In the very earliest time
when both people and animals lived on earth,
a person could become an animal if he wanted to
and an animal could become a human being.
Sometimes they were people
and sometimes animals
and there was no difference.
All spoke the same language.
That was the time when words were like magic.
The human mind had mysterious powers.
A word spoken by chance
might have strange consequences.
It would suddenly come alive
and what people wanted to happen could happen--
all you had to do was say it.
Nobody could explain this:
that's the way it was.
--"Magic Words" by Edward Field
inspired by the Inuit
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Because no matter what happens, there will always be imagination
Later:
He had the key to the house but the locks had been changed and just when they were getting worried the key worked and they got in. The heat has not been on in weeks, maybe he said and she said she didn't mind, maybe and they walked up the stairs.
A mounted skeleton head watched her from the kitchen fridge as she tiptoed around the kitchen floor and looked inside the kitchen oven, expecting to see last-nights last-overs. The kitchen oven was empty but the kitchen drawer was not, it was half-full-not-half-empty of peeled garlic and dirty spoons.
I want to get out of here she whispered when she saw his shower door led into the living room and his piano was open but dusty with three doll heads on the propboard (these were his father's, of course, but of course she still missed the comforts of her doll-head-less dormroom.)
They creaked up the stairs and ducked under the wires and he said wait, here.
He opened the room's door and stopped and said fuck you dad and he said nothing and he said fuck you dad when he saw the the stripped walls and stripped wallpaper and he laughed when the only lasting relic from his childhood was the one thing his father couldn't strip, which was the water heater.
Let's go she said and she closed the door.
They went upstairs where a windchime hung from the beams and EE Cummings wrote on the floor and he remembered he lived there, this was where he lived (but his father did too). They started a fire and grabbed two flashlights and huddled under the blankets for warmth and huddled under the blankes with the books and eachother and with eachother they looked through books his father had maybe never touched because the bindings still popped.
The fire popped and the bindings popped and under-blanketed and under-warmthed she helped him escape from being under-fathered.
Then:
A thin slice across the wrist his father said is just what teaches a boy to mind his words. His son asked what teaches a father to mind his words and his father said take the leash and ive the dog a walk. His son said the dog's just been outside and his father said no, no I think teh dog i'm looking at needs to get out of my house.
His son walked the leash out of the house and forgot the dog and turned back and let the dog out and when he turned back around she was there.
Hey I've seen you before he said and she said I know we go to school together and he said where do you live and she said around here, maybe adn he said you don't know? and she said no, you don't.
Scared? he said Of you? she said Yes he said No she said.
You're strange he said.
A police car whistled by and the trees and the yard and a brick building kept a polite little boy in his house from whistling back. The dog strained against the leash and the leaves strained against their stems and the boy strained against his fear and said want to go for a walk? The girl laughed to him and he caught it and put it in his pocket next to the sound of a typing keyboard and wind wrapped in the sails and the squirrel outside his window and he said, what was that for?
You're strange she said and she was quiet and she said no I won't go on a walk with you and your dog, but I will tell you where I live.
Now:
"Knock twice, and if I don't respond go away" the door read. He knocked once on the door and waited no response so he knocked twice on the door and waited no response and he thought that's it and he turned away. But then he turned back and said no he said no that's not it and he opened the door. No response.
The sweaty ship tilted and when he opened the sweaty door a hinge broke and the door bottom scraped on the sweaty-floor-bottom. He knocked into a barrel marked Fragile and got not response so he kept moving, past the crates and barrels and straw-crusted cages all marked, Fragile. The door stayed open and leaked in the sounds of dark waves crashing, dark waves smashing. Not much farther, must be, he thought. No response.
He got to the end of the hallway with a door marked Glass House Theatre with two doorbells and a rusty intercom and he thought, this? Is where she lives. I'm being watched he thought and he smiled and he said it out loud I'm being watched.
She came out of the Glass House Theatre and said I didn't expect you so soon but I'm glad it's you and he said me too.
This is me returning your phone call he said and she smiled and said I don't have a phone, you know someday you're going to ahve to stop being so dramatic and he said you were expecting that line, weren't you? And she said yes and he said well then I guess I wasn't being dramatic enough.
He had the key to the house but the locks had been changed and just when they were getting worried the key worked and they got in. The heat has not been on in weeks, maybe he said and she said she didn't mind, maybe and they walked up the stairs.
A mounted skeleton head watched her from the kitchen fridge as she tiptoed around the kitchen floor and looked inside the kitchen oven, expecting to see last-nights last-overs. The kitchen oven was empty but the kitchen drawer was not, it was half-full-not-half-empty of peeled garlic and dirty spoons.
I want to get out of here she whispered when she saw his shower door led into the living room and his piano was open but dusty with three doll heads on the propboard (these were his father's, of course, but of course she still missed the comforts of her doll-head-less dormroom.)
They creaked up the stairs and ducked under the wires and he said wait, here.
He opened the room's door and stopped and said fuck you dad and he said nothing and he said fuck you dad when he saw the the stripped walls and stripped wallpaper and he laughed when the only lasting relic from his childhood was the one thing his father couldn't strip, which was the water heater.
Let's go she said and she closed the door.
They went upstairs where a windchime hung from the beams and EE Cummings wrote on the floor and he remembered he lived there, this was where he lived (but his father did too). They started a fire and grabbed two flashlights and huddled under the blankets for warmth and huddled under the blankes with the books and eachother and with eachother they looked through books his father had maybe never touched because the bindings still popped.
The fire popped and the bindings popped and under-blanketed and under-warmthed she helped him escape from being under-fathered.
Then:
A thin slice across the wrist his father said is just what teaches a boy to mind his words. His son asked what teaches a father to mind his words and his father said take the leash and ive the dog a walk. His son said the dog's just been outside and his father said no, no I think teh dog i'm looking at needs to get out of my house.
His son walked the leash out of the house and forgot the dog and turned back and let the dog out and when he turned back around she was there.
Hey I've seen you before he said and she said I know we go to school together and he said where do you live and she said around here, maybe adn he said you don't know? and she said no, you don't.
Scared? he said Of you? she said Yes he said No she said.
You're strange he said.
A police car whistled by and the trees and the yard and a brick building kept a polite little boy in his house from whistling back. The dog strained against the leash and the leaves strained against their stems and the boy strained against his fear and said want to go for a walk? The girl laughed to him and he caught it and put it in his pocket next to the sound of a typing keyboard and wind wrapped in the sails and the squirrel outside his window and he said, what was that for?
You're strange she said and she was quiet and she said no I won't go on a walk with you and your dog, but I will tell you where I live.
Now:
"Knock twice, and if I don't respond go away" the door read. He knocked once on the door and waited no response so he knocked twice on the door and waited no response and he thought that's it and he turned away. But then he turned back and said no he said no that's not it and he opened the door. No response.
The sweaty ship tilted and when he opened the sweaty door a hinge broke and the door bottom scraped on the sweaty-floor-bottom. He knocked into a barrel marked Fragile and got not response so he kept moving, past the crates and barrels and straw-crusted cages all marked, Fragile. The door stayed open and leaked in the sounds of dark waves crashing, dark waves smashing. Not much farther, must be, he thought. No response.
He got to the end of the hallway with a door marked Glass House Theatre with two doorbells and a rusty intercom and he thought, this? Is where she lives. I'm being watched he thought and he smiled and he said it out loud I'm being watched.
She came out of the Glass House Theatre and said I didn't expect you so soon but I'm glad it's you and he said me too.
This is me returning your phone call he said and she smiled and said I don't have a phone, you know someday you're going to ahve to stop being so dramatic and he said you were expecting that line, weren't you? And she said yes and he said well then I guess I wasn't being dramatic enough.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
apricots for you, bumblebees for me (alright time to stop)
for the first time in my life, someone told me tonight I could explain things better out loud than on paper. It was a sad day for my writing. And a triumphant day for a certain sailor.
Friday, March 30, 2007
I guess you could say my goal in life is to be described as one of the spunky ones
You know the one. It's the one that sparkles when she walks in the door, the one that magnetizes everything, the one that brushes her hair five times quick before stepping out of the car. It's the one that starts her day off with a Slimfast bar, the one who tans unconsciously, the one who should add another sheet to her senior yearbook to fit all the inside jokes, but never does, because someone else thinks of it and does it for her. Her yearbook adjectives stretch far, but words like boundless, creative, outrageous, spectacular, "best friend EVER" and "I LOVE YOU FOREVER!!!" are repeated the most. In one word, loved. She is the spunky one.
I can't even go as far as to say I was the angsty one, the angry rebel lurking in the midst of pre-burn-out glories, the hidden Guineverian Einstein. You know me. I'm the one that walked in the door three steps before the true diamond, the one that gets attracted to but does not necessarily attract, the one that rolls down the window to blow dry her hair. I'm the one that starts her day off with cheerios and skim milk, the one who freckles oddly, or pinks and reds THEN browns. The one who thinks to add another page to her yearbook and sticks it in, greedily, then after doing another round of the room, realizes there is no one else left worth having sign. Alright even this is making me sound less confident then I actually am. Yearbook adjectives were still pretty loving, I still got the creative, outrageous, spectacular, "best friend EVER" and "I LOVE YOU FOREVER", but even these same words still left one empty feeling, a void that should have been filled by spunky, but it wasn't.
It's like being prepared for every photograph taken of you three seconds before the picture is taken, and the agility and life of your face is just beginning to freeze as the flash captures the moment. The picture shows you were, at one point, life-full (that is a plus) but it also shows you were conscious of being life-full and you were trying to present it. By preparing to look artful you have just killed any chance of being artful. By preparing to look life-full you have just killed any chance of being life-full. By preparing to look spontaneous you have just killed any chance of being spontaneous. Three seconds ago it was real. Three seconds later it was documented.
That made so much more sense in my mind before I wrote it down.
I can't even go as far as to say I was the angsty one, the angry rebel lurking in the midst of pre-burn-out glories, the hidden Guineverian Einstein. You know me. I'm the one that walked in the door three steps before the true diamond, the one that gets attracted to but does not necessarily attract, the one that rolls down the window to blow dry her hair. I'm the one that starts her day off with cheerios and skim milk, the one who freckles oddly, or pinks and reds THEN browns. The one who thinks to add another page to her yearbook and sticks it in, greedily, then after doing another round of the room, realizes there is no one else left worth having sign. Alright even this is making me sound less confident then I actually am. Yearbook adjectives were still pretty loving, I still got the creative, outrageous, spectacular, "best friend EVER" and "I LOVE YOU FOREVER", but even these same words still left one empty feeling, a void that should have been filled by spunky, but it wasn't.
It's like being prepared for every photograph taken of you three seconds before the picture is taken, and the agility and life of your face is just beginning to freeze as the flash captures the moment. The picture shows you were, at one point, life-full (that is a plus) but it also shows you were conscious of being life-full and you were trying to present it. By preparing to look artful you have just killed any chance of being artful. By preparing to look life-full you have just killed any chance of being life-full. By preparing to look spontaneous you have just killed any chance of being spontaneous. Three seconds ago it was real. Three seconds later it was documented.
That made so much more sense in my mind before I wrote it down.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
To change the world, begin with a sociology experiment on the internet
"To change the world, begin with the maps..." he says. A 26 year old man with jet black hair and serpentine green eyes according to his myspace profile, Nicholas Schiller has become the face of cartographical abstraction and digital isolation. His fame comes from his art, but the tesselations of aerial views of famous cities, schools, and occasionally people, are also the source of his obscurity, and in the catch-22 of most modern artists, also the cause of his fame. Confused? Here's an example: I would have had no interest in this avant-garde artistry if his article in the Philadelphia Inquirer didn't have a direct invitation at the end: "I'm interested in seeing other people's opinions," he says. "Will people blog about it? Will I be made fun of?" He creates a website that cannot be found "unless you've already been there", but also has a prominent article in a newspaper that is delivered everyday to my front doorstep. If you're one of the chosen ones, you can type in the cryptic name sequence (which, ironically, was also provided by the Inquirer article) in the google search engine, and finally press that "I'm Feeling Lucky" button (noted as step 2 in Find Nicholas Shiller by the Inquirer...quite handy, kudos to some spotless journalism there) leading directly to the website's home page. No disappointments here, the home page is impressive, a black page with the words "click here" in between the split halves of a person covered with what looked like hieroglyphics, but is really a warped version of Schiller's maps. No making fun of you yet, Schiller. Points for the metaphor of the empty space between two halves of a person being exactly where a map should be, and a knowing smile for your tasteful rendering of all of us split personalities being as mirror-oriented as your maps are...maybe our splits are not so different after all.
When I first started looking at the maps, I liked them, a lot. I couldn't decide which one I liked the most, though, and I realized it was not because I couldn't pick which color i liked the most or which design was most appropriately done for that particular picture, because I had no way of differentiating them. My home town is not on an ordinary map let alone Schiller's digital ones, so I didn't get to join in on the fun of "trying to find my house on a tesselated map", and once I searched around a little bit more on the different so-called "projects", I realized the only thing that differentiated one "project" from another was the spin put on the pictures...but if you were in a certain project, no matter what the picture was, the tesselation was always the same! So my question becomes, what are you trying to hide? So there can be some hidden irony in the multiplying President Bush pictures, and a bit of humor found that most of these pictures are in the tesselation that Schiller finds makes the pictures look most like gas masks, but honestly, there is so much to be said about creating a world of symmetry...maybe I didn't look hard enough, but I didn't find it.
Honestly, Nikolas Schiller has a whole lot of material to work with. Perhaps the point of the art is not it's meaning, but the irony of maps being hidden. This is an interesting turn, but seriously, he's got America to manipulate. The whole world, and if that isn't big enough, I'm sure NASA has a few solid shots of the solar system that would look nice in repeating planes around a center point...and if that's the only point of this experiment, and to get some bloggers checking out your website, congrats. I'm all in support of making a more symmetrical world...but challenge us. Why is it important to split the world with a mirror? What is there to gain from this test of the curiosity of the digital minds? Schiller you clearly have an interest in it, judging by your myriad of digital profiles, and the well maintained blogs and myspace page, but me, I'm just a fleck on your digital resume, half a pixellation in your map...manipulate that point, but who's manipulating me?
you're showing me the map, but not telling me the destination. Maybe I'm reading into this too much, maybe I expect too much, or maybe I'm just too hopped up on metaphors and meaning that I can't like art just for it's aesthetic qualities anymore...blame it on higher education. The colors are pretty. The likeness to gas masks in the abstract project is pretty interesting. If I had to pick a favorite, I would say the Hurricane Katrina pixellation, but you know why? Because turning something that wrecked such havoc throughout an entire city into a symmetrical, beautiful, calm picture has some fierce irony in it, as well as hope that maybe someday New Orleans will be mirroring it's past self, not Katrina, as it does in the picture. Sorry if that wasn't the point.
When I first started looking at the maps, I liked them, a lot. I couldn't decide which one I liked the most, though, and I realized it was not because I couldn't pick which color i liked the most or which design was most appropriately done for that particular picture, because I had no way of differentiating them. My home town is not on an ordinary map let alone Schiller's digital ones, so I didn't get to join in on the fun of "trying to find my house on a tesselated map", and once I searched around a little bit more on the different so-called "projects", I realized the only thing that differentiated one "project" from another was the spin put on the pictures...but if you were in a certain project, no matter what the picture was, the tesselation was always the same! So my question becomes, what are you trying to hide? So there can be some hidden irony in the multiplying President Bush pictures, and a bit of humor found that most of these pictures are in the tesselation that Schiller finds makes the pictures look most like gas masks, but honestly, there is so much to be said about creating a world of symmetry...maybe I didn't look hard enough, but I didn't find it.
Honestly, Nikolas Schiller has a whole lot of material to work with. Perhaps the point of the art is not it's meaning, but the irony of maps being hidden. This is an interesting turn, but seriously, he's got America to manipulate. The whole world, and if that isn't big enough, I'm sure NASA has a few solid shots of the solar system that would look nice in repeating planes around a center point...and if that's the only point of this experiment, and to get some bloggers checking out your website, congrats. I'm all in support of making a more symmetrical world...but challenge us. Why is it important to split the world with a mirror? What is there to gain from this test of the curiosity of the digital minds? Schiller you clearly have an interest in it, judging by your myriad of digital profiles, and the well maintained blogs and myspace page, but me, I'm just a fleck on your digital resume, half a pixellation in your map...manipulate that point, but who's manipulating me?
you're showing me the map, but not telling me the destination. Maybe I'm reading into this too much, maybe I expect too much, or maybe I'm just too hopped up on metaphors and meaning that I can't like art just for it's aesthetic qualities anymore...blame it on higher education. The colors are pretty. The likeness to gas masks in the abstract project is pretty interesting. If I had to pick a favorite, I would say the Hurricane Katrina pixellation, but you know why? Because turning something that wrecked such havoc throughout an entire city into a symmetrical, beautiful, calm picture has some fierce irony in it, as well as hope that maybe someday New Orleans will be mirroring it's past self, not Katrina, as it does in the picture. Sorry if that wasn't the point.
You know the reason you came home for spring break....
....was to get your ass kicked in mini golf.
....was to watch catholic school mom's cat call their child's math teacher.
...was to pretend you never left high school.
...was to have sleepovers with your 6 and 7 year old sisters.
...was to sip margaritas, wear a bikini and lay out...in your backyard.
...was to sleep. and sleep. and sleep.
...was to babysit. and babysit. and babysit.
...was to fight with your sister about boys and cooties and extra mirror time, like you're back in high school.
...was to talk on aim with all your high school friends at 11:00 at night and think that's really late...like in high school.
...was to get your ass kicked in a public school mom's pilates class.
...was to avoid the high school, but still find yourself back there everyday.
...was to catch up on the big advancements in all the most important events in the family, including plot changes and who's been voted off american idol, america's next top model, 1 1/2 men (or men men men as my family calls it) desperate housewives, and grey's anatomy.
...was to watch Darby O' Gill and look for similarities between a young Sean Connery and my dad, to see if the story of Darby O' Gill might actually be the story of my family (as many people have pointed out).
...was to be entertained by a dog with a plastic cone on it's head so she doesn't rip out her stitches, especially when she gets stuck in doors, under the table, under the bed, in the covers, on the fence...
...was to be told "you look gooood" by all your mom's friends and take it as a compliment.
...was to be told "you look gooood" by all your dad's friends and run in the opposite direction.
...was to have a bunch of respectable goals about catching up on homework and reading and writing, but bag them and end up going for a run instead.
....was to watch catholic school mom's cat call their child's math teacher.
...was to pretend you never left high school.
...was to have sleepovers with your 6 and 7 year old sisters.
...was to sip margaritas, wear a bikini and lay out...in your backyard.
...was to sleep. and sleep. and sleep.
...was to babysit. and babysit. and babysit.
...was to fight with your sister about boys and cooties and extra mirror time, like you're back in high school.
...was to talk on aim with all your high school friends at 11:00 at night and think that's really late...like in high school.
...was to get your ass kicked in a public school mom's pilates class.
...was to avoid the high school, but still find yourself back there everyday.
...was to catch up on the big advancements in all the most important events in the family, including plot changes and who's been voted off american idol, america's next top model, 1 1/2 men (or men men men as my family calls it) desperate housewives, and grey's anatomy.
...was to watch Darby O' Gill and look for similarities between a young Sean Connery and my dad, to see if the story of Darby O' Gill might actually be the story of my family (as many people have pointed out).
...was to be entertained by a dog with a plastic cone on it's head so she doesn't rip out her stitches, especially when she gets stuck in doors, under the table, under the bed, in the covers, on the fence...
...was to be told "you look gooood" by all your mom's friends and take it as a compliment.
...was to be told "you look gooood" by all your dad's friends and run in the opposite direction.
...was to have a bunch of respectable goals about catching up on homework and reading and writing, but bag them and end up going for a run instead.
Friday, March 9, 2007
Forgotten Kisses, Forgettable Kisses
i realized last night that your kisses have changed. i kept wanting to bring it up, but i know you would ask what i meant and i realized i didn't know exactly how to put it into words.
i kept thinking of those peanut butter cookies my mom used to make during Valentine's Day (they were called Forgotten Kisses) and they made me sad because i couldn't remember the last time i had seen my parents kiss, and i thought maybe they had forgotten how. But you, i know you haven't forgotten how to kiss, but maybe forgotten something else.
A first kiss is a huge landmark, i feel. And it shows---it jumps, and impulse of will and fortune that is also an ultimate achievement, no matter how small or botched or alcohol-indused. <> i was told once, <>
They are trapped, they are treasured...maybe. Maybe just a laugh, a memory. Do you remember the first time you kissed, anyone? Do you remember the first time you kissed me?
So what is it about your kisses now? I guess it's that they are not forced, they are not monumental or especially noteworthy (<>) .
Maybe it's because they aren't stolen anymore, from time or other people or eachother. Perhaps a step closer to being forgotten, but not completely. No, not forgotten at all.
i am being too exclusive on this: this is for me, too. (i think back to those first few weeks, the phone conversations, even just a few days ago, and think <> Each kiss was with a reinvented person.
Maybe we are getting closer, maybe we are challenging eachother less, or maybe we are just no longer threatened by being caught unaware.
A cookie is just a cookie. Maybe kisses are forgettable, but not forgotten. That's where my parents went wrong. And we went right.
(this isn't at all a problem, not at all not at all. It would make no sense to be as complex as we are, and have kisses remain stagnant. I like it. I like the change. him, really, him>>(you know what I mean)>> )
i kept thinking of those peanut butter cookies my mom used to make during Valentine's Day (they were called Forgotten Kisses) and they made me sad because i couldn't remember the last time i had seen my parents kiss, and i thought maybe they had forgotten how. But you, i know you haven't forgotten how to kiss, but maybe forgotten something else.
A first kiss is a huge landmark, i feel. And it shows---it jumps, and impulse of will and fortune that is also an ultimate achievement, no matter how small or botched or alcohol-indused. <> i was told once, <
They are trapped, they are treasured...maybe. Maybe just a laugh, a memory. Do you remember the first time you kissed, anyone? Do you remember the first time you kissed me?
So what is it about your kisses now? I guess it's that they are not forced, they are not monumental or especially noteworthy (<
Maybe it's because they aren't stolen anymore, from time or other people or eachother. Perhaps a step closer to being forgotten, but not completely. No, not forgotten at all.
i am being too exclusive on this: this is for me, too. (i think back to those first few weeks, the phone conversations, even just a few days ago, and think <
Maybe we are getting closer, maybe we are challenging eachother less, or maybe we are just no longer threatened by being caught unaware.
A cookie is just a cookie. Maybe kisses are forgettable, but not forgotten. That's where my parents went wrong. And we went right.
(this isn't at all a problem, not at all not at all. It would make no sense to be as complex as we are, and have kisses remain stagnant. I like it. I like the change. him, really, him>>(you know what I mean)>> )
Stories you have to read a second time (or, let's fuck with the readers, shall we?)
So I have this idea for a group of short stories as a literature-creates-optical-illusion art forms. Literally creating an epiphany at the end, readers will realize their previous conceptions were far off, and have to read the story a second time, with the truth. A story of fantastic beasts, the beginning of an epic adventure, and in the end...the realization that it's just a 65 year old man watching television. A story written backwards--it seems like post-modern jumble as you read it forwards, finish, and realize you were supposed to read it backwards (maybe. Well, no. You were supposed to read it forwards. Then, if you want a story, read it backwards). Narrator within a narrator within a narrator, talking to eachother. A conversation that, in the end, you realize is just the person talking to themselves. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe this is the first story, the story that started the story, maybe the television is about to be turned off. What will you know?
Stay posted.
Stay posted.
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Death By Fiction
I AM SCREWED. I have a story due on Thursday at 5:00 (technically before that, technically TOMORROW, because I need to e-mail it to all my classmates so they can read it before the class. But let's not get too dramatic.) Basically I have become numb to words. I'm typing this with my eyes half-closed, only checking every once in a while to make sure i'm typing on the right keys and not going off track--I can't stand the sight of words right now. I see a simile and balk; Metaphors make me want to throw up; try any cutesy abstractiv-osity and I'll rip out my eyes. Literally. They're half-closed. NOT half-opened.
The reason is I pretty much had a fiction overdose yesterday. In an effort to catch up on moutains of books/readings, I read a lot. A lot a lot. When I was little, I thought we had word "quotas" each day (which could be transferred over into the next, but only on certain special discounts) meaning certain words were only allowed to be used a certain amount of times. I think this was actually an argument presented to me as a first grader to be prevented from using the word "um" too many times. But anyway, if word quotas do exist, i'm severely overdrawn. NO PUN INTENDED.
Do not be confused: I love fiction. I love stories and words and I want it to be my profession. But too much is too much, I don't know if it was from WHAT I was reading or HOW MUCH i was reading, but I definitely felt the effects today: I was drawn more towards images than words, it took me five minutes to realize the series of dripping lines in front of me during lunch was actually the newspaper and i can't write anything without thinking it's SHIT.
Maybe it's acceptable shit. Perhaps even good shit. That's what I keep telling myself, keep forcing myself to write line after line...just one more paragraph, you can do it...finish it.....JUST FINISH IT. It's painful. This sucks. I have a story, I know what to write....but it's shit. Acceptable, good.....no, just shit.
Just get it...just get it...just get it....down...down...just write it d...own......down down down....just get it down.......just get it...just get it....
That's what's going on in my mind right now. I would make a simile and compare it to a skipping CD, but you know what, that would suck. So no. Just, no. I'm going to the bathroom. NO PUN INTENDED.
The reason is I pretty much had a fiction overdose yesterday. In an effort to catch up on moutains of books/readings, I read a lot. A lot a lot. When I was little, I thought we had word "quotas" each day (which could be transferred over into the next, but only on certain special discounts) meaning certain words were only allowed to be used a certain amount of times. I think this was actually an argument presented to me as a first grader to be prevented from using the word "um" too many times. But anyway, if word quotas do exist, i'm severely overdrawn. NO PUN INTENDED.
Do not be confused: I love fiction. I love stories and words and I want it to be my profession. But too much is too much, I don't know if it was from WHAT I was reading or HOW MUCH i was reading, but I definitely felt the effects today: I was drawn more towards images than words, it took me five minutes to realize the series of dripping lines in front of me during lunch was actually the newspaper and i can't write anything without thinking it's SHIT.
Maybe it's acceptable shit. Perhaps even good shit. That's what I keep telling myself, keep forcing myself to write line after line...just one more paragraph, you can do it...finish it.....JUST FINISH IT. It's painful. This sucks. I have a story, I know what to write....but it's shit. Acceptable, good.....no, just shit.
Just get it...just get it...just get it....down...down...just write it d...own......down down down....just get it down.......just get it...just get it....
That's what's going on in my mind right now. I would make a simile and compare it to a skipping CD, but you know what, that would suck. So no. Just, no. I'm going to the bathroom. NO PUN INTENDED.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
...WHAT chair?
So I’m looking at her with that look- she tells me that when I use it she melts, she’ll do whatever I want- but its not working right now. I try to pass the message to her telepathtically, ‘get your roommate out of the room’.
I think she understands.
But then, messaging me back through her eyes and her thoughts and her kisses, she cuts my legs off.
‘what roommate?’
I think she understands.
But then, messaging me back through her eyes and her thoughts and her kisses, she cuts my legs off.
‘what roommate?’
Time Traveling Across the Dinner Table
“You know when I was in college, we never learned any of this smarmy wishy stuff. What did you say you were studying? Never mind…when I was in college, we studied the real thing. Conrad. Kafka. The best was philosophy—ah philosophy! The days of discussing Descartes and the nights with Freud by my side—one in the same we were, even my professor said so! I was his prized student, his most precious possession he said. Professor Brightman. Good man, good student. I mean that as no disrespect! The best teachers are the best students, never forget it. But Descartes! Socrates! Nights of heaven, who needs sleep or food when you have philosophy! Of course you probably haven’t advanced that far, you probably won’t understand this story, being only a freshman…but I’ll try anyway…Have I told you it before…? Well I’ll tell you again. Final of senior year, the last philosophy test I had to take before venturing out to mortgage payments and marriage annulments. We walk in, class of 100 or so, and the tests are at our desks. Professor Brightman is not at the front of the room like he usually is, but a straight-backed chair is in his place. We take our seats, sit down. The paper is blank except for one line, one question: Prove that the chair is in the room. People begin scribbling, breaking pencils over hypotheses and rushing for more paper to fill with theorems and theories. Well you know what I did? I wrote “what chair?” and walked out of the room. Professor Brightman told me he has never been so proud, never been so excited. A student after his own heart! A natural teacher to be sure! If only your mother hadn’t gotten pregnant so soon, I would have made it! Professor Thea, I would have been extraordinary! Well now that you’re off to college and out of the house, I can get back to my dream! When you come back from college next, you better plan on going to Pennsylvania to live with your mom, because I’ll probably be TAing at Columbia or something....plans for the future, make a note. Your dad is going to be big news! So no Descartes or Freud for you yet, too bad…but I guess you’re being distracted in other ways at night, huh, my boy? That girlfriend of yours, how is she doing?
His son looked up from his chicken and smashed potatoes. His eyes scanned the scratched linoleum floor, the pile of thumbed classified ads in the corner next to the trashcan, and the wall hanging clock with a cow that jumped over the moon. His eyes came to a rest on his father, still un-shaven and un-showered, smelling like the beer fest from the night before.
“What girlfriend?”
His son looked up from his chicken and smashed potatoes. His eyes scanned the scratched linoleum floor, the pile of thumbed classified ads in the corner next to the trashcan, and the wall hanging clock with a cow that jumped over the moon. His eyes came to a rest on his father, still un-shaven and un-showered, smelling like the beer fest from the night before.
“What girlfriend?”
Sunday, February 11, 2007
It's like Candide
run run run run kelly work me you outrageousness candide route home route to you route to me route me out you better have a good reason this better have been pretty serious rude ridiculous disappointment unappreciated slow fuck slow down crazy child haha mr jones it's the end of the world 7:30 11:30 sleeping until then you better have been partying you better not be 6:45 mikie's park you laura disco yes you dance you dance now tiny dancer pass me the bottle
stay happy there's still time oh time for the important things important to you important to who not important whoa responsibility only so much time to live i felt your heart for a moment i saw your glance for a moment god how i love you for a moment 12 miles we only live for a moment there's only this route home route to you route to me route me out you better have a good reason, god for one moment you better have a good reason to run run run run kelly work me you become empty live lies how to swim with the sharks break a heart get ahead in the game throw a curveball bring me my long sword ho run because you're slow he loves to tell that part of the story want to know what part of the story i like to hear is how it all ends you're ordinary you want to be good you want to be extraordinary you think you're the only psychotic one i'd like to disagree on that point all i want to do is make you happy.
stay happy there's still time oh time for the important things important to you important to who not important whoa responsibility only so much time to live i felt your heart for a moment i saw your glance for a moment god how i love you for a moment 12 miles we only live for a moment there's only this route home route to you route to me route me out you better have a good reason, god for one moment you better have a good reason to run run run run kelly work me you become empty live lies how to swim with the sharks break a heart get ahead in the game throw a curveball bring me my long sword ho run because you're slow he loves to tell that part of the story want to know what part of the story i like to hear is how it all ends you're ordinary you want to be good you want to be extraordinary you think you're the only psychotic one i'd like to disagree on that point all i want to do is make you happy.
Friday, February 9, 2007
I used to hate birthdays, christmas, easter, and especially valentine's day. I used to hate the idea of expressing thought through something that had been manufactured and packaged and put on a store shelf without any thought. What turns your pocket change into something thoughtful, something of value? A penny for your thoughts, a dime for your cares, and $20 for your friendship.
The problem was I used to express these feelings, a lot. "All I want," I would tell my friends/family/whoever asked, "is for you to make something." And I usually got the explanation of how they weren't artistic or creative. "I don't care." I would say. And it's so true. And as a result, some self-proclaimed non-creative people have done some pretty amazing things. I've had paper mache ballerinas made, paper scissors collected in a russell stover box, amazing letters and picture collages, treasure maps and handmade books of the self-help nature.
I feel bad though, because I have been given some really beautiful and thoughtful things that have been bought, and I realize there isn't a clear cut line between the two. Granted that line may have been crossed when my first boyfriend gave me bath soap for my birthday (don't try to redeem him with sexual innuendos in that one, either. We were in 9th grade.) But there have been some amazing presents too. A ring passed down to me that was originally my great-great grandmother's. A shotglass with "some days I wish I were a missing person" written on it. Some pretty spectacular books. A build-your-own Mummy kit, though I think that was originally given to my little sister.
I was asked last night what I wanted to do for valentine's day this year. My answer was surprise me, and even that I realize was creating a challenge for someone that I know doesn't need to prove anything. I realize that my approach before was stupid and silly and wrong, and last night too, because all I want to do is be with the people that I care about and care about me, but instead I just seem to be confusing them.
The problem was I used to express these feelings, a lot. "All I want," I would tell my friends/family/whoever asked, "is for you to make something." And I usually got the explanation of how they weren't artistic or creative. "I don't care." I would say. And it's so true. And as a result, some self-proclaimed non-creative people have done some pretty amazing things. I've had paper mache ballerinas made, paper scissors collected in a russell stover box, amazing letters and picture collages, treasure maps and handmade books of the self-help nature.
I feel bad though, because I have been given some really beautiful and thoughtful things that have been bought, and I realize there isn't a clear cut line between the two. Granted that line may have been crossed when my first boyfriend gave me bath soap for my birthday (don't try to redeem him with sexual innuendos in that one, either. We were in 9th grade.) But there have been some amazing presents too. A ring passed down to me that was originally my great-great grandmother's. A shotglass with "some days I wish I were a missing person" written on it. Some pretty spectacular books. A build-your-own Mummy kit, though I think that was originally given to my little sister.
I was asked last night what I wanted to do for valentine's day this year. My answer was surprise me, and even that I realize was creating a challenge for someone that I know doesn't need to prove anything. I realize that my approach before was stupid and silly and wrong, and last night too, because all I want to do is be with the people that I care about and care about me, but instead I just seem to be confusing them.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Friday, February 2, 2007
This is not a metaphor
Da Vinci thought it was an ordinary canvas. What he did not realize was that the sheet was threaded with angel wings and stardust strands, frozen with time and enveloping an electric connection. Each painted stroke had an equal and opposite effect on the back of the canvas, sent through by the pinpricks of light and energy (which is understood to happen when working with natural surfaces) but not seen because it had already been mounted on a mahogany support. He painted what he saw already in the canvas, his reflection, in the eyes of a water nymph. A skeleton of whispered promises gave her cheeks depth and sunk her eyes, the faint rose of her lips a telltale sign of stolen fruit and sweets, and a fleeting glow ebbing deep from her collarbone where the angel wings unfroze and shivered, not wholly free, and not wholly warm, either.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Do you ever feel like you're growing and shrinking at the same time?
Tonight I cannot say anything new. I spent the night looking over my diary, and looking back I am surprised by how unbelievable my life seems, and how quickly so much of it changed. There is too little time to explain. So tonight, nothing new. Only reflections of the people that kept me writing. Nothing is worth more than this day. No matter...nothing is worth more than this night. Night is where we reflect, it's when the blogs get written, it's the aftereffect. But of how long? One day? Maybe a few hours? What about forever? When do we look back, when do we know it's time to look back? I didn't want to look back tonight. I wanted to move forward, chase the dream, take on the extraordinary and get a few steps ahead. But instead I got caught by the line I wrote in the beginning of my diary: though I am sure the following pages will be filled quickly with both good and terrible things, in this first page, all I will say is I swear fear will not keep me from filling the book. Then the truly terrible thing will occur, if the pages rae not filled. So bring on the day, and go gentle with the night. Just remember whatever happens, to write it down.
Sometimes promises are much harder to keep than we originally think, even the noble ones.
So this entry is dedicated to thanking those that inspired me to keep writing, no matter what happened. You recognized the importance of writing to me, and also the pain it caused to relive memories through something as bold and believeable as a skeleton of words. Reading back over my diary has helped me realize that time is nothing to writing, especially in a form such as a blog or a journal, where every entry is the present. This is a blog of the past. I promised not to say anything new. I keep that promise tonight, on this page. But tomorrow, a new skeleton will begin.
Sometimes promises are much harder to keep than we originally think, even the noble ones.
So this entry is dedicated to thanking those that inspired me to keep writing, no matter what happened. You recognized the importance of writing to me, and also the pain it caused to relive memories through something as bold and believeable as a skeleton of words. Reading back over my diary has helped me realize that time is nothing to writing, especially in a form such as a blog or a journal, where every entry is the present. This is a blog of the past. I promised not to say anything new. I keep that promise tonight, on this page. But tomorrow, a new skeleton will begin.
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Bloody fingerprints
It's that time of night when I'm ready to admit a few things. I don't know how much more I can say than that without becoming erratic or emotional or staring off into space. I do a lot of things in threes, so maybe I'll do all of those. I don't want to disappoint my parents. I don't want to disappoint my family. I don't want to get that look from my friends, but I especially don't want to miss the looks from the friends I haven't met yet. I don't want to put more importance on my writing than it really can handle, but I don't want my brother to lose hope in everything because I forgot to write. I'm beginning to lose hope in pure states. Don't say love is one of them. I wish lying to parents so I will not disappoint them did not disappoint me because our relationship was not strong enough to handle truth. Where has all the sunlight gone?
How amazing it feels just to live again
I wish I could remember things in order, but where would the interest in that be? So I'll just jump out with random memories from this weekend/week, and you can piece together anything you want, skip over whatever you want. Consider it a treasure hunt. Fiction, lies, non fiction, truth, make your own rules. Read backwards. If only I had blue eyes, more pretty songs would be written about me. Playing Boston housewife for the weekend, the womenfolk took care of the cookies while the menfolk (?) searched in vain for an all-nighter log. Listen to me, girl's can read too. Turn on the taps and flush the toilets when I say GO! Why didn't you get a picture of me with the electric saw? Sadly maybe the critics were right: an adult fairytale is 3/4ths war with 1/4 fairytale, and that's the closest they can get. The saddest part of that movie was when the captain couldn't see the faun. If you hear a boom, you are instructed to get your shotguns from under the bed and shoot me. Maybe it would have been better to put the spaceheater in the bed, like a lapdog. Trouble, don't get any ideas, you still have to do homework tonight. Jagerbombs and techno grinding versus hot tea and hotter jazz. I hope you don't mind, I hope you don't mind, that I put down in words. Spectacular spectacular! There's something to be said about the garlic in the utensil drawer, and nothing to be said about snow melting off the skylight, because I don't want you to have it. Steep the tea. That's quite a nice purse, did you get it in Germany? Did you ever have the perfect race? So let's take a poll on lifelike listening...who actually cares? If that isn't a dealbreaker, I give you guys at least a few more years.
Now this is serious: If your future depends on hearing back on an e-mail from a professor about a class, it might be wise to stay near a computer for the weekend, because you don't want to lose opportunities. But since that same line could be used to justify what you did your entire weekend INSTEAD of staying near a computer, don't be hypocritical. Just have a mad dance party with your roommate to let off the steam of finding out, at 9:23pm, that if you had e-mailed your essay to your professor by 5:00 that afternoon, you would have been in advanced fiction.
Well you'll never find it. If your looking for it.
Now this is serious: If your future depends on hearing back on an e-mail from a professor about a class, it might be wise to stay near a computer for the weekend, because you don't want to lose opportunities. But since that same line could be used to justify what you did your entire weekend INSTEAD of staying near a computer, don't be hypocritical. Just have a mad dance party with your roommate to let off the steam of finding out, at 9:23pm, that if you had e-mailed your essay to your professor by 5:00 that afternoon, you would have been in advanced fiction.
Well you'll never find it. If your looking for it.
Friday, January 19, 2007
to my girls, forever
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I will never be like you, Miss Bishop. My friends, they will never lose me. I will not turn back the clocks, wishing for more time--because I always know there is time to come. I will write them letters, even if they do not respond. I will call, even if they do not pick up. (that's for you, sand) And I will buy posters and tickets and hitchhike to see concerts even if the show is 6 hours away (that's for you, linds). And I will open up my eyes and heart and love and be hurt but have the confidence to try again and again even though it's against my nature all because you taught me this, and I would be a dishonor to you if I didn't try (always for you, Kel). I may not be able to hold onto you forever, and i may not be convincing you now, but know I will be there, forever, because you have been there for me even when I could not hear you and could not see you.
Hell I don't think I even know everything they have done for me, but you know what? They don't know everything I have done for them, either. But I would do it again and again, and I will. So will they. That, cannot be lost.
Perhaps you are right, Miss Bishop. Perhaps the art of losing isn't hard to master.
But I guess I'll never know.
I will never be like you, Miss Bishop. My friends, they will never lose me. I will not turn back the clocks, wishing for more time--because I always know there is time to come. I will write them letters, even if they do not respond. I will call, even if they do not pick up. (that's for you, sand) And I will buy posters and tickets and hitchhike to see concerts even if the show is 6 hours away (that's for you, linds). And I will open up my eyes and heart and love and be hurt but have the confidence to try again and again even though it's against my nature all because you taught me this, and I would be a dishonor to you if I didn't try (always for you, Kel). I may not be able to hold onto you forever, and i may not be convincing you now, but know I will be there, forever, because you have been there for me even when I could not hear you and could not see you.
Hell I don't think I even know everything they have done for me, but you know what? They don't know everything I have done for them, either. But I would do it again and again, and I will. So will they. That, cannot be lost.
Perhaps you are right, Miss Bishop. Perhaps the art of losing isn't hard to master.
But I guess I'll never know.
Friday, January 12, 2007
To you
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Believe in the proof that I am real, for the photo does not lie unless you want it to. Believe in me all you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the hand on your back, the slow kiss on your neck, the warm heart beating faster, unless you do not want to. Believe in me if you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the challenge, those spoken and left unsaid (yes it's complicated.) Believe in me if you're up for it, for I believe in you.
Believe in perfection but know that it is only achieved by hiding the faults (the veil is much more beautiful when seen from a distance, but we still wish to pull it away). Believe in me if you can understand that, for I believe in you.
Believe in who you are (don't cheat yourself, i'll say it again). Believe in who. you. are. Believe in me if you believe in who you are, for I believe in you.
Believe in the power of a raindrop, a penny, and a single musical note, for they have all made a difference in my world. Believe in the smallest differences in me, for I believe in you.
Believe for the tiniest moment that this is not me (this is you). Believe that this is you, writing to me. Believe in me as I believe in you when I see the words: message (1) and know that for the tiniest moment you are real.
(oh how could I forget!)
Believe in me like tinkerbell. Believe in me if you believe in fairytales, for I believe in you.
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Believe in the proof that I am real, for the photo does not lie unless you want it to. Believe in me all you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the hand on your back, the slow kiss on your neck, the warm heart beating faster, unless you do not want to. Believe in me if you want, for I believe in you.
Believe in the challenge, those spoken and left unsaid (yes it's complicated.) Believe in me if you're up for it, for I believe in you.
Believe in perfection but know that it is only achieved by hiding the faults (the veil is much more beautiful when seen from a distance, but we still wish to pull it away). Believe in me if you can understand that, for I believe in you.
Believe in who you are (don't cheat yourself, i'll say it again). Believe in who. you. are. Believe in me if you believe in who you are, for I believe in you.
Believe in the power of a raindrop, a penny, and a single musical note, for they have all made a difference in my world. Believe in the smallest differences in me, for I believe in you.
Believe for the tiniest moment that this is not me (this is you). Believe that this is you, writing to me. Believe in me as I believe in you when I see the words: message (1) and know that for the tiniest moment you are real.
(oh how could I forget!)
Believe in me like tinkerbell. Believe in me if you believe in fairytales, for I believe in you.
Believe. Believe in me, for I believe in you.
Temporarily Out of Order
I miss running. A lot. Saying that aquajogging has the same effects as running is almost as bad as saying a waffle covered in ice cream is as good as sex, it's just bad analogies, bad puns and bad common sense all around. The company is infinitely better when running--for one, there usually is no company, or if you really want to get poetic, you can count on the companies of trees, forgiving trails, not so forgiving asphalt or the occasional courageous squirrel. The pool confines me to Danny DeVito-in-a-speedo watching my water acrobatics for 10 minutes before finally asking "So, are you running or something?" NO! I'm NOT running, who the hell would run, in a pool that has waves of hot and cold sections (let's not think about that too much, especially the rather warm section next to Danny D) when there's a road, a path, for gods sakes EARTH right outside the door, making me only one promise: it will get me as far away from YOU, and this glorified chlorinated pond scum as quickly as possible! I want to pound the shit out of my body and into the concrete and free myself for just a little while. I want to be on the brink of losing conciousness, I want to fight, fight against the wind or a hill or ongoing traffic, a cocky stranger on a bicycle, you, me, fuck, anything, anywhere, anytime, because I never fight anywhere else. I need to fight or else resign to the fact that life is just a highway and running is just another way to take a lap. If that's the case, then running and swimming should have no problems replacing one another. But if you mean to tell me, honestly, that running requires any calling from within, any passion whatsoever, then I never, ever, want to hear that swimming has the same benefits as running again.
Tomorrow is another day, and let's face facts: It's not likely that I will be healthy enough to push the pavement. So, Round 2?
I'm pissed, i'm enraged, i'm ready to bite my sister's hamster's head off and stick it in the chlorine filter just to get a laugh when the aquaqueens in their frilly skirts get a nice little surprise.
I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it.
Tomorrow is another day, and let's face facts: It's not likely that I will be healthy enough to push the pavement. So, Round 2?
I'm pissed, i'm enraged, i'm ready to bite my sister's hamster's head off and stick it in the chlorine filter just to get a laugh when the aquaqueens in their frilly skirts get a nice little surprise.
I'll do it. But I'm not going to like it.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Death of a Black Star
I didn't get a chance to read my horoscope this morning, so I'm a bit lost. I didn't know if I was supposed to exercise, i didn't know if I was supposed to beware of beehives or creative impulses, and I certainly wasn't warned about the time traveling that was going to occur between 7:25 and 8:21 at night.
I went through a whole mysterious flow of "this time _______ ago". For example, this time a week ago, I was admiring a gifted linguist's ability to capture my family's hearts and attention over chinese takeout. This time a year ago, I was getting ready for my final state championship indoor race of my high school career and talking to one of my future teammates. I've learned my lessons: i'm a bit more gifted at dinner entertainment and a much wiser runner, living and learning and moving on to the next day. I'm still talking with the future teammate (who is now my present teammate). He is one of my first examples of people I have become closer to over the internet rather than face to face, and this created quite an interesting situation when we finally talked in person. It wasn't very comfortable. We've reverted back to our internet-speak, and I think both of us prefer that. I like it because he's a pretty straightforward philosophizer once he gets talking past 10:00 at night. I'm not sure why he likes it...
Tonight's topic: feelings. He said I could write the feelings chapter in his future book "bad decisions and what we could have done to prevent them". I'm going to take this as a compliment, and leave it at that. I don't think it's appropriate at the time for me to start spilling out feelings on the internet, so for the record I'll just go with the statement that I have no feelings. Ever. This chapter is going to be a bitch to write.
One thing I am willing to write about though is the idea that "life can always get worse". Now, why is that such a comforting statement? For one, by making that statement, it is almost certain that the situation is going to become worse. And even if the situation does not get worse, thinking about a worse situation is not going to make you feel better. It's positively satanic! "Oh, it's only a scratch, you realize you could have gotten your arm chopped off, life can always get worse." Oh yeah, that's really peachy. When trying to get a firm head after a scrape against a guardrail on the highway, I do not want to be reminded of how close I was to toppling over the edge and almost certain death. I also want to point out that the person who usually says the cliche line is an outsider, like a policeman or a parent. And of course, for them, life could have gotten worse...they could have been in your position! It all ties into one of my favorite philosophical ideas: schadenfreunde. It's a German psychology word meaning pleasure derived from another person's pain, not because you are causing the pain, but because you are not the one in pain. See, the "life can always get worse" motif is not for the benefit of the traumatized person, but for the observer. Life can always get worse...see? But it wasn't your life this time! That's schadenfreunde. I had what I thought was a really good idea to write a book that showed schadenfreunde at it's ultimate levels, but then I realized sadly that almost every book already showed it, if you knew what to look for. Before I resigned myself to literary obscurity, I realized that even though my philosophical passion had been covered before, that didn't prevent me from writing another story about it. Shakespeare stole the hearts of centuries with his stories of passion and love, but that didn't stop following writers from taking their own stab at transposing feeling into words. Feelings into words....is it possible? I should remember to refer back to Shakespeare when I'm writing the chapter for "bad decisions". Maybe it will spark some ideas.
The story of the day:
There are three things my father told me. One was never think for yourself, ever—let his designated superiors make all the decisions, because they are older and smarter and wiser. Two was don’t try too hard, it’s not worth your time or effort. Three was simple: never get married.
I went through a whole mysterious flow of "this time _______ ago". For example, this time a week ago, I was admiring a gifted linguist's ability to capture my family's hearts and attention over chinese takeout. This time a year ago, I was getting ready for my final state championship indoor race of my high school career and talking to one of my future teammates. I've learned my lessons: i'm a bit more gifted at dinner entertainment and a much wiser runner, living and learning and moving on to the next day. I'm still talking with the future teammate (who is now my present teammate). He is one of my first examples of people I have become closer to over the internet rather than face to face, and this created quite an interesting situation when we finally talked in person. It wasn't very comfortable. We've reverted back to our internet-speak, and I think both of us prefer that. I like it because he's a pretty straightforward philosophizer once he gets talking past 10:00 at night. I'm not sure why he likes it...
Tonight's topic: feelings. He said I could write the feelings chapter in his future book "bad decisions and what we could have done to prevent them". I'm going to take this as a compliment, and leave it at that. I don't think it's appropriate at the time for me to start spilling out feelings on the internet, so for the record I'll just go with the statement that I have no feelings. Ever. This chapter is going to be a bitch to write.
One thing I am willing to write about though is the idea that "life can always get worse". Now, why is that such a comforting statement? For one, by making that statement, it is almost certain that the situation is going to become worse. And even if the situation does not get worse, thinking about a worse situation is not going to make you feel better. It's positively satanic! "Oh, it's only a scratch, you realize you could have gotten your arm chopped off, life can always get worse." Oh yeah, that's really peachy. When trying to get a firm head after a scrape against a guardrail on the highway, I do not want to be reminded of how close I was to toppling over the edge and almost certain death. I also want to point out that the person who usually says the cliche line is an outsider, like a policeman or a parent. And of course, for them, life could have gotten worse...they could have been in your position! It all ties into one of my favorite philosophical ideas: schadenfreunde. It's a German psychology word meaning pleasure derived from another person's pain, not because you are causing the pain, but because you are not the one in pain. See, the "life can always get worse" motif is not for the benefit of the traumatized person, but for the observer. Life can always get worse...see? But it wasn't your life this time! That's schadenfreunde. I had what I thought was a really good idea to write a book that showed schadenfreunde at it's ultimate levels, but then I realized sadly that almost every book already showed it, if you knew what to look for. Before I resigned myself to literary obscurity, I realized that even though my philosophical passion had been covered before, that didn't prevent me from writing another story about it. Shakespeare stole the hearts of centuries with his stories of passion and love, but that didn't stop following writers from taking their own stab at transposing feeling into words. Feelings into words....is it possible? I should remember to refer back to Shakespeare when I'm writing the chapter for "bad decisions". Maybe it will spark some ideas.
The story of the day:
There are three things my father told me. One was never think for yourself, ever—let his designated superiors make all the decisions, because they are older and smarter and wiser. Two was don’t try too hard, it’s not worth your time or effort. Three was simple: never get married.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Swingset Symphonies
Day 2 of Blogging, and I don't know what to say.
I never did write for other people to read it, which I know is silly. Writing is communicating, and if all I do is write and hide the pages, who am I communicating to? I once heard about a writer who burnt everything she wrote, just to make sure no one could ever read it. For about a decade, I'd say I was as close to that as I could get without lighting a match.
The only way I can account for this is to point out that I was communicating, and you might ask who to? Well, to me, or several selfs. I'm not bipolar or a schizophrenic, but I have noticed a difference between the voice I hear talking and the voice in my head, the multiple layers of god-knows-what protecting god-knows-who (I certainly don't) and the fact that I'm starting to believe more and more that Vonnegut was describing us all when he said Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time. Crazy, I know, right? No, not really. It's not such a crazy thought when as a 10 year old you came up with the theory that there had been a mix-up in the reincarnation charts when you swore you met your reincarnated self in the form of a duck that liked Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. So now tell me, exactly who do you want communicating with the outside world? The voice in my head, the voice in my throat, the person floating around in time, or the duck?
Writing is one of the only forms of communication I've found that bridges the gaps in me. Running has worked well in the past, and of course I tried the whole confiding in other people thing, but that has become more and more difficult as time goes on. I'll be having a conversation, see, and it's all going well and good, and it's time for me to make the clever remark, right? So I open up the door, ready to pull out some awesome critique or new topic, and the only thing I encounter is the hum of thoughts wizzing by. They go in one ear and....don't fly straight, so they usually end up getting caught up in some pinball wizardry. Don't look at me funny next time I respond with a sound. Sometimes, that's all I've got to work with.
So to those of you who are reading this and know me, I am sorry for the trainwrecks I am causing, have caused, and always am going to cause. To those of you that don't know me and are reading this, watch from a distance--there are sure to be fireworks.
I never did write for other people to read it, which I know is silly. Writing is communicating, and if all I do is write and hide the pages, who am I communicating to? I once heard about a writer who burnt everything she wrote, just to make sure no one could ever read it. For about a decade, I'd say I was as close to that as I could get without lighting a match.
The only way I can account for this is to point out that I was communicating, and you might ask who to? Well, to me, or several selfs. I'm not bipolar or a schizophrenic, but I have noticed a difference between the voice I hear talking and the voice in my head, the multiple layers of god-knows-what protecting god-knows-who (I certainly don't) and the fact that I'm starting to believe more and more that Vonnegut was describing us all when he said Billy Pilgrim has become unstuck in time. Crazy, I know, right? No, not really. It's not such a crazy thought when as a 10 year old you came up with the theory that there had been a mix-up in the reincarnation charts when you swore you met your reincarnated self in the form of a duck that liked Apple Cinnamon Cheerios. So now tell me, exactly who do you want communicating with the outside world? The voice in my head, the voice in my throat, the person floating around in time, or the duck?
Writing is one of the only forms of communication I've found that bridges the gaps in me. Running has worked well in the past, and of course I tried the whole confiding in other people thing, but that has become more and more difficult as time goes on. I'll be having a conversation, see, and it's all going well and good, and it's time for me to make the clever remark, right? So I open up the door, ready to pull out some awesome critique or new topic, and the only thing I encounter is the hum of thoughts wizzing by. They go in one ear and....don't fly straight, so they usually end up getting caught up in some pinball wizardry. Don't look at me funny next time I respond with a sound. Sometimes, that's all I've got to work with.
So to those of you who are reading this and know me, I am sorry for the trainwrecks I am causing, have caused, and always am going to cause. To those of you that don't know me and are reading this, watch from a distance--there are sure to be fireworks.
Monday, January 8, 2007
You have your cherry coke, I have my cold meds, and this is what happens:
Daddy’s Daily Chores
1. Break a Heart:
First, you lay it on a table, clamped between two corn cob picks, salted and buttered to your own preference. Carefully then take a bite from the meatiest section, being especially careful to puncture through the top layer. Creating a good size opening, the heart will begin to unfold, revealing soft tissue tied together by pink satin ribbons. To keep the heart shape, you have to move fast with the next part: fill the hole with cement. Once it has dried, go to the tallest building you can find (at least 12 stories) and drop the heart off. Aim carefully. Statistics prove you only have the ability to hit one person and cause significant damage.
2. Lose your Marbles:
Start with a collection of marbles. Do not count them. Glue them onto a wide brimmed hat or just let them roll around in the cupped edges. Put a trampoline in the back of a pickup truck and ask a friend to drive the truck (you will need assistance: do not attempt to drive the truck and bounce on the trampoline at the same time, you will lose more than the marbles). Hat securely tied to your head (you do not want to lose it) your friend will gradually pick up speed over a nice, flat, preferably suburban road. Then ask him/ her to gun it. Begin to bounce on the trampoline. You will feel the marbles coming out of your hat. Do not be alarmed.
3. Bring Home the Bacon:
Just bend over backwards and grab a snack on the way out.
4. Get over the Hill:
Lasso forty porcupines together, dog-sled style. Using stomped out trashcan lids and fishing wire, construct a sled and harness for the porcupines. Sit in the sled. The porcupines will know what to do (they are very talented creatures) and they will pull you up to the top of the hill. Porcupines, though, are very similar to cows (meaning, of course, that though both animals are very agile at climbing up things, they do not have the ability to climb down); thankfully porcupines have a nice little built-in system. To complete your mission, all you have to do is poke the porcupines so they curl up into balls and begin, through gravity, to roll down the other side of the hill. The trashcan lids should suffice to protect your skin from puncture wounds, so just ride down the hill on tops of the rolling porcupines.
5. Get Rid of the Weakest Link:
Kill your younger sister.
6. Give Yourself a Few Weeks to Live:
Don’t. Give yourself more. It makes no sense to be greedy internally.
7. Bend over Backwards:
Go to a butcher shop, preferably in working order. Among the racks of lamb and hanging hinds of cows and pigs, find two hooks that are unused, next to one another. If this is not readily available, eat two hanging slabs of meat when the store owner is not looking. Grab onto the hooks and pull yourself upside down, looping your feet into the hooks. When hanging, let all the blood rush to your head. You know you have done this long enough when everything in the room begins to look spotted and red and veiny, just like your neighborly hanging flesh. At this point, begin to bend your back so you form a J shape. The blood will begin to slide towards your stomach. This will aid in digestion. Digestion of meat takes four to six hours, if you have that much stamina, go for it. If not just hang until you feel less like a hanging slab of meat, because really, no slab of meat ever unhooks itself and walks around.
When you leave the shop, don’t forget to leave sufficient money to pay for the meat you ate. That is the kind thing to do.
8. Swim with the Sharks:
Tell your secrets to no one. In fact, tell nothing to nobody. Live lies. Secrets eat out your insides, from the pads of your fingers to the curve of your knee. You will become hollow, no substance, just an outline. Kind of like one of those police sketches for fallen bodies. In order to attract the sharks, you will have to drop in some of those bodies that were sketched—the police have the outline, that’s all they need. You need the rest for this endeavor. Sharks come, you jump in. Empty or not, the sharks will like you. Friendly animals, they are. You will probably be eaten, substance-free or not. Wear gloves.
9. Get the Ball in your Court:
Kill your older sister.
10. Think Outside the Box:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
11. Fall off the Edge of the World:
Mooch off your parents for an Ivy League education, then forget your mother’s birthday.
12. Mix Oil and Vinegar:
Put the younger sister and older sister in the backyard, properly contained with a wooden picket fence, but one that is easily scaled in case of an emergency. Observe: they will start by sniffing around each other, stepping softly, aware of the other one but no direct contact (notice as well that they never, ever expose their backs). It will start as a celebration: friendship, youth, and the similar plea for personal space. The change will start simply. The older sister nonchalantly picks up the younger sister’s Barbie. Young Sister looks directly at Old Sister for the first time. Old Sister, having seen this change, throws the Barbie up into the tree, where its hair tangles with the needle roof, and remains airborne. The mixture of two parts loathing, one part misunderstanding and one part action (coming from both sisters) will be exactly opposite and thus, exactly perfect.
13. Make a Close Call:
Three more feet and the car would have been your coffin, but make sure those three feet exist.
14. Make Ends Meet:
Thread spider webs through the freckles on your left arm and pull tightly, bunching up the skin like a piece of elastic. Do not waste any material. Ask the next person down the line to carefully begin threading through your right arm, connecting the freckles—in order to do this at the utmost efficiency and waste the least amount of web, you must put your arms in front of you like a genie. When they have finished, your neighbor will begin the process again on themselves, using the same thread, thus connecting you two together in the same genie stance. This will continue down the line with each person until it creates an even, unbroken line of ridged skin, even shoulders and uneven glares (some can take threading more easily than others). The final person will not be able to complete the process, as he has no neighbor to thread his right arm to his left. He will be lost, and the feelings of an uncompleted task will ripple down the thread and tremble in the tiniest crevices between each neighbor’s shoulders. This situation must be remedied. You know what to do, and begin to turn slowly inward, pulling your neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, and so on, to create an arc. The final person does the same, pulling the neighbors, as you two inch farther away from the original line and closer to each other. Once next to each other, you have created a circle, yet still have no way of threading the web through the final person’s arms. The End stands just like everyone else, still trembling and causing the thread to shake. With your right hand you clasp his forearm to ease the shaking, and form a much stronger bond that webs ever could, or can, or will.
15. Even Out the Playing Field:
Mix oil and vinegar, but this time, Young Sister throws the Barbie in the air.
16. Make Love:
Walk along the Charles River with a perfect stranger as the sun begins to rise. The skyline illuminates, the golden curls licking the water between the shadows of the buildings, creating a perfect outline in the water of the reality on the land. It’s quiet, except for the creak of the swings in an imaginary breeze. You don’t know her. She doesn’t know you. But you share the skyline, share the curls, separate the water and share the sunrise. In the clasped hands of you and her, a tiny electricity of song hits you both, three times quick. She’s not such a perfect stranger anymore.
17. State the Obvious:
Your freckles can be connected to map out the route from Alaska to your own front door.
18. See Eye to Eye:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
19. Reach Cloud 9:
Find yourself in the middle of the woods. Surrounded by trees, you break free of the needle roof in a small clearing, the green-flushed grass welcoming you. Lie down in the middle. You can feel them (this is familiar). There are people, lying down with you. There are four of you. Creating a pinwheel with your heads at the center, you cannot see each other. From the sky you all make a star. No matter that you cannot see each other. Seeing and feeling and touching and tasting and hearing, what are they but surface-level misconceptions? You are. You be. They are there. You see the half moon and full sky, together. One eye. You feel the tingle of grass on your spines, together. One spine. You touch the uneven soil underneath the grass with the tips of your fingers, together. One finger. You taste the life of trees, together. One breath. You hear the contented whispers of buried souls underneath you, the ones who had lain in the same spot before you and refused to go, and thus been eroded and buried, together. One.
1. Break a Heart:
First, you lay it on a table, clamped between two corn cob picks, salted and buttered to your own preference. Carefully then take a bite from the meatiest section, being especially careful to puncture through the top layer. Creating a good size opening, the heart will begin to unfold, revealing soft tissue tied together by pink satin ribbons. To keep the heart shape, you have to move fast with the next part: fill the hole with cement. Once it has dried, go to the tallest building you can find (at least 12 stories) and drop the heart off. Aim carefully. Statistics prove you only have the ability to hit one person and cause significant damage.
2. Lose your Marbles:
Start with a collection of marbles. Do not count them. Glue them onto a wide brimmed hat or just let them roll around in the cupped edges. Put a trampoline in the back of a pickup truck and ask a friend to drive the truck (you will need assistance: do not attempt to drive the truck and bounce on the trampoline at the same time, you will lose more than the marbles). Hat securely tied to your head (you do not want to lose it) your friend will gradually pick up speed over a nice, flat, preferably suburban road. Then ask him/ her to gun it. Begin to bounce on the trampoline. You will feel the marbles coming out of your hat. Do not be alarmed.
3. Bring Home the Bacon:
Just bend over backwards and grab a snack on the way out.
4. Get over the Hill:
Lasso forty porcupines together, dog-sled style. Using stomped out trashcan lids and fishing wire, construct a sled and harness for the porcupines. Sit in the sled. The porcupines will know what to do (they are very talented creatures) and they will pull you up to the top of the hill. Porcupines, though, are very similar to cows (meaning, of course, that though both animals are very agile at climbing up things, they do not have the ability to climb down); thankfully porcupines have a nice little built-in system. To complete your mission, all you have to do is poke the porcupines so they curl up into balls and begin, through gravity, to roll down the other side of the hill. The trashcan lids should suffice to protect your skin from puncture wounds, so just ride down the hill on tops of the rolling porcupines.
5. Get Rid of the Weakest Link:
Kill your younger sister.
6. Give Yourself a Few Weeks to Live:
Don’t. Give yourself more. It makes no sense to be greedy internally.
7. Bend over Backwards:
Go to a butcher shop, preferably in working order. Among the racks of lamb and hanging hinds of cows and pigs, find two hooks that are unused, next to one another. If this is not readily available, eat two hanging slabs of meat when the store owner is not looking. Grab onto the hooks and pull yourself upside down, looping your feet into the hooks. When hanging, let all the blood rush to your head. You know you have done this long enough when everything in the room begins to look spotted and red and veiny, just like your neighborly hanging flesh. At this point, begin to bend your back so you form a J shape. The blood will begin to slide towards your stomach. This will aid in digestion. Digestion of meat takes four to six hours, if you have that much stamina, go for it. If not just hang until you feel less like a hanging slab of meat, because really, no slab of meat ever unhooks itself and walks around.
When you leave the shop, don’t forget to leave sufficient money to pay for the meat you ate. That is the kind thing to do.
8. Swim with the Sharks:
Tell your secrets to no one. In fact, tell nothing to nobody. Live lies. Secrets eat out your insides, from the pads of your fingers to the curve of your knee. You will become hollow, no substance, just an outline. Kind of like one of those police sketches for fallen bodies. In order to attract the sharks, you will have to drop in some of those bodies that were sketched—the police have the outline, that’s all they need. You need the rest for this endeavor. Sharks come, you jump in. Empty or not, the sharks will like you. Friendly animals, they are. You will probably be eaten, substance-free or not. Wear gloves.
9. Get the Ball in your Court:
Kill your older sister.
10. Think Outside the Box:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
11. Fall off the Edge of the World:
Mooch off your parents for an Ivy League education, then forget your mother’s birthday.
12. Mix Oil and Vinegar:
Put the younger sister and older sister in the backyard, properly contained with a wooden picket fence, but one that is easily scaled in case of an emergency. Observe: they will start by sniffing around each other, stepping softly, aware of the other one but no direct contact (notice as well that they never, ever expose their backs). It will start as a celebration: friendship, youth, and the similar plea for personal space. The change will start simply. The older sister nonchalantly picks up the younger sister’s Barbie. Young Sister looks directly at Old Sister for the first time. Old Sister, having seen this change, throws the Barbie up into the tree, where its hair tangles with the needle roof, and remains airborne. The mixture of two parts loathing, one part misunderstanding and one part action (coming from both sisters) will be exactly opposite and thus, exactly perfect.
13. Make a Close Call:
Three more feet and the car would have been your coffin, but make sure those three feet exist.
14. Make Ends Meet:
Thread spider webs through the freckles on your left arm and pull tightly, bunching up the skin like a piece of elastic. Do not waste any material. Ask the next person down the line to carefully begin threading through your right arm, connecting the freckles—in order to do this at the utmost efficiency and waste the least amount of web, you must put your arms in front of you like a genie. When they have finished, your neighbor will begin the process again on themselves, using the same thread, thus connecting you two together in the same genie stance. This will continue down the line with each person until it creates an even, unbroken line of ridged skin, even shoulders and uneven glares (some can take threading more easily than others). The final person will not be able to complete the process, as he has no neighbor to thread his right arm to his left. He will be lost, and the feelings of an uncompleted task will ripple down the thread and tremble in the tiniest crevices between each neighbor’s shoulders. This situation must be remedied. You know what to do, and begin to turn slowly inward, pulling your neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, who thus pulls their neighbor, and so on, to create an arc. The final person does the same, pulling the neighbors, as you two inch farther away from the original line and closer to each other. Once next to each other, you have created a circle, yet still have no way of threading the web through the final person’s arms. The End stands just like everyone else, still trembling and causing the thread to shake. With your right hand you clasp his forearm to ease the shaking, and form a much stronger bond that webs ever could, or can, or will.
15. Even Out the Playing Field:
Mix oil and vinegar, but this time, Young Sister throws the Barbie in the air.
16. Make Love:
Walk along the Charles River with a perfect stranger as the sun begins to rise. The skyline illuminates, the golden curls licking the water between the shadows of the buildings, creating a perfect outline in the water of the reality on the land. It’s quiet, except for the creak of the swings in an imaginary breeze. You don’t know her. She doesn’t know you. But you share the skyline, share the curls, separate the water and share the sunrise. In the clasped hands of you and her, a tiny electricity of song hits you both, three times quick. She’s not such a perfect stranger anymore.
17. State the Obvious:
Your freckles can be connected to map out the route from Alaska to your own front door.
18. See Eye to Eye:
Hand capless tinted bottles to people and ask them what is inside. Take a vow of silence. Eat the peanut butter and jelly on the outside of the sandwich. Start a walk-off against the trees. Run backwards. Memorize the Egyptian alphabet. Collect recordings of rattles: of the snake, leaf, and baby persuasion. Never open an umbrella, but carry it everywhere you can. Seek out genius. Make a telephone out of a coconut, a ship out of tin cans and a woman out of a snail. Believe in fairies and ghosts and spirits and portals to the unknown. Stop using stilts. Never swear, smoke, drink, steal, or succumb. Smuggle a magician’s thumb. Refuse to dance the foxtrot or tango, but never refuse to dance. Fly without a parachute. Spiral sideways. Never throw anything away. Sail in salty waters. Never let your neighbor be stagnant. Don’t cut grass, let it cut you. Throw up at all the appropriate times.
19. Reach Cloud 9:
Find yourself in the middle of the woods. Surrounded by trees, you break free of the needle roof in a small clearing, the green-flushed grass welcoming you. Lie down in the middle. You can feel them (this is familiar). There are people, lying down with you. There are four of you. Creating a pinwheel with your heads at the center, you cannot see each other. From the sky you all make a star. No matter that you cannot see each other. Seeing and feeling and touching and tasting and hearing, what are they but surface-level misconceptions? You are. You be. They are there. You see the half moon and full sky, together. One eye. You feel the tingle of grass on your spines, together. One spine. You touch the uneven soil underneath the grass with the tips of your fingers, together. One finger. You taste the life of trees, together. One breath. You hear the contented whispers of buried souls underneath you, the ones who had lain in the same spot before you and refused to go, and thus been eroded and buried, together. One.
I killed a blog, so it's my duty to start one
(yes you, I wrote this for you)
I make no promises. This blog has very little chance of lasting over a week, but we'll see how it goes. A week ago I would never have considered writing a blog. Maybe by next week, I would never consider stopping. We'll see.
I make no promises. This blog has very little chance of lasting over a week, but we'll see how it goes. A week ago I would never have considered writing a blog. Maybe by next week, I would never consider stopping. We'll see.
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