most heroin addicts, all of the above. John Catrona, one of the main contributors to Sic literary magazine, was one of the main contributors to Cometbus' fanzine. He continues the bizarre and funny tradition that Cometbus started and takes a step further. It's fun, interesting, and you get to learn weirs, useless facts and stories about this city that we love.
McSweeney's
This has probably been done already, but I really like this online journal. I think they have a lot of very talented, witty writers that contribute, and that they represent a younger generation of folks whose work tends to be about more relevant information. I have read a number of pieces on this site and found them to be amusing and interesting; you may as well.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
READ TIN HOUSE
Tin House Magazine is my favorite of the literary magazines with a simple aesthetic (yet kinda organic, not too sleek) and a variety of really good contemporary literature varying in genres. The magazine/site offers information on workshops and readings along with good resources for upcoming writers. They publish credible authors with new talent and publish with good reason. The web site is a good introduction to a literary magazine with versatility. 
www.pindeldyboz.com
This site is pretty cool in its simplicity. The submission process is easy and straightforward. Every "issue" the website releases (weekly, bi-weekly?) only 6 stories, occasionally art or some other form of creativity.
REVISION
"The great thing about revision is that it's your opportunity to fake being brilliant." Will Shetterly
"Writing is rewriting. A writer must learn to deepen characters, trim writing, intensify scenes. To fall in love with the first draft to the point where one cannot change it is to greatly enhance the prospects of never publishing." Richard North Patterson
"I have rewritten- often several times- every word I have ever written. My pencils outlast their erasers." Vladimir Nabokov
"The difference between the right and the nearly right word is the same as that between lightning and the lightning bug." Mark Twain
“All first drafts are shit.” Ernest Hemingway
“A careful first draft is a failed first draft.” Patricia Hampl
“The secret of being tiresome is to tell everything.” Voltaire
TIPS FOR RE-VISIONING
• THINK BIG, don't tinker – don’t get caught up in the small details, save them for later. Instead, think about big picture questions – structure, character, exactitude, language.
• Read your work aloud, or read it to a group – often by just reading your work out loud, you will notice lines that are confusing, difficult to read, or that just don’t flow right. This is even more true if you’re reading to a group!
• Patrol for adverbs and adjectives – go for stronger nouns and verbs instead. If you are falling back on lots of adjectives and adverbs, chances are you could strengthen your work by looking for more powerful, interesting, and exact nouns and verbs.
• Put it away for a while – it’s difficult to look at your work objectively too soon after you write it. Try putting work away for anywhere from a week to 6 months and then looking at it with fresh eyes.
• Move scene into summary and vice versa – often a labored scene of dialogue can be summarized in one pithy sentence of summary. Similarly, a dull paragraph of summary might come alive if it were written in scene.
• Find the hot spots and write into them – don’t worry about how the material will fit into your work, just write into the electric moments and see what arises.
• Experiment with the narrator/speaker – try moving from 3rd to 1st person to give the story more immediacy and to find the voice.
• Envision a specific person as your audience and write to that person
• Re-write a poem in a traditional form, or take a formal poem and re-write it as free verse – sometimes we get trapped by the form our work takes, especially if it feels very successful at the beginning. Sometimes the constraint of a form helps us think about content, and sometimes breaking out of a form helps move the poem forward.
• Change the form – from prose to poetry, theater to fiction, etc.
• Play with line breaks – go from long and skinny to short and squat, or change the stanza breaks to create different emphasis.
• Take an interesting minor character and let that character become the main character in a new story
• Make a mess – resist the urge to polish too soon (i.e. in the first and second drafts). It is difficult to write well when you are worried about perfection. For many writers early drafts are no more than a sketch of what the final product will be.
• Think about how much you tell your reader – are you providing too much, is the piece too on-the-nose or over-determined? Do all the arrows point in the same direction? Or are you providing too little – are events rising out of the blue, or is the narration confusing and chaotic?
• Have your characters say the opposite of what they mean – this is a good exercise when you think the story might be too “on-the-nose”
• Cut away everything that explains the story or poem, leaving only action and description
• Translate a poem or story into a different language – how does the work change?
• Your revisions don’t have to make it into the final draft!
"Writing is rewriting. A writer must learn to deepen characters, trim writing, intensify scenes. To fall in love with the first draft to the point where one cannot change it is to greatly enhance the prospects of never publishing." Richard North Patterson
"I have rewritten- often several times- every word I have ever written. My pencils outlast their erasers." Vladimir Nabokov
"The difference between the right and the nearly right word is the same as that between lightning and the lightning bug." Mark Twain
“All first drafts are shit.” Ernest Hemingway
“A careful first draft is a failed first draft.” Patricia Hampl
“The secret of being tiresome is to tell everything.” Voltaire
TIPS FOR RE-VISIONING
• THINK BIG, don't tinker – don’t get caught up in the small details, save them for later. Instead, think about big picture questions – structure, character, exactitude, language.
• Read your work aloud, or read it to a group – often by just reading your work out loud, you will notice lines that are confusing, difficult to read, or that just don’t flow right. This is even more true if you’re reading to a group!
• Patrol for adverbs and adjectives – go for stronger nouns and verbs instead. If you are falling back on lots of adjectives and adverbs, chances are you could strengthen your work by looking for more powerful, interesting, and exact nouns and verbs.
• Put it away for a while – it’s difficult to look at your work objectively too soon after you write it. Try putting work away for anywhere from a week to 6 months and then looking at it with fresh eyes.
• Move scene into summary and vice versa – often a labored scene of dialogue can be summarized in one pithy sentence of summary. Similarly, a dull paragraph of summary might come alive if it were written in scene.
• Find the hot spots and write into them – don’t worry about how the material will fit into your work, just write into the electric moments and see what arises.
• Experiment with the narrator/speaker – try moving from 3rd to 1st person to give the story more immediacy and to find the voice.
• Envision a specific person as your audience and write to that person
• Re-write a poem in a traditional form, or take a formal poem and re-write it as free verse – sometimes we get trapped by the form our work takes, especially if it feels very successful at the beginning. Sometimes the constraint of a form helps us think about content, and sometimes breaking out of a form helps move the poem forward.
• Change the form – from prose to poetry, theater to fiction, etc.
• Play with line breaks – go from long and skinny to short and squat, or change the stanza breaks to create different emphasis.
• Take an interesting minor character and let that character become the main character in a new story
• Make a mess – resist the urge to polish too soon (i.e. in the first and second drafts). It is difficult to write well when you are worried about perfection. For many writers early drafts are no more than a sketch of what the final product will be.
• Think about how much you tell your reader – are you providing too much, is the piece too on-the-nose or over-determined? Do all the arrows point in the same direction? Or are you providing too little – are events rising out of the blue, or is the narration confusing and chaotic?
• Have your characters say the opposite of what they mean – this is a good exercise when you think the story might be too “on-the-nose”
• Cut away everything that explains the story or poem, leaving only action and description
• Translate a poem or story into a different language – how does the work change?
• Your revisions don’t have to make it into the final draft!
Exquisite Corpse
http://www.corpse.org/
So, aside from the name pulling from the rock musical Hedwig and the Angry Inch, this online literary magazine has its own pretty interesting history first starting off as a print magazine but then moving into the online domain when the internet started becoming more popular in '99. It was started by a pretty well known poet named Audrei Codrescu (not sure if I spelled his name right), but it's already managed to maintain a pretty high reputation throughout its course of existence. A lot of the writings on there there are extremely varied, when makes it the least boring site to go to when you're in need of stealing an idea or feeling like you're a little tired of reading Shakespeare's sonnets for hours for a class you hate. Check it out, and, hopefully, be amazed...in a good way.
So, aside from the name pulling from the rock musical Hedwig and the Angry Inch, this online literary magazine has its own pretty interesting history first starting off as a print magazine but then moving into the online domain when the internet started becoming more popular in '99. It was started by a pretty well known poet named Audrei Codrescu (not sure if I spelled his name right), but it's already managed to maintain a pretty high reputation throughout its course of existence. A lot of the writings on there there are extremely varied, when makes it the least boring site to go to when you're in need of stealing an idea or feeling like you're a little tired of reading Shakespeare's sonnets for hours for a class you hate. Check it out, and, hopefully, be amazed...in a good way.
Online Magazine
An interesting online literary magazine I found is called Mused, which I found through the site BellaOnline.com. The magazine is available in HTML and PDF formats and it features poetry, plays, fiction, non-fiction, interviews, and art and photography. I liked the variety they offer. I also liked the aesthetics of the site. It is clean (uncluttered) and easy to navigate, which is a plus considering some of the other sites I visited had great material but were an eyesore.
Here's the link again (in case the hyperlink doesn't work):
http://www.bellaonline.com/review/
- K. De Melo
Here's the link again (in case the hyperlink doesn't work):
http://www.bellaonline.com/review/
- K. De Melo
La Petite Zine
http://www.lapetitezine.org/
So to be honest, I tend not to dabble with online magazines, however as I was cruzin the ol webster, I came across La Petite Zine. Just reading the "ABOUT" link caught my attention. Check it out, these guys sound tight. The site seems to publish only poetry, which is fine with me. And apparently many of the writer's published on this site are pretty established. I believe it.
So to be honest, I tend not to dabble with online magazines, however as I was cruzin the ol webster, I came across La Petite Zine. Just reading the "ABOUT" link caught my attention. Check it out, these guys sound tight. The site seems to publish only poetry, which is fine with me. And apparently many of the writer's published on this site are pretty established. I believe it.
The Legendary
The Legendary
This is a great online magazine. Lots of absolutely fabulous poetry. I love it, there's new submissions regularly and a poetry contest of some kind, and they always have the winners up, and these people have some serious talent. Below is the first place winner of their newest contest.
Pantyhose
(After Bukowski's 'the shoelace')
by Ann Howells
a crying child, a
broken nail, a moldy
shower, a debt, bills
stacked on the kitchen counter, stacked
so high you see them teeter
like a skyscraper in the wind …
it’s not catastrophe
that breaks a woman’s back
dying you’re prepared for, beatings,
divorce, house fire, earthquake, childbirth …
no, it’s niggling
trivialities
not the compound fracture
but the pantyhose that run
just before the interview piddly things
that bite like blackflies
that strip away flesh and will not be
dispersed—overdue books or car inspections
or telemarketers, or keys lost
or mouse droppings found, or cramps
breasts too tender to touch
water in the basement and squirrels,
you hope, in the attic and not a damn flower
in the lawn, except dandelions
it’s always rats or gnats or fleas or bees or
spiders or crickets or
red wine spilled on the white sofa, and
you’re out of toilet paper, or
out of luck or too much luck,
all bad,
the mattress sags, chair cushion spills
it’s guts the president’s a moron and
your boss is a letch
smoke detector beeps
all night, toilet’s clogged, milk’s curdled,
$450 for a new dryer, delivery
and installation from J.C. Penney’s
bank says you’re overdrawn, again
your temperature’s up and the chips are
down and the dog gnawed the heel off your
favorite pumps, and everything
everything is too heavy—
your purse, your workload, your weight
and your heart:
it’s heavy as hell and twice as
threatening.
every time you sneeze your bladder leaks
and people demand you volunteer there’s that
and there’s spam, VDs & DVDs;
non-alcohol beer, three month droughts,
$3.00 gasoline
and green
catsup
or getting by
at a convenience store on the midnight shift
or working day care or selling
door-to-door or mucking stables or
car-jacking young executives
breaking their heads and leaving them
vegetables
at the age of 27
suddenly
a pounding in the middle of the night
and a suspicious mole
on your belly, carpal tunnel getting worse,
and it’s $60 for a brace, $14,000 for surgery,
and Korea and Afghanistan and right here at home, and
tight jeans and baggy jeans and
no jeans allowed and make-up
and bare face, and plenty of plastic but no glass,
except the one you hate to peer into and perhaps
a shard to cut your
wrists.
and with every pair of ruined panty hose
out of hundreds, thousands, millions of pairs
one girl, one woman,
one person’s
back is broken.
This is a great online magazine. Lots of absolutely fabulous poetry. I love it, there's new submissions regularly and a poetry contest of some kind, and they always have the winners up, and these people have some serious talent. Below is the first place winner of their newest contest.
Pantyhose
(After Bukowski's 'the shoelace')
by Ann Howells
a crying child, a
broken nail, a moldy
shower, a debt, bills
stacked on the kitchen counter, stacked
so high you see them teeter
like a skyscraper in the wind …
it’s not catastrophe
that breaks a woman’s back
dying you’re prepared for, beatings,
divorce, house fire, earthquake, childbirth …
no, it’s niggling
trivialities
not the compound fracture
but the pantyhose that run
just before the interview piddly things
that bite like blackflies
that strip away flesh and will not be
dispersed—overdue books or car inspections
or telemarketers, or keys lost
or mouse droppings found, or cramps
breasts too tender to touch
water in the basement and squirrels,
you hope, in the attic and not a damn flower
in the lawn, except dandelions
it’s always rats or gnats or fleas or bees or
spiders or crickets or
red wine spilled on the white sofa, and
you’re out of toilet paper, or
out of luck or too much luck,
all bad,
the mattress sags, chair cushion spills
it’s guts the president’s a moron and
your boss is a letch
smoke detector beeps
all night, toilet’s clogged, milk’s curdled,
$450 for a new dryer, delivery
and installation from J.C. Penney’s
bank says you’re overdrawn, again
your temperature’s up and the chips are
down and the dog gnawed the heel off your
favorite pumps, and everything
everything is too heavy—
your purse, your workload, your weight
and your heart:
it’s heavy as hell and twice as
threatening.
every time you sneeze your bladder leaks
and people demand you volunteer there’s that
and there’s spam, VDs & DVDs;
non-alcohol beer, three month droughts,
$3.00 gasoline
and green
catsup
or getting by
at a convenience store on the midnight shift
or working day care or selling
door-to-door or mucking stables or
car-jacking young executives
breaking their heads and leaving them
vegetables
at the age of 27
suddenly
a pounding in the middle of the night
and a suspicious mole
on your belly, carpal tunnel getting worse,
and it’s $60 for a brace, $14,000 for surgery,
and Korea and Afghanistan and right here at home, and
tight jeans and baggy jeans and
no jeans allowed and make-up
and bare face, and plenty of plastic but no glass,
except the one you hate to peer into and perhaps
a shard to cut your
wrists.
and with every pair of ruined panty hose
out of hundreds, thousands, millions of pairs
one girl, one woman,
one person’s
back is broken.
Paradoxes and Oxymorons (Essential Intimacy)
There is some serious business going on in this very short 4-4 line stanza poem. When I "discover" a poem like this, it reminds me of why I'm writing, so I can reach a level of concision in my own poetry that can contend with this simply complex voice of Ashberrys. The self awareness that Ashberry displays in this little piece is not uncommon to modern literature, but through a very important mixture of ambiguity and straightforwardness, Ashberry accomplishes a dialogue with the reader where the reader becomes the poem that Ashberry is writing through the act of reading it. I read this poem three times before I read it out loud and I was already slowly becoming aware of what Ashberry is saying, but when I finally read it out loud (twice) I became aware that someone else was in the room, John Ashberry, lying on the bed next to me, reading this poem out loud.
Narrative Magazine
Link: http://www.narrativemagazine.com/
It was founded in 2003, and was one of the first online literary magazines to give a voice to the online generation of writers, as well as one of the first to have the same quality of writing as some of the more traditional Literary magazines. The website has also worked very hard over the years to ensure that good writing has a place in modern society online. The website features a variety of literary genres, including poetry, fiction, nonfiction, as well as cartoons. Check it out.
Shampoo! :)
http://www.shampoopoetry.com/
So unfortunately I am not an avid reader of the webs many literary magazines. However, while I was browzing around I stumbled along this website. It is not an actualy literary mag but it features different poetry and it is called SHAMPOO! I absolutely love the title. They have been around since about 2000, and it seems there is no specificity as to when each issue is released. It appears to come out every 2-3 months. They are currently on their 36th issue. They also have a page of information about poetry events and readings through out San Francisco, which I found very useful. So try on some Shampoo...as they say "It will makke you TINGLE!"
So unfortunately I am not an avid reader of the webs many literary magazines. However, while I was browzing around I stumbled along this website. It is not an actualy literary mag but it features different poetry and it is called SHAMPOO! I absolutely love the title. They have been around since about 2000, and it seems there is no specificity as to when each issue is released. It appears to come out every 2-3 months. They are currently on their 36th issue. They also have a page of information about poetry events and readings through out San Francisco, which I found very useful. So try on some Shampoo...as they say "It will makke you TINGLE!"
link
http://www.fictionaut.com/
According to Carolyn Kellogg Fictionaut brings the possibilities of the social web to literary writing. Part self-selecting magazine, part community network, Fictionaut is a way for readers to discover new voices and for writers to share their art, gain recognition, and connect with their audience and each other.
According to Carolyn Kellogg Fictionaut brings the possibilities of the social web to literary writing. Part self-selecting magazine, part community network, Fictionaut is a way for readers to discover new voices and for writers to share their art, gain recognition, and connect with their audience and each other.
The site has a sophisticated, clean design, one which seems to assume that its members will plunge in and begin reading with little hand-holding.
I do not belong to the site due to it being in Beta and invite only. Anyone have any experience with it? Sounds like it could be really neat-o.
Literature in Bulk Quantities...
...like corn, or as the indigenous Mesoamerican Taino people called it: maize
Although it's not technically a literary journal, Esquire magazine has an online fiction section with some great stuff. They host an annual short story contest that I wrote something for, but couldn't finish it by the deadline. But, anyhoo, check it out here: http://www.esquire.com/fiction/
I used to like to read the print edition of the threepenny review, but always felt a little slighted by the price being roughly six dollars and ninety seven cents more than the title indicates. Luckily, there is an (abridged) online version available for looking at: http://www.threepennyreview.com/index.html
Oh, and another one is Eclectica. The site is actually a bit sparse looking; kinda reminds me of the old days of really bad looking geocities and angelfire types of webpages, which I think are due to be ironically cool pretty soon (give it another year or two). But the magazine takes submissions year-round and they are pretty frequent with putting out new issues (a lot of these lit journals only put out an issue like two times a year) and some of the work is quite good, and also I think it's probably useful to see the type of work that people are reading/writing currently, considering most of the authors we read in school are pretty much all dead. http://www.eclectica.org/
Although it's not technically a literary journal, Esquire magazine has an online fiction section with some great stuff. They host an annual short story contest that I wrote something for, but couldn't finish it by the deadline. But, anyhoo, check it out here: http://www.esquire.com/fiction/
I used to like to read the print edition of the threepenny review, but always felt a little slighted by the price being roughly six dollars and ninety seven cents more than the title indicates. Luckily, there is an (abridged) online version available for looking at: http://www.threepennyreview.com/index.html
Oh, and another one is Eclectica. The site is actually a bit sparse looking; kinda reminds me of the old days of really bad looking geocities and angelfire types of webpages, which I think are due to be ironically cool pretty soon (give it another year or two). But the magazine takes submissions year-round and they are pretty frequent with putting out new issues (a lot of these lit journals only put out an issue like two times a year) and some of the work is quite good, and also I think it's probably useful to see the type of work that people are reading/writing currently, considering most of the authors we read in school are pretty much all dead. http://www.eclectica.org/
Lung Poetry Journal
One day while perusing the "Writing Gigs" section of Craigslist I came across Lung Poetry Journal asking for submissions. I checked out the link and was instantly mesmerized by the site's exquisite layout. After clicking on a couple of the pages I learned that Lung Journal was an online journal devoted to modern poetry. I was instantly hooked. The coolest part is when you click on the link to read the actual issue. It opens up to a page that looks like pictures of an actual journal (which makes it really easy to read). Instead of scrolling up and down to read stuff you can see the work as it would be laid out in an actual magazine. Pretty cool.
The other cool thing is the fact that anyone can submit work and it's free to submit. You can email the editor your poem(s) and he reads them all himself (I think the magazine is run by a one-two person staff). So if you like contemporary poetry and pretty websites you should definitely check this one out.
www.lungpoetry.com
The other cool thing is the fact that anyone can submit work and it's free to submit. You can email the editor your poem(s) and he reads them all himself (I think the magazine is run by a one-two person staff). So if you like contemporary poetry and pretty websites you should definitely check this one out.
www.lungpoetry.com
Cool sites
I found this site: www.blackbird.vcu.edu. You can choose from four tabs located on the top: poetry, fiction, non-fiction, gallery, features & browse. You can listen in on the poetry too. There’s this other site www.fishousepoems.org that my CW 301 teacher uses, that I like. The fish house site only has poems, but the blackbird site has all the other stuff I mentioned above. I like the logos and themes of both sites. Both are easy to navigate w/ neutral colors that don’t frighten the senses.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Literary Whatnow?
Honestly, if I were to post a link to a literary magazine, it would just be the most obscure looking result of whatever Google returned on my search. There's such a logjam on my must-read list right now, I don't feel the need to actively seek out more text...
I do have a list of webcomics I catch up on every other day, though. Maybe I'll check out some of the links people post and see if I could arrange something like that with online magazines.
To round this post out with some kind of link, I'll just advertise my favorite webcomic:
XKCD.com
Devoted to "Romance, Sarcasm, Math and Language"
Check it out.
To round this post out with some kind of link, I'll just advertise my favorite webcomic:
XKCD.com
Devoted to "Romance, Sarcasm, Math and Language"
Check it out.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Narrative Magazine
Narrative Magazine is an online literary journal that seeks to promote good writing and great writers. It is described as "promoting poetry and fiction first and articles second," and is organized primarily of high-profile editors and writers from such publications as Vogue, GQ, Esquire, etc.
Narrative was founded in 2003, and has worked hard to bring to the web as much literary publishing as possible. I enjoy perusing the selection of fiction and poetry they post on the first page (left-hand column). There are always contests which writers are encouraged to enter, such as the current "Fall 2009 Story Contest" with up to $6500 in prizes.
By combining literary articles with creative content, Narrative is able to promote an online magazine which appeals to both readers, writers, and all of the working professionals in-between.
Check them out at this link.
Narrative was founded in 2003, and has worked hard to bring to the web as much literary publishing as possible. I enjoy perusing the selection of fiction and poetry they post on the first page (left-hand column). There are always contests which writers are encouraged to enter, such as the current "Fall 2009 Story Contest" with up to $6500 in prizes.
By combining literary articles with creative content, Narrative is able to promote an online magazine which appeals to both readers, writers, and all of the working professionals in-between.
Check them out at this link.
Tea Party Magazine.
Tea party magazine is a magazine which publishes independent artists, authors, poets, and writers of non-fiction. They are based in Oakland and pride themselves on their diversity, and much of the content centers around ideas or race and racial relations. Additionally a lot of social commentary pieces exist as well. The magazine is published in print all over America and parts of Canada in addition to having content on-line. To be honest I am not a regular reader of the magazine but I heard about them through a friend who told me they were accepting internships. Nevertheless the poems I have read have been very creative, and the idea of a magazine dedicate to this sort of content is refreshing.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
McSweeney's
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/
McSweeney's is a literary journal/art journal that started out by publishing works rejected by other magazines, but soon grew to receive its own submissions. It tries to focus on writing that "pushes the form" of language in a new, or inventive way. It has four sections: McSweeney's Rectangulars is a collection of fiction works that try to explore writing in a new way. The Believer explores how books, music, politics, and art are all related. Wholphin is a DVD magazine of short films, documentaries, animation, and instructional videos that have not found wide release, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency has new works available daily, as well as discussing various events or bookstores that sell McSweeney books.
McSweeney's is a literary journal/art journal that started out by publishing works rejected by other magazines, but soon grew to receive its own submissions. It tries to focus on writing that "pushes the form" of language in a new, or inventive way. It has four sections: McSweeney's Rectangulars is a collection of fiction works that try to explore writing in a new way. The Believer explores how books, music, politics, and art are all related. Wholphin is a DVD magazine of short films, documentaries, animation, and instructional videos that have not found wide release, and McSweeney's Internet Tendency has new works available daily, as well as discussing various events or bookstores that sell McSweeney books.
Wizard: The guide to comics -Best Literary Magazine Ever
When I was growing up I used to buy comic books, but then I just couldn't afford to buy them anymore. So once a month I would buy Wizard; which recapped all the stories from the cool comics at the time. Since I don't know of any literary magazines online, Wizard is the literary magazine for comics. The magazine covers all the story arcs, pricing guides, interviews, and studies the evolving environment of the comic industry. Plus they are very funny, or used to be. They were the best writers of inside jokes (where if you knew comics you got the jokes) I have ever seen. I think I'm pretty quick on my feet wit wise, but these guys were masters. They have the online site, and have had it for a couple years, but it's going under construction right now.
http://www.wizarduniverse.com/
http://www.wizarduniverse.com/
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Week 12 Assignments
Workshop Preparation
Respond to the scene or one-act play from your workshop group by completing a Peer Response Form (handed out in class and posted to the blog) for each piece. Forms should be typed. Bring two copies of each response to class November 19th, one for the writer, and one for me.
Writing Assignment
Optional (if you still need to turn in a poem or prose piece, here are some exercises to work from):
1) Compose a series of at least five found poems or found prose pieces that have a shared theme, subject, or organizational principal.
2) Compose your own cento of at least 40 lines using at least 5 different texts.
Read for Next Week
Paradoxes and Oxymorons, John Ashbery
Blow-Up, Julio Cortazar
The Liar, Tobias Wolff
Blog
1. Post a link to an online literary magazine you like. Give us a brief one-paragraph write up of the site’s focus, interests, and aesthetic. If the magazine features collaborative or interactive processes, so much the better!
Respond to the scene or one-act play from your workshop group by completing a Peer Response Form (handed out in class and posted to the blog) for each piece. Forms should be typed. Bring two copies of each response to class November 19th, one for the writer, and one for me.
Writing Assignment
Optional (if you still need to turn in a poem or prose piece, here are some exercises to work from):
1) Compose a series of at least five found poems or found prose pieces that have a shared theme, subject, or organizational principal.
2) Compose your own cento of at least 40 lines using at least 5 different texts.
Read for Next Week
Paradoxes and Oxymorons, John Ashbery
Blow-Up, Julio Cortazar
The Liar, Tobias Wolff
Blog
1. Post a link to an online literary magazine you like. Give us a brief one-paragraph write up of the site’s focus, interests, and aesthetic. If the magazine features collaborative or interactive processes, so much the better!
Ghost Project
When some from a corner I saw a shadow---
Heard a knock.
Footsteps walking in the sky, someone staring
Only once did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew
It seemed to say once I lived here too
When some from a corner I saw a shadow--
It was dark and walked fast.
In my dreams I saw it too, in color and it tried to talk
Only twice then did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew.
When some from a corner I saw it again.
It tried to trick me into thinking I had another hour of sleep.
Only three times then did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew
Heard a knock.
Footsteps walking in the sky, someone staring
Only once did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew
It seemed to say once I lived here too
When some from a corner I saw a shadow--
It was dark and walked fast.
In my dreams I saw it too, in color and it tried to talk
Only twice then did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew.
When some from a corner I saw it again.
It tried to trick me into thinking I had another hour of sleep.
Only three times then did I truly see a ghost---ghosts been people we never knew
response to epistolary project
Dear Lycaon pictus,
Today, as I stared at you, standing so stiffly alone with your partner (did you know your twin previously, or did you become brothers by womblike shipping crates or thousands of miles traveled to reach this final resting place?) I stare at you, moving toward a painted backdrop, head turned to gaze behind. I read on the informational sign that your packs used to run in the hundreds, but are now reduced to mere thirties or twenties. I started to wonder of your ancestors, thriving in their community of a hundred yapping brothers and sisters. Then I started to wonder of your own pack. Do you miss them? Do you miss their soft breathe blowing warmly from their snouts, exchanging with your own, or their flanks dancing in and out as you lay in the African sunlight, or their soft fur, whose touch you know by heart, as it softly brushes against your own? Are you lonesome without your tribe?
Did you ever live in Africa, or were you born in captivity, a child of cement walls? And do you wish your body had decomposed in the dusty savannah, feeling the wind and earth hugging your bones in mourning, after vultures ceremoniously tore you to shreds?
Are you sad the last warmth of another being you felt, was a gloved hand, pressing you down as a cold scalpel was brought to your belly?
And now, you are put to rest in an air-controlled room, where you may occasionally be dusted from time to time, and are stared at by thousand of onlookers not much different from myself. There we stand, momentarily still gaping at you, frozen in that position, forever looking back at something the rest of us can’t see?
-P
Today, as I stared at you, standing so stiffly alone with your partner (did you know your twin previously, or did you become brothers by womblike shipping crates or thousands of miles traveled to reach this final resting place?) I stare at you, moving toward a painted backdrop, head turned to gaze behind. I read on the informational sign that your packs used to run in the hundreds, but are now reduced to mere thirties or twenties. I started to wonder of your ancestors, thriving in their community of a hundred yapping brothers and sisters. Then I started to wonder of your own pack. Do you miss them? Do you miss their soft breathe blowing warmly from their snouts, exchanging with your own, or their flanks dancing in and out as you lay in the African sunlight, or their soft fur, whose touch you know by heart, as it softly brushes against your own? Are you lonesome without your tribe?
Did you ever live in Africa, or were you born in captivity, a child of cement walls? And do you wish your body had decomposed in the dusty savannah, feeling the wind and earth hugging your bones in mourning, after vultures ceremoniously tore you to shreds?
Are you sad the last warmth of another being you felt, was a gloved hand, pressing you down as a cold scalpel was brought to your belly?
And now, you are put to rest in an air-controlled room, where you may occasionally be dusted from time to time, and are stared at by thousand of onlookers not much different from myself. There we stand, momentarily still gaping at you, frozen in that position, forever looking back at something the rest of us can’t see?
-P
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
response to "letters to kelly clarkson"
Dear Tom,
It may be true that you have golden ratio face, and that you feel the power! but I am going to write a video game about your life. It doesn't have to be great, but it will have a lot of stuff in there about being you, not to mention about being a celebutante in an age of beauty saturation and neverending present. You can't escape the time loop! Everything you do will be taken a picture of, uploaded to the internet, and then viewed by millions of people whom you will then act like your (pictured) self for. It's genius!
But you needn't fret. Sometime (ha!)-- sometime you will be a rational person again, whose life follows a straight line. Someday you will be normal, and you will be happy, being the thing you couldn't buy or bullshit your way into. But I won't waste my breath preaching to the choir. Enjoy your personal hell while it lasts.
It may be true that you have golden ratio face, and that you feel the power! but I am going to write a video game about your life. It doesn't have to be great, but it will have a lot of stuff in there about being you, not to mention about being a celebutante in an age of beauty saturation and neverending present. You can't escape the time loop! Everything you do will be taken a picture of, uploaded to the internet, and then viewed by millions of people whom you will then act like your (pictured) self for. It's genius!
But you needn't fret. Sometime (ha!)-- sometime you will be a rational person again, whose life follows a straight line. Someday you will be normal, and you will be happy, being the thing you couldn't buy or bullshit your way into. But I won't waste my breath preaching to the choir. Enjoy your personal hell while it lasts.
FREEDOM
..now if i Fail..
....you'll Read these words....
...and if wE fall...
.........thEn all is blurred.........
...........Deliver love...........
...........On time alone...........
.for there My heart is well perferred.
....you'll Read these words....
...and if wE fall...
.........thEn all is blurred.........
...........Deliver love...........
...........On time alone...........
.for there My heart is well perferred.
Response to prelude from air to...on ghost...
I learned to read at an age that I have forgotten. I still read and sleep in emptier beds that reek like pantomimed dreams, fall beneath pillows like a head has somewhere to stay but keeps moving, european freight train to more westerly clouds. I opened a cupboard thinking a distilled beverage would stand against a sight in orange-pleasant round, a stained aluminum dream blank in any epiphanies, cold in any relation to night. I sank between bread and boxes thinking that eating must ring a satisfaction much less general than a kiss, a tense smell, a breezing scent caught in electric blue light evening sidewalk understanding, I fell. When I stood up it crossed a blank church upside down from thefall. what should a saturday look like; grenedine, fantaside, earl grey housemanship. I tinkered with a broken fingernail, ate grapes, followed a cab brigadire and thought about the troggs, what about garage records, thelonious monk, blue neckties, brotheres karamazov, earthly glue worms, philip k dick. I opened a can of peaches and thought about tomorrow. Sunday.
epistolary
Dear Boss,
Work has been quite unusual since you decided to go on your impromptu vacation. I know that a funeral might not constitute as the most relaxing getaway, but you are gone and I believe you are using up several sick days in order to visit with family.
First of all, the coffee maker is broken. Not broken in the sense that it won't make coffe, it will, but the alarm goes off at fifteen minute intervals, ruining the concentration of anyone who sits within a twenty yard radius (which, as you know, is everyone that works here). We have been keeping it in a box, under a blanket, locked inside the supply closet.
Secondly, Marcy and Dean have been at each other's throats for days now. Marcy thinks that a heavier quality of paper will make our personal business correspondence seem more impressive. Dean, however, believes that font and font color hold more sway psychologically. Unable to get them to compromise, I went ahead and approved both. We now have course, recycled paper with brown, old English letterhead. Due to the additional cost, we can no longer afford envelopes.
The office really misses you and your communication skills. Remember how you solved the debacle at last year's Christmas party? All of your mail is on your desk, messages have been sent to your inbox. I'm going to be sick for the week or so, a rare vitamin D condition which requires lots of sun and relaxation.
Have fun, come back soon.
N
Work has been quite unusual since you decided to go on your impromptu vacation. I know that a funeral might not constitute as the most relaxing getaway, but you are gone and I believe you are using up several sick days in order to visit with family.
First of all, the coffee maker is broken. Not broken in the sense that it won't make coffe, it will, but the alarm goes off at fifteen minute intervals, ruining the concentration of anyone who sits within a twenty yard radius (which, as you know, is everyone that works here). We have been keeping it in a box, under a blanket, locked inside the supply closet.
Secondly, Marcy and Dean have been at each other's throats for days now. Marcy thinks that a heavier quality of paper will make our personal business correspondence seem more impressive. Dean, however, believes that font and font color hold more sway psychologically. Unable to get them to compromise, I went ahead and approved both. We now have course, recycled paper with brown, old English letterhead. Due to the additional cost, we can no longer afford envelopes.
The office really misses you and your communication skills. Remember how you solved the debacle at last year's Christmas party? All of your mail is on your desk, messages have been sent to your inbox. I'm going to be sick for the week or so, a rare vitamin D condition which requires lots of sun and relaxation.
Have fun, come back soon.
N
Epistolary Letter Project Response
My Dear Sunny,
It's been an age since we last spoke. The last time I saw you, I was crawling out of the Kabuki Hotel with a raging hangover and whiskey on my breath.
Whoever thought karaoke was a good idea was sadly deranged and sadistic. Whichever one of us ordered the carafe of Jim Beam over a simple soju cocktail needs to be taken outside, and promptly shot.
Your hands were soft as butterflies and your kisses as pleasing as ever. But when we got too drunk to enjoy one another things just got too weird. I passed out on the polyester comforter on the bed with one shoe off and a shirt half open. You ran out to find me because you somehow got separated from me on the elevator. You returned somehow and let yourself in. I don't remember how we ever made it through the night- god knows, if there were any justice, we should have choked on our puke and freed the gene pools of the stupidity forever.
Didn't happen. We survived.
And I wonder, who else do you seduce over Jim Beam and Iron Maiden songs, at that cheesy karaoke bar in a part of town that I never go to? I will never eat Korean food again.
Take care,
Your Coworker
It's been an age since we last spoke. The last time I saw you, I was crawling out of the Kabuki Hotel with a raging hangover and whiskey on my breath.
Whoever thought karaoke was a good idea was sadly deranged and sadistic. Whichever one of us ordered the carafe of Jim Beam over a simple soju cocktail needs to be taken outside, and promptly shot.
Your hands were soft as butterflies and your kisses as pleasing as ever. But when we got too drunk to enjoy one another things just got too weird. I passed out on the polyester comforter on the bed with one shoe off and a shirt half open. You ran out to find me because you somehow got separated from me on the elevator. You returned somehow and let yourself in. I don't remember how we ever made it through the night- god knows, if there were any justice, we should have choked on our puke and freed the gene pools of the stupidity forever.
Didn't happen. We survived.
And I wonder, who else do you seduce over Jim Beam and Iron Maiden songs, at that cheesy karaoke bar in a part of town that I never go to? I will never eat Korean food again.
Take care,
Your Coworker
Epistolary Project Letter
Dear J,
I don’t know how to stop cheating on you.
I love you very, very much. We’re too young for this, something so serious. Too much intimacy. It’s not like we’re going to get married.
I’m rationalizing, of course. Maybe it’s just child-of-divorce commitment problems. Maybe I don’t understand why you love me.
But I love you.
It was Halloween.
I was drunk. You were at home with your cats. The “two angels.” Waiting for me to come back, probably.
I knew her from a class. I don’t even remember her costume. A slut-version of something. We kissed her outside a bar. Our bodies smashed up against a brick wall.
She and I broke into a schoolyard and kissed by the sandbox. It was kind of romantic in a way.
I don’t know why I did it. There was no REASON.
The next weekend you threw me a party for my birthday. All my friends were there and everybody knew. Everybody knows.
You bought me a scarf from the Gap. A simple, black woolen scarf. A simple gift but a good one.
God knows it’s been nice for these damn dark November Nights and the grey-all-days with people all walking around but none of them are talking just on their way to some other place and my father called, Trevor is in trouble with school and you’re the only good thing in my life and goshdangit!, when will I ever learn!
- P
I don’t know how to stop cheating on you.
I love you very, very much. We’re too young for this, something so serious. Too much intimacy. It’s not like we’re going to get married.
I’m rationalizing, of course. Maybe it’s just child-of-divorce commitment problems. Maybe I don’t understand why you love me.
But I love you.
It was Halloween.
I was drunk. You were at home with your cats. The “two angels.” Waiting for me to come back, probably.
I knew her from a class. I don’t even remember her costume. A slut-version of something. We kissed her outside a bar. Our bodies smashed up against a brick wall.
She and I broke into a schoolyard and kissed by the sandbox. It was kind of romantic in a way.
I don’t know why I did it. There was no REASON.
The next weekend you threw me a party for my birthday. All my friends were there and everybody knew. Everybody knows.
You bought me a scarf from the Gap. A simple, black woolen scarf. A simple gift but a good one.
God knows it’s been nice for these damn dark November Nights and the grey-all-days with people all walking around but none of them are talking just on their way to some other place and my father called, Trevor is in trouble with school and you’re the only good thing in my life and goshdangit!, when will I ever learn!
- P
Inspired by Andrea Baker's Gather
Inspired by Andrea Baker's Gather
There was something
clawing underneath
the flowing water
that only the fish saw—
the body
already
sinking—
could not reach the light
Then
the it was silent,
broken only by the caws of
crows huddling together
in the dark.
-K. De Melo
There was something
clawing underneath
the flowing water
that only the fish saw—
the body
already
sinking—
could not reach the light
Then
the it was silent,
broken only by the caws of
crows huddling together
in the dark.
-K. De Melo
Epistolary Project - Dear K
K,
We used to be tessellations, you and I, two shapes moving together along parallel trajectories, but now we live at perpendicular angles. Two planes that no longer intersect. Ten years crowded with memories have slowed to a halt and now I mumble "remember whens" to the person beside me on the train, who shrugs and probably thinks I'm on drugs. Maybe I was. Perhaps, because allegedly the things I recall are retrospective falsifications. Everything has become alleged. You are now alleged. Don't you remember when we got into that car accident, when my flip flop got stuck on the gas pedal and we hit that station wagon with side wood paneling? We sang to each other in the ambulance, me through a mask filled with oxygen and you clutching my hand. The seat on the train is cold and makes my back ache. The chirporactor says I carry my tension in my lower back, so you must be with me. This disconnect could be a product of linear time, although you claim everything is fine it's not because the weight of it all is compacting me into a tidy parcel; I don't occupy much space now. Are we to become constellations, rooted in stubborness and pinned to the sky?
Yours,
L
We used to be tessellations, you and I, two shapes moving together along parallel trajectories, but now we live at perpendicular angles. Two planes that no longer intersect. Ten years crowded with memories have slowed to a halt and now I mumble "remember whens" to the person beside me on the train, who shrugs and probably thinks I'm on drugs. Maybe I was. Perhaps, because allegedly the things I recall are retrospective falsifications. Everything has become alleged. You are now alleged. Don't you remember when we got into that car accident, when my flip flop got stuck on the gas pedal and we hit that station wagon with side wood paneling? We sang to each other in the ambulance, me through a mask filled with oxygen and you clutching my hand. The seat on the train is cold and makes my back ache. The chirporactor says I carry my tension in my lower back, so you must be with me. This disconnect could be a product of linear time, although you claim everything is fine it's not because the weight of it all is compacting me into a tidy parcel; I don't occupy much space now. Are we to become constellations, rooted in stubborness and pinned to the sky?
Yours,
L
Response; River
Its hair mottled grey
the little thing
down from one and
skittered up
another oak
and the space
between the two,
the trees,
like dark rum, burned spread
and seeped
into the ground
the little thing
down from one and
skittered up
another oak
and the space
between the two,
the trees,
like dark rum, burned spread
and seeped
into the ground
Response to River by Andrea Baker from Project: Ghost
I was drawn to Andrea Baker's piece because her name looks like Anita Baker.
Bay
The boat docks
musically synchronized
with the rippling of chocolate syrup
Wetness is undeniable
the cold seeps into my bones
and I ache for the end
-Boomer aka Sarah cook
Bay
The boat docks
musically synchronized
with the rippling of chocolate syrup
Wetness is undeniable
the cold seeps into my bones
and I ache for the end
-Boomer aka Sarah cook
Reponse to "Listen Bro"
Hey man
the party was really lame, no booze,
but Jamie managed to get really drunk
she's a cheap drunk but I don't know
where the alcohol came from, i'm just
sayin it wouldn't take a lot for her to get
drunk you know. And I had to walk her
home, Don and I and Carli actually and
she kissed Carli which was pretty funny
I hope she remembers that tomorrow but
she probably won't she'd be really embarrassed
it was quite a long walk home and she fell
down a few times total shitshow
anyways we poured her into bed around
2. and I got a call from mykel and she was
really drunk too actually and we hung out
for awhile we didn't fuck or anything though
I know that's what you were about to ask
we just smoked cigarettes while she sobered
up a little bit anyways you didn't miss
anything good i'll talk to you later
jon
Rain Eating Toast: A response to->The River is Far Behind Us
I really fell in love with this piece. After reading several different shorts and poems, I found myself reading this one over and over and over again. There was something about it. The perfectly placed ( ( ( ( ( ripples of the water, I also invisioned representing her mind lost on PCP. Acting like someone she isn't. The dead fish in his head, it could be many a things. It could be a reference to someone's mind after too many drugs. But my favorite line of the whole piece has to be "rain eating toast at a window." While I can literally see rain pounding down, disinegrating a piece of toast on a window ledge. The way I wish to envision this line. Is the rain as a being, clear/murky, hunched over ripping the toast to shreads in it's mouth. It's eyes fierce and full of hunger, out for blood.
Response to River: Ghost Project
My fingers spread wide, calling to different points
Cold Concrete
Strong and hollow
Like our friendship
the crisp wind using branches as its dance partner
Sliver of a ghastly moon, smiling
This is
my
last
goodbye
Cold Concrete
Strong and hollow
Like our friendship
the crisp wind using branches as its dance partner
Sliver of a ghastly moon, smiling
This is
my
last
goodbye
"Dear Emily"
Dear Emily,
When we met, my name was Martin—but that was before I got to know you and felt comfortable around you. Now of course, things have changed, and in time I have grown to become a stronger woman entirely, and every aspect of my previous life has fallen off piece by piece somewhere along the way. But I still feel like we hit it off at first, in that dusty corner bar on 3rd Street. We shot pool, and drained our glasses—you Emily, and I Martin.
Where are we now Emily? I mean to say, where have we gone since then? From dusty bars and cheap motel rooms, to mountain towns in Switzerland and beaches on the East Coast, and parent’s houses where we were both children one time—you Emily, and I Martin. Sometimes it’s hard for me to accept the fact that we leave previous things behind. I am no longer that person who you grew to love so passionately, and learned to place before anyone and everything. I am no longer Martin, Emily—and you can longer love me.
So if you leave this letter where I have placed it inside this envelope, I don’t mind, for it would probably save you much misunderstanding. However, if you do happen to be reading this Emily, consider me not, the person who you have known and loved and held so dearly to your heart, for I am gone. I am off in some dive bar on 3rd St., or strolling down a cold beach in South Maine, but Martin is no longer here—not as you have known him. I hope you understand, but it’s ok if you don’t. Either way, I will never forget you Emily.
Love,
Julie
When we met, my name was Martin—but that was before I got to know you and felt comfortable around you. Now of course, things have changed, and in time I have grown to become a stronger woman entirely, and every aspect of my previous life has fallen off piece by piece somewhere along the way. But I still feel like we hit it off at first, in that dusty corner bar on 3rd Street. We shot pool, and drained our glasses—you Emily, and I Martin.
Where are we now Emily? I mean to say, where have we gone since then? From dusty bars and cheap motel rooms, to mountain towns in Switzerland and beaches on the East Coast, and parent’s houses where we were both children one time—you Emily, and I Martin. Sometimes it’s hard for me to accept the fact that we leave previous things behind. I am no longer that person who you grew to love so passionately, and learned to place before anyone and everything. I am no longer Martin, Emily—and you can longer love me.
So if you leave this letter where I have placed it inside this envelope, I don’t mind, for it would probably save you much misunderstanding. However, if you do happen to be reading this Emily, consider me not, the person who you have known and loved and held so dearly to your heart, for I am gone. I am off in some dive bar on 3rd St., or strolling down a cold beach in South Maine, but Martin is no longer here—not as you have known him. I hope you understand, but it’s ok if you don’t. Either way, I will never forget you Emily.
Love,
Julie
Epistolary project: Dear John
Dear John,
Not Jonathan, just John! So I was excited to see your new hair, not because I hated it or because I loved it, I just wanted to see it. I never knew hair was a big deal, or something people often noticed. But your new hairstyle sure caused a stir up. Who would have thought a shaggy mullet would be missed. A mullet hasn’t been legit since Billy Ray Cyrus’ back in the early 90s. I guess you and your mullet have more in common with Billy Ray since you getting rid of it broke a lot of achey breakey pre teen hearts. But you know what, good, cause these little girls have to learn that you’re not interested in them in that way. I don’t even know why they put you up on a pedestal, you’re just a regular 21 year old dude, living the dream I guess. It’s not like you’ve changed the world not that, that’s a big deal, common none of us have and probably never will. What I mean is, you’re just a dude. Well, your ideas are amazing! I’m glad not all of today’s youth is forgetting how to be creative, artistic and just talented. But these girls, god damn it! I bet it’s all your looks. It’s like you sure aren’t ugly, so their newly hormones have them crazy over your dreamy eyes. What bugs me more is that if your looks are what bring forth these girls and nothing more, well they just need to GET THE FUCK OUT. I love you an all, and I respect you, but if you ask me, you’re not even the coolest one in the band. Garrett’s way cooler than you, I bet that if we met, we’d become best friends for sure! We would watch Killer Klowns from Outer Space, then I would take him to the exact locations the movie was filmed in, you know since it was filmed in my hometown! After that, we’d bug you because we’re still kids at heart, that like to annoy people, Pat, or Todd as I like to call him would join us in this adventure. Piranha and Rat Boy would creep out at night, they’ll have to come up with an animal name for me. Jared SHREDS on guitar, and Kennedy is always stoked on life, all together these kids are at least ten times cooler than you. It’s almost as though they cared more… But I see why you hide in the bus, if I were you I’d never come out! It would suck to be you, constantly hearing your name, well having John as a name doesn’t really help since every other dude in America is named John, but you get the picture. I don’t know, it’s just that you’re a dude, I’m a dude, he’s a dude, she’s a dude, we’re all dudes. And I just wished people would treat you as that and not a watered down version of, I don’t know Justin Timberlake? Sorry if I sound like a bitch, but you know I love you. It’s like I swear, Rachael, Brittney and I are your only normal “fans.” Maybe because we’re all around the same age, oh god how embarrassing, maybe the jokes on us, and were just displaced and don’t belong. Regardless, stay gold pony boy!
Ps
At least you’re not as big of a douche as Nick Santino.
Not Jonathan, just John! So I was excited to see your new hair, not because I hated it or because I loved it, I just wanted to see it. I never knew hair was a big deal, or something people often noticed. But your new hairstyle sure caused a stir up. Who would have thought a shaggy mullet would be missed. A mullet hasn’t been legit since Billy Ray Cyrus’ back in the early 90s. I guess you and your mullet have more in common with Billy Ray since you getting rid of it broke a lot of achey breakey pre teen hearts. But you know what, good, cause these little girls have to learn that you’re not interested in them in that way. I don’t even know why they put you up on a pedestal, you’re just a regular 21 year old dude, living the dream I guess. It’s not like you’ve changed the world not that, that’s a big deal, common none of us have and probably never will. What I mean is, you’re just a dude. Well, your ideas are amazing! I’m glad not all of today’s youth is forgetting how to be creative, artistic and just talented. But these girls, god damn it! I bet it’s all your looks. It’s like you sure aren’t ugly, so their newly hormones have them crazy over your dreamy eyes. What bugs me more is that if your looks are what bring forth these girls and nothing more, well they just need to GET THE FUCK OUT. I love you an all, and I respect you, but if you ask me, you’re not even the coolest one in the band. Garrett’s way cooler than you, I bet that if we met, we’d become best friends for sure! We would watch Killer Klowns from Outer Space, then I would take him to the exact locations the movie was filmed in, you know since it was filmed in my hometown! After that, we’d bug you because we’re still kids at heart, that like to annoy people, Pat, or Todd as I like to call him would join us in this adventure. Piranha and Rat Boy would creep out at night, they’ll have to come up with an animal name for me. Jared SHREDS on guitar, and Kennedy is always stoked on life, all together these kids are at least ten times cooler than you. It’s almost as though they cared more… But I see why you hide in the bus, if I were you I’d never come out! It would suck to be you, constantly hearing your name, well having John as a name doesn’t really help since every other dude in America is named John, but you get the picture. I don’t know, it’s just that you’re a dude, I’m a dude, he’s a dude, she’s a dude, we’re all dudes. And I just wished people would treat you as that and not a watered down version of, I don’t know Justin Timberlake? Sorry if I sound like a bitch, but you know I love you. It’s like I swear, Rachael, Brittney and I are your only normal “fans.” Maybe because we’re all around the same age, oh god how embarrassing, maybe the jokes on us, and were just displaced and don’t belong. Regardless, stay gold pony boy!
Ps
At least you’re not as big of a douche as Nick Santino.
Monday, November 9, 2009
The lines from Ashbery's piece
While I was reading "The Dong with the Luminous Nose," I was looking up various lines to see what poem they originated from, and I found a website that shows what poem every line of his a cento is really from. Here is the link if you are interested:
http://dougkirshen.com/dong/
http://dougkirshen.com/dong/
Saturday, November 7, 2009
My addition to the Epistolary project: Letters to Jean Claude Van Damme
Dear Jean Claude,
Hey JCVD, I saw you in the airplane yesterday looking at things in skymall you could do the splits on. I knew it was you because you had the whole row on the plane to yourself, while you read doing your signature leg splits. On IMDB people say your ass looks like Kelly Clarkson's face. I'd say both speak with equal intelligence. When people talk about her I get tired of pointing out you did the splits to avoid being electrocuted by a time traveling assassin.
Hey JCVD, I saw you in the airplane yesterday looking at things in skymall you could do the splits on. I knew it was you because you had the whole row on the plane to yourself, while you read doing your signature leg splits. On IMDB people say your ass looks like Kelly Clarkson's face. I'd say both speak with equal intelligence. When people talk about her I get tired of pointing out you did the splits to avoid being electrocuted by a time traveling assassin.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
THE DONG WITH THE LUMINOUS NOSE (a cento)
by John Ashbery
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night.
Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.
And birds sit brooding in the snow.
Continuous as the stars that shine,
When men were all asleep the snow came flying
Near where the dirty Thames does flow
Through caverns measureless to man,
Where thou shalt see the red-gilled fishes leap
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws
Where the remote Bermudas ride.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me:
This is the cock that crowed in the morn.
Who'll be the parson?
Beppo! That beard of yours becomes you not!
A gentle answer did the old Man make:
Farewell, ungrateful traitor,
Bright as a seedsman's packet
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles.
Obscurest night involved the sky
And brickdust Moll had screamed through half a street:
"Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
Every nighte and alle,
The happy highways where I went
To the Hills of Chankly Bore!"
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
These lovers fled away into the storm
And it's O dear what can the matter be?
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
On the wide level of a mountain's head
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood.
A ship is floating in the harbour now,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
From Wakefulness, poems by John Ashbery. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998.
by John Ashbery
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks
From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night.
Come, Shepherd, and again renew the quest.
And birds sit brooding in the snow.
Continuous as the stars that shine,
When men were all asleep the snow came flying
Near where the dirty Thames does flow
Through caverns measureless to man,
Where thou shalt see the red-gilled fishes leap
And a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws
Where the remote Bermudas ride.
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me:
This is the cock that crowed in the morn.
Who'll be the parson?
Beppo! That beard of yours becomes you not!
A gentle answer did the old Man make:
Farewell, ungrateful traitor,
Bright as a seedsman's packet
Where the quiet-coloured end of evening smiles.
Obscurest night involved the sky
And brickdust Moll had screamed through half a street:
"Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
Every nighte and alle,
The happy highways where I went
To the Hills of Chankly Bore!"
Where are you going to, my pretty maid?
These lovers fled away into the storm
And it's O dear what can the matter be?
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
Lay your sleeping head, my love,
On the wide level of a mountain's head
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the plain,
In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood.
A ship is floating in the harbour now,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
From Wakefulness, poems by John Ashbery. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1998.
Week 11 Assignments
Workshop Preparation
Respond to the poetry from your workshop group by completing a Peer Response Form (handed out in class and posted to the blog) for each piece. Forms should be typed. Bring two copies of each response to class November 12th, one for the writer, and one for me.
Writing Assignments
Bring a finished scene or one-act play for workshop next week.
Optional (if you still need to turn in a poem, here are some exercises to work from):
1) Write a poem in any of the traditional forms. Feel free to stick close to the form or to stray from it as Berrigan does.
2) Write a poem in a form that you invent as John Cage did in Method.
3) Continue your LOV(E) piece from class. The finished work should be half a page to a page long.
Read for Next Week
• The Dong with the Luminous Nose, John Ashbery from Wakefulness (passed out in class and posted to the blog)
• The Poetry of D.H. Rumsfeld, Hart Seely from Slate Magazine online at http://slate.msn.com/id/2081042
• Epistolary Project, Various Authors from Sidebrow Magazine online at www.sidebrow.net/2006/epistolary.php
• Ghost Project, Various Authors from Sidebrow Magazine online at www.sidebrow.net/2006/ghost.php
Blog
Write a short piece in any genre in response to either Epistolary Project or Ghost Project and post it to the blog.
Respond to the poetry from your workshop group by completing a Peer Response Form (handed out in class and posted to the blog) for each piece. Forms should be typed. Bring two copies of each response to class November 12th, one for the writer, and one for me.
Writing Assignments
Bring a finished scene or one-act play for workshop next week.
Optional (if you still need to turn in a poem, here are some exercises to work from):
1) Write a poem in any of the traditional forms. Feel free to stick close to the form or to stray from it as Berrigan does.
2) Write a poem in a form that you invent as John Cage did in Method.
3) Continue your LOV(E) piece from class. The finished work should be half a page to a page long.
Read for Next Week
• The Dong with the Luminous Nose, John Ashbery from Wakefulness (passed out in class and posted to the blog)
• The Poetry of D.H. Rumsfeld, Hart Seely from Slate Magazine online at http://slate.msn.com/id/2081042
• Epistolary Project, Various Authors from Sidebrow Magazine online at www.sidebrow.net/2006/epistolary.php
• Ghost Project, Various Authors from Sidebrow Magazine online at www.sidebrow.net/2006/ghost.php
Blog
Write a short piece in any genre in response to either Epistolary Project or Ghost Project and post it to the blog.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Composition in Future Tense
I will go Outside
I won't be able to Understand why
There might be a man outside
Surrounding himself with Some teenage girls
Giving hImself a chance to also what it's like to be outside
The girls won't be there. I Doubt it. They'll probably be at that tree, right next to me.
We'll all know what it's likE when we decide to cut ourselves into another picture outside.
It's supposed to be OUTSIDE, but the computer can't really remember how to keep the spacing.
I won't be able to Understand why
There might be a man outside
Surrounding himself with Some teenage girls
Giving hImself a chance to also what it's like to be outside
The girls won't be there. I Doubt it. They'll probably be at that tree, right next to me.
We'll all know what it's likE when we decide to cut ourselves into another picture outside.
It's supposed to be OUTSIDE, but the computer can't really remember how to keep the spacing.
B. JOel
Nameless,
Hi just checking in. It seems it's been
awhile.
Well, It's nine o'clock on a Saturday,
the regular crowd shuffles in.
& there's an old man sitting next to me.
Dreaming of making love to someone other than him.
the streets are wet like rain just fell
my head it aches.
that old man made a mess of me.
Now it seems that night was a mistake.
I wish i could see your apartment,
instead of just the answering machine.
it seems like you are no longer real to me.
am i just stuck in a dream?
Depression
I'm
depressed aNd
feeling Vile
I stagger through my day
Looking for
human emotIon, but I can't make it out
of BeD
depressed aNd
feeling Vile
I stagger through my day
Looking for
human emotIon, but I can't make it out
of BeD
Response to New Year's Resolution
I find this piece to be extremely interesting. Lydia Davis really redeems herself, in my opinion, with this piece, in that I very much follow more of what she is saying here than I cared to throughout her Mown Lawn piece.
For instance, when she says that she "thinks" she is being humble- and asks, "in fact, can anyone be truly humble at the moment they say they want to learn to be nothing?"- I find her question to be amazing comedic and insightful, at the same time. The truth of not being humble, no matter how humbly we try to be, is an issue which is humorous, when treated with honesty.
Is honesty, then, humble? Or is humbleness honest? Or are they not exclusive? I confuse myself with this type of dialogue, but Davis is able to weave an entire piece based upon the general gist of this whole argument. She goes on to wryly describe the difficulties of attaining that desirable state of "nothingness," in which a human is able to at last become something "positive" and good.
The truth of the matter is, the focus of attempting to become something that is nothing is so filled with a sense of doing something that it completely abolishes the idea that you are becoming nothing. And Davis states so, though admittedly, much more clearly than I have (and her dialogue was still confusing). Davis's final decision to "just try, each day, to be a little less than [she] usually [is]" (p. 103 reader) is, as stated above, highly amusing and extremely informative. The reader finally gets a sense that, in order to be nothing, one simply has to try to be less, and not think so much about it.
That said, perhaps I am not doing a good job of being nothing by writing something about all of this nothingness.
For instance, when she says that she "thinks" she is being humble- and asks, "in fact, can anyone be truly humble at the moment they say they want to learn to be nothing?"- I find her question to be amazing comedic and insightful, at the same time. The truth of not being humble, no matter how humbly we try to be, is an issue which is humorous, when treated with honesty.
Is honesty, then, humble? Or is humbleness honest? Or are they not exclusive? I confuse myself with this type of dialogue, but Davis is able to weave an entire piece based upon the general gist of this whole argument. She goes on to wryly describe the difficulties of attaining that desirable state of "nothingness," in which a human is able to at last become something "positive" and good.
The truth of the matter is, the focus of attempting to become something that is nothing is so filled with a sense of doing something that it completely abolishes the idea that you are becoming nothing. And Davis states so, though admittedly, much more clearly than I have (and her dialogue was still confusing). Davis's final decision to "just try, each day, to be a little less than [she] usually [is]" (p. 103 reader) is, as stated above, highly amusing and extremely informative. The reader finally gets a sense that, in order to be nothing, one simply has to try to be less, and not think so much about it.
That said, perhaps I am not doing a good job of being nothing by writing something about all of this nothingness.
composition of the staple center
When I dance They call me macarena
and the boys tHey say I'm buena
they all want mE, they can't have me
So theY all come dance beside me
move with me jAm with me
and if youR good I take you home with me
A la tuhuElpa legria macarena
Que tuhuelce parallA legria cosabuena
A la tuhueLpa legria macarena Eeeh, macarena
Now don´t you Worry ´bout my boy friend
the boy who´s nAme is Nicorino
I don't want him, cause You sent him
he was no good So I - hahaaaa
Now, come on, what was I supposeD to do ?
He wAs outta town and his two friends were soooo fine
Come and find me, my Name is Macarena
Cause' always at the party,
cause the chIcos think I´m buena
come joiN me, dance with me
and all your fellows doGs hello with me
cage
I REALLY liked John Cage's poem from Composition in Retrospect (and not because it was the first thing that I read). It's not very complicated or difficult to "discover the hidden meaning," but still, it got to me somehow. I found it funny that he is using a method, and METHOD is the word he uses as his frame. Mostly I just liked the content, because it's true. My memories of what happened really aren't what happened. And the fact is, that everything was more conventional than I remember. The mind has a tendency to elaborate, to distort the mundane into something worth remembering. This happens to me often, and I'm sure it happens to others as well, and it was great to read a poem that was so simple, yet encompassed something so basic and true.
creative response to New Year's Resolution
it’s hard to tell your mother you’re a beast. to tell her what it’s like/erase. to tell her that nothing matters and everyone is making up as they go. to tell her that it’s HER fault you’re here in the first place (father to(not that you blame her but its just a fact). explaining that nothing MATTER/S till you input the trail of semantics you washed up upon. it’s not that she hasn’t had any experiences in which she found some teleological tune; having children (painful i heard), loving, smelling a new car, two step on the dance floor. i had to tell her that i didn’t believe in IT anymore; the myths, the choices, the fragrance of her new car. no injustice no determinism, just behaviors, assumptions. my mother works, it’s sad. i didn’t want to devastate her, she listens with papal concern, sensitivity of influence, she believes in me. the cherry in her manhattan swiveled the round of her glass, roulette roll. she sat down looking into the glass with little recognition of its shape. a game ma, one that required destruction. no more ontology, just listen, taste, disaffect and dream. we breathe MEANING/S into it from a diaper to a toe tag, all the way, told what to think. not the beast once infected with something. it’s not fair to learn this at her age; too much built behind to destroy, foundations to thick, world is too big to pummel. i put my arm around her and we started talking about the apocalypse, OUR version of IT. the angels with face paint, the elephants with shoes, birds to the moon ma, birds to the moon…
Imitation - Sonnet 14
Pale faces, followed by rope
Hollowed out canoes glistening
A dreary child's dream, barely listening
It all slips from memories touch, imprisoned by hope
The reflection of the pond calls your name
Like a scene from a Shakespeare play
A ghastly hand penetrates the ripples, wanting to say
"Even the Presbyterian Puritan can rid the shame."
The night chill silences the grove
A vigorous light slices black strips from the mist
The water has been put to rest
Even a stump can resemble a clove
An untruths body can exist
For one mans worst is another's best.
Hollowed out canoes glistening
A dreary child's dream, barely listening
It all slips from memories touch, imprisoned by hope
The reflection of the pond calls your name
Like a scene from a Shakespeare play
A ghastly hand penetrates the ripples, wanting to say
"Even the Presbyterian Puritan can rid the shame."
The night chill silences the grove
A vigorous light slices black strips from the mist
The water has been put to rest
Even a stump can resemble a clove
An untruths body can exist
For one mans worst is another's best.
Listening
My entire life I've been told that I was hard-headed, witty, too smart for my own good and as headstrong as a bull. What can I do with qualities such as these? writing! I never thought that I would be a writer. I've always loved reading and watching people perform, but always had doubts;but, it seems that the universe had other ideas in mind. In one way or another writing or performing has presented itself to me over and again until I had to listen. It made me pay attention to a natural gift. The gift of communication. I'm not sure if I will become famous or make enough money to live comfortably by writing, but what I do know, is that I will never stop writing and giving my gift to the world. Writing, and art in general, should always be present in our world rather we're famous from it or not.
Response to "New Year's Resolution"
It's funny that people put of improving their lives until New Years. New Year's resolutions are just an excuse to continue to refuse to improve oneself, and feel good about it. I have no such plans for this January. In fact, quite the opposite. I intend to take my debauchery to the next level. Not really a New Year's resolution, however, I believe I'll start doing this today, and hopefully by New Year's I will have driven away all my resolution-making friends and family with my increasingly churlish behavior. And rather than waiting for January 1st, I'll renew my dubious resolution each and every morning, no matter how hungover I am.
-Jon Nelson
Stress
NOTES: Steven sits on alone on a bench beneath the willow tree at the top of campus. He has just gotten out of class and is waiting for his girlfriend Janey to get off of work. Janey approaches from the right and, upon seeing Steven’s face, slows her steps and prepares herself for the rant sure to come. She removes her backpack and sits, waits.
STEVEN: The bench is right.
JANEY: What?
STEVEN: The bench. It’s right. Read the bench.
JANEY: (Turns and sees a small piece of paper taped to the center of the bench. She leans in and begins to read aloud) “We are our own tormentors, and any pain we feel is pain we bring upon ourselves. Therefore, we the creators must also be the relievers.” (Turns to face Steven. Sits and waits.)
STEVEN: I realized, reading this bench, that I stress too much. All these problems I have are only made worse because I stress about them. My homework? I don’t need to stress about it. I just need to do it. A job? I need to stop talking about getting one and actually apply. My dumbass roommates? I’m just going to forget about them. They’re dead to me. I need to stop stressing. It’s not who I am. I’m going to stop.
JANEY: (Nods her head. Doesn’t really know what to say.) Uh huh…
STEVEN: Yeah, I’m going to stop. Starting tonight.
JANEY: (Skeptical.) Yeah…you really do need to stop stressing. It’s not making you happy. I can see it on your face, and it’s stressing me out.
STEVEN: I know. I’m going to stop. Let’s go watch a movie.
JANEY: (Doesn’t trust it’s going to end just like this. Picks up her backpack and starts to get up.) Ok…
STEVEN: I mean, who cares if they’re moving out. We’ll find someone to take their place. And even if we don’t, I can move somewhere else. It’s no big deal. I mean, I can move in with my uncle…although, I do hate him. But it’s ok, I’ll figure something out…
JANEY: Yeah, it’ll all work out in the end…
STEVEN: Yeah, it will. I’m not stressing about it. And those assholes can go fuck themselves. They’ll get what’s coming to them. And if they don’t, I’ll make sure they do.
JANEY: Yeah, they will, don’t worry about it.
STEVEN: I mean, what they’re doing is pretty fucked up. And if they don’t get what’s coming to them, then I’ll have absolutely no faith in the universe. I mean, I don’t have much faith in it now, what with the corruption in the government, the greed in humankind, the war, the terror….
(Janey places her backpack on the ground and makes herself comfortable on the bench.)
STEVEN: The bench is right.
JANEY: What?
STEVEN: The bench. It’s right. Read the bench.
JANEY: (Turns and sees a small piece of paper taped to the center of the bench. She leans in and begins to read aloud) “We are our own tormentors, and any pain we feel is pain we bring upon ourselves. Therefore, we the creators must also be the relievers.” (Turns to face Steven. Sits and waits.)
STEVEN: I realized, reading this bench, that I stress too much. All these problems I have are only made worse because I stress about them. My homework? I don’t need to stress about it. I just need to do it. A job? I need to stop talking about getting one and actually apply. My dumbass roommates? I’m just going to forget about them. They’re dead to me. I need to stop stressing. It’s not who I am. I’m going to stop.
JANEY: (Nods her head. Doesn’t really know what to say.) Uh huh…
STEVEN: Yeah, I’m going to stop. Starting tonight.
JANEY: (Skeptical.) Yeah…you really do need to stop stressing. It’s not making you happy. I can see it on your face, and it’s stressing me out.
STEVEN: I know. I’m going to stop. Let’s go watch a movie.
JANEY: (Doesn’t trust it’s going to end just like this. Picks up her backpack and starts to get up.) Ok…
STEVEN: I mean, who cares if they’re moving out. We’ll find someone to take their place. And even if we don’t, I can move somewhere else. It’s no big deal. I mean, I can move in with my uncle…although, I do hate him. But it’s ok, I’ll figure something out…
JANEY: Yeah, it’ll all work out in the end…
STEVEN: Yeah, it will. I’m not stressing about it. And those assholes can go fuck themselves. They’ll get what’s coming to them. And if they don’t, I’ll make sure they do.
JANEY: Yeah, they will, don’t worry about it.
STEVEN: I mean, what they’re doing is pretty fucked up. And if they don’t get what’s coming to them, then I’ll have absolutely no faith in the universe. I mean, I don’t have much faith in it now, what with the corruption in the government, the greed in humankind, the war, the terror….
(Janey places her backpack on the ground and makes herself comfortable on the bench.)
Imitation Response to "New Year's Resolution"
Maybe nothing is too much. The weight of something is not enough, it binds with the implied resistance that holds but is not enough. Nothing is too much when the lid is off the box and you are resolute to be nothing to no one but not in a negative way. Some day being something to anyone else could revert back into nothing but for now nothing cannot be grasped. It is indelible in its impermanence, for everyone is nothing to someone and everything to whom? I ache for the resolve that nothing requires, but by the end of the day it somehow backfires and something happens to someone, and I am nothing if not something once again.
Sonnet Infinity- imitation of Sonnet 2 by Berrigan
Dear Jessie, hey, it's 6:45am.
The sun pokes me in the eye
Remember how you said you had different lotions
for all your parts?
Under the eyes, the face, arms and feet.
I'm sensitive.
I have body soap, face soap, and pussy soap.
It's 3:33pm, just off the train. I live in a world full of shit and piss
or rather the world is piss-n-shit.
Say that ten times fast. It's fun.
Dear Jessie, It's 6:45am
Remember how you said you were always better than me?
And how the roles have changed?
So weird that it took eleven years for me to find out
Dear Jessie, you are a bitch.
Boomer Johnson aka Sarah Cook
The sun pokes me in the eye
Remember how you said you had different lotions
for all your parts?
Under the eyes, the face, arms and feet.
I'm sensitive.
I have body soap, face soap, and pussy soap.
It's 3:33pm, just off the train. I live in a world full of shit and piss
or rather the world is piss-n-shit.
Say that ten times fast. It's fun.
Dear Jessie, It's 6:45am
Remember how you said you were always better than me?
And how the roles have changed?
So weird that it took eleven years for me to find out
Dear Jessie, you are a bitch.
Boomer Johnson aka Sarah Cook
subliminal messages are the worst kind
someTimes i can sit
for Hours, listening to the
statIc whir of guitars and
diStortion, feedback
and noIse, of what
are conSidered the eccentric,
less Crucial, more expendable
of sOnic youth records, with
guitaRs out of tune on purpose;
& johN cage was a huge influence,
and Yet, i still don't dig his stuff
for Hours, listening to the
statIc whir of guitars and
diStortion, feedback
and noIse, of what
are conSidered the eccentric,
less Crucial, more expendable
of sOnic youth records, with
guitaRs out of tune on purpose;
& johN cage was a huge influence,
and Yet, i still don't dig his stuff
Composition in Retrospect by John Cage
i Must
Emphasize
The
Haughtiness
Of it all
but Don’t laugh
My
MEmory
of whaT
Happened
years agO
Does
Make
mistakeEs
Twisted
Hallucinations
Of the
Devil...(and things like that)
I just posted part of my story which turned out to be rather long, and didn’t end up sounding like a complete story anyway. I think I had a hard time writing a complete story because I was trying to work within certain limits. For anyone who hasn’t tried this type of exercise, I would recommend it. I think the fact that it’s so limiting makes it a clever canvas from which to write. It makes a lot of sense that creativity would emerge from a place that is so confined and structured. We did this in class last week when we wrote about, “Before I was _________, I was _________,” but that was kind of boring! I recently learned how to write a Pantoum. In a pantoum, you write poetry from this set blueprint that has you repeat lines over and over. Writing in these non-usual ways is a nice diversion from the usual writing we do.
Emphasize
The
Haughtiness
Of it all
but Don’t laugh
My
MEmory
of whaT
Happened
years agO
Does
Make
mistakeEs
Twisted
Hallucinations
Of the
Devil...(and things like that)
I just posted part of my story which turned out to be rather long, and didn’t end up sounding like a complete story anyway. I think I had a hard time writing a complete story because I was trying to work within certain limits. For anyone who hasn’t tried this type of exercise, I would recommend it. I think the fact that it’s so limiting makes it a clever canvas from which to write. It makes a lot of sense that creativity would emerge from a place that is so confined and structured. We did this in class last week when we wrote about, “Before I was _________, I was _________,” but that was kind of boring! I recently learned how to write a Pantoum. In a pantoum, you write poetry from this set blueprint that has you repeat lines over and over. Writing in these non-usual ways is a nice diversion from the usual writing we do.
TUESDAY EXECUTION!!!
They say the number one cause of death on Death row is old age. Not me, I die next Tuesday. On Tuesday November 24, 2009 I will become the fourteenth person in the State of California to be executed. And to think my whole life no one said I was special. They will bring me into a small room with a padded bed which resembles a cross. A fitting symbol for a life filled with sin I guess. They will tie me down with leather straps-like an animal, in case I try to escape. But my fantasies about escape and the outside world died a long time ago. I will lie there and receive my retribution. Next to the bed there is a heart monitor, only this time the doctors are using to make sure that my heart stops. Even in the end life is full of irony. Then the government approved three part cocktail of Sodium penothal, Pancuronium bromide, and Potassium chloride, will be delivered via injection.
“I die next Tuesday”, I say out loud. I say it to make the words relay to my mind the gravity of my situation. But how does one prepare for death? I gave up on God a long time ago, I wonder if he gave up on me? - The warden enters to come and check up on me. To make sure I don’t expedite the process of death and, and take matters into my own hands.-He needn’t bother I’ve accepted my fate. Everyone has to die sometime, I’m just fortunate enough to know the day and hour. The warden walks by again. He’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend. And all the bastard does is come by and talk. But that’s enough for me. He’s young and I will be his first execution. He’s nervous, strange it seems since he’s on the other side of the bars.
Warden: So . . . . (Pause) Can I get you something?
Clarence: What are you now? My god damn servant?-Yet I want something. Get me your finest Fee-lay-Meen-Yon, and Halle Berry’s fine ass.
Warden: You don’t have to be a dick about it I just figured a man…. in your position might want some…..some comforts that’s all.
Clarence: Warden, now you’re talking like a bitch. I’m in this position because of me! Ain’t no one else to blame but me. Didn’t no God make me do it! Ain’t no little voices in my head, just me!
Warden: I’m not saying anything to the contrary. (Pause)
Warden: So can I ask you something?
Clarence: You are anyways so you might as well
Warden: So …are you scared?
Clarence: Scared? What the fuck kind of question is that?
Warden: I don’t know. This is my first execution… I’ve never seen a man die.
Clarence: (After a long pause) you know how long I’ve been here Warden?
Warden: 25 years according to your case file
Clarence: I’m 75 years old, I’ve been incarcerated the majority of my life. Part of me is scared shitless. Part of me realizes that life is just one chance and I fucked it up. And that the fact that after Tuesday I will never see or know anything about the world from then and forever is…. Well it’s fucking bullshit!
Warden: God will be there for …
Clarence: I don’t believe in no GOD! I know there ain’t no heaven and hell! I know all I got waiting for me on the other side is a pile of dirt and hunk of marble with my name on it! Don’t you try to feed me that bull shit about God now!
Warden: I…I didn’t mean to upset you.
Clarence: But…But the other part of me is ready. From now until Tuesday I’m gonna sleep peacefully for the first time in years. From now until Tuesday a part of me knows that I will finally be free. Because from now until Tuesday NOTHING matters.
“About half way through your life you are smart enough to see that it all amounts to nothing”
Warden: But what of your soul?
Clarence: My soul died a long time ago…
Facts:
California has only executed 13 inmates since 1976.
The last inmate to be executed was Clarence Allen on January 16, 2006. On a Tuesday.
“I die next Tuesday”, I say out loud. I say it to make the words relay to my mind the gravity of my situation. But how does one prepare for death? I gave up on God a long time ago, I wonder if he gave up on me? - The warden enters to come and check up on me. To make sure I don’t expedite the process of death and, and take matters into my own hands.-He needn’t bother I’ve accepted my fate. Everyone has to die sometime, I’m just fortunate enough to know the day and hour. The warden walks by again. He’s probably the closest thing I’ve ever had to a friend. And all the bastard does is come by and talk. But that’s enough for me. He’s young and I will be his first execution. He’s nervous, strange it seems since he’s on the other side of the bars.
Warden: So . . . . (Pause) Can I get you something?
Clarence: What are you now? My god damn servant?-Yet I want something. Get me your finest Fee-lay-Meen-Yon, and Halle Berry’s fine ass.
Warden: You don’t have to be a dick about it I just figured a man…. in your position might want some…..some comforts that’s all.
Clarence: Warden, now you’re talking like a bitch. I’m in this position because of me! Ain’t no one else to blame but me. Didn’t no God make me do it! Ain’t no little voices in my head, just me!
Warden: I’m not saying anything to the contrary. (Pause)
Warden: So can I ask you something?
Clarence: You are anyways so you might as well
Warden: So …are you scared?
Clarence: Scared? What the fuck kind of question is that?
Warden: I don’t know. This is my first execution… I’ve never seen a man die.
Clarence: (After a long pause) you know how long I’ve been here Warden?
Warden: 25 years according to your case file
Clarence: I’m 75 years old, I’ve been incarcerated the majority of my life. Part of me is scared shitless. Part of me realizes that life is just one chance and I fucked it up. And that the fact that after Tuesday I will never see or know anything about the world from then and forever is…. Well it’s fucking bullshit!
Warden: God will be there for …
Clarence: I don’t believe in no GOD! I know there ain’t no heaven and hell! I know all I got waiting for me on the other side is a pile of dirt and hunk of marble with my name on it! Don’t you try to feed me that bull shit about God now!
Warden: I…I didn’t mean to upset you.
Clarence: But…But the other part of me is ready. From now until Tuesday I’m gonna sleep peacefully for the first time in years. From now until Tuesday a part of me knows that I will finally be free. Because from now until Tuesday NOTHING matters.
“About half way through your life you are smart enough to see that it all amounts to nothing”
Warden: But what of your soul?
Clarence: My soul died a long time ago…
Facts:
California has only executed 13 inmates since 1976.
The last inmate to be executed was Clarence Allen on January 16, 2006. On a Tuesday.
Response to composition in retrospect by John Cage
I feel like i’M wasting away
and my only cUre is to experience it again
and my only cUre is to experience it again
take me back, pleaSe.
A piece of me Is missing
A piece of me Is missing
can you build a time maChine?
A lot of Money wasted
crowded Under pressure
almost Suffocating.
A lot of Money wasted
crowded Under pressure
almost Suffocating.
is there something wrong with living lIfe like this?
I Can’t stop…won’t stop.
Friends, peopLe I hardly know.
Strangers Of this city come together,
to become a family, with Values.
This is the lifE that’s created,
For us Liars
Out there-
For the Violence
In evEryone.
I fell in Love again,
It happens every tIme I hear
my Feelings out loud,
It’s a routinE thing.
and I can’t heLp but wonder when
when It will repeat, because that’s when
I Feel the most alive.
This is (my) rEal life.
I Can’t stop…won’t stop.
Friends, peopLe I hardly know.
Strangers Of this city come together,
to become a family, with Values.
This is the lifE that’s created,
For us Liars
Out there-
For the Violence
In evEryone.
I fell in Love again,
It happens every tIme I hear
my Feelings out loud,
It’s a routinE thing.
and I can’t heLp but wonder when
when It will repeat, because that’s when
I Feel the most alive.
This is (my) rEal life.
(sorry if its all weird looking on this...you guys get the picture, right)
POEM POEM
I remember doing things like this with my name when I was in kindergarten. It was a little more restricted then, we could only use the first letter and it had to be a word to describe us. JENNY was somewhat tricky for me as a child. Many times I had to describe myself as "jolly" and "yellow-haired". Anyway, I decided to re-explore those childhood times with this poem. I rarely to absolutely never write poetry, so I'm looking for different ways to trick myself into doing one for the workshop assignment this week. This is the first dip into the poetry waters:
bits and Parts
Of
evEryday
Mush
Placed in a way
sO everyday mush
sounds likE
extraordinary Mush
Composition
tti sit With poise
ttRying
to wrIte ttttttt
ttttttttttttttsomeThing so unique and
meanIngfultttt
but iNstead it
tttttttttttGrow restless
tttttti ask Why waste my
ttime wRiting what
tttttttI know is
bullshiTttttttttttt
ttttttttttIn hopes of
Not
tttsoundinG pretentious
tttttttBetrayed
ttttttttttttttUnder my skin
tttttLies the
ttttLogic i
tttttttttttttttttShould be happy
ttttto Have the
ttttttttttttopportunIty in getting a degree
but instead my emoTions waste awaytttttt
ttttit is a Battle of my
ttttemotion Under my logic
tttttwhere my Life is productive
tt tbut my Life feels as a
ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttStep in the wrong direction
ttttttttttti go to scHool and do my best
ttttttttttwhile I dream of living
ttttttttttttinsTead of writing
to wrIte ttttttt
ttttttttttttttsomeThing so unique and
meanIngfultttt
but iNstead it
tttttttttttGrow restless
tttttti ask Why waste my
ttime wRiting what
tttttttI know is
bullshiTttttttttttt
ttttttttttIn hopes of
Not
tttsoundinG pretentious
tttttttBetrayed
ttttttttttttttUnder my skin
tttttLies the
ttttLogic i
tttttttttttttttttShould be happy
ttttto Have the
ttttttttttttopportunIty in getting a degree
but instead my emoTions waste awaytttttt
ttttit is a Battle of my
ttttemotion Under my logic
tttttwhere my Life is productive
tt tbut my Life feels as a
ttttttttttttttttttttttttttttttStep in the wrong direction
ttttttttttti go to scHool and do my best
ttttttttttwhile I dream of living
ttttttttttttinsTead of writing
Creative Response to New Years Resolution
The Birthday Wish
The candles twitched before me as the glowing faces hovered around like spirits.
"Well, make a wish."
I stared into one of the undulating flames and wondered if a candle had the life of a phoenix - reborn with every struck match that kissed it's wick.
"Go on!" My little sister Nora shouted, the magic of birthdays still shining madly in her eyes. I quickly extinguished the candles with a cloud of my carbon dioxide and everyone clapped, Nora the loudest as she jumped up and down, causing her pigtails to squirm like uncomfortable worms.
"What did you wish for? What did you wish for?" she squealed.
"You can't ask her about her wish, or it won't come true," my mother said in a sickly sweet tone. She was wearing a dress most girls my age would have to be fearless to wear, and her sagging boobs, almost exposed to the nipple, had all the males at the party staring.
We proceeded to cut the cake, and eat it as we listened to my mother and her new boy-toy talk about their recent trip to Tijuana, and when that exhibition was over, my mother put on some music and she and some of the other guests started to dance.
I escaped out to the balcony where the off-white curtain hid me from everyone inside. I deeply inhaled the night air, breathing it out slowly when Sam walked onto the balcony.
"There you are Lilly. I was looking for you, I . . ."
His lips continued to move and I turned my gaze toward the scene before me - the long shadows of our cement fence made from the light of streetlamps began to devour the yard, turning the lawn into one indiscernible abyss. Sam started to move closer to me, and I could only guess (and dread) at what he wanted. I turned back to him in time to hear him say, "I thought I could help you with that wish."
I tried to ignore his cheesy line, and the way his face started to scrunch up and move in. I turned my back to him, stared down into the blackening lawn, and hoped my wish would come true.
The candles twitched before me as the glowing faces hovered around like spirits.
"Well, make a wish."
I stared into one of the undulating flames and wondered if a candle had the life of a phoenix - reborn with every struck match that kissed it's wick.
"Go on!" My little sister Nora shouted, the magic of birthdays still shining madly in her eyes. I quickly extinguished the candles with a cloud of my carbon dioxide and everyone clapped, Nora the loudest as she jumped up and down, causing her pigtails to squirm like uncomfortable worms.
"What did you wish for? What did you wish for?" she squealed.
"You can't ask her about her wish, or it won't come true," my mother said in a sickly sweet tone. She was wearing a dress most girls my age would have to be fearless to wear, and her sagging boobs, almost exposed to the nipple, had all the males at the party staring.
We proceeded to cut the cake, and eat it as we listened to my mother and her new boy-toy talk about their recent trip to Tijuana, and when that exhibition was over, my mother put on some music and she and some of the other guests started to dance.
I escaped out to the balcony where the off-white curtain hid me from everyone inside. I deeply inhaled the night air, breathing it out slowly when Sam walked onto the balcony.
"There you are Lilly. I was looking for you, I . . ."
His lips continued to move and I turned my gaze toward the scene before me - the long shadows of our cement fence made from the light of streetlamps began to devour the yard, turning the lawn into one indiscernible abyss. Sam started to move closer to me, and I could only guess (and dread) at what he wanted. I turned back to him in time to hear him say, "I thought I could help you with that wish."
I tried to ignore his cheesy line, and the way his face started to scrunch up and move in. I turned my back to him, stared down into the blackening lawn, and hoped my wish would come true.
Present Tense
"I can forgive everything and forget nothing"
five letters once weighed so much
when i was young
sounds connecting
a new song
light reflecting
a new picture
letters taking shape
a new verse
aromas evolving
a new love
soft skin turned to tiny speed bumps
love for texture
neurons firing exploding tangible
Discovery
no longer tangible
expected
calculated
meaningless
jaded
five letters now like the four letters of hello and the three of bye
five letters once weighed so much
when i was young
sounds connecting
a new song
light reflecting
a new picture
letters taking shape
a new verse
aromas evolving
a new love
soft skin turned to tiny speed bumps
love for texture
neurons firing exploding tangible
Discovery
no longer tangible
expected
calculated
meaningless
jaded
five letters now like the four letters of hello and the three of bye
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