Observation:
I was watching the NBA the other day during one of my sleepy stupor episodes. It happened to be a Spurs game, and as I watched the team with the best win/loss record for the regular season lose to the Memphis Grizzlies for a third time, something occurred to me. The Spurs are a good, consistent team. They've kind of always have been. They're known for putting up good results with their veteran lines, and doing so day in and day out. But the playoffs are another animal. When it comes to the big stage, there is a thing people like to talk about called shifting gears. This gets used all the time when announcers talk about individuals (especially in tennis, which I follow more closely than basketball). They'll say something like "things were going well until Roger Federer found another gear, and the other guy just didn't have a response." It seems like the Spurs are just always playing in a high gear. Which makes sense; they are old. They know how to play well on a day to day basis, and they know what it takes to win. But they don't have another gear to go to for the post season. The Grizzlies are a young team with tons of energy, and yeah, they'll lose to the Spurs when they can't find that gear. But they have it, and that's been the difference so far. They get pumped up and once they got rolling in game four, it was over. They blew the Spurs out. And it was fun to watch because I don't like the Spurs. This also highlights why it's getting to be depressing watching Federer. I keep waiting for that gear to kick in. But like the Spurs, he's getting old. He'll still consistently be in the final rounds of tournaments, but it seems like that gear is slipping beyond his reach.

Me:
You get half a post while I write my paper for tomorrow. Sorry about that.
I got on my bike the other day and put my headphones on to listen to some music, as I usually do. What I don't usually do is start pedaling without making sure I know where my headphone cord is. It took no time at all for the cord to be shredded by the chain of my bike, and now I am out my second pair of nice-ish headphones in as many months. But, as usual, this just inspired me to upgrade. My iPod got stolen so I got an iPhone. I broke my headphones, so I opened up some better headphones. Because nothing says "I'm responsible enough to have this" like having just destroyed it.
And now back to my paper.

Tired

Me:
My schedule got thrown off a bit. So the previous post will have to stand in for the Tuesday morning edition, and I'll try to be creative again soon. Right now I'm tired again.

I'm beginning to dislike titling these things

What to do with Leftovers

It takes a lot of confidence to reach into the drawer of Tupperware
knowing you'll come up with a lid to match the bowl.
I reach and rummage and curse in despair
while in one easy motion she slides in her hand and grabs my soul.
That's confidence, knowing a match is in there somewhere,
And with the first try her hand will find the pair ready for the cold.
So scoop your remnants in, fasten the lid tight
And know we fit, won't spoil, and when the door is closed
That we won't mind the disappearing light.

Poem:
Our leftover-container-drawer is a mess. I can only assume it's that way for many people. I know it was like that when I was kid. It would take fifteen minutes of searching to put away a serving of leftover noodles. So I used it as a metaphor. And I know it's cheesy. It's a first draft. I've gotten more into the idea of drafts, since I have to revise every one of the twenty poems I wrote this semester for my final portfolio. And because I've been too lazy to do things right the first time. So there you go.

Observation:
Did you know the fine for trespassing is a dollar? It's true. If you are sued for tresspassing that's the price. Of course, in many places, if you are trespassing the owners of the property can take other action against you. And if you have to do some extra work to gain access, like climb a wall or something, you'll probably get more than a dollar fine, but if you wander across a property line or refuse to stay off someone's lawn, be prepared to shell out a dollar. At least, that is what my law and politics professor said yesterday. Under the law of torts, which compensates people for damages incurred, that is the value of trespassing. Because who is really hurt by it? So it's mostly a symbolic decision. An acknowledgment of violation, but without real significance. And interestingly, you don't have to be the owner to sue for trespassing. You can be a person renting the property, since it's you the trespassers are "inconveniencing" somehow.

Exercise:
Below are 3 sets of words. Use all the words in each set to write mini stories in 300 words or less:
SET 1: paper clips, principal, lunchbox, swing, girl with a pink ribbon
SET 2: biology, class card, foreign student, leaf, blood sample
SET 3: typewriter, filing cabinet, puncher, clerk, carbon paper, janitor

The principle entered the elementary school amid a flurry of swinging lunchboxes. The opening of the heavy wood double doors and the excitement the children exuded never ceased to impress him. The girl with the pink ribbon in her hair, for example, bounding up the steps eager for class, was oblivious to the dread most secondary students felt at the onset of another academic year. For the kids, this was another year of exploration. Whether beginning their studies of biology or getting their first taste of fractions, the students all seemed eager to get on with things. No matter which name was chosen from the deck of class cards, a response was sure to be given enthusiastically (if not accurately). And to top it all off, this year's fourth graders had the novel experience of including a foreign student. The language barrier was no match for the universal concepts of recess, candy, and laughter.
The principle wondered for his fifth straight year when the excitement stopped. The secretary at her typewriter smiled only at the sight of break time. For the kids, recess meant the flood of energy could be released into the grassy field, the wooden play structure, the monkey bars, basketballs, and swings. The secretary left behind her filing cabinet, her stacks of carbon paper, her hole puncher and her paper clips for a few minutes of coffee designed to restore some of that energy so eagerly strewn about outside. The janitor took five minutes from scraping off gum, sweeping the remnants of leaves and grass, and waxing floors to marvel at the ingenuity required to get spitballs into particularly difficult positions. And the nurse felt guilty at holding children back from recess, sending some home, and occasionally taking a sample of blood to ensure nothing communicable made the rounds. And not one of these people knew when it was they stopped wanting so desperately to flood through the doors and into class. Bt they remained in close proximity, hoping to gather a faint reflection from the bright, flowing energy the kids released.

Me:
In the most predictable of ways, I am already conflicted between activities. This weekend I played handball in the mornings and biked forty to fifty miles in the afternoons. It left me worn out and with little time or energy for much else. Between preparing food to fuel my draining reserves and lying around in a half-asleep state, I was hard pressed to even open my eyes long enough to see the score of a basketball game, much less write anything worthwhile. And today I am incredibly stiff. My neck and back are far worse off than my legs, in fact. But enough complaining. I'm also faced with a decision about which activity to pursue this weekend. I have an important handball tournament in a few weeks and the opportunity to play against some quality players this weekend, but then again, there are two bike races in Iowa City. And it's hard to prioritize practice over racing, but I'd be making the trip to Iowa City solo, and I dislike criteriums. Apparently by "enough complaining" I meant "time to complain some more." Sorry. I guess I'll see what the weather forecast looks like.
I wish I had more news, but my weekend really just consisted of handball, biking, eating, and sleeping.

What a Disaster I Am

Super heroes

The depressed make the best super heroes
Let's send the suicidal out to fight crime
What bad could happen; they die?
Best case scenario: they catch bad guys
And realize there's a reason
To put on their capes in the morning

They will remain humble
Dressed in their spandex color
Contrasting crazily with hidden emotions
Apathy wins the day

Blazing red, bright blue, garish green
Tights hug close to fat juggling thighs
Able to leap tall curbs with a single bound

Poem:
I thought of the first line while going about my normal day to day stuff, and the rest progressed from there. It turns out I do have much more success writing creatively in the morning, so that's good to know. While I do have some rather crazy ideas come into my head under sleep deprived conditions, waiting until the morning rather than forcing something late at night might be a good idea in general.

Observation:
I made a recent observation at work. It occurred in the likeliest of places for epiphanies: the bathroom. Specifically, the handicapped stall. (It's more spacious, and I'm like 99% sure there are no handicapped people in my building.) So I finish the task I went in there to do, and reach for the toilet paper. Now, I have grown accustomed to shoddy toilet paper. You know, the paper-thin stuff you have to reel off by the yard in order to fold over enough times to feel confident you won't wind up with a terrible situation on your hands (haha, joke). But much to my surprise, there were two types of toilet paper available. There was the normal, tracing paper-style stuff, and next to it, practically glowing in all its glory, was a roll of some variety of quilted toilet paper. It was luxurious. Which gave me a great idea. What if, instead of spending money on television advertisements, a major toilet paper company just went around to all the portable toilets, cheap office buildings, and schools and such, and put a roll of toilet paper next to the crappy stuff (the jokes are just writing themselves today). They could put a label over it or something to make people notice not only the superior option they have available, but also the brand which is so far above what they are used to. I know if I had known what kind was in the stall the other day, I at least would have remembered it. And let's be honest: who goes into a stall and doesn't look around for something to distract their attention? Talk about a captive audience! There's no way someone would leave without at least being aware of the product, and the whole point of a commercial is to make sure that the next time the consumer is at the store, a particular brand comes to mind. Mission accomplished.

Exercise:"The Squid, the Lampshade, and the Smell of Burning Tortillas"
Write something that incorporates a squid, a lampshade and the smell of burning tortillas.

The paper lampshades in the tapas bar were losing color. The afternoon sun had bleached them all from their vibrant red to a blushing of pink, and Carlos was sure it wouldn't be long until they joined the rest of the town in fading from attention. It was rare that anyone new showed up. The locals all knew things were on the decline. They extended their siestas into late afternoon, returning to work for an hour before calling it quitting time. And the few regulars to the tapas bar didn't notice when the things they never ordered began to disappear from the menu. If it hadn't been for Pedro, calamari wouldn't even be an option these days. Nobody else liked eating it, and the preparation was a pain. Not to mention the hassle of acquiring (semi) fresh squid. But Pedro was willing to pay for it, and still willing after the price went up with an explanation from Carlos of "supply and demand, brother. You're the only demand, and the supplying it sucks." It got so bad that one of his cooks returned from siesta, only to resume while at the stove. How a man could fall asleep in front of a gas range, Carlos couldn't figure out, but when the smell of burning tortillas meandered its way out the door, it was all to evident that the town was running out of spirit in general.

Me:
I am already starting to feel a bit like I'm in limbo, and school hasn't even ended yet. This doesn't bode well for the next year of my life. I hope I can set a schedule and keep to it, but I'm afraid it just isn't possible to schedule all the things I want to do. I keep telling myself I'll have time to do such and such once school gets out. I'll have time to pick up programming, I'll have time to build computers, I'll have time to ride my bike, time to play handball, time to write, time to submit to law publications, time to study for the LSAT, time to play some frisbee, time to submit fiction, nonfiction, and poetry, time to work a bit, and time for relaxing. Obviously these are not all compatible. The worst part is, to commit to any of these would be a nearly full-time thing. I guess I could probably do the LSAT, law publications, and handball all while working, but biking is supposed to be four hours a day, handball is usually two or three hours, it takes three hours to go from parts to a fully tested computer, and that's only a few of the things I have in mind. What a disaster.
I haven't been feeling very poetic recently. I'm sure it has shown in my poetry, so I'm sorry for that. I listened to Ben Percy give a reading in the library today, and it seems like every time I interact with that guy I am motivated to go out and write. And then as soon as I leave the motivation fades in light of all the other things I have to do. And now I am unable to find it again. He says his goal is to write two pages a day, or 14 a week. I know I could do that. I know I'm good enough at putting words together, bringing stories to life, and keeping things straight. I'm just not good enough at getting it done. I'm beginning to think that's all that separates writers from non-writers. It's not hard to come up with words. The hard part is doing it every day, and to have the passion to go back to it even when your cat dies, your legs hurt, you fail a test, you get rejected, or you realize one of your characters needs to be cut and a re-write is needed. And it's that I'm afraid I'll never acquire. I'm too flighty. Maybe that will change. Maybe I could change it right now if I really wanted to, but I'm too interested in everything. Or not interested enough in one thing. Either way, I'm backing myself into a corner where options start eliminating themselves because I'm too indecisive. Hence, the title of this post.

Getting Up to Speed

Texas

Nothing useful came from Texas,
all their exports as beneficial
as the tumbleweed blown north
and into the path of the Lincoln Navigator.

Swerving made as much sense
as protesting innocence
to a white jury
who knew a cop had been killed
who knew they had caught someone
who knew enough.

And as the Navigator tumbled
and stood still eventually
still shouting directions
"in 100 feet, turn yourself rightside-up
and a mile after that,
pretend nothing happened at all"

Poem:
I still can't believe the stuff in the movie "A Thin Blue Line" actually happened. The way everyone went about that case was disgraceful. So I wrote a poem that is sort of about that. but is mostly about the fact that it's really late and I want to go to sleep, and that's something easy to write about. Sorry for the cop-out. I'll be back at it again soon.

Observation:
I think I have something to continue talking about. Oh yup. Miranda Rights. You know, those things that are yelled at the bad people as they're being arrested. I don't know what I found most interesting about our discussion. I thought it was interesting that the Miranda case freed Miranda and the other cases currently being considered at the time, but didn't have any effect on cases which had already been decided. This was because it is assumed by the courts that had any previous cases fallen under the same category, they would have been the ones to appear before the supreme court and set precedent. So since Miranda was the first case to consider these rights, it must have been the first case during which they were violated. Obviously that is probably incorrect, but it makes sense as a way of justifying not having to reconsider every previous case ever. After all, if their rights had been violated that badly, they would have brought it to the attention of the court and the Miranda case would have fallen into their category.
Another interesting thing about the Miranda case is that it was stressed that the reading of rights might not be necessary if everyone weren't so ignorant of the law. But it does make sense that people who otherwise might be smart enough not to self-incriminate could panic when placed in a jail cell and told to confess or things would get bad for them real fast. In fact, when presented with the evidence that would be brought against them in court, even an innocent man might think it in his best interest to plead guilty to something to receive a shorter sentence. So it makes sense to tell them they can ask for a lawyer whenever, and to stop questioning them until one is present.



Exercise:
It's spring. Your character is walking out of doors and sees the burgeoning trees and flowers, hears the birdsong. But the character's reaction to all this newness and freshness is not what you would expect...

Stupid birds. Loud, noisy, and stupid. Also, loud. They sounded alright for the first five or ten minutes, sure, but after Franz had spent a half hour on his doctor-recommended walk, he was ready to learn how to shoot a gun. He briefly wondered how much a shotgun cost. He liked the branches better when they were bare. At least then you could see what the tree was really up to. All the leaves turned individual trees with character into a solid green mass, indistinguishable from their brethren, and all just waiting for a couple of months before littering their refuse all over his lawn. He could already imagine himself raking. And the worst part was, he only had one measly tree on his property. But that didn't stop the leaves from showing up in full force. His maple dropped quite a few leaves, certainly, but sometimes he'd rake for minutes and not see a single maple leaf. Ridiculous.
Franz wondered how high a wall would be required to effectively prevent unauthorized leaves from gaining entrance. He guessed it might require a dome.

Me:
Up to speed in fragments: rode the windiest time trial ever, played handball in Des Moines (won bet for people betting on me), built a sweet computer, built a less-than-sweet computer, played handball in Ames, exuded pride for girlfriend's athletic accomplishments (team #1 seed in region), declared independence from my parents (at least as far as taxes are concerned) while preparing to move back home to avoid vagrancy, filled out a million rebates, yelled at the rain while secretly not minding so much, rode bike short and hard, attended nostalgia-prompting meeting about moving out of apartment.
In more detail: The past few days have been full of success stories as far as food is concerned. It all began with my usual stop at Tasty Tacos after playing handball in Des Moines on Sunday. The tacos, needless to say, were tasty. The next morning my mom said she was out of the muffin mix she wanted to make and was considering trying to make bran muffins. I fondly recalled the deliciously-glazed bran muffins of my freshman and sophomore years (oh the days of student meal plans), and looked up a recipe for some glaze. An hour later I was supposed to be playing handball, but was having almost no success due to the fact that I was too full to move around the court. I would sort of waddle my way over to one side and hit, then waddle the other direction and hope for the best. And to top it off, it turned out the bran we used in the muffins was almost as old as I am. Delicious. Later that day I made a pizza (okay, put a pizza together, since nothing was made from scratch). I topped the dough with sauce, a solid layer of pizza-blend cheese, an even more solid layer of pepperoni, and then sprinkled that with black olives, green pepper, onions, and sunflower seeds, all followed by another solid layer of mozzarella cheese. While impossible to pick up and eat, the result was quite tasty. And then today I tried my hand for the first time at cooking burgers. I took a pound of ground beef, an egg, onions, green peppers, and (again) sunflower seeds, combined it all, and hoped for the best. If I weren't so shy of meat I could have done a much better job forming the patties, but it all turned out okay in the end. In case you noticed a trend, if you ever eat food that I've made and wonder if I have a secret ingredient, chances are pretty good it's sunflower seeds. So good. On everything. And tomorrow (Tuesday) I can go on campus and get a free breakfast because I'm graduating. We'll see if I'm awake.

In Which I Adhere to My Schedule Despite Bad Scheduling

Alone in the Woods

A man can only wander so much in a camper.
The floor plan puts dinner one step away
from slumber, and worried pacing
takes him from bedroom to steering wheel
with no time for thinking before the next about-face.

Rain traps him with ambitions of contemplation,
no release of decision or destination
possibilities bouncing off a kettle-topped stove
and occasionally seeping out windows cracked for air
to echo out into the tree trunks.

The applause of rain on the roof a backdrop
to building tension, clouded sky yellowed
through foliage and tinging everything
with unhealthy anemia, white tile glancing
guiltily, and eyes broadcasting despair
with a glance through the wall at the life outside.

Poem:
I saw a video clip of a camper and was feeling a bit nostalgic regarding camping, and this is what resulted. Of course (as is probably obvious), I have a definite preference for tents. Something about a camper just makes things a bit less authentic.

Observation:
We are talking a lot about the justice system in my law classes. Imagine that. But today was particularly interesting because in one class we talked about what it takes for someone to be considered negligent, and in the other we talked about Miranda rights. The first topic was discussed in the context of situations where someone did something wrong, but the extent of the damage seemed out of proportion to the action. Like a person crashed their car, but it just so happened that hidden under the spot their car hit was a bomb and they blew up a house. It doesn't seem right to consider them responsible for the damage done to the house, even though it was their accident (probably negligent) that caused it. So we talked about the types of causation before getting around to the idea I liked, which is that you are responsible for any damages caused by you being in a position of privilege not shared by those you damage. So if anyone could have crashed their car there, it's not like it was your particular privileged state that made it happen, so it's not really your fault. But then I wondered about cases where someone is privileged, but not negligent. The case we discussed in class concerned a man docking his boat at another guy's dock because there was a bad storm coming, which boat then damaged the dock during the storm, and it was ruled that he should pay for the damages despite the fact that the decision he made was completely warranted. Now, I agree that he should pay for the dock he damaged, even though he had no other choice, since it was his own risk for being in a boat to begin with. But going back to the car example, imagine the bomb was only able to be triggered by a really nice sports car. So only someone in a position of privilege could set it off. Does that mean the guy who sets it off is really responsible for the whole outcome, simply because it occurred due to privilege? Our discussion was cut short. I plan to ask on Friday when we have class again. Miranda rights will have to wait for some other time, unless I have something more interesting to talk about by then. Let's just say I'm not sure they should be necessary, though I have no problem with them being there, and I'll elaborate if I have time at some other point.

Exercise:
One of the important things in good prose writing is to have more than one thing happening at once. In this exercise, describe a kiss, taking your time and trying to visualize the action clearly and precisely. However-- have something else going on at the same time. Maybe one person is thinking of a different boyfriend, or perhaps someone's leg is falling asleep, or maybe one person is worried about the garlic pizza he had for dinner.....

Their lips drew closer, their eyes fluttering tentatively closed, but Jordan still wasn't quite sure it was going to happen. It was only last month he had been told by his doctor he would never walk again. He sat on the pale leather couch and wondered what to do with his hands. The things he could still move, though at the moment any movement he felt could lead to an interruption. And he knew he didn't want that. So they remained by his side as he tried to focus on the present. On the feel of her breath on his cheek. On the fact that she had had the presence of mind to put her arms around his neck first before leaning in. On the fact that her hair was suspiciously odor-free after all the romantic scenes of men sensuously inhaling the perfect scent from their lady's tresses. He could feel all of these things, but he held off believing in it all until the very end, until the smoothness of her lips departed and the slight stick of her lip gloss meant she had pulled away. His eyes opened. Hers were open already. Had he been sitting there, eyes closed, for too long? Did she think him silly? But before he could think too hard, she leaned forward once more.

Me:
I have a time trial to ride tomorrow potentially. Although the weather looks terrible, and I'm always looking for an excuse to avoid a chance at embarrassment. But I am excited to put together the nicest computer I've had the pleasure of designing this weekend. It has four one-terabyte hard drives in RAID10, an SSD for the operating system, eight gigs of memory, and a pretty fast (and easily overclocked) quad-core processor. (Trust me, I did my research. More memory than that is overkill, and programs aren't designed to utilize six cored unless you're planning on doing some crazy multitasking.) And it has a pretty awesome blu-ray burner, a better-than-decent graphics card, and just great specifications in general. Maybe I'm strange for enjoying this process so much, but finding good deals has it's own appeal, and then putting it all together to form a working machine? Well that's pretty cool, even if it is easier than most people realize. And with this build I get to mess around with extra connector cards because I had a request for it to be firewire compatible, as well as ready for high speed wifi.

A post as scheduled. Excitement ensues.

A Windy Workout

The snake overlapped the white line
the hoop it formed not quite closed
a pinched-off U, head to tail
tongue out perpetually tasting
the smells of asphalt
and dried blood.

Up the road a distance
of thirty pedal strokes
or so, a robin's crushed breast
lay accompanied by its wings
in contrast to the dead, grey grass.

I passed by the first time
thinking the yellow-striped
dark green scales
and flattened tongue
belonged to an extension cord
cast out a window
to fend for itself.

The next five times I knew what to look for.
compressed form ahead
not raised and dry
like the other snake
an overlapping knot
folded back on itself
as it arched from the ground
and twisted like a loosening shoelace
gradually working itself free.

I slowly labored past again
struggling into the wind
distracting myself with death
as it slid by in still frame
looped until my legs drained
and limply spun their circles
in ineffective retreat.

Poem:
I did a repetition-based workout on my bike, and the dead wildlife on the side of the road was depressing to bike past every time I was getting ready for another rep. It got so I was looking up the road to pick out the carcasses approaching. And I thought it was interesting that the snake's tongue was sticking out, forked and almost touching the tail. The first dead snake I've seen this year. I guess its a good sign that winter is over. I should work that symbolism into my poem! Especially because it's usually the robin who i s associated with the coming of spring. Interesting. I'll have to play around with that.

Observation:
Oh goodness it was windy today. We did 1-kilometer and 2-kilometer repeats today, and it was fun going with the wind, but the trek back to the starting point was more taxing than a recovery should be. And the fact that we did them to the south of town meant that we had to bike back into the headwind. Which wouldn't have been a problem had I been able to convince my legs to do anything more than just stomp downward. But I got back eventually. And the only good thing about the wind was that I got to bike a good part of the way with the smell of pasta in my nose, since this time the wind was so strong the Barilla pasta plant miles away was making itself known. So I guess the only real observation I made today was that it was too windy for any practical purposes. Unless you consider being able to smell pasta a practical purpose. I don't know.

Exercise:
Happy endings can sometimes be, well...boring. No zing. So predictable. So...happy. Write your ending to the Cinderella story -- but this time, make it so that the shoe fit one of the icky sisters. What does Prince Charming do? How does Cinderella cope with it? And what about the Fairy Godmother? Start your story here.

Prince Charming beamed up at the girl he was sure was the love of his life. "Drizella, my darling, it's you after all. I'm so glad I've found you."
From the basement came a muffled squeak, followed by a thump. Drizella's mother glanced around before smiling thinly. "I'm afraid our maid is a bit clumsy, always falling off things or down stairs. I'll go see what she's done this time." She swept out of the room, her crimson dress whisking behind her. The prince noted that the maid must not be so bad. An exit like that would have been accompanied by a small cloud of dust even at the castle. Then he noticed a mouse bidding a hasty retreat around the corner and reevaluated. The mother entered again, an expression of concern pulling her eyebrows together.
"So you've decided then? You're to marry Drizella? This is wonderful news. I'll start packing our things immediately. There is room at the castle for all of us, yes? I mean, it's such a big place."
He honestly hadn't ever thought about this contingency. His parents had always told him he'd find a girl from a neighboring kingdom, and no other king and queen would have cause to leave their castle to move to his place of residence with their daughter. But it was only natural that Drizella's mother would wish to accompany her daughter. There were so many arrangements to be made. He sighed. Who would have known that finding his true love was only the beginning of the work?

Me:
I found a blue steak knife on the road the other day coming back from a bike ride. That's not really all that relevant; it's just something that happened. Oh, and my thoughtful girlfriend bought lactose free milk yesterday so that I could enjoy cookies more thoroughly/less uncomfortably. I think it's important to state that people who criticize this stuff are probably justified. If you expect it to taste just like milk, you may be disappointed. It's not too far off, but milk is a pretty well-known substance, and small differences stand out. But it doesn't taste bad to me. It's not quite milk, but it's not bad either. And it goes with the same things milk does. And most importantly, my stomach hasn't attempted to expel my entire interior as a result of my drinking it. So it's all good.

Brief, but I might not have time tomorrow, so I need to get this posted.

The Disappearance of a Knife

My breath came in blood
and blood came out
and redness was everywhere
As the sky blurred into shadow
A face appeared.

The tan skin and scars
and squinted eyes
made me flinch
Face in profile
and then eyes again
growing closer
until the sky was his eyes

My leg moved
instead of my entire body
the thrash I had planned
manifested in a twitching
of quadricep, and a curled big toe

A flicker in the eyes
diverted attention
a tug at my belt
and the eyes rose away
faded to red


Poem:
I had a note written that I wanted to write a poem about a dying war victim having his knife taken by someone who didn't even care enough to kill him as he lay on the battlefield. This is a poor attempt. I can do better. I like the bit about the attempted violent thrashing only resulting in a toe curling. But I want to get a bit more character into it. I don't really think it has anything going for it as far as emotion is concerned.

Observation:
There's something that's been bothering me since I moved in to this apartment two years ago. It's my light fixture. The one in my bedroom. It's not unattractive, actually. It's just a sort of section of a sphere. I guess the term is a sconce. It's a sconce. A round wall sconce. And it sucks. It's a sucky round wall sconce. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't OPAQUE. I don't know who's idea this was, but someone should have told them that opaque things are bad at letting light into the room. Or maybe it's the fact that they put it less than eight inches from the ceiling. Here's a picture:

So all of the light appears on my ceiling, which is really not the place I want it. I can't see well enough to even find things on the floor in my room. I need a flashlight to locate the clothes I want in my closet. It's ridiculous. None of the other rooms are lit this poorly. I guess I'm just confused as much as anything.

Exercise:
Write a dialog in which two people are discussing something very ordinary--what movie to see, who is going to win the championship-- but underlying the quotidian discussion is some serious conflict between them. Show what is going on under the surface.

"So what do you want to eat, then?" he asked, sticking to the plan they had formulated earlier that day.
"What?" She paused on the stairs, looking down at him, confused. "You want to make food still?"
"Well, I need to eat before I leave, so I was wondering what you wanted." He rounded the corner into the kitchen, and sure enough, he could hear her feet on the stairs as she followed hesitantly. "Mexican food okay?"
"You don't want to talk?" She stood just outside the kitchen, not wanting to crowd him while he was busy.
"I don't have time right now. I need to get going again." He looked outside at the twilight, a bit of purple still bouncing off the clouds. He checked the clock. "I have forty-five minutes. Do you feel like Mexican food or not?"
"Yeah, that's fine."
"We can talk later if you still want. What would you like for vegetables today? I think we still have some mushrooms and peppers left." He opened the fridge a bit too suddenly and looked a bit too intently at its contents. The attention he devoted to the milk carton would have gone unnoticed to anyone else.
"I don't care, really. Whatever you're making will be fine." She hesitated. "Do you want me to leave?"
"You can do whatever you want. Obviously, you can do whatever you want." He started the oven. No eye contact. He heard her breath start to catch, but he just didn't have time right now.

Me:
My legs are tired. I'm struggling with how to interpret this. It could be that I'm training hard, or it could be that I'm just out of shape. I wish I could just train by biking across the country again. That was fun. And surprisingly effective. But I think a major component of its effectiveness was the fact that there are mountains, so going out around here for an equivalent amount of time wouldn't be an adequate substitute. And apparently mountains are far away from Ames, Iowa.

Me:
Well, I have some of a post done and saved, but ran out of time to actually get it finished. So you should know I'm at least sticking to my schedule, but that I'm still a bit rusty at time management. It will be up this afternoon. Sorry for the delay if anyone notices.

Look, Another Post

Dells

They have their piece of crap computers padlocked to the table.
If I were going to take something, it would be the lock.
It's more useful than any Dell,
their insides arranged to make upgrading more tangled
more inscrutable to the average consumer.

I beat the power supply out of the case with a hammer.
I ripped out the cords, scoffing at their dust-covered casing.
The memory I kept, because who doesn't want more memory
when it's so easy to snap out of its socket
and pretend it's always been in the right place?

Poem:
I've been spending quite a lot of time around computers and thinking about computers recently. This will assuredly not be the last poem about them. It's almost too easy to make the analogies, though, so I'll have to try harder in the future. This one was prompted by the fact I was sitting in front of a dell between classes (having forgotten my iPad at work), and had recently taken one apart to use the hard drive in upgrading a different unit. They suck.

Observation:
We were discussing the insanity defense in my philosophy of law class today. One of the working definitions of what excuses a crime on the basis of insanity is if the accused was sufficiently lacking in the will required to not commit the crime. This was intended for those cases where a mentally unstable person simply isn't capable of giving appropriate consideration to the law. Like if a kleptomaniac knows it's wrong to steal, but just can't help it. Or similar cases, as with OCD, etc. But I got to thinking that if all that's required for a person to not be responsible is the fact that they didn't have the willpower to resist, then doesn't that in some respect make every action blameless? In every case where an action occurs, isn't it true that their willpower to act otherwise was proven ineffective or insufficient? I think it holds that the willpower in opposition couldn't have overruled, and this is proven by the fact that it, in fact, DIDN'T overrule. How could it have overruled if it didn't? Now, this is a very deterministic way of looking at the situation, and unfortunately I have grown to endorse a rather deterministic way of looking at many things, though I can't help but hold out some hope for libertarianism simply for optimism's sake. But back to the insanity thing: If you do something, it seems completely reasonable to say that you did it because you couldn't will yourself to do otherwise. So nobody is really guilty, due to diminished capacity of will.

Exercise:

"Five Words"
We all know far more words than we actually use in our writing. Today's exercise is inspired by poet Deborah Ager She wrote:
"The other night, I sat down to write. I took a glass of water into my study -- with its orange walls glowing pink due to a sunset streaming through the western window -- and sat down at my desk. I'd recently RE-found my writing notebook and was pleased to find some notes I'd taken on various poems. I wasn't sure what I wanted to write. I decided to incorporate five words I've never used before in a poem. To do this, I quickly scanned the pages of a book I'm reading and came up with "true," "rice," "anecdote," "beam," and "gentle."
What are five words you know but have never used in your writing? Pick up whatever newspaper or book is handy and see what you can find. You may need the whole five minutes just to find these five words. That's OK.

I honestly can't think of any words I know but haven't used. I guess maybe words like porcine, kumquat, pillory, anabolic, and crumpet would be things I'm not sure I've ever used. It wouldn't be hard though.

Porcine children belong in pillories.
Their obsession with crumpets is maddening in the morning,
when any reasonable person grabs one and is on their way,
yet the greedy-cheeked, crumb-mouthed kids
meander their way back to the breakfast table
like we won't notice their back for their fifth one if they gaze in a different direction
as they make their approach
swooping in their greatest exertion of the day
muscles kicking into their anabolic threshold.
Yesterday I threw a kumquat at one
but he just ate it and smiled.

Okay, that was harder than I thought. I might have picked some pretty bad words. Whoops.

Me:
I'm officially not going to grad school next year, which is actually rather surprising. I guess my streak of never really trying and getting what I wanted had to end sometime. But I think that's all the more reason to keep this blog going. I haven't stopped writing. I've been busy with some rather interesting things recently, but I do plan on getting back to this, and right now my plan is to have a new post up by 9:30 every Tuesday and Thursday. And hopefully by Saturday night, but that will probably mean Sunday morning. So there you have it. A schedule. I've decided I need schedules. How grown-up of me. This means a bit of an end to the whole Friday-in-a-different-style thing, though I will certainly explain in the "poem" section that a poem was the result of that sort of thing. So if you've stopped checking regularly, you can start again. I expect to keep to this schedule for at least a couple of weeks. (I am, of course, planning on doing it indefinitely, but I've learned to have lowered expectations of myself.)

In which I find time to update, but ramble on and don't say much interesting.

Broken Elevator

"I'm breathing for two now"
Says the pregnant lady
Gasping on the stairs

The baby has stolen her body
Her breath, which used to come
And go so easily

Now catches at strange times
Like now on the stairs
Or at the thought of all those diapers

"Breathtaking" used to be reserved
For mountain sunsets
Or those times when all she needs

Are the two eyes just inches away
The flecks of hazel glinting
Kaleidoscoping out to trap her

Poem:
People always say "I'm eating for two now," and I wanted to investigate/think about other things which would be done for two. This sounded cool. That's about it.

Observation:
In what seems a bit too "meta," today's observation concerns our powers of observation. Specifically the senses. Now, we all seem to take for granted that our senses are approximately equal. That is, while we might use some more than others, they all relate to our experience in a similar way. But I was thinking about this randomly, and I'm less and less sure this is the case. Take sight, for example. While I suppose it's not certain that sight correlates to the external world, at least we can point to things (light's wavelength, reflection, etc.) that explain why the particular sensations our brain interprets come out the way they do. And a similar thing might be said of touch. Our ability to sense things like "sharpness" or "heat" can be linked with some verification to actual qualities in the world around us. Sound is obviously quite similar to sight in the way it deals with waves and their length, frequency, reflection, and whatnot. Which leaves those other two senses. Taste and smell. Interestingly enough, they are quite closely interlinked.
When we describe the way something smells or tastes, is there anything about that sensation that we are claiming corresponds to external qualities. Now, I know the way smell works is the receptors in the nose receive certain shapes of molecule and relay information to the brain, but is this sensation really that useful? On some evolutionary level, I guess, it probably helped in distinguishing between types of substances, which led to us having innate preferences in taste and smell, but when I smell something, it's not like I can tell you anything about the world from that sensation. I'm limited to describing it in terms of other smells, or using terms like "good" and "bad." On a base level, the thing that distinguished between different smells are the shapes of the molecules entering your nose. But nothing about smell tells you what these shapes are, where they originated, or really much useful at all when it comes to linking smell to external experience. And taste works the same way, so I won't go into that. But really, taste and smell are just rather specialized forms of touch. Now that I'm thinking about it, though, sound is picked up by the vibration of a membrane in our ear. I'm a bit foggy about how sight works beyond the whole "rods and cones do stuff" explanation. I just find it interesting that taste and smell are in large part arbitrary. They are not very informative, and calling them senses and putting them in the same category as sight and hearing might be inappropriate.

Exercise:
"Five Ingredients"
Write something--anything--that includes the following five words/ phrases:
~urged
~When the servant entered with the soup
~show him the way
~zeal
~dead flies

When the servant entered with the soup, I was urged, perhaps by the presence of so many dead flies on the ceiling, to show him the way to the table, a task I undertook with zeal. I mapped out a safe route in my head, weaving around other tables in what may have seemed sporadic fashion, though not once did my route cross beneath one of the deceased insects. The servant, while a bit quizzical, didn't protest, and by the time my circuitous route terminated at my table, I was sure I was going to have to tip a bit more to compensate for my disruption. Never mind that I had done his job for him, that he should have been aware of the perils lurking above. But it was a small price to pay for the knowledge that my food was safe.

Me:
Work, handball, and biking when I have time have been keeping me a bit busy. It's so hard to prioritize. Or rather, it's hard to prioritize consistently. One day I feel like devoting all of my time to handball, the next I am on my bike wondering how much I would have to do to become good at that. And then I realize none of those things matter if I don't have a career picked out. Oh boy. So rather than worry too much about any of that, I'm sort of just bending to my whims. Which will probably result in me being a rather good handball player, a moderate biker, and destitute. I guess we'll see how that goes.

Back at it

Holding hands in the Museum

Turn around upon hearing their tones shift
into the nasal register
reserved for,"I like it, but it seems...
self-conscious,
pretentious,
derivative."

Go back and turn left
into the baroque flowery, thick and caky
and colors where you've never seen them.
Gratuitous purple clouds.

Tighten your grip when your breath leaves
but you still need a way to say
"oh, pretty!"
And leave it at that.

Ignore compositional elements
and dart past Picassos
for no reason.

Don't forget to leave before sunset.
A chance to remember that c'est ne pas une vie.

Poem:
I am sure I'm not alone in my dislike for people who wander around museums sure they are privy to exactly what the artist meant by including a pig in the background or whatever it is they see when they get up to within a few inches of the painting and mumble to their companion that "this is true mastery." So when I walk through a museum, I'm in favor of sprinting away (etiquette be darned) at the faintest hint of a snobbish critic. And as soon as I catch myself thinking in terms other than "oooooh," "aaaahhhhh," and "ewwww," I know it's time to leave, that I've been infected by the art crowd. It's a shame you have to go to the museum to see the real thing, and that it costs money to get in. I'm hardly up for spending six hours looking at paintings, but it's not like I can walk down the street to my library and rent them one at time. So I have to get my money's worth, cramming a whole year of artistic appreciation into a couple days.

Observation:
The origin of the word oblivion in based upon the idea of forgetting. So when a movie villain says the hero (or earth) will be obliviated, they are threatening them with much more than mere destruction. To be lost from history, to be forgotten completely, that is the threat of the word. Oblivion is worse than the nothingness I thought it was. It's the absence of recollection. When great people of history acted, it was to be remembered. Achilles, given the option of a happy life or a memorable death, chose the latter. Because when you think about it, there's a lot more time that you're not on this world than otherwise, and even today, three thousand years later, we know who Achilles was. We say all men are created equal, and we my even believe it, but it's sure that not all men are remembered equal. The kid shining Achilles shield is worth just as much to us in theory as Achilles. If they were both tried for murder, they'd get the same sentence, for instance, but nobody is going to know his name. And that's the threat of oblivion.

Exercise:
Anthony Doerr's story, "The Shell Seeker" is written from very close to the point of view of a blind scientist. There are almost no visual cues in the story, yet the reader is awash in the details of sense, and the tropical setting is almost palpable. Describe a scene without using visual cues.

John's footsteps sounded too loud. He wasn't used to inflexible soles, and the two-part echo they made on the cement stuck out to him, though nobody else commented. Why should they? Everyone's dress shoes probably sounded like that. Had they noticed him in his rough, ill-fitting suit and not heard the ta-tok of stiffness with his step, they may even have wondered at its absence, though perhaps not consciously. Maybe a subtle premonition that something was wrong. A bit off. At least it was cold. John couldn't abide suits in warm weather, especially this one, which bunched at the shoulder and felt a bit too long at the cuffs, though the fitter had assured him it was pristine. The wind had forced his hands into his pockets, where he absent-mindedly fiddled with his ticket, the paper softening gradually with each pass of his fingers.

Me:
I'm playing handball five days a week now, which has caused my perpetual shoulder pain to flare up a bit. It's too much fun to stop though, and the players in Des Moines are fun to play with. I'm a member at the YMCA in Des Moines now. They gave me a scanny-card-thingy and everything. And I have a tournament coming up this weekend. All of this is very distracting when it comes to biking. It's particularly difficult because I'm good at handball NOW, while the biking is still only a potentiality. I can do better with my scheduling though. And update here more, too. Turns out I'm lazy. Drat.
Insert segue here
You know how some people's moms set them up on dates against their wishes? Well, I've heard it happens, and I've seen it in the movies. The moms are always so sure their kids are well-for the person they set them up with. They're a good match. Well, I'm glad my mom doesn't do that. What she does do is set me up with food. Its a very similar situation. She asks me if I need any groceries, and usually I have one or two things I need. So I ask for a gallon of milk or some bananas, and my mom takes this to mean I really wanted milk or bananas as well as chocolate, cookies, crackers, and lots of other treats. And she's sneaky about it too. For instance, the last time this happened my parents were picking me up to take me somewhere, and just dropped off some items quickly. I put the box inside without looking at it, only to come home later and realize I had been had. Sometimes I am able to give back items I didn't request, but she sneaks them in somehow.

High fructose corn syrup is really bad

Powder-blue shirt hovers midscreen
white dove wings poking into frame
bright letters: peace to universe

He stabbed a pastor twenty years ago.

His white-tipped goatee
Makes him look wiser now
Than when his black skin
Earned him the death penalty

He didn't just violate his parole
He obliterated it
With drugs until the first man
To do him a favor
Showed him how insufficient
His life was

And the tip of his knife
Slipped from silver to red
Nothing against the man who stained it
Self confidence spewed
But drained faster than the blood
Pumped limply from many holes

Poem:
We watched a movie in my class today about a woman meeting with murderers in prison, and I thought it amusing that the man she talked to was wearing a shirt that proclaimed peace to the universe from it's powdery blue fabric. So I used the story he told for a poem. A bit depressing, but the movie was rather interesting, so I thought I'd write a bit about it before I forgot.

Observation:
If you've been around me as I've consumed food recently, you probably know I have recently adopted a vendetta against high fructose corn syrup. Basically, I was feeling fat one day and looking for something to blame it on, and I decided to buy into the whole "processed foods are bad for you" mindset. I told my parents, and was asked if I had any real evidence. I realized Boston Legal probably wasn't an accredited source, so I said not really and forgot about it for a while. Then I saw a commercial of a woman saying that high fructose corn syrup was fine because the sugar in it is processed the same as any other sugar. That by itself is obvious. Sugar is sugar. But that made me wonder why they needed a commercial. So I morphed into super-sleuth mode. Which actually means I turned on my computer. And I did a ton of research. Which actually means I googled high fructose corn syrup, scrolled down about five results, and clicked on a site. It had taken me about fifteen seconds of effort to completely debunk the commercial. If I had any faith that other people had also done this, I could just let the matter rest, but since it had (sadly) taken me quite a while to do it, I have no such belief. So here's the article: http://www.princeton.edu/main/news/archive/S26/91/22K07/
And because I'm sure some people are still too lazy to click that link and wade through the preamble, it basically says that when rats were given water with high fructose corn syrup at half the concentration than soda they gained way more weight than rats given the full concentration of normal sugar water. Furthermore, this weight was gained mainly in the midsection, and the type of fat was specifically linked to the type associated with artery trouble.
But the whole reason I even wanted to bring this up is because, in my effort to avoid this death syrup, I have been reading ingredients labels. While frequently depressing, yesterday this resulted in utter bafflement. I enjoy bread and butter flavored pickles. I have no idea why they are called that, but they are delicious despite their complete lack of resemblance to anything having to do with bread or butter. Anyway, I was rather excited to see they came in a larger size than just the normal "chip" cut style. Basically, they were cut lengthwise instead of in cross sections. Out of habit I checked the ingredients. You guessed it: high fructose corn syrup. But only in the lengthwise-sections! So I muttered some profanities in Vlasic's general direction and bought the other ones. Jerks.

Exercise:
The aim of this exercise is to play with rhyme. Feel free to make use of www.rhymer.com, or a rhyming dictionary if you happen to have access to one. If you feel too silly to do this exercise, then make one of your fictional characters be an avid writer of doggerel. What little rhyming poem can you come up with in five minutes?

The little ones have gone to bed
And "head" rhymes with bed and has to do with dreams
So that's the word I should have said
But rather than that it seems
I have little regard for the cordiality
Of monosyllabic, cliche rhymes
That make song lyrics a predictable reality
And less respect for rhythm and time
Which, once welcome constraints
Adding structure and form
Now steal color from the paints
Of the pictures I try to bring to life.

Me:
(I know the last line doesn't rhyme.)
Anyway, things are going pretty well. You know, other than the pickle incident. This is due largely in part to the fact that the rest of the shopping resulted in the acquisition of delectable foods which I have been partaking in consistently. And perhaps unhealthily. Peach mango salsa in particular brings a smile to my face. And sweet Bavarian mustard. Delicious.
Unfortunately while procuring said mustard, the box I was using to carry it gave way and in broke two containers. And the eggs. And then, since this happened in the store, an old guy walked over a few minutes after it happened and I was involved in cleaning it up to say "now look what you've done." I was sorely tempted to inquire whether in his many years, he had also made a mistake, but wound up holding my tongue. This might have been due to the fact that an incredibly nice store clerk had helped out with the mess saying it was no trouble, happened all the time, and not to worry about the cost. Granted, his tune might have been different had I broken something worth more than five dollars, but I was touched nonetheless. So in that good spirit, I refrained from sarcasm.
This will be formatted better when I get back to a computer, so if you're reading it before then, sucks for you, I guess.

Spring Break

Schedules

When you're paranoid even the people in front of you are stalking you.
That mirror she holds up, the vague and bouncing eye
reflected back, so all you know of her is that she wears too much mascara,
but not enough hairspray,
and exactly the right amount of perfume, a hint of which trails behind
to put you off the scent.

But she's watching in her mirror and in the shiny storefronts
just opening, lights flickering over displays of carefully positioned dolls
intermittent shadows strobing their bodies; if they move at exactly the right time
you will never know.

If a person rode the same bus every day you could stalk them from anywhere.
That woman in front, who also catches the 8:24 with her unmatched socks
and occasional  calf-covering boots could be taking her time,
watching that mirror for where you turn
so she can turn there tomorrow.

Poem:
Just a tangential thought process I was having a while ago. I was vaguely wondering if you could find out where someone was going without following them. Then I thought of how many people have such regular schedules. It's probably pretty easy to just watch where they turn and modify your route the next day until you gradually gain access to their destination. I don't know why my mind works the way it does. I figured if I set the poem in a city-ish place the commuter crowd would make the schedule/use of reflections a bit more plausible. Not sure about the style. I was trying to mix it up a bit, but I feel like I'm just worse at styles that don't some naturally.

Observation:
In Arizona everyone is on wheels.
Don't walk down the middle of the sidewalk
or you'll risk being clipped
by a biker late for class
on her forty-pound, retro-style
goliath of inefficiency
with the swept-back handle bars
and the powder blue paint,
which distinguishes hers
from the pink, green and yellow versions
(black if belonging to a guy)
all locked in leaning rows.

In the universality
many are missing wheels,
and some lack seats,
since a seeping flat
is easier fixed with theft
than a pump and a spare.
So carcasses lurk
with their front forks
attached to the spinning ground
beneath them,
mounted in the earth,
whose rotating mass
makes an ambitious wheel.

I liked the first line I wrote about my observation (which was simply that everyone in Tempe rode bikes or skateboards everywhere), so I wrote it as a poem instead. But seriously, there might have been fewer people walking than riding, which would be crazy for Ames.

Exercise:
Take these lines from a well-known novel and continue them however you want:
She had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around.....

She had found a jewel down inside herself and she had wanted to walk where people could see her and gleam it around, bright in their eyes so they couldn't help but look away, though they would no doubt glance back, curious about the origins of her treasure. He gait, her very posture ensured she wouldn't be mistaken for her old self. Her bearing brooked no questions. Leave it to them to figure out what had put the spring in her step. The smile on her face. The gleam in her eye. She veritably flaunted it. Her shyness fell away like an unneeded bathrobe, the furry comfort of demureness gone as she bared her real self to the world, looked men in the eye as they passed, and interjected in conversations with her assured opinion.

Me:
It's amazing how little time this break has actually afforded me. I've been at work, then on my bike, occasionally on a field with a frisbee, and when I finally get back, I have actually had people to spend time with. A foreign sensation at this point, and not one that lends itself to writing much. So I guess once break is over and I go back to a schedule where at least I know I have certain times with nothing to do, I will be able to update this more regularly. Don't get me wrong, I have enjoyed having people to talk to for a change, but I do have things I want to do, and while it's nice to be able to socialize (and vent, and just know there are people out there worth spending time with), I am a rather goal-oriented individual. So it will be nice to get back on track having gotten my socializing out of my system.

Interesting Images

Going Places

A candle whispers out, wick coughing up its last ashy remnants
which rise, single file formation, drifting east.
Fog finds cracks between peaks,
a slow-motion avalanche wiping entire valleys from view.
There are baby toys and a crib in the front yard
almost unused, still colorful, never loved.
An ocean of bricks rises up overnight to shelter those less fortunate
than millionaires, but more fortunate than community college kids
in that they get to pay more for their bricks, and their basketball teams
don't always suck.

A decrepit professor retires finally, walks out of the building;
loafers on the too-elaborate brick staircase one last time.
Class debates eschewed political correctness for content.
Clarity before courtesy - he doesn't look back.

Bushes burgeoning with robins fling squawks of spring
at fenced-in, sandboxed children waiting to be told they can resume
their studies and put down their shovels and empty their pants,
though the damage has been done. They won't sit comfortably
until they have a cure for cancer.

A low-pressure area over Nebraska dictates where air
I intended on breathing is going. I watch it depart
taking with it the smell of smoke
from the cigarette the weird bearded guy is smoking
as we wait for the east-bound bus.

Poem:
It's Friday, and I mentioned Dean Young's poetry yesterday, so here was a shot at imitating his style. It's a rather poor attempt. As far as I can tell, he relies on image impression as a way of conveying feeling to his reader, so I put most of my effort into images. I'm not sure if anyone not privy to my brain will think they're related at all.

Observation:
I found this during my extensive browsing of the internets and thought it was interesting enough to pass on:



If you want a more offensive, less to-the-point version, you can watch this (I think the only decent part is at the four minute mark):



Basically, it shows why all the people who by a Prius because they care about the environment should really do their research. The nickel that goes into the batteries is way worse than burning some extra gas.

Exercise:
You are in a waiting room (doctor's office, job interview, etc.). People are sitting more or less in a circle. Describe several of them -- focusing only on their feet! Type of shoes, cleanliness and condition of shoes, toes if they show, how they let their feet rest. Are they quiet or do the feet move? What can you tell about the person from the feet?

I'm not the sort of person to stare at other people. Nor am I the sort of person to feign interest in waiting room reading material. However, I am the curious sort. The combination of these three traits is what led to me with my eyes half-closed and pretending to ignore the people around me, all the while studiously regarding the bits of them I could see: their feet. Immediately across from me slender calves disappeared into faux-fur-lined, black suede boots, which of course looked like they had never been used to traverse anything deeper than the layer of dust on the floor. The laces were tied in a loopy bow, as though the wearer knew any detail of footwear could come under scrutiny at a moment's notice. To her (I felt safe assuming it was a her) left was her contrapositive. Hairy calves drooped into dirty white tennis shoes, their soles almost attached, and releasing water gradually into the carpet. Where he had managed to find a puddle capable of imparting that quantity of water was a bit of a mystery, so I could only assume he was the sort who couldn't be bothered to deviate from his course enough to avoid the snow's last watery remnants. And then there were the optimistic, leg-bouncing, open-toed heels. They gracefully wound their way around a solid ankle, not the sort of ankle to take no for an answer, but not pudgy either. The toenails were trimmed, but unpainted. All business.

Me:
Today was a pretty good day. I played handball at 11:00 in lieu of class (which was cancelled), and spent the rest of my free time on my iPad. I found larger versions of the apps I like on my phone, and was stunned by the amazing picture quality while watching video. After my afternoon class I ate a salad and a quesadilla before getting on my bike and heading into the wind. I went west, and the wind was from the southwest. By the time I was halfway to my destination it had shifted to a straight headwind, but I pressed on. I had the foolish idea I was going to do sixty miles. It turns out that that actually requires some amount of time. And it also turns out that if you leave in the late afternoon, the sun tends to not give you that amount of time. On a related note, it gets cold. So I made it about twenty miles before realizing it was getting dark and cooling off rapidly. I turned around, realized the tailwind was actually rather strong, and hightailed it home. It was thoroughly enjoyable. When I stopped for traffic, the street signs were rattling. The wind was whipping plant material into a frenzy, and I'm pretty sure I averaged over 28 mph on the way back. Upon my arrival, I manufactured some pasta for a post-ride binge (the best time to eat is within 20-30 minutes of concluding a workout), hauled myself upstairs, and passed out in front of the internet. I woke up some time later and had one of those instants where you don't know whether the clock means AM or PM. I think that feeling of complete temporal disorientation is fascinating. Like when you go into the movie theater in the broad daylight and come out to darkness. It's such a strange feeling. Awesome. So that's why this is getting posted at four in the morning. I've already slept a bunch, and I'm not really that tired. What a start to spring break.

Fun Stuff

Cartwheels

We were never acrobats.
In particular, me
convinced a summersault constituted
an aerial feat
of stunning quality
as foes shied away
from my twice-broken
plastic sword.

It had been reforged
in the fires of superglue.
A leap onto the couch
scaled cliffs
which would have taken hours
for lesser men.

And you applauded,
fought along side me
when the script required
and switched seamlessly
to villainy when I got bored
of chopping air.

We threw in a cartwheel
every so often,
editing the scene
(the camera panned in
so you couldn't tell
other action had ceased
for focus on the stunt work).

In everyone's mind their cartwheels are perfect.
Nobody from that upside-down disorientation
knows their legs are off to one side
or that their back is bent.
Which is to say, that sometimes ignorance is bliss,
imagination taking over.

Poem:
Just a recollection of childhood. Not much to say about it other than that.

Observation:
Another interesting discussion in my philosophy class resulted in today's little insight. As everyone knows, liberals and conservatives tend not to get along very well. But the discussion we were having concerned the distinction between being liberal (or conservative) in a political sense and being the same in a judicial sense. Now, there are obviously some similarities and overlap between the two. Conservatives, by definition, favor the status quo, resistin change. In a judicial sense this means that they tend to side with precedent, and in general resist attempts to overturn old laws. Furthermore, conservatives believe in strict interpretation, meaning that the letter of the law is what should be used in passing judgments (as opposed to intent, or some new formulation or application). Now, if you're like me, you're thinking this sounds an awful lot like political conservatism as well. But as my professor pointed out, there are plenty of cases where political and judicial conservatism (and liberalism) come apart. The most obvious of these is Roe v Wade. If you ask a political conservative what the right thing to do regarding that decision is, if they abide by the party line they will tell you that the decision in favor of pro choice should be overturned. Obviously, this flies in the face of judicial conservatism, which says that once a precedent has been established, that is what should be used in the future. Deciding to overturn a decision that establishes legal precedent is a decidedly liberal thing to do as far as the judiciary is concerned. On the other side, it is obvious that liberals arguing to let the decision stand are not judicial liberals, since saying that something is right because it is precedent is a conservative idea.

Exercise:
You meet a man in a bar in a strange town. He has a cat on his lap, and he orders a cup of coffee, slowly spoons sugar into it. He strokes the cat's black fur and says, "This contact is illusory. The cat and I are separated as though by a pane of glass, because man lives in time, in successiveness, while the magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant." What do you say back to him? And he to you? What does the cat do? What happened to this man before he came into the bar?

"It seems odd to call the cat magical in that case," I reply. "Just living in the instant doesn't seem like an altogether magical thing."
"It is a power unknown to me, to us as humans, always planning, being taken over by the sequence of events, never starting the sequence ourselves." He seems half lost in his own crypticness. The cat twitches its ears, and with a brief glance at me, hops onto the bar, where it walks to the nearby corner and sits, an egyptian sculpture, serene and proud of its magical qualities.
I'm having trouble seeing how the fact we don't live in the moment separates us physically, but I'm willing to let it go. His overcoat has seen better days, and the rain outside seems to have found its way to every part of him. His long, dark hair shines black with water, and almost has an oily reflectivity in the dim bar lighting.
"Take my very being here, for example," he begins again. "I have no interest in establishments such as these. Rife with rowdy, good for nothing squanderers of intellect. But my humanity, my dependence on being effected by what comes before, dictated I stop."
I'm guessing this translates to "I got wet, so I came in to dry off."

Me:
Another exercise from the newer source. These might take longer than five minutes. I cut this short.
I'm typing this blog entry on an iPad, and so far I'm enjoying the experience quite a lot. I might have to download a designated document editor, since the note-taking application I'm using, while awesome for class notes, keeps insisting I want to do something other than type on the keyboard. But I'm having no trouble with the keyboard, which was an issue I was slightly concerned about. And I have a way to sync documents between my phone and my iPad, which should allow for mobile uploading no matter where I am. Also, I have been using the iPad for almost an hour, and it still says I have 100% charge remaining. I can only assume this is one of the many magical qualities Steve Jobs was talking about when he went gaga over his own device. And with the new one coming out tomorrow, I got this one for about 200 dollars less than retail.
Also, I just got back from playing an hour and a half of ultimate frisbee, which was really fun. It turned out I wasn't even that out of shape. Or that everyone was out of shape. Either way, it felt good to run around for a while. Handball courts don't seem cramped until you play a sport on a field. All that open space was actually a bit disorienting.

Apologies Are in Order

Ode to Trash Can

Wastepaper basket looms
over scattered almost-made shots,
three-pointer, buzzer-beaters,
fallen short, banked too harshly off the wall,
or nowhere close.
It's filled with slam-dunks,
success stories
(as distinct from successful stories)
marked over, crossed out
crumpled.
Corresponding desktop icon
never flocked by errant wads,
"send to trash"
always accurate.
Worthy trash sinks
through layers of paper
the solid stuff of life
bound for bottom.
Clinking dully
upon contact
discarded reminders
of relationships
plummet through
to the stifled blackness
to rest with rancid apple cores,
too cold for flies.

Poem:
I recently read a lot of poems by Dean Young for class, and I liked the fact that he started a lot of them with images, and then tied the images together. I intended to do the same thing here, beginning with a simple image of a trash can and moving on to other things. And then I never stopped writing about the trash can, which made the whole plan backfire. Maybe I'll try again tomorrow with something else.

Observation:
In Arizona I kept looking at the cars going by and thinking "Oh, that Dodge Charger looks cool. Too bad it's an irresponsible car." And then I realized it's only irresponsible if you live in a place that gets snow and where handling is important. Because heavy, torque-filled, rear-wheel drives are ridiculous here in Iowa for a good chunk of the year. But in Arizona? Fun all year. I am beginning to appreciate other places more and more. Also, I kept having to remind myself that the fact I was seeing all sorts of nice cars didn't mean the people there were any better off than here. I just got passed by so many cars every minute that I was exposed to a greater number of them, and since I eagerly ignored the mundane ones, the fact I was seeing nice ones so frequently skewed my perception. It was fun, though. Which reminds me: A couple of weeks ago I was biking back to my apartment after a ride that ended at my parents' house and I saw a Porsche Carrera. Since the speed limit was pretty low, I accelerated, and now I can say I passed a Porsche on my bike. Which might only be amusing to me, now that I think about it. Oh well.

Exercise:

Describe what you see in this photo. Describe what you don't see-- the interior. Describe the person who comes out of the place. What does the person do?

Sunlight settled through the gaps in the wood, making its way to the cracked floorboards, its path unimpeded by furniture. A mattress in the corner showed brief signs of movement before the figure on top fell once again into sleep, though the orange behind his eyelids betrayed the fact it had been light out for quite some time. Hours passed before he rose.
Alex was getting used to homelessness. He wasn't sure how many people remembered this place existed, but until they kicked him out, he was taking advantage of the luxury even these thin walls could provide. But the privacy was the major selling point. Well, that and the price. It was hard to attribute selling points to a squatter's residence, but he wasn't quite adapted to considering himself apart from society. He imagined the real estate listing:
One-room shack
still standing
window, door,
good view, pleasant surroundings.
He couldn't complain. And after pulling the mattress out of the dumpster and hauling it the two miles out of town, he was nearly considering the place the lap of luxury.

Me:
I found a new site with exercises/prompts, so I tried the first one out. I liked writing about an image.
I dislocated another finger at handball on Tuesday, which makes two fingers in two weeks. It is my left pinky this time, so it's not something I notice as much as my ring finger on my dominant hand. I hope this pace doesn't continue. I also got two letters of rejection in the mail for grad schools. I guess I'm just hoping bad things come in pairs these days. I played video games for eight hours straight on Monday, which is the reason I owe my readers an apology. I thought I'd have more time, but then it turned out I am as irresponsible as ever. Other than that, life is going pretty well.
That doesn't seem like enough, so here's something random: I thought the phrase was "making end's meat" instead of "making ends meet" for a very long time. Like, into high school. I have no idea why that is. I think I'll blame the fact that my family is vegetarian (though I'm not now), and as a kid I was constantly having to explain this concept to my peers or whoever else I thought needed to know. So meat was on the brain. Or maybe the fact that I was vegetarian made me unaware that there's no such thing as "end's meat." Either way, I only realized when I read the phrase in a book. It was quite a revelation.

And Just Like That, I'm Back to Inconsistency

Me:
Amazing how that works, isn't it? I'm really sorry, but it's too late for me to write today, and I am disappointed with myself, but that's the way it is. I'll get something up tomorrow, promise.

They Begin Again: The First of Many

Solitaire

He sat in a courtroom playing solitaire
as verdicts sent people off to unpleasant company,
relishing the fact that he was no longer packed
between bars. Between people who smelled like urine
and those who reeked of cruelty,
fists constantly clenched, bodies bunched,
bruises appearing mysteriously as soon as backs were turned.

He sucked at solitaire.
The old lady sitting next to him wept as her son was convicted,
her wrinkled face capturing some tears for later
and her classical lavender perfume
reaching out in one last attempt
to convince the judge “He was a nice boy, really.”

She stood to leave, a little more hunched
than when she entered. He remained,
remembering the empty courtroom which had bid him farewell
and lost another game of solitaire unable to think far enough ahead

to remember which cards were coming
and which ones he needed to move
to get at the aces
so he started over.

Poem:
There's nothing quite like necessity to serve as inspiration. I got back from my trip on Monday, slept through most of that day, got caught up on stuff Tuesday, and then Wednesday realized I needed a poem for class. I was just laying in bed playing solitaire, and I was trying to think of something interesting to write about. Then I just thought "what if I took what I was doing and changed the setting?" I thought a courtroom would be a pretty strange location, and briefly debated having it be one of the attorneys playing, but decided to go with this idea instead (obviously). So I created the characters as I went along, and I kind of like how it turned out. I guess it's kind of depressing in points, but I thought it concluded with a bit of an uplifting note, like the guy, despite being alone and sort of at a loss regarding what to do, at least has a chance to start over and do something decent with his life.

Observation:
I guess there's no real way for me to avoid procrastinating. I have a lot of little notes jotted down to write about in the upcoming entries, and I've had this particular entry plotted out in my head for a couple of days now. You'd think that would make it easy to get started. But somehow, knowing what I want to write meant that, since it was going to be easy, I could do it in a small amount of time, which meant I kept saying to myself "Nah, I already know what I want to say, so I can just do it before I go to sleep. Just a few more video games (or iPhone dalliances, or minutes of doing nothing particular at all)." And what resulted was this waiting to be published for quite a while. So this has encouraged me to renew my resolve, make time for writing again, and actually churn out some more entries. I might try blaming my procrastination on my tournament, saying something like "I was out of town and busy, and then it took a while to get back into the swing of things" but really, I just used the tournament as an excuse to not update. Which is sad, since it's not like this is some obligation I have to a huge fan base or my living or something. This is what I want to be doing. So I'll try to remember that in the future.

Exercise:
I recently received the following message, so I decided to use it: I was walking to class and overheard this snippet between two people. I wanted to hear what the rest of their conversation was about but also kind of not, because I'm afraid it's much less exciting than what I imagine. Anyway, it reminded me of your 5-min writing exercises. Here it is:
1: "I'm not trying to scare you-
2: "No, no, no!"
1: "but I think they get their...

"I'm not trying to scare you-"
"No, no, no!"
"but I think they get their ingredients from the same places other stores do," Colin finished.
"But their an exotic french restaurant! Don't ruin this for me!" Elizabeth seemed on the verge of tears. Evidently, she quite enjoyed her french food.
"Their a restaurant in Iowa. It's not like their clientele are going to know the difference between French cuisine and potash anyway." Colin felt he was being quite reasonable. Plus, his dish had looked remarkably similar to the frozen food he occasionally purchased at Sam's Club in bulk.
Elizabeth was desperate. "But you can't KNOW! Sure, it's not likely, but you can't know it's not flown in or something. I've been going there and shelling out money like every month for this stuff!"
Realizing this might be something more serious than he thought, Colin backed off. Some people's twilight-zone-style-revelations were a little less extreme. "No, of course I can't know. I'm sorry. It just looked familiar." And they kept walking, Elizabeth's shaking subsiding gradually as she began to rationalize her way back into her fantasy. They probably have a secret tunnel.

Me:
Ah, where to begin? I participated in the National Collegiate Handball Tournament last week. I took my iPhone, but realized it wasn't ideal for updating this. I could have used one of my dad's laptops, so I'm just making excuses, but it was certainly interesting to note there's no good way to write anything of length on it. It was awesome to have, though. It entertained me, kept me informed with email, news, etc, and, best of all, I used it to skype to people in Ames. So some people actually got to watch my games live, which was pretty cool. It was heartening to know I had an audience, even if they weren't there or audible. As for the tournament itself, things went pretty well in general. Sure, I dislocated a finger and was in a lot of pain for a while, but I still won the Intermediate division title, and the whole experience was great. (For those who want a bit more on the whole "dislocated my finger story, I dove for a ball, slid into a wall, and came up with my finger bent backward, the tip pointing at me.) My finger is recovering well, and I'm happy with the trophy. Also, my philosophy professor told me I could rework and expand my paper and maybe submit it for publication, which would be pretty cool. Then I would have a national championship, a patent, and a journal publication. Quite a good school year. Now if I could just get into a grad school, things would be ideal.

Too Many Topics to Talk About

Window

Classic cross window
wood tables slick with beer
music hides sound from even those
not deaf
a level playing field

panes of glass
one sight removed
from reality
a fine mist fogs slick surfaces
the cold at bay,
the humidity
of personhood omnipresent

looking out from
warm wetness
at stiff steel structures
waiting to collapse
with ground's thaw.

Poem:
It's been a while since I tried a style variation, and since I didn't have an author I really wanted to imitate, I just tried writing in the way my teacher keeps telling me to. Basically, she just thinks the fewer words the better, that sentences have little place in poetry, and that pure images can convey enough for the reader to take something away. I disagree on all counts, but I figured I'd give it a shot. I might even turn this in and see what she says.

Observation:
I saw this and thought more people should too:



(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgk654mV-9g)

In case you don't want to spend ten minutes watching, it's basically a video of a "psychic" using common sense to beat grandmasters at chess. What I liked most was that I had no clue what was going on, but the revelation was a complete "duh" moment. Of course, he still had to have a pretty good memory.
And because that wasn't an observation so much as a "look what I found," here's another bit of something I found interesting: my professor told us to use wikipedia to research background information for philosophy stuff. I've been told since high school not to use the site, but am fully aware that most people use it anyway. But I can't decide whether this is an indication that the site has become popular enough that professors are fine with it, or whether the site itself is improving. It might be that it really wasn't a good source during the times I was being told not to use it. Or it might be that the professors then were just wrong. Either way, it was just amusing to hear that it was credible enough to rely upon during at least this college class.


Excercise:
"Dry Skin"
Take this as your opening line:
He had the driest skin they had ever seen.

He had the driest skin they had ever seen. The hairdressers conferred amongst each other briefly, though it was mostly just to marvel at the sheer amount of dandruff flaking from his scalp with each run-through of the comb. It was almost inconceivable how this situation could have resulted.
"You'd have to try to get your hair that dry!"
"Do you think he knows?"
"How could he not? He'd have to look in the mirror sometime."
"I wonder what color his hair is. Any ideas on how to fix it?"
"We could shave it and try a skin cream. But it might just be easier to convince people he's a localized weather event. You know, a snow storm or something."
They all burst into a tittering laughter, covering their mouths as though it would prevent anyone from noticing, but when they looked up, the man was gone, a cloud of floating skin left in his wake, drifting down in a loose cluster of pale particles.

Me:
Yesterday I was sitting in class and I dropped my drivers license under this little cart thing that holds the projector. Rather than bend down and reach around under there to pick it up, I attempted to gradually move the cart thing with my foot until the license was exposed enough that I felt less awkward trying to surreptitiously retrieve it. All this while I was thinking about how silly it was that I cared about looking weird bending over and rooting around under the cart. And none of that matters, really, except that I keep telling myself I'm maturing and don't really care about stuff like that. But it seems that's not quite true.
I was really planning on updating last night, but I decided I'd spent far too long ignoring other obligations that have been put by the wayside by blogging fairly consistently. In this case, it was editing the blog I wrote a few summers ago. I told my dad I was giving him a printed copy for Christmas just as soon as it was edited, but then I started this at the new year. So I spent last night removing extra letters from words, switching commas for periods, and feeling nostalgic about that awesome trip. (We biked across the country, in case you don't know. It can be found by googling "split trans-am.") I noticed I had so many things to write about each day, which made me wonder just how my life would be if I spent more of my days doing something. When you bike for ten hours a day, things are guaranteed to happen to you. Not so much the case when I'm in my apartment. Or even during my little thirty mile rides around here.