History Repeated
She bent over
and picked up her daughter.
The red brick was warm
to the touch
of bare feet.
She checked
to make sure
no harm was done
and replaced her,
eyes gleaming,
among the toys
which, already older
than she was,
would outlive her as well.
When the kids grew up
and left her alone
with her husband
she didn't know
what to look after.
So she walked
around the house
absentmindedly cleaning
the spotless interior.
She counted the allowance
money she now spent
on antiques,
wooden toys
and carved furniture,
spirals and inlays
intricate and pleasing.
The years advanced
upon her steadily,
though she showed
little acknowledgment
of their approach.
Her face remained
soft and smiling
unaware of the crow's
feet etching themselves
around her eyes
still bright and full of belief.
And when her son
was in the hospital
with his wife,
her eyes shone still
more at the birth
of his daughter,
though he never knew
the memories it sparked
watching their smiles.
The silent stories
she traced in the grain
of the wooden toys,
some battered,
that would be used
on another
warm brick walk.
Poem:
I wrote this for an assignment for which we were supposed to imitate the style of Gary Soto. I think the poem I chose as inspiration was called "History," which adds further meaning to the title. I can't find the book right now, but I'm sure it had something to do with history. Anyway, I was really trying recently to come up with some good inspiration for my own work, and I remembered this project, so hopefully I can look to other poets for inspiration again in the future. It's good to remember to shake things up every once in a while. I'm starting to develop a bit of a style of my own, but I think it would be fantastic to depart from it now and then to make sure I don't get caught up in my own things. Maybe I'll turn Fridays into the day I draw upon the work of another poet. That could be fun.
Observation:
It snowed yesterday. That observation was not a difficult one to make. There were two or three inches on the ground, and it had almost stopped completely by the time I drove to work. Unfortunately, this meant that there were also two to three inches of snow on my car. This shouldn't have been a problem for a normal person, I'll admit, but in my brilliance, brushing off my car with my coat sleeve somehow resulted in a sudden increase in the amount of snow in my right jacket pocket. A perfect way to get things started, especially since that was the one containing my headphones.
My fun did not end there. I missed the communication which must have circulated stating that anyone who hates driving in the snow should leave their place of residence at exactly 8:32 in the morning. At this point in the morning the roads had been plowed, the appropriate traction enhancers had been applied, and there seemed to be no further threat of bad weather. But you wouldn't know that by the way people were driving. If I had nothing else to go by, I would say their driving indicated we were in the middle of the worst blizzard of the last three years. Now, I am by no means a great driver. In fact, I'm pretty terrible. But even I know that when you are captaining a four wheel drive behemoth you're probably capable of going more than twenty without losing control. Who buys an F-250 and then drives fifteen under the speed limit at the first hint of bad weather? I'm pretty sure those were designed to handle more stressful conditions than our already-cleared roads. The next person I had the immense pleasure of driving behind had the delightfully paranoid habit of testing their brakes every couple of seconds to make sure they still had traction. Maybe this is a good idea in a way that I am missing, but, seeing as the conditions were completely fine and they had never lost any traction, this resulted in the brakes doing exactly what they were supposed to do: slowing the car down. And I'm mystified, since I'm pretty sure had the conditions been worse, braking intermittently would not in any way help maintain control. It would just give them more opportunities to lock their brakes up and slide somewhere they hadn't intended.
By the time I had gotten to work I was just frustrated enough to forget completely that I had brushed quite a lot of snow into my pocket earlier. This forgetfulness was remedied rapidly when I inserted my cold, wet headphones into my ears. There is a reason inserting a recently-licked finger into someones ear is a prank, and it's not because the experience is enjoyable. And with that, I was ready to start my day.
Exercise:
"What did you not?"
The exercise is to write about what you (or your character) failed to notice today.
John had no idea the things he was missing out on. He failed to witness the end of young love when he walked obliviously past the window separating him from a quarreling couple, though he did hear the crash of a thrown porcelain dish faintly as he turned the corner toward his bus stop. When he noticed the bus's approach, his haste made him oblivious to the car which, though it attempted to swerve, had no hope of avoiding him. When John did eventually make the car's acquaintance it was a very brief affair. He had just enough time to look into the driver's eyes echoing his own expression of shock before he was thrown through the air. Just before he lost consciousness, he noticed the sliver of sky between the tall buildings, and he wondered if it had always been there, if it had always been so colorful, and if it would mind his passing through. It certainly seemed to mind less than the pavement, to whom John was never formally introduced, though his head met it with a resounding crack.
Me:
I dropped my iPod a couple of days ago. This was both a fortuitous event and a tragedy. The screen cracked, you see, and I'm pretty sure that means I need to replace it with an iPhone as soon as humanly possible. I'm on Verizon, and I can't wait until Apple's product launches on what I'm pretty sure is the best network around. I've been hoping for this for three years, and it's finally going to happen. Another consequence of my iPod mishap is that I started paying attention to it again. I downloaded its 25 updates and even found a couple of new apps I'm pleased with. There's one in particular I'm having a good time with called Sketchbook Express (I only have free apps, but it's also available in a full version for a fee). I'd like to say this app turns your iPod (or iPad) into a sketchbook, but that's not accurate, since I've never been this addicted to a sketchbook. And I've never had this much fun playing with colors! If sketchbooks came with an "undo" button, maybe they would be able to rival this, but right now I'm completely captivated. It can work in whatever level of detail you want, and the controls are very intuitive. I'd obviously recommend it, but it's already a very popular product, so I don't think I need to. I just wanted to express my happiness. I haven't felt so "artsy" in years.
To wrap things up, I thought I'd mention the word "chatoyant." I think it's awesome, and I've been trying to decide whether or not I'll ever be justified in using it. I'm pretty sure using a word like that instantly earns you the label of a pretentious word nerd, but I'm probably okay with it in this case. It's just a pretty word for a pretty quality. It made me think "I should have a word of the day in my blog; then I could introduce people to cool words like this." And right after that I realized I had only become aware of it because it was the word of the day for my dictionary app. It's almost like someone had thought of this idea before me. And not only thought of it, but implemented it effectively. So after I was done feeling stupid, I decided to just make a mention of the word anyway because I liked it. If you want the definition, there's an app for that. Or Google. Or even a dictionary. How quaint.
January 8, 2011
January 7, 2011
In Which I Like My Poem, but Accidentally Fell Asleep
Obstacle
There was an impassible
obstacle
back there
somewhere.
I guess when it was labeled
insurmountable
they weren't banking
on me bridging the gap
between stone walls
with my body
and bending myself
over boulders.
I'd have reached back
to bring you out
of the dark, damp
confines
where cool walls shade
moisture and moss
from the sizzle of the sun,
but you're not here.
Nobody is,
since when I overcame
the indomitable
I did it alone.
So now the place
I've attained,
by wedging my body,
working slowly upward,
this place
with its royal rock,
this place
spread out and shining,
belongs to nobody
but me.
And back there,
somewhere,
is a boulder
assuring my solitude,
keeping you
in the sunless
slot,
a slit in the ground
I step over
while exploring
the vastness
just an impossible leap
above.
Poem:
This is a personal favorite of the ones I've written, and one of the only ones I've really liked that didn't get in to Iowa State's literary magazine. So since I'm too tired to write a new one, I decided to share this with you to make up for the fact that it didn't make it in the real world. If you can explain why, that would be pretty cool. I'm open to criticism (which is only slightly false, since I want to think I'm open to criticism, even though I'm kind of bad at taking it). I remember trying really hard at the alliteration (and being impressed at my efforts), but I'm still not sure about some of the line breaks. I wrote the poem about a trail in Capitol Reef National Park, and it was spectacular. Hiking in the slot canyons was a pretty fun adventure in its own right, but climbing out of them up on top where everything was just empty and waiting was breathtaking. I didn't actually do it alone, by the way. I showed my family how to maneuver themselves up and out of the narrow crevasse, and sharing the experience was pretty cool. However, the trail said it ended at the part where we executed our tricky procedure, and I really liked the idea that that one spot probably deprives hundreds of people from sharing the amazing vistas that lie beyond.
Observation:
Today I was asked to help replace some lightbulbs at work. This required a ladder, which is kept in what my boss called the "custodial office." Now, with a name like custodial office, I briefly envisioned a desk, carpeting, and some file cabinets or something before remembering that I had actually been to the "office" on previous occasions. In fact, I walk by it almost every day at work, but I very rarely even look at it, much less consider it an office. This is because it is located behind the door to the men's restroom. Like, you open the door, and then you have to close the door behind you, and where the open door used to be is another door with a chemical hazard sign on it. That's the custodial office.
I am amused by this for a couple of reasons. The first is, of course, that whoever decided to put it there obviously just had no regard for women. Now, in a (very) brief defense, the "office" isn't completely inside the bathroom. There are two doors before you wind up at the area with sinks and toilets and stuff. But the sign on the first door doesn't in any way indicate that there is more than one possibility behind it. Nope. It just says "Men." No mention of a "custodial office" whatsoever. So any woman who needs anything to do with maintenance either has to get a man to help her or be seen walking into a door that only looks like it goes to the bathroom.
Which brings me to the second reason this is a pretty funny arrangement. Let's say this layout was intentional and not done out of pure stupidity. Now, you might be thinking this probably means the person who made the decision was incredibly sexist against women, but I've been thinking a bit and I'm not so sure. Yes, the way it is implies that men are the only ones capable of janitorial work, but who ever said that that was something to be proud of? Last I checked there weren't that many people thrilled to be doing that job. So in a way, the person who put that door there was just saying something like this: "Women are too good for this job. Plus, this gives them an excuse to get a man to do more for them. First they ask for help getting the supplies, since they couldn't possibly be seen going into the men's room, and then they can use a man's sense of chivalry to involve them in the actual task as well."
So the way I see it, this could have been craftily thought of as a way to manipulate men into doing all the dirty work while women are afforded the opportunity to sit back and watch. It's a slippery slope, and it starts with "can you get me something from the custodial office?" After that it's an inevitable progression of events. The man asks what they're doing, and as long as it's not decorating, he feels obligated to help (or thinks to himself that it's no job for a lady). But really, it's probably just some guy who never even thought of a woman needing access to that stuff.
Exercise:
"Clarice"
Use this as your opening line: "Clarice was the kind of kid who picked out the soft insides of the bun."
Clarice was the kind of kid who picked out the soft insides of the bun. If pressured about this fact, she might say the soft stuff tasted better, but the real reason was that biting into the crispy crust made her think of cracking into an insect. Plus, it made a shower of flaky crumbs, which only served to remind her of her mother's mild scolding when she didn't use a plate and the crumbs landed on the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Clarice didn't like being reminded of either of those things. Bugs were gross, and she was only just beginning to grow accustomed to her mother's absence. She still couldn't get an answer from her father when she asked where mommy had gone. He just ruefully shook his head, and when she started to cry, said something about mommy being okay and still loving her, which really didn't solve anything at all. But Clarice made sure that no crumbs fell from the shells of her buns, just in case.
Me:
I've been getting these spells recently where I get a bit faint-headed, and while it offers some excitement to an otherwise mundane day, I'm not sure it's the sort of adventure I need. I don't feel ill, so I'm attributing it mostly to a lack of sleep. So when it happened again recently I stopped writing my post, closed my eyes to wait for it to pass, and then woke up a while later to an unfinished entry. Well, it's obviously done now, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, so this section isn't too interesting. I guess I'll just use it to say you should all follow me on Twitter. Wait, that's a lie. Don't do that. It's just that everywhere I look on the internet these days, people are asking their readers/viewers to do that, and I don't know why. I do have a Twitter account. It has no followers and has never been used. So I guess you can follow me on Twitter, but I really wouldn't recommend it. I'm amazed enough that you're reading this, to be honest. So thanks, and if you have anything you want to comment on, by all means do.
There was an impassible
obstacle
back there
somewhere.
I guess when it was labeled
insurmountable
they weren't banking
on me bridging the gap
between stone walls
with my body
and bending myself
over boulders.
I'd have reached back
to bring you out
of the dark, damp
confines
where cool walls shade
moisture and moss
from the sizzle of the sun,
but you're not here.
Nobody is,
since when I overcame
the indomitable
I did it alone.
So now the place
I've attained,
by wedging my body,
working slowly upward,
this place
with its royal rock,
this place
spread out and shining,
belongs to nobody
but me.
And back there,
somewhere,
is a boulder
assuring my solitude,
keeping you
in the sunless
slot,
a slit in the ground
I step over
while exploring
the vastness
just an impossible leap
above.
Poem:
This is a personal favorite of the ones I've written, and one of the only ones I've really liked that didn't get in to Iowa State's literary magazine. So since I'm too tired to write a new one, I decided to share this with you to make up for the fact that it didn't make it in the real world. If you can explain why, that would be pretty cool. I'm open to criticism (which is only slightly false, since I want to think I'm open to criticism, even though I'm kind of bad at taking it). I remember trying really hard at the alliteration (and being impressed at my efforts), but I'm still not sure about some of the line breaks. I wrote the poem about a trail in Capitol Reef National Park, and it was spectacular. Hiking in the slot canyons was a pretty fun adventure in its own right, but climbing out of them up on top where everything was just empty and waiting was breathtaking. I didn't actually do it alone, by the way. I showed my family how to maneuver themselves up and out of the narrow crevasse, and sharing the experience was pretty cool. However, the trail said it ended at the part where we executed our tricky procedure, and I really liked the idea that that one spot probably deprives hundreds of people from sharing the amazing vistas that lie beyond.
Observation:
Today I was asked to help replace some lightbulbs at work. This required a ladder, which is kept in what my boss called the "custodial office." Now, with a name like custodial office, I briefly envisioned a desk, carpeting, and some file cabinets or something before remembering that I had actually been to the "office" on previous occasions. In fact, I walk by it almost every day at work, but I very rarely even look at it, much less consider it an office. This is because it is located behind the door to the men's restroom. Like, you open the door, and then you have to close the door behind you, and where the open door used to be is another door with a chemical hazard sign on it. That's the custodial office.
I am amused by this for a couple of reasons. The first is, of course, that whoever decided to put it there obviously just had no regard for women. Now, in a (very) brief defense, the "office" isn't completely inside the bathroom. There are two doors before you wind up at the area with sinks and toilets and stuff. But the sign on the first door doesn't in any way indicate that there is more than one possibility behind it. Nope. It just says "Men." No mention of a "custodial office" whatsoever. So any woman who needs anything to do with maintenance either has to get a man to help her or be seen walking into a door that only looks like it goes to the bathroom.
Which brings me to the second reason this is a pretty funny arrangement. Let's say this layout was intentional and not done out of pure stupidity. Now, you might be thinking this probably means the person who made the decision was incredibly sexist against women, but I've been thinking a bit and I'm not so sure. Yes, the way it is implies that men are the only ones capable of janitorial work, but who ever said that that was something to be proud of? Last I checked there weren't that many people thrilled to be doing that job. So in a way, the person who put that door there was just saying something like this: "Women are too good for this job. Plus, this gives them an excuse to get a man to do more for them. First they ask for help getting the supplies, since they couldn't possibly be seen going into the men's room, and then they can use a man's sense of chivalry to involve them in the actual task as well."
So the way I see it, this could have been craftily thought of as a way to manipulate men into doing all the dirty work while women are afforded the opportunity to sit back and watch. It's a slippery slope, and it starts with "can you get me something from the custodial office?" After that it's an inevitable progression of events. The man asks what they're doing, and as long as it's not decorating, he feels obligated to help (or thinks to himself that it's no job for a lady). But really, it's probably just some guy who never even thought of a woman needing access to that stuff.
Exercise:
"Clarice"
Use this as your opening line: "Clarice was the kind of kid who picked out the soft insides of the bun."
Clarice was the kind of kid who picked out the soft insides of the bun. If pressured about this fact, she might say the soft stuff tasted better, but the real reason was that biting into the crispy crust made her think of cracking into an insect. Plus, it made a shower of flaky crumbs, which only served to remind her of her mother's mild scolding when she didn't use a plate and the crumbs landed on the freshly scrubbed kitchen floor. Clarice didn't like being reminded of either of those things. Bugs were gross, and she was only just beginning to grow accustomed to her mother's absence. She still couldn't get an answer from her father when she asked where mommy had gone. He just ruefully shook his head, and when she started to cry, said something about mommy being okay and still loving her, which really didn't solve anything at all. But Clarice made sure that no crumbs fell from the shells of her buns, just in case.
Me:
I've been getting these spells recently where I get a bit faint-headed, and while it offers some excitement to an otherwise mundane day, I'm not sure it's the sort of adventure I need. I don't feel ill, so I'm attributing it mostly to a lack of sleep. So when it happened again recently I stopped writing my post, closed my eyes to wait for it to pass, and then woke up a while later to an unfinished entry. Well, it's obviously done now, but I'm in a bit of a hurry, so this section isn't too interesting. I guess I'll just use it to say you should all follow me on Twitter. Wait, that's a lie. Don't do that. It's just that everywhere I look on the internet these days, people are asking their readers/viewers to do that, and I don't know why. I do have a Twitter account. It has no followers and has never been used. So I guess you can follow me on Twitter, but I really wouldn't recommend it. I'm amazed enough that you're reading this, to be honest. So thanks, and if you have anything you want to comment on, by all means do.
January 6, 2011
I Bet it Seems Like I Plan These Out... Nope
Packing Hot Chocolate
Successfully packing a suitcase
is impossible
since on Thursday it will be hotter outside
my body than in,
and certain items will seem absurd,
but on Saturday
snow will sneak into the gap
between my socks and shoes,
soaking their contents
and making my destination more desirable
than when the mountains made it impossible
to want to leave the trails
for the warmth
of hot chocolate.
Poem:
I never really explained the background image for my blog, and while this poem doesn't directly relate, it's a good enough segue. I love the west, and a lot of my poetry is a direct result of this. The picture is from a place called Antelope Canyon, and it's simply amazing. So this poem is about the variety offered by traveling that direction. It's both challenging and exciting to pack for a vacation knowing that one day you will be sweating like crazy just from walking around and looking at things, and the next there will be potential for snowball fights. The ending is perhaps too idealized. It's true that the cold makes me more willing to leave the beautiful scenery, and that my dislike for snow in my shoes would probably eventually win out over my appreciation for mountain-scapes, but it's never a complete willingness. I'll always look back over my shoulder as I get inside the vehicle to leave, and while I appreciate the heater, I'll constantly crane my neck to make sure I don't lose sight of the beauty.
Observation:
Well, this actually might wind up going together with the poem. An exciting coincidence indeed. Today's topic concerns the fact that it is cold in Iowa during the winter. Now, I usually handle the cold pretty well. In fact, I pride myself somewhat on my tolerance. But I can't stand the fact that when my hands are cold, the water from the sink feels hot no matter what. So I usually do my best to bear it until my hands are the right temperature again, even though it stings a bit. Now, to appreciate this fully, you should probably know that a decent amount of my job consists of doing dishes. So I spend a lot of time at a large metal basin of a sink with an industrial faucet/tap that jets out quite a lot of water at once. The end result is that my hands go from cold to hot pretty quick.
Now, the story gets a little more interesting (hard for it not to, right?) when yesterday it took much longer for my hands to get over the cold than usual. It just stung a lot more than I was expecting, and I couldn't really figure it out. I tried to just tolerate it until it went away like normal, but it wasn't really working. Eventually, of course, I realized the problem. usually the lever for hot water is at fifty percent and the lever for cold water is all the way on. Well, their positions had been reversed, and I was quite literally scalding myself. I even developed a blister on my hand where the stream was most concentrated. And I blame all of this on Iowa winters. If I had been surprised by my hand's pain I might have thought burning myself was a bad idea, but Iowa had to go and condition me to think that it's normal to hurt yourself when washing your hands.
Exercise:
"Scene From Your Own Life, POV Switch"
Think of a scene from your own life and write a brief description of it from the point of view of someone else who was there. Try to explore how you (or a fictionalized version of you) might have appeared to this person at the time, but also how this person might have seen the entire situation. Include at least three small details that this other person could have noticed.
Well, that guy is a jerk. I don't know why he thinks he's smarter than everyone. It's obvious he just spends too much time reading in order to sound like he knows what he's talking about. I can't believe the teacher likes his comments, either. He always has to have the last little chuckle. Sarcasm should be saved for people who actually want to hear him talk. But no, every day I come in here so I can be prepared for the test materials, and every day he has to ask stupid technical questions (and crack little jokes while he's at it). He's probably making the tests harder, too, come to think of it. Now she'll expect us all to know the answer to his most recent question. What a jerk. And what's with the shorts? Doesn't he know it's cold outside? Sitting there with his feet propped up on the chair in front of him, arms crossed and looking so concerned about esoteric philosophical problems. What a strange combination of casual posture and intense focus. I wish he'd just make up his mind. And buy a new pair of shoes. Those are falling apart. Jerk.
Me:
As you may have guessed, I enjoy sitting comfortably in my philosophy classes, don't care about my attire much, and ask too many smart-alecky questions. Also, I'm a jerk. I do like philosophy, though.
Events from today included working (though not much at the sink, for a nice change) and shopping (got some new used books downtown and some groceries.). And getting mad at the blogging website for not letting me type in the text field. But I fixed it by switching to an older version of the editor, whatever that means. So I guess I get to post this after all, which is nifty. I also played some handball (albeit poorly), and I'm looking forward to my upcoming tournament in Colorado, even though it's still a month away. I'm liking these five minute writing exercises. I don't know if anyone else has an opinion on their inclusion in the blog. If you do, feel free to drop a comment down below. Any feedback at all is welcome, really.
Successfully packing a suitcase
is impossible
since on Thursday it will be hotter outside
my body than in,
and certain items will seem absurd,
but on Saturday
snow will sneak into the gap
between my socks and shoes,
soaking their contents
and making my destination more desirable
than when the mountains made it impossible
to want to leave the trails
for the warmth
of hot chocolate.
Poem:
I never really explained the background image for my blog, and while this poem doesn't directly relate, it's a good enough segue. I love the west, and a lot of my poetry is a direct result of this. The picture is from a place called Antelope Canyon, and it's simply amazing. So this poem is about the variety offered by traveling that direction. It's both challenging and exciting to pack for a vacation knowing that one day you will be sweating like crazy just from walking around and looking at things, and the next there will be potential for snowball fights. The ending is perhaps too idealized. It's true that the cold makes me more willing to leave the beautiful scenery, and that my dislike for snow in my shoes would probably eventually win out over my appreciation for mountain-scapes, but it's never a complete willingness. I'll always look back over my shoulder as I get inside the vehicle to leave, and while I appreciate the heater, I'll constantly crane my neck to make sure I don't lose sight of the beauty.
Observation:
Well, this actually might wind up going together with the poem. An exciting coincidence indeed. Today's topic concerns the fact that it is cold in Iowa during the winter. Now, I usually handle the cold pretty well. In fact, I pride myself somewhat on my tolerance. But I can't stand the fact that when my hands are cold, the water from the sink feels hot no matter what. So I usually do my best to bear it until my hands are the right temperature again, even though it stings a bit. Now, to appreciate this fully, you should probably know that a decent amount of my job consists of doing dishes. So I spend a lot of time at a large metal basin of a sink with an industrial faucet/tap that jets out quite a lot of water at once. The end result is that my hands go from cold to hot pretty quick.
Now, the story gets a little more interesting (hard for it not to, right?) when yesterday it took much longer for my hands to get over the cold than usual. It just stung a lot more than I was expecting, and I couldn't really figure it out. I tried to just tolerate it until it went away like normal, but it wasn't really working. Eventually, of course, I realized the problem. usually the lever for hot water is at fifty percent and the lever for cold water is all the way on. Well, their positions had been reversed, and I was quite literally scalding myself. I even developed a blister on my hand where the stream was most concentrated. And I blame all of this on Iowa winters. If I had been surprised by my hand's pain I might have thought burning myself was a bad idea, but Iowa had to go and condition me to think that it's normal to hurt yourself when washing your hands.
Exercise:
"Scene From Your Own Life, POV Switch"
Think of a scene from your own life and write a brief description of it from the point of view of someone else who was there. Try to explore how you (or a fictionalized version of you) might have appeared to this person at the time, but also how this person might have seen the entire situation. Include at least three small details that this other person could have noticed.
Well, that guy is a jerk. I don't know why he thinks he's smarter than everyone. It's obvious he just spends too much time reading in order to sound like he knows what he's talking about. I can't believe the teacher likes his comments, either. He always has to have the last little chuckle. Sarcasm should be saved for people who actually want to hear him talk. But no, every day I come in here so I can be prepared for the test materials, and every day he has to ask stupid technical questions (and crack little jokes while he's at it). He's probably making the tests harder, too, come to think of it. Now she'll expect us all to know the answer to his most recent question. What a jerk. And what's with the shorts? Doesn't he know it's cold outside? Sitting there with his feet propped up on the chair in front of him, arms crossed and looking so concerned about esoteric philosophical problems. What a strange combination of casual posture and intense focus. I wish he'd just make up his mind. And buy a new pair of shoes. Those are falling apart. Jerk.
Me:
As you may have guessed, I enjoy sitting comfortably in my philosophy classes, don't care about my attire much, and ask too many smart-alecky questions. Also, I'm a jerk. I do like philosophy, though.
Events from today included working (though not much at the sink, for a nice change) and shopping (got some new used books downtown and some groceries.). And getting mad at the blogging website for not letting me type in the text field. But I fixed it by switching to an older version of the editor, whatever that means. So I guess I get to post this after all, which is nifty. I also played some handball (albeit poorly), and I'm looking forward to my upcoming tournament in Colorado, even though it's still a month away. I'm liking these five minute writing exercises. I don't know if anyone else has an opinion on their inclusion in the blog. If you do, feel free to drop a comment down below. Any feedback at all is welcome, really.
January 5, 2011
Haircuts and a Bit of Racism
Screams of a First Haircut
The variety of pitches is impressive,
ranging from "Diving Falcon"
to "Deer Death Bed."
With such a selection at his disposal
it's a wonder he can settle
on a single tone.
If this is what a haircut elicits
I can only imagine the pain of injury,
though perhaps that is a distinction
drawn too readily.
If someone explained to me
that a hundred thousand of my appendages
would soon be hacked at mercilessly
by a brightly-dressed, overweight butcher,
I can only assume I would react as passionately.
And if my own mother bodily restrained me,
pinning me to the booster-seated swivel chair,
I would at the very least be affronted
by this ultimate betrayal.
"Can I comb? is met with refusal,
but the question is just a formality.
No jailer needs permission from an inmate,
and the hair is swiftly slicked back.
And as a screaming boy is led away
the shine of his shortened hair
as bright as his eyes,
he clutches his sucker
his reward for being "good."
Poem:
I jotted this down at Great Clips hair salon and thought it hilarious that the kid still received a sucker after screaming for a good fifteen minutes straight. But I could obviously understand why he didn't enjoy the experience. If I remember correctly, it once took a doctor and multiple nurses to hold me down long enough to give me a shot. So on the one hand, the kid was an annoyance, but on the other, it would suck to have no say in the matter. Also, I like the idea of selecting a tone to scream like you're selecting a color for a paint chip. "Ocean blue," "seafoam green" etc. as type of color as opposed to "deer death bed" or "screaming falcon" as types of sound just struck me as amusing.
Observation:
This also comes from the haircut place. I was looking around after the departure of the entertainment and took note of the various pictures they had up in the waiting area. Let's just say that I would have to be completely stupid to miss their objective. Like it's a coincidence there are six people pictured and among them they happen to represent every single demographic? There's the black guy with glasses, the older Asian woman, the young blond girl, the young latin-skinned man, the older, graying man, and the white shaggy hipster. I live in the middle of Iowa. Trying to be a hipster here is like trying to be an Eskimo in Florida. Yeah, you can dress the part, but the very fact you care that much makes it painfully obvious you don't actually belong. And that poster is one of the least obvious in its pandering for mass appeal. Not to mention every single person is ever so slightly less than beautiful. I guess this is to prevent me from feeling self-conscious. But all I wonder is why they couldn't find any real models. My gripes don't end with the hipster. Iowa is equally lacking in any other sort of diversity, only being edged out by Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, and West Virginia in the battle for "whitest state." Our population is over 90% white, and I'm supposed to look at these posters and think "Thank goodness they know their demographic?" It's like when I found out Iowa State photoshopped a black guy into their brochure picture. What a creepy thing to do. So they're trying to lure minorities into their obviously white-dominated area. Not a great message to send. And looking around at these pictures of men and women doesn't put me at ease. I know what Iowa is like, and this isn't it. Nice try, Great Clips.
Exercise:
"In the Closet: Questions & Commands"
Questions and commands add texture to the sound of your writing. The former ends in a rise; the latter can be thrusting or jabbing. Have your character go into his or her walk-in closet and fall into a dither about what to wear to a work interview. Write the scene as internal monologue using both questions and commands. (I'm not gonna lie. I chose this once because it sounded like it was going to be about a different topic.)
José spun around, still incredulous that this was the outfit his girlfriend had decided upon. "A tie? Really?" He muttered to himself as he tried to recall the exact sequence of motions that resulted in the perfectly-centered knot at his throat. "I do look good, though. Dashing even. But it's not like I'm running for congress. All it's missing is the lapel pin." And it was true. In an effort to compensate for his nationality (obviously foreign until he opened his mouth, obviously Mexican after that), Marie had decked him out in a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. And to top it off, it fit perfectly. "She does have an eye for dressing people," he admitted before returning to his close examination of his reflection. "I've heard of dressing to impress, but is it really necessary for landing a job at McDonalds? I guess it's true when they say women will use any excuse to shop."
Me:
I had a good day today. It was an ideal combination of productivity and relaxation, a balance I seldom achieve. Needless to say, I'm content, and the day even culminated with a couple of games of bowling. I somehow managed to avoid falling over long enough to have two separate opportunities at a "Turkey" (three strikes in a row, in case anyone is as ignorant of the sport as I am). The first chance naturally resulted in an instantaneous gutter-ball. The second came closer than I really want to remember, since thinking about it too much will just have me believing it's something I could do on purpose. If I have trouble recalling how bad I am at bowling, I'm sure I will be afforded ample opportunity to remind myself, since I seem to have convinced my parents it will be fun to bowl as a family once a week or so. It's fun to pick up new things, though, and I'm sure bowling will be no different. I'll doubtlessly remain transfixed by it until I stop making rapid improvement and then conveniently become too busy to work it into my schedule. Oh well. Knowing the outcome doesn't make it any less enjoyable. Besides, it's a good family activity, and there are always some interesting characters at the bowling alley. And if I'm going to take this writing thing seriously, interesting characters will probably come in handy.
The variety of pitches is impressive,
ranging from "Diving Falcon"
to "Deer Death Bed."
With such a selection at his disposal
it's a wonder he can settle
on a single tone.
If this is what a haircut elicits
I can only imagine the pain of injury,
though perhaps that is a distinction
drawn too readily.
If someone explained to me
that a hundred thousand of my appendages
would soon be hacked at mercilessly
by a brightly-dressed, overweight butcher,
I can only assume I would react as passionately.
And if my own mother bodily restrained me,
pinning me to the booster-seated swivel chair,
I would at the very least be affronted
by this ultimate betrayal.
"Can I comb? is met with refusal,
but the question is just a formality.
No jailer needs permission from an inmate,
and the hair is swiftly slicked back.
And as a screaming boy is led away
the shine of his shortened hair
as bright as his eyes,
he clutches his sucker
his reward for being "good."
Poem:
I jotted this down at Great Clips hair salon and thought it hilarious that the kid still received a sucker after screaming for a good fifteen minutes straight. But I could obviously understand why he didn't enjoy the experience. If I remember correctly, it once took a doctor and multiple nurses to hold me down long enough to give me a shot. So on the one hand, the kid was an annoyance, but on the other, it would suck to have no say in the matter. Also, I like the idea of selecting a tone to scream like you're selecting a color for a paint chip. "Ocean blue," "seafoam green" etc. as type of color as opposed to "deer death bed" or "screaming falcon" as types of sound just struck me as amusing.
Observation:
This also comes from the haircut place. I was looking around after the departure of the entertainment and took note of the various pictures they had up in the waiting area. Let's just say that I would have to be completely stupid to miss their objective. Like it's a coincidence there are six people pictured and among them they happen to represent every single demographic? There's the black guy with glasses, the older Asian woman, the young blond girl, the young latin-skinned man, the older, graying man, and the white shaggy hipster. I live in the middle of Iowa. Trying to be a hipster here is like trying to be an Eskimo in Florida. Yeah, you can dress the part, but the very fact you care that much makes it painfully obvious you don't actually belong. And that poster is one of the least obvious in its pandering for mass appeal. Not to mention every single person is ever so slightly less than beautiful. I guess this is to prevent me from feeling self-conscious. But all I wonder is why they couldn't find any real models. My gripes don't end with the hipster. Iowa is equally lacking in any other sort of diversity, only being edged out by Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, and West Virginia in the battle for "whitest state." Our population is over 90% white, and I'm supposed to look at these posters and think "Thank goodness they know their demographic?" It's like when I found out Iowa State photoshopped a black guy into their brochure picture. What a creepy thing to do. So they're trying to lure minorities into their obviously white-dominated area. Not a great message to send. And looking around at these pictures of men and women doesn't put me at ease. I know what Iowa is like, and this isn't it. Nice try, Great Clips.
Exercise:
"In the Closet: Questions & Commands"
Questions and commands add texture to the sound of your writing. The former ends in a rise; the latter can be thrusting or jabbing. Have your character go into his or her walk-in closet and fall into a dither about what to wear to a work interview. Write the scene as internal monologue using both questions and commands. (I'm not gonna lie. I chose this once because it sounded like it was going to be about a different topic.)
José spun around, still incredulous that this was the outfit his girlfriend had decided upon. "A tie? Really?" He muttered to himself as he tried to recall the exact sequence of motions that resulted in the perfectly-centered knot at his throat. "I do look good, though. Dashing even. But it's not like I'm running for congress. All it's missing is the lapel pin." And it was true. In an effort to compensate for his nationality (obviously foreign until he opened his mouth, obviously Mexican after that), Marie had decked him out in a blue suit with a white shirt and red tie. And to top it off, it fit perfectly. "She does have an eye for dressing people," he admitted before returning to his close examination of his reflection. "I've heard of dressing to impress, but is it really necessary for landing a job at McDonalds? I guess it's true when they say women will use any excuse to shop."
Me:
I had a good day today. It was an ideal combination of productivity and relaxation, a balance I seldom achieve. Needless to say, I'm content, and the day even culminated with a couple of games of bowling. I somehow managed to avoid falling over long enough to have two separate opportunities at a "Turkey" (three strikes in a row, in case anyone is as ignorant of the sport as I am). The first chance naturally resulted in an instantaneous gutter-ball. The second came closer than I really want to remember, since thinking about it too much will just have me believing it's something I could do on purpose. If I have trouble recalling how bad I am at bowling, I'm sure I will be afforded ample opportunity to remind myself, since I seem to have convinced my parents it will be fun to bowl as a family once a week or so. It's fun to pick up new things, though, and I'm sure bowling will be no different. I'll doubtlessly remain transfixed by it until I stop making rapid improvement and then conveniently become too busy to work it into my schedule. Oh well. Knowing the outcome doesn't make it any less enjoyable. Besides, it's a good family activity, and there are always some interesting characters at the bowling alley. And if I'm going to take this writing thing seriously, interesting characters will probably come in handy.
January 4, 2011
This Post Unintentionally Lacking in Humor
What Weights Tell Me
I can push a 130 pound
piece of debris off my chest
if I’m trapped in a disaster,
but this other weight remains after
I re-rack the bar.
I can rise up from a squat
carrying you,
but you’ll have to leave
those worries behind.
It’s you or them.
I can’t carry both.
Poem:
I had the rough idea for this poem a while ago, but it really clarified itself in my mind recently. I think the message is pretty self-evident, so I won't elaborate on that. Suffice to say, I'm not a people person, and the idea of dealing with other peoples' problems has always caught me a bit off guard. I'm rarely prepared for people's burdens, and don't trust myself to give good advice.
Observation:
I used to think profanity was just a way for people who lacked a decent vocabulary to express themselves. I interpreted expletives as "I'm too unintelligent to come up with an original exclamation." I have changed my mind somewhat, and for reasons that are rather unrelated to each other. The first is that "profanity" is obviously a relative term. Things that used to be profane are now commonplace, and today's profanity is so universal that I'm not sure it even deserves the gasps it receives. Have you noticed that old R-rated movies would pass as PG-13 today in many cases? PG-13 movies these days are allowed one F-bomb apiece, and I'm sure that number will go up based on the number of elementary school-aged kids I've heard using it casually. So I'm not sure that profanity even really exists. Does saying fudge or heck really change the intent behind the exclamation? I think not.
The second reason I've decided I don't think profanity is indicative of substandard intelligence has to do with the fact that I've been watching a lot of standup comedians on the internet recently, and they all swear. But they're still hilarious. And a lot of the time the reason they're hilarious has everything to do with the fact that degrees in linguistic intensity add to their delivery. Now, if what I've said above is the case, then these "degrees" are disappearing and language is being homogenized, but as things are now, these guys are great. A perfect example of this is George Carlin. Yeah, he was a paranoid, but he was an insightful one, and what really matters is that he's hilarious whether you agree with him or not. (I happen to agree with a lot of it.) But if I were put off by profanity, his humor would lose some appeal.
Exercise:
"Letter of Complaint"
Your character, who is odd (either somewhat or extremely), writes a letter of protest to the manager of his or her local grocery store. Write the letter.
Dear Sir,
I happened to notice the last time I was in your store that your employees have little respect for people of advanced age. Not only did they keep asking me if they could assist me (as if I were some decrepit old man who couldn't even lift a banana), they constantly assumed I was both blind and hard of hearing. If anything, shouldn't my glasses be an indication that I can see? And if another young man shouts a suggestion to me about my selection, he will find whatever item he is sure I need whizzing toward his skull. We'll see if he asks if I need help picking it up after it bounces off. I'm sure you have the occasional retiree come in who really can't lift the bag of flour from the bottom shelf into his cart, but I guarantee if your employees talk to him civilly at first and assume that he is, essentially, just another guy, they will be far less likely to be surprised by a seemingly accidental toppling of displays later. (While we are on that topic, I feel I owe you an apology for your Ritz Cracker pyramid. I'm sure you can understand, though, that in my geriatric state, I can hardly be expected to possess precision control of my cart.)
Respectfully,
William Hendrith
Me:
I genuinely can't decide whether I like the color pink because it's a fun color or because it's fun to have people think I like the color pink. All I know is, it's amusing either way. I get more attention for that than almost anything else, even to the point where, when my girlfriend's sister turned down some mittens, they were passed to me because of their coloring. Which is awesome. Also, my parents got me a pink Wii-mote recently. There seems to be a pattern. If you like something strange, people will buy it for you because it reminds them of you. Use this as you see fit.
I can push a 130 pound
piece of debris off my chest
if I’m trapped in a disaster,
but this other weight remains after
I re-rack the bar.
I can rise up from a squat
carrying you,
but you’ll have to leave
those worries behind.
It’s you or them.
I can’t carry both.
Poem:
I had the rough idea for this poem a while ago, but it really clarified itself in my mind recently. I think the message is pretty self-evident, so I won't elaborate on that. Suffice to say, I'm not a people person, and the idea of dealing with other peoples' problems has always caught me a bit off guard. I'm rarely prepared for people's burdens, and don't trust myself to give good advice.
Observation:
I used to think profanity was just a way for people who lacked a decent vocabulary to express themselves. I interpreted expletives as "I'm too unintelligent to come up with an original exclamation." I have changed my mind somewhat, and for reasons that are rather unrelated to each other. The first is that "profanity" is obviously a relative term. Things that used to be profane are now commonplace, and today's profanity is so universal that I'm not sure it even deserves the gasps it receives. Have you noticed that old R-rated movies would pass as PG-13 today in many cases? PG-13 movies these days are allowed one F-bomb apiece, and I'm sure that number will go up based on the number of elementary school-aged kids I've heard using it casually. So I'm not sure that profanity even really exists. Does saying fudge or heck really change the intent behind the exclamation? I think not.
The second reason I've decided I don't think profanity is indicative of substandard intelligence has to do with the fact that I've been watching a lot of standup comedians on the internet recently, and they all swear. But they're still hilarious. And a lot of the time the reason they're hilarious has everything to do with the fact that degrees in linguistic intensity add to their delivery. Now, if what I've said above is the case, then these "degrees" are disappearing and language is being homogenized, but as things are now, these guys are great. A perfect example of this is George Carlin. Yeah, he was a paranoid, but he was an insightful one, and what really matters is that he's hilarious whether you agree with him or not. (I happen to agree with a lot of it.) But if I were put off by profanity, his humor would lose some appeal.
Exercise:
"Letter of Complaint"
Your character, who is odd (either somewhat or extremely), writes a letter of protest to the manager of his or her local grocery store. Write the letter.
Dear Sir,
I happened to notice the last time I was in your store that your employees have little respect for people of advanced age. Not only did they keep asking me if they could assist me (as if I were some decrepit old man who couldn't even lift a banana), they constantly assumed I was both blind and hard of hearing. If anything, shouldn't my glasses be an indication that I can see? And if another young man shouts a suggestion to me about my selection, he will find whatever item he is sure I need whizzing toward his skull. We'll see if he asks if I need help picking it up after it bounces off. I'm sure you have the occasional retiree come in who really can't lift the bag of flour from the bottom shelf into his cart, but I guarantee if your employees talk to him civilly at first and assume that he is, essentially, just another guy, they will be far less likely to be surprised by a seemingly accidental toppling of displays later. (While we are on that topic, I feel I owe you an apology for your Ritz Cracker pyramid. I'm sure you can understand, though, that in my geriatric state, I can hardly be expected to possess precision control of my cart.)
Respectfully,
William Hendrith
Me:
I genuinely can't decide whether I like the color pink because it's a fun color or because it's fun to have people think I like the color pink. All I know is, it's amusing either way. I get more attention for that than almost anything else, even to the point where, when my girlfriend's sister turned down some mittens, they were passed to me because of their coloring. Which is awesome. Also, my parents got me a pink Wii-mote recently. There seems to be a pattern. If you like something strange, people will buy it for you because it reminds them of you. Use this as you see fit.
January 3, 2011
First Real Post
Sore
When I bit my lip
to keep the words in,
they lodged
and festered,
digging into the soft, pink tissue,
turning the edges where my teeth blundered
white and pure
and dead.
The area swelled
gradually to a nuisance
eventually eliciting a grimace
upon each exploration
by a cautious tongue.
So now, when I open my mouth
to speak, the scraping of the sore,
the stretch of soft tissue
brings to mind my blunder
when I didn't say goodbye.
Poem:
In the future I might write a bit after the poem about what I like about it or what I was thinking when I wrote it, but I don't have much to say about this one in particular. I wrote it thinking that I don't ever want to refrain from saying something important and have that somehow be the last chance I had to make it known.
Observations:
I noticed recently that some bowls are marketed specifically as soup bowls. I'm not sure I understand. Aren't all bowls soup bowls? I don't think I've ever seen a bowl and thought "Oh, that bowl just wouldn't do for eating soup out of." I thought the reason they were called soup bowls had something to do with the shape, so I investigated. It turns out if you google image search soup bowl, all shapes of bowls come up. This supports my idea that all bowls are good for soup, but does nothing at all to explain why it is these particular bowls show up associated with soup. Perhaps it will forever be a mystery. All I know is that if I figure it out, I'm going to become the most finicky person when it comes to bowls. If a person hands me a bowl of soup in a cereal bowl, you can bet I'm going to give them a piece of my mind.
Exercise:
In order to think a bit about my own writing on a daily basis, this section will be devoted to a short writing exercise. I have no idea if these will prove interesting enough for readers of the blog, and if not, feel free to skip this section. I plan to draw heavily from CM Mayo's daily five minute exercises.
Write the first paragraph(s) of a story that begins:
She would not give him the last piece of pie.
She would not give him the last piece of pie. It was for his own good, she said, but he knew it was a sign that the relationship was headed downhill. Whenever a woman started knowing what was good for him, he prepared himself to cut his losses. In this case it started with pie. To her credit, she hadn't started her mission of modification with his gambling habits like the past three girlfriends. Maybe she thought it was too obvious. Maybe she knew it would tip him off. Well, he was on to her anyway.
Me:
And lastly, a short journal-y section about what's new in my life. Rather than try to summarize all of the relevant things in my life to date, I'm just going to jump in to current events. If I update this blog as regularly as I'd like, you'll pick up enough to make sense of my life eventually. I have decided that biking and handball might not be mutually exclusive. As long as I devote myself to continuing to practice handball regularly, I feel confident that I will be able to compensate for whatever fast-twitch muscle speed I lose with increased ambidexterity. I am enjoying break so far. Christmas at my parents' new house was fun, and I'm practically swimming in chocolate since my girlfriend's return from Germany. New Year's was alright. As a 21 year-old, I shirked my responsibility of getting drunk and instead barely made it to midnight. In fact, a good deal of the credit for my wakefulness goes to this blog. Getting the background anywhere near what I wanted was a bit of a hassle. If anyone reading has a comment about the layout/design/colors/font, let me know and I'll consider changing it. It looks great on my monitor, but I'm sure it's quite variable.
When I bit my lip
to keep the words in,
they lodged
and festered,
digging into the soft, pink tissue,
turning the edges where my teeth blundered
white and pure
and dead.
The area swelled
gradually to a nuisance
eventually eliciting a grimace
upon each exploration
by a cautious tongue.
So now, when I open my mouth
to speak, the scraping of the sore,
the stretch of soft tissue
brings to mind my blunder
when I didn't say goodbye.
Poem:
In the future I might write a bit after the poem about what I like about it or what I was thinking when I wrote it, but I don't have much to say about this one in particular. I wrote it thinking that I don't ever want to refrain from saying something important and have that somehow be the last chance I had to make it known.
Observations:
I noticed recently that some bowls are marketed specifically as soup bowls. I'm not sure I understand. Aren't all bowls soup bowls? I don't think I've ever seen a bowl and thought "Oh, that bowl just wouldn't do for eating soup out of." I thought the reason they were called soup bowls had something to do with the shape, so I investigated. It turns out if you google image search soup bowl, all shapes of bowls come up. This supports my idea that all bowls are good for soup, but does nothing at all to explain why it is these particular bowls show up associated with soup. Perhaps it will forever be a mystery. All I know is that if I figure it out, I'm going to become the most finicky person when it comes to bowls. If a person hands me a bowl of soup in a cereal bowl, you can bet I'm going to give them a piece of my mind.
Exercise:
In order to think a bit about my own writing on a daily basis, this section will be devoted to a short writing exercise. I have no idea if these will prove interesting enough for readers of the blog, and if not, feel free to skip this section. I plan to draw heavily from CM Mayo's daily five minute exercises.
Write the first paragraph(s) of a story that begins:
She would not give him the last piece of pie.
She would not give him the last piece of pie. It was for his own good, she said, but he knew it was a sign that the relationship was headed downhill. Whenever a woman started knowing what was good for him, he prepared himself to cut his losses. In this case it started with pie. To her credit, she hadn't started her mission of modification with his gambling habits like the past three girlfriends. Maybe she thought it was too obvious. Maybe she knew it would tip him off. Well, he was on to her anyway.
Me:
And lastly, a short journal-y section about what's new in my life. Rather than try to summarize all of the relevant things in my life to date, I'm just going to jump in to current events. If I update this blog as regularly as I'd like, you'll pick up enough to make sense of my life eventually. I have decided that biking and handball might not be mutually exclusive. As long as I devote myself to continuing to practice handball regularly, I feel confident that I will be able to compensate for whatever fast-twitch muscle speed I lose with increased ambidexterity. I am enjoying break so far. Christmas at my parents' new house was fun, and I'm practically swimming in chocolate since my girlfriend's return from Germany. New Year's was alright. As a 21 year-old, I shirked my responsibility of getting drunk and instead barely made it to midnight. In fact, a good deal of the credit for my wakefulness goes to this blog. Getting the background anywhere near what I wanted was a bit of a hassle. If anyone reading has a comment about the layout/design/colors/font, let me know and I'll consider changing it. It looks great on my monitor, but I'm sure it's quite variable.
January 2, 2011
An Explanation
I have been told by many people that the best way to get started writing is to write. So I have decided to write here during those times I can't think of anything but want to be writing. I hope to center this blog around poetry. Ideally, I will have a poem to start every post, and we'll see where things go from there. My New Year's resolution was to get this up and running, and hopefully it can eventually be used as a way to gather some feedback. Thanks to anyone who is interested.
-Ryan
-Ryan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)