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.
February 19, 2011
February 18, 2011
In Which I Brag About How Incredibly Well My Life is Going
Double Exposure
A twice-exposed photograph is composed
of two half-stories, and only the film sees the lies for what they are:
Cover-ups, preventing light from striking sensitive surfaces.
The ignorance it brings is beautiful,
the viewer left to wonder how coffee became the stuff of words
and how those words were swallowed
thick and bitter.
Poem:
Another poem done on request. I was told to write about double exposed photographs, and draw big profound connections. I gave it a shot, but it seems like most of my connections these days are somewhat depressing. Which is weird, because things are going really well currently. Anyway, the image was a fun one. The rest can be found here: http://m.gizmodo.com/5761009/85-daring-double-exposures
Observation:
My iPhone is actually doing something more useful than I would have expected. Yes, I now get to listen to my music, play games, take photos, and do generally amusing things. But I'm also more in touch with current news than I have been in years. I have an entire screen of my phone devoted to news apps, and my new habit is to catch up on events during my commute to class. It is through this process that I read about IBM's computer defeating Ken Jennings at Jeopardy. I don't have a problem with this. What I do have a problem with is the claim that this is a huge step in the development of artificial intelligence. It seems to me that there is a misunderstanding about what artificial intelligence entails. Jeopardy is not an intelligence test. Nothing about the show tests a person's ability to communicate (beyond the most basic level), their ability to problem-solve, or their ability to act human, all of which are traditional hallmarks of what an artificially intelligent things should be able to do. The only advancement Watson has shown is a leap forward in language recognition. The fact that Watson was rarely stumped is actually pretty remarkable given the difficulties presented by the English language, particularly in Jeopardy questions. But the fact that Watson answered the questions correctly isn't what showed intelligence. That's just regurgitating canned responses. So the advancement we should be paying attention to isn't the fact it knew the answers, but that it knew what the questions were asking. And that's a long way from intelligence, since it's just (a valiant and surprisingly well-accomplished) ridding human language of ambiguity.
Exercise:
"The Morning After the Party"
Describe an apartment the morning after a party.
The state of affairs defied explanation. Not only were empty containers of alcohol strewn everywhere, but John had no idea what to make of the person passed out on the couch, or the fact that she was apparently attempting to cuddle with the toaster. He vaguely recalled the kitchen appliance being thrown around briefly in an attempt to recreate scenes from "The Brave Little Toaster." Come to think of it, that might also explain why the radio was perched precariously in the middle of the stairway. Thank goodness he didn't own an electric blanket or an upright vacuum cleaner. "I do have an air conditioner, though."
He stumbled into the next room, and sure enough, his air conditioner was covered in duct tape, with what appeared to be a pair of very angry, if lopsided, eyes drawn on in magic marker. At least it was still there. He wandered back to stare a bit more at the figure on the couch. She must have shown some significant dedication to protect the toaster even into her sleep.
Me:
I received some pretty awesome news today. I'm going to be listed as an inventor on a patent on a gene-isolating procedure. For any of you who don't know what this means, what's going to happen is that nothing will change except for the fact that I will soon be carrying a plaque with me wherever I go. I won't be making any money from it, but the effects this will have on my resume alone will be dramatic. And I plan on introducing myself occasionally (rarely) as: Ryan Pesch, Inventor. I still find the situation amusing. I can only imagine the story as explained to an outsider:
My boss: Well, we'd like to work on this new project to isolate and identify this gene we put into this corn plant. Do we know anyone?
Boss #2: Wait, didn't Carol say her son was kinda smart?
Boss #1: You mean the dishwasher kid? Didn't he say he was in school for something silly? Like, philosophy?
Boss #2: But we wouldn't have to gather applications and go through the process of explaining why all our equipment is outdated...
Boss #1: Well, it's worth a shot.
And here we are. One patent on its way. Well, applied for with an almost-guarantee of acceptance.
The news about my patent was a huge surprise, and almost excessive considering I had just recently gotten back a test I took that I scored well on. I missed two questions, argued back one, and the test was curved one question's worth. So I guess I got 100%. When I was talking to my professor about the question I thought was worded poorly I said I didn't really need the point, but that if other people had been thinking along the same lines as me, she might consider that option. She said that it was perfectly fine, and it was good I brought it up in case I wanted her to write me a letter of recommendation. That was completely out of the blue, since this is the first class I've had with her, and it's still early in the semester. But it's good to know I probably don't have to worry about finding people willing to write me letters if all it takes is one month and a decent test to have that offer put on the table. All in all, this has been a good day.
A twice-exposed photograph is composed
of two half-stories, and only the film sees the lies for what they are:
Cover-ups, preventing light from striking sensitive surfaces.
The ignorance it brings is beautiful,
the viewer left to wonder how coffee became the stuff of words
and how those words were swallowed
thick and bitter.
Poem:
Another poem done on request. I was told to write about double exposed photographs, and draw big profound connections. I gave it a shot, but it seems like most of my connections these days are somewhat depressing. Which is weird, because things are going really well currently. Anyway, the image was a fun one. The rest can be found here: http://m.gizmodo.com/5761009/
Observation:
My iPhone is actually doing something more useful than I would have expected. Yes, I now get to listen to my music, play games, take photos, and do generally amusing things. But I'm also more in touch with current news than I have been in years. I have an entire screen of my phone devoted to news apps, and my new habit is to catch up on events during my commute to class. It is through this process that I read about IBM's computer defeating Ken Jennings at Jeopardy. I don't have a problem with this. What I do have a problem with is the claim that this is a huge step in the development of artificial intelligence. It seems to me that there is a misunderstanding about what artificial intelligence entails. Jeopardy is not an intelligence test. Nothing about the show tests a person's ability to communicate (beyond the most basic level), their ability to problem-solve, or their ability to act human, all of which are traditional hallmarks of what an artificially intelligent things should be able to do. The only advancement Watson has shown is a leap forward in language recognition. The fact that Watson was rarely stumped is actually pretty remarkable given the difficulties presented by the English language, particularly in Jeopardy questions. But the fact that Watson answered the questions correctly isn't what showed intelligence. That's just regurgitating canned responses. So the advancement we should be paying attention to isn't the fact it knew the answers, but that it knew what the questions were asking. And that's a long way from intelligence, since it's just (a valiant and surprisingly well-accomplished) ridding human language of ambiguity.
Exercise:
"The Morning After the Party"
Describe an apartment the morning after a party.
The state of affairs defied explanation. Not only were empty containers of alcohol strewn everywhere, but John had no idea what to make of the person passed out on the couch, or the fact that she was apparently attempting to cuddle with the toaster. He vaguely recalled the kitchen appliance being thrown around briefly in an attempt to recreate scenes from "The Brave Little Toaster." Come to think of it, that might also explain why the radio was perched precariously in the middle of the stairway. Thank goodness he didn't own an electric blanket or an upright vacuum cleaner. "I do have an air conditioner, though."
He stumbled into the next room, and sure enough, his air conditioner was covered in duct tape, with what appeared to be a pair of very angry, if lopsided, eyes drawn on in magic marker. At least it was still there. He wandered back to stare a bit more at the figure on the couch. She must have shown some significant dedication to protect the toaster even into her sleep.
Me:
I received some pretty awesome news today. I'm going to be listed as an inventor on a patent on a gene-isolating procedure. For any of you who don't know what this means, what's going to happen is that nothing will change except for the fact that I will soon be carrying a plaque with me wherever I go. I won't be making any money from it, but the effects this will have on my resume alone will be dramatic. And I plan on introducing myself occasionally (rarely) as: Ryan Pesch, Inventor. I still find the situation amusing. I can only imagine the story as explained to an outsider:
My boss: Well, we'd like to work on this new project to isolate and identify this gene we put into this corn plant. Do we know anyone?
Boss #2: Wait, didn't Carol say her son was kinda smart?
Boss #1: You mean the dishwasher kid? Didn't he say he was in school for something silly? Like, philosophy?
Boss #2: But we wouldn't have to gather applications and go through the process of explaining why all our equipment is outdated...
Boss #1: Well, it's worth a shot.
And here we are. One patent on its way. Well, applied for with an almost-guarantee of acceptance.
The news about my patent was a huge surprise, and almost excessive considering I had just recently gotten back a test I took that I scored well on. I missed two questions, argued back one, and the test was curved one question's worth. So I guess I got 100%. When I was talking to my professor about the question I thought was worded poorly I said I didn't really need the point, but that if other people had been thinking along the same lines as me, she might consider that option. She said that it was perfectly fine, and it was good I brought it up in case I wanted her to write me a letter of recommendation. That was completely out of the blue, since this is the first class I've had with her, and it's still early in the semester. But it's good to know I probably don't have to worry about finding people willing to write me letters if all it takes is one month and a decent test to have that offer put on the table. All in all, this has been a good day.
February 17, 2011
Trees, Ownership, and Weather (Almost sounds like it's about the environment. Nope.)
Pines
Their branches form a spiral
staircase for sappy youths
who clamber up to see the tops of townhouses
(and he who climbs highest
sees the most shingles) before
settling stickily back to earth
sometimes swinging down from the limbs
a gymnast's dismount
but not bothering to stick the landing
as they run off to snacks and seesaws.
Poem:
I remember climbing pine trees at camp and I don't think I ever once came down without sap all over me. And it was a competition to see who could climb the highest, and since I was afraid of heights even then (though certainly not so much as I am now), I don't think I ever won. But pine trees are the easiest to climb, with their branches extending almost perpendicular to the trunk. It was a simple matter to make your way as high as you wanted, until the branches grew flimsy, that is. And I felt like writing a poem about it, obviously. That's about all there is to it.
Observation:
It was brought to my attention recently that our right to life can be used to derive our right to ownership. I guess I always thought owning things was more of a privilege than a right. Like, yeah, you can have things, but only until someone who is bigger and stronger (or richer) wants them. But if you believe in the basic human right to life, then it follows that there is a connected right to not have your things taken away from you. The argument goes something like this:
1. We have a right to life.
2. Our lives are made up of time
3. How we spend our time is, for the most part, up to us.
4. So if we spend time working on something, that time is a part of our life.
5. That time translates into wealth (monetary or material).
6. So if something is stolen or broken, it is as if that person took or made worthless the part of our life that we spent acquiring it.
I'm not sure how persuasive I find this argument. It seems that time is a bit of an elusive thing to try and pin down by means of "ownership." I guess I'm not sure that a person "owns" the time they are alive. But if we believe in our right to spend that time alive, I guess it makes some sense that we also have the right to spend it acting in a manner of our choosing.
Exercise:
Today's exercise is to write a brief sketch-- perhaps the beginning of a longer story-- that is delicious and luxurious. Begin with the word "Even" and include: an orange; a hungry baboon; a piano; an elderly man in a perfectly crisp suit.
Even the hungry baboon stopped. It had been peeling the orange recently acquired from a tourist, but the respect Lorenzo commanded upon entering the courtyard brought everything to stillness. His suit was perfectly crisp, and his shoes echoed on the cobblestones as he strode to the black towncar already running in anticipation of his departure. He made his way with purpose to the car's door, and the only sign of his advancing age came when he eased himself down and into the rear seat, folding his body gingerly, and lifting his legs carefully in after. The slam of a door, and the car was gone. The baboon focused once more on the orange at hand, and somewhere inside, piano music began. It started off as a low clatter, missed notes as frequent as melody, but after a few measures, the rhythm returned to the old woman's hands, and the new strings resounded into a veritable symphony.
Me:
As much as I like being "that guy," it turns out my feet need some time to adjust to wearing sandals again. My toes had the beginnings of blisters on them after just a few jaunts to class. I fondly recall the days I'd basically live in those things. Sure, I'd kick them off to throw a frisbee around for a while, but other than that, it was all fine. Today my aching toes are a cruel reminder of how long the weather has been forbidding sandals from my feet. Don't get me wrong; I loved the weather these past few days. In fact, a surprising number of people were willing to credit me with the nice weather. I was told on multiple occasions that my shorts finally brought good weather. It's nice to be noticed. But it's also nice to not be the only one in shorts, as was the case today. I'm fairly certain it was a severe case of optimism, but there were numerous people wearing fewer clothes today. Some of them didn't even look like they were shivering.
Their branches form a spiral
staircase for sappy youths
who clamber up to see the tops of townhouses
(and he who climbs highest
sees the most shingles) before
settling stickily back to earth
sometimes swinging down from the limbs
a gymnast's dismount
but not bothering to stick the landing
as they run off to snacks and seesaws.
Poem:
I remember climbing pine trees at camp and I don't think I ever once came down without sap all over me. And it was a competition to see who could climb the highest, and since I was afraid of heights even then (though certainly not so much as I am now), I don't think I ever won. But pine trees are the easiest to climb, with their branches extending almost perpendicular to the trunk. It was a simple matter to make your way as high as you wanted, until the branches grew flimsy, that is. And I felt like writing a poem about it, obviously. That's about all there is to it.
Observation:
It was brought to my attention recently that our right to life can be used to derive our right to ownership. I guess I always thought owning things was more of a privilege than a right. Like, yeah, you can have things, but only until someone who is bigger and stronger (or richer) wants them. But if you believe in the basic human right to life, then it follows that there is a connected right to not have your things taken away from you. The argument goes something like this:
1. We have a right to life.
2. Our lives are made up of time
3. How we spend our time is, for the most part, up to us.
4. So if we spend time working on something, that time is a part of our life.
5. That time translates into wealth (monetary or material).
6. So if something is stolen or broken, it is as if that person took or made worthless the part of our life that we spent acquiring it.
I'm not sure how persuasive I find this argument. It seems that time is a bit of an elusive thing to try and pin down by means of "ownership." I guess I'm not sure that a person "owns" the time they are alive. But if we believe in our right to spend that time alive, I guess it makes some sense that we also have the right to spend it acting in a manner of our choosing.
Exercise:
Today's exercise is to write a brief sketch-- perhaps the beginning of a longer story-- that is delicious and luxurious. Begin with the word "Even" and include: an orange; a hungry baboon; a piano; an elderly man in a perfectly crisp suit.
Even the hungry baboon stopped. It had been peeling the orange recently acquired from a tourist, but the respect Lorenzo commanded upon entering the courtyard brought everything to stillness. His suit was perfectly crisp, and his shoes echoed on the cobblestones as he strode to the black towncar already running in anticipation of his departure. He made his way with purpose to the car's door, and the only sign of his advancing age came when he eased himself down and into the rear seat, folding his body gingerly, and lifting his legs carefully in after. The slam of a door, and the car was gone. The baboon focused once more on the orange at hand, and somewhere inside, piano music began. It started off as a low clatter, missed notes as frequent as melody, but after a few measures, the rhythm returned to the old woman's hands, and the new strings resounded into a veritable symphony.
Me:
As much as I like being "that guy," it turns out my feet need some time to adjust to wearing sandals again. My toes had the beginnings of blisters on them after just a few jaunts to class. I fondly recall the days I'd basically live in those things. Sure, I'd kick them off to throw a frisbee around for a while, but other than that, it was all fine. Today my aching toes are a cruel reminder of how long the weather has been forbidding sandals from my feet. Don't get me wrong; I loved the weather these past few days. In fact, a surprising number of people were willing to credit me with the nice weather. I was told on multiple occasions that my shorts finally brought good weather. It's nice to be noticed. But it's also nice to not be the only one in shorts, as was the case today. I'm fairly certain it was a severe case of optimism, but there were numerous people wearing fewer clothes today. Some of them didn't even look like they were shivering.
February 16, 2011
Killing With a Hint of Death
Shoes
Their leathery tongues languish in the heat,
poking limp
from their abandoned forms strewn careless in the street
waiting for the fire to fade
the building shells to stop their flickering, shifting, shadow-show
so they can be dragged away,
the dirt scrubbed off their faces
before they're boxed up and sold back
to the unsuspecting Americans.
Poem:
The prompt I used for today was: describe a pair of shoes in a way that a reader will think of death. I have no idea whether I succeeded or not, but it was a fun exercise. I tried to make it about soldiers, but I'm not sure how much that comes through. I also tried some subtle rhyming, because I fondly recall my high school days when rhyming was a fun challenge and didn't sound stupid. Now it just seems too singsong-y.
Observation:
In one of my philosophy classes we were talking about moral ignorance. One philosopher (J.L.A. Garcia) holds that there is an innate nature to morality, and even though we might be raised poorly, we all have some instinct we must disobey in order to commit immoral action. He uses this idea to say that this makes it impossible to kill a person in order to "save their soul," and then claim that this is not an immoral action, since it was done with good intentions. I disagree. I think this is a part of what makes religion so scary. I really think that it is possible for a person to think in this way legitimately. That is to say, there isn't a part of their brain thinking, "this is wrong" as they are committing what we take to be an immoral action. And the weird part is that we then have a hard time evaluating how much blame to attribute. Because if they really weren't acting maliciously, they still might be a basically good person, just with a few mistaken beliefs about what being a good person entails. In actuality, they are striving to be good, and it seems that if one does believe in many of the major religions, he or she would be justified in committing many such actions while operating under that belief.
Exercise:
Opening a piece with "At least" is to open in medias res, that is, in the middle of the action. For example:
At least the cake was white. Or:
At least they approved of the groom's gerbil.
The exercise is this: Pick one of these lines (or one of your own, beginning with "at least") and continue writing.
At least they approved of the groom's gerbil. It didn't say much for the personal qualities of the groom himself (other than his decent taste in rodents), but it was better than nothing. Clara had the irritating habit of bringing back the least interesting guys to meet her family. Thanksgiving hadn't been a pleasant affair in more than four years, what with Gerald, Claude, and Jarome (and then Claude again, briefly) taking up space at the table. And that's all they seemed to do. When conversation was effort-fully directed their way, they had wasted no time in not only killing the current topic, but eliminating any further areas of inquiry. But at least Wallace had his gerbil. From what anyone could tell, that's all he had. It was impressive how he managed to relate it to every conversation. And it was by all accounts better than nothing. Until he requested that it be the ring-bearer.
Me:
My hip hurts. And I feel like complaining about it. And my headache. With that out of the way, I figured I'd thank all of the people kind (or silly) enough to click on my blog yesterday. I was confident that my lack of self-promotion on Facebook was detrimental to getting people to read, but I was not expecting so many people to read more than the post I put up. So it was, by far, my most views in a day. Which makes me wonder whether or not I should put a link there whenever I update. I think that's going a little too far, though. Maybe once a month or something, just to remind people that I'm incredibly important and not to forget it. (I'm really against the idea of having a Facebook.) All of this is getting in the way of what I wanted to say, though, which is: thanks. The idea that people might be reading this is a large part of my motivation for writing. Like right now. It's way too late to be doing this. I'm probably not thinking or writing coherently, but I know I need to post. So I'm doing it. For the family members that read this daily because they have to, the random people who get linked here, and the people I just tricked by posting on Facebook. Thanks.
Their leathery tongues languish in the heat,
poking limp
from their abandoned forms strewn careless in the street
waiting for the fire to fade
the building shells to stop their flickering, shifting, shadow-show
so they can be dragged away,
the dirt scrubbed off their faces
before they're boxed up and sold back
to the unsuspecting Americans.
Poem:
The prompt I used for today was: describe a pair of shoes in a way that a reader will think of death. I have no idea whether I succeeded or not, but it was a fun exercise. I tried to make it about soldiers, but I'm not sure how much that comes through. I also tried some subtle rhyming, because I fondly recall my high school days when rhyming was a fun challenge and didn't sound stupid. Now it just seems too singsong-y.
Observation:
In one of my philosophy classes we were talking about moral ignorance. One philosopher (J.L.A. Garcia) holds that there is an innate nature to morality, and even though we might be raised poorly, we all have some instinct we must disobey in order to commit immoral action. He uses this idea to say that this makes it impossible to kill a person in order to "save their soul," and then claim that this is not an immoral action, since it was done with good intentions. I disagree. I think this is a part of what makes religion so scary. I really think that it is possible for a person to think in this way legitimately. That is to say, there isn't a part of their brain thinking, "this is wrong" as they are committing what we take to be an immoral action. And the weird part is that we then have a hard time evaluating how much blame to attribute. Because if they really weren't acting maliciously, they still might be a basically good person, just with a few mistaken beliefs about what being a good person entails. In actuality, they are striving to be good, and it seems that if one does believe in many of the major religions, he or she would be justified in committing many such actions while operating under that belief.
Exercise:
Opening a piece with "At least" is to open in medias res, that is, in the middle of the action. For example:
At least the cake was white. Or:
At least they approved of the groom's gerbil.
The exercise is this: Pick one of these lines (or one of your own, beginning with "at least") and continue writing.
At least they approved of the groom's gerbil. It didn't say much for the personal qualities of the groom himself (other than his decent taste in rodents), but it was better than nothing. Clara had the irritating habit of bringing back the least interesting guys to meet her family. Thanksgiving hadn't been a pleasant affair in more than four years, what with Gerald, Claude, and Jarome (and then Claude again, briefly) taking up space at the table. And that's all they seemed to do. When conversation was effort-fully directed their way, they had wasted no time in not only killing the current topic, but eliminating any further areas of inquiry. But at least Wallace had his gerbil. From what anyone could tell, that's all he had. It was impressive how he managed to relate it to every conversation. And it was by all accounts better than nothing. Until he requested that it be the ring-bearer.
Me:
My hip hurts. And I feel like complaining about it. And my headache. With that out of the way, I figured I'd thank all of the people kind (or silly) enough to click on my blog yesterday. I was confident that my lack of self-promotion on Facebook was detrimental to getting people to read, but I was not expecting so many people to read more than the post I put up. So it was, by far, my most views in a day. Which makes me wonder whether or not I should put a link there whenever I update. I think that's going a little too far, though. Maybe once a month or something, just to remind people that I'm incredibly important and not to forget it. (I'm really against the idea of having a Facebook.) All of this is getting in the way of what I wanted to say, though, which is: thanks. The idea that people might be reading this is a large part of my motivation for writing. Like right now. It's way too late to be doing this. I'm probably not thinking or writing coherently, but I know I need to post. So I'm doing it. For the family members that read this daily because they have to, the random people who get linked here, and the people I just tricked by posting on Facebook. Thanks.
February 13, 2011
A Reintroduction
I figured I'd briefly reintroduce my blog so I'd have a definite place to send people if they are interested in what I'm doing. First off, I want to make it clear that this is mostly a tool to help me write more consistently. I've been considering pursuing writing in a serious way for a couple of years now, and since I've applied to some grad schools to get a masters in creative writing, I figured I owed it to myself to make this effort. Anyway, every entry I write starts with a poem. This blog is mostly centered on brief, separated writing segments. If you're more interested in longer work, I recently posted all of my fiction and nonfiction pieces in another blog, located here:
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/
The next section is where I explain what I was trying to accomplish with the poem, which can be something as simple as capturing a significant detail in life, or something as complex as using sibilance and end stopped lines to mimic a mood. Fridays are usually devoted to investigating the styles of other authors.
Third is an observation, either something I noticed during my day or something I've been thinking about a lot recently. These tend to either be humorous or way too serious. Unfortunately, I'm a philosophy major and have a hard time curtailing my tendency to ramble on esoterically.
In an effort to work a bit on my non-poetic creative writing, I have been doing a five minute writing exercise every entry. I've been taking them from C.M. Mayo's blog of daily writing exercises, but I usually only use the ones that are story-oriented. (A lot of them are like "describe the hands of five people," or some such silly thing that won't result in a story. So I don't bother.)
Finally, and least significantly, I include a bit about me, since what sort of person starts a blog and doesn't talk about themself? So I would recommend skipping over that section for the most part unless you actually care about what's happening in my life. It's generally just me complaining, but there's an occasional anecdote that might be worthwhile.
So without further ado, here's the poem I wrote for today:
Simplify
Occam's Razor never rests.
There is no room for detours
no space for silly sidetracks.
If you can push a button
and in three minutes
dinner is done
that's economic:
four shrill beeps
and back to business.
If you can type some words in,
each keystroke crisp and pointed,
and press search,
text instantly inundating,
overwhelming,
and skimmed for importance
that is all you need
for your efficient education.
It is a noble goal,
separating the chaff
from the stuff worth savoring
the fluff filling the air
leaving the kernels below
hard and ready to be put away
in the silo of memory.
But what if, in the extraneous,
on the side road your GPS would have never
recommended,
is that moment you've been waiting for
when it all falls away
and the only way to get there
was the wrong way?
Poem:
I've been wondering about how to go about life recently. It seems important to stick to plans in order to ensure something gets done, but some of the best times come from spur of the moment, unnecessary actions. So, as with whenever something is on my mind, it comes out in my writing. Some of the analogies seem a bit forced here, but it was the idea more than the perfect poetic form I was going for. Feel free to offer suggestions. I might use the opening a different way in the future, just because I like the idea of Occam's Razor as a topic.
Observation:
So I'm in this minority ethics-based class and we're talking about racism. It turns out racism is bad. But I'm actually learning other things too, which was a bit unexpected. What recently caught my attention has to do with the "Out of Africa Hypothesis." As I'm sure most people know, it's generally accepted that the oldest human remains point to a point of origin somewhere in Africa. From there they spread to other continents, etc. But what's interesting is the conclusion that this means there is nothing inherently "black" about African people. According to this geneticist whose paper we read, there has been plenty of time since Africans started migrating to account for the minute amount of genetic drift needed to produce pigment change. We actually have no idea what skin tone the original homo sapiens had. So all the pictures that show primitive African people could be completely inaccurate. I don't know why I found this so interesting. Maybe it's because as I was going about acquiring my Anthropology minor I was treated to so many pictures of ancient people. And it amused me to think that the artist was taking whatever liberty he liked when he drew them. Which, if you think about it, makes him racially obtuse.
Exercise:
"Image Patterning, Starting with Jell-O"
This is an exercise in working with imagery to create a sense of connectedness within a narrative. Take this as your opening line:
The Jell-O was not his favorite dessert.
Write on --- anything --- but be sure to use the following imagery (in addition to Jell-O): overdone steak; a barking dog; too much perfume; a squishy blue velvet couch. Then, tie it up with an ending that somehow -- in some way -- returns to the Jell-O.
Jell-O was not his favorite dessert. This was evidenced by the fact his Jell-O almost invariably wound up on the floor, or in some cases, in the lap of the person next to him. None of his fellow retirees knew why he was so opposed to Jell-O. He ate almost everything else. When other people complained about their steak being overdone, his was gone in a moment. When the wrinkled women with too much perfume talked about the applesauce with hints of rebellion, his plate was clean. But when the Jell-O came around, even when it had some whipped cream on top and everyone looked at it with saliva practically brimming over their dentures, his found its way to the wastebasket.
The day after his most recent Jell-O incident, a therapy dog came to visit. He showed little interest. It walked over to where he sat on the squishy blue velvet couch, and his knees snapped together, with his arms crossing soon after. The aides asked him what was wrong, if there was anything they could do, but all he could think about was the time, sixty-five years ago, he had dropped the Jell-O on the floor for the dog to eat. He hadn't known his mom was striding by at that moment. A comedic pratfall later, and the only sound to be heard was the barking of the dog. Had the aides known been privy to this little scene they might have interpreted his Jell-O dropping for what it really was: a tiny rebellion. Each drop, an subtle assassination attempt.
Me:
I don't know why I want to expand my readership, but I do. It probably has to do with feeding my ego. But this reintroduction also gave me a chance to give that link to my other writing. I'll put more on there if I write more fiction soon.
In other news, I rode my bike today! I went out with my parents and my mom and I rode forty miles. In about two hours. So that's a good benchmark, and I'm pretty happy with how it went. We started out into a pretty strong headwind, but through careful planning we milked the tailwind for all it was worth. I was incredibly hungry at the conclusion of the ride, but about twenty minutes after gaining entrance to my apartment my stomach had changed its position on the idea of food. It had gone from an incessant yearning to a full-on rebellion against the idea, and it was all I could do to crawl into bed before remaining immobile for quite a while. I regret nothing. Food is delicious.
http://scantstories.blogspot.com/
The next section is where I explain what I was trying to accomplish with the poem, which can be something as simple as capturing a significant detail in life, or something as complex as using sibilance and end stopped lines to mimic a mood. Fridays are usually devoted to investigating the styles of other authors.
Third is an observation, either something I noticed during my day or something I've been thinking about a lot recently. These tend to either be humorous or way too serious. Unfortunately, I'm a philosophy major and have a hard time curtailing my tendency to ramble on esoterically.
In an effort to work a bit on my non-poetic creative writing, I have been doing a five minute writing exercise every entry. I've been taking them from C.M. Mayo's blog of daily writing exercises, but I usually only use the ones that are story-oriented. (A lot of them are like "describe the hands of five people," or some such silly thing that won't result in a story. So I don't bother.)
Finally, and least significantly, I include a bit about me, since what sort of person starts a blog and doesn't talk about themself? So I would recommend skipping over that section for the most part unless you actually care about what's happening in my life. It's generally just me complaining, but there's an occasional anecdote that might be worthwhile.
So without further ado, here's the poem I wrote for today:
Simplify
Occam's Razor never rests.
There is no room for detours
no space for silly sidetracks.
If you can push a button
and in three minutes
dinner is done
that's economic:
four shrill beeps
and back to business.
If you can type some words in,
each keystroke crisp and pointed,
and press search,
text instantly inundating,
overwhelming,
and skimmed for importance
that is all you need
for your efficient education.
It is a noble goal,
separating the chaff
from the stuff worth savoring
the fluff filling the air
leaving the kernels below
hard and ready to be put away
in the silo of memory.
But what if, in the extraneous,
on the side road your GPS would have never
recommended,
is that moment you've been waiting for
when it all falls away
and the only way to get there
was the wrong way?
Poem:
I've been wondering about how to go about life recently. It seems important to stick to plans in order to ensure something gets done, but some of the best times come from spur of the moment, unnecessary actions. So, as with whenever something is on my mind, it comes out in my writing. Some of the analogies seem a bit forced here, but it was the idea more than the perfect poetic form I was going for. Feel free to offer suggestions. I might use the opening a different way in the future, just because I like the idea of Occam's Razor as a topic.
Observation:
So I'm in this minority ethics-based class and we're talking about racism. It turns out racism is bad. But I'm actually learning other things too, which was a bit unexpected. What recently caught my attention has to do with the "Out of Africa Hypothesis." As I'm sure most people know, it's generally accepted that the oldest human remains point to a point of origin somewhere in Africa. From there they spread to other continents, etc. But what's interesting is the conclusion that this means there is nothing inherently "black" about African people. According to this geneticist whose paper we read, there has been plenty of time since Africans started migrating to account for the minute amount of genetic drift needed to produce pigment change. We actually have no idea what skin tone the original homo sapiens had. So all the pictures that show primitive African people could be completely inaccurate. I don't know why I found this so interesting. Maybe it's because as I was going about acquiring my Anthropology minor I was treated to so many pictures of ancient people. And it amused me to think that the artist was taking whatever liberty he liked when he drew them. Which, if you think about it, makes him racially obtuse.
Exercise:
"Image Patterning, Starting with Jell-O"
This is an exercise in working with imagery to create a sense of connectedness within a narrative. Take this as your opening line:
The Jell-O was not his favorite dessert.
Write on --- anything --- but be sure to use the following imagery (in addition to Jell-O): overdone steak; a barking dog; too much perfume; a squishy blue velvet couch. Then, tie it up with an ending that somehow -- in some way -- returns to the Jell-O.
Jell-O was not his favorite dessert. This was evidenced by the fact his Jell-O almost invariably wound up on the floor, or in some cases, in the lap of the person next to him. None of his fellow retirees knew why he was so opposed to Jell-O. He ate almost everything else. When other people complained about their steak being overdone, his was gone in a moment. When the wrinkled women with too much perfume talked about the applesauce with hints of rebellion, his plate was clean. But when the Jell-O came around, even when it had some whipped cream on top and everyone looked at it with saliva practically brimming over their dentures, his found its way to the wastebasket.
The day after his most recent Jell-O incident, a therapy dog came to visit. He showed little interest. It walked over to where he sat on the squishy blue velvet couch, and his knees snapped together, with his arms crossing soon after. The aides asked him what was wrong, if there was anything they could do, but all he could think about was the time, sixty-five years ago, he had dropped the Jell-O on the floor for the dog to eat. He hadn't known his mom was striding by at that moment. A comedic pratfall later, and the only sound to be heard was the barking of the dog. Had the aides known been privy to this little scene they might have interpreted his Jell-O dropping for what it really was: a tiny rebellion. Each drop, an subtle assassination attempt.
Me:
I don't know why I want to expand my readership, but I do. It probably has to do with feeding my ego. But this reintroduction also gave me a chance to give that link to my other writing. I'll put more on there if I write more fiction soon.
In other news, I rode my bike today! I went out with my parents and my mom and I rode forty miles. In about two hours. So that's a good benchmark, and I'm pretty happy with how it went. We started out into a pretty strong headwind, but through careful planning we milked the tailwind for all it was worth. I was incredibly hungry at the conclusion of the ride, but about twenty minutes after gaining entrance to my apartment my stomach had changed its position on the idea of food. It had gone from an incessant yearning to a full-on rebellion against the idea, and it was all I could do to crawl into bed before remaining immobile for quite a while. I regret nothing. Food is delicious.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)