A Reintroduction

I figured I'd briefly reintroduce my blog so I'd have a definite place to send people if they are interested in what I'm doing. First off, I want to make it clear that this is mostly a tool to help me write more consistently. I've been considering pursuing writing in a serious way for a couple of years now, and since I've applied to some grad schools to get a masters in creative writing, I figured I owed it to myself to make this effort. Anyway, every entry I write starts with a poem. This blog is mostly centered on brief, separated writing segments. If you're more interested in longer work, I recently posted all of my fiction and nonfiction pieces in another blog, located here:

http://scantstories.blogspot.com/

The next section is where I explain what I was trying to accomplish with the poem, which can be something as simple as capturing a significant detail in life, or something as complex as using sibilance and end stopped lines to mimic a mood. Fridays are usually devoted to investigating the styles of other authors.
Third is an observation, either something I noticed during my day or something I've been thinking about a lot recently. These tend to either be humorous or way too serious. Unfortunately, I'm a philosophy major and have a hard time curtailing my tendency to ramble on esoterically.
In an effort to work a bit on my non-poetic creative writing, I have been doing a five minute writing exercise every entry. I've been taking them from C.M. Mayo's blog of daily writing exercises, but I usually only use the ones that are story-oriented. (A lot of them are like "describe the hands of five people," or some such silly thing that won't result in a story. So I don't bother.)
Finally, and least significantly, I include a bit about me, since what sort of person starts a blog and doesn't talk about themself? So I would recommend skipping over that section for the most part unless you actually care about what's happening in my life. It's generally just me complaining, but there's an occasional anecdote that might be worthwhile.
So without further ado, here's the poem I wrote for today:

Simplify

Occam's Razor never rests.

There is no room for detours
no space for silly sidetracks.

If you can push a button
and in three minutes
dinner is done
that's economic:
four shrill beeps
and back to business.
If you can type some words in,
each keystroke crisp and pointed,
and press search,
text instantly inundating,
overwhelming,
and skimmed for importance
that is all you need
for your efficient education.

It is a noble goal,
separating the chaff
from the stuff worth savoring
the fluff filling the air
leaving the kernels below
hard and ready to be put away
in the silo of memory.

But what if, in the extraneous,
on the side road your GPS would have never
recommended,
is that moment you've been waiting for
when it all falls away
and the only way to get there
was the wrong way?

Poem:
I've been wondering about how to go about life recently. It seems important to stick to plans in order to ensure something gets done, but some of the best times come from spur of the moment, unnecessary actions. So, as with whenever something is on my mind, it comes out in my writing. Some of the analogies seem a bit forced here, but it was the idea more than the perfect poetic form I was going for. Feel free to offer suggestions. I might use the opening a different way in the future, just because I like the idea of Occam's Razor as a topic.

Observation:
So I'm in this minority ethics-based class and we're talking about racism. It turns out racism is bad. But I'm actually learning other things too, which was a bit unexpected. What recently caught my attention has to do with the "Out of Africa Hypothesis." As I'm sure most people know, it's generally accepted that the oldest human remains point to a point of origin somewhere in Africa. From there they spread to other continents, etc. But what's interesting is the conclusion that this means there is nothing inherently "black" about African people. According to this geneticist whose paper we read, there has been plenty of time since Africans started migrating to account for the minute amount of genetic drift needed to produce pigment change. We actually have no idea what skin tone the original homo sapiens had. So all the pictures that show primitive African people could be completely inaccurate. I don't know why I found this so interesting. Maybe it's because as I was going about acquiring my Anthropology minor I was treated to so many pictures of ancient people. And it amused me to think that the artist was taking whatever liberty he liked when he drew them. Which, if you think about it, makes him racially obtuse.

Exercise:
"Image Patterning, Starting with Jell-O"
This is an exercise in working with imagery to create a sense of connectedness within a narrative. Take this as your opening line:
The Jell-O was not his favorite dessert.
Write on --- anything --- but be sure to use the following imagery (in addition to Jell-O): overdone steak; a barking dog; too much perfume; a squishy blue velvet couch. Then, tie it up with an ending that somehow -- in some way -- returns to the Jell-O.

Jell-O was not his favorite dessert. This was evidenced by the fact his Jell-O almost invariably wound up on the floor, or in some cases, in the lap of the person next to him. None of his fellow retirees knew why he was so opposed to Jell-O. He ate almost everything else. When other people complained about their steak being overdone, his was gone in a moment. When the wrinkled women with too much perfume talked about the applesauce with hints of rebellion, his plate was clean. But when the Jell-O came around, even when it had some whipped cream on top and everyone looked at it with saliva practically brimming over their dentures, his found its way to the wastebasket.
The day after his most recent Jell-O incident, a therapy dog came to visit. He showed little interest. It walked over to where he sat on the squishy blue velvet couch, and his knees snapped together, with his arms crossing soon after. The aides asked him what was wrong, if there was anything they could do, but all he could think about was the time, sixty-five years ago, he had dropped the Jell-O on the floor for the dog to eat. He hadn't known his mom was striding by at that moment. A comedic pratfall later, and the only sound to be heard was the barking of the dog. Had the aides known been privy to this little scene they might have interpreted his Jell-O dropping for what it really was: a tiny rebellion. Each drop, an subtle assassination attempt.

Me:
I don't know why I want to expand my readership, but I do. It probably has to do with feeding my ego. But this reintroduction also gave me a chance to give that link to my other writing. I'll put more on there if I write more fiction soon.
In other news, I rode my bike today! I went out with my parents and my mom and I rode forty miles. In about two hours. So that's a good benchmark, and I'm pretty happy with how it went. We started out into a pretty strong headwind, but through careful planning we milked the tailwind for all it was worth. I was incredibly hungry at the conclusion of the ride, but about twenty minutes after gaining entrance to my apartment my stomach had changed its position on the idea of food. It had gone from an incessant yearning to a full-on rebellion against the idea, and it was all I could do to crawl into bed before remaining immobile for quite a while. I regret nothing. Food is delicious.