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.
February 13, 2011
February 8, 2011
Egypt and Such
Quesadilla-Maker
Head-full of spinning importance
balanced by a handful of shredded cheese
Politics, philosophy, poetry:
peppers, picante
salsa, mild so as to not overwhelm
the senses.
Centuries of thought
dissolve in the crusty tortilla
lost in the maze of melting mozzarella,
distilled into simplicity
a poignant pique
of sundried tomato
poking through, then resigned
to the warm aura of sunflower nuts
and mushrooms.
Poem:
It's about how taking pleasure in doing some basic things well can outweigh the cerebral. Sometimes focusing on something smaller-picture can bring things into focus. This poem was a result of a request. Something as basic as "write a poem about a quesadilla." So if you're wondering what can be written about an everyday object or event, or just curious how I'd deal with a challenge, feel free to let me know. I think I'll probably come back and revise/add to this one later, but I think I'm off to a decent start. I sort of used it as a way to incorporate the sense of taste into my poetry, which is something I've never done and been wanting an excuse to try.
Observation:
My last entry had a poem about the riots in Egypt. I am not incredibly informed as to what is going on there, but I am afraid things aren't going to turn out as everyone hopes. This is not to say I think the riots won't accomplish their intended goal. I fully expect them to throw out the ruler that is (by all accounts) oppressing the citizens of the country. I even support this. However, this is a topic I have been discussing at length as it relates to some of my classes, and there is a very important distinction between political freedom and freedom from oppression. And I think we are conflating the two terms when we think that what is going on in Egypt is an amazing step forward for their country. Yes, they need to get rid of the dictator. That is only a small part of what it means to be free. They are primarily concerned with making things better for themselves in the immediate future. They see a problem, and the solution is to eliminate what is the most obvious aspect of that hindrance. But unless what they are striving for is a long-lasting political arena where people can interact as equals, this gap created by the absence of this dictator will simply be filled by another form of oppression. And unless they get their priorities together and stop acting as a mob only concerned with eliminating the immediate problem at hand, they will never achieve more than a temporary alleviation of their pain.
Exercise:
"Euphemisms"
For example:
~ garbage collector ---> "sanitation engineer"
~ tax collection ---> Internal Revenue Service
~ innocents killed / injured ---> "collateral damage"
Usually euphemisms are made up of latinate words; they tend to sound pompously obscure, as indeed, they are intended to obscure something unpleasant, low-status, or offensive. Have fun with this one! Try concocting euphemisms for the following:
~candy for breakfast-Temporary Energy Solution (or, Pessimistic Diet Plan, since when in doubt, eat dessert first)
~a defective tricycle-Aspiring Lawn Ornament (or, Bicycle)
~a gas guzzler-Oil Depletion Awareness Vehicle (or, A Saudi Conspiracy)
~a ridiculously big bouffant hairdo-Mobile Landmark Solution
~unemployed-Temporarily Transient
~painted the wrong color-A Good Base Layer (or, It Looks Fine, Honest, depending on who did it)
~a stolen election / ballot stuffing-Optimistic Interpretation of Public Will (or, Family Reunion, since we'd been wondering how our dead relatives would have voted)
~excessive redtape-Laziness Deterrent (or, Pure Motive Assurance)
~a cover-up of heinous corruption-Public Image Restructuring (or, Need To Know Basis)
~the dog peed on the carpet-Urine Trouble (get it, You're In Trouble, haha)
~civil war-Intra-country Dispute/Disagreement (or, We'll Handle Our Own Problems)
~a failing grade-Almost Passing (or, Lowering Expectations so When I Ace My Next Class Everyone is Impressed)
~tax evasion-Civil Disobedience (or, Gambling)
~a size too small-Self-Motivating Purchase (or, Ambitious Self-Image)
~this building could not withstand a minor tremor-Commentary on Transience of Human Architecture (or, Hoping This Isn't California)
~the living room is the size of a mop closet-Family Bonding (or, An Excuse to Reevaluate What's Important in Life)
Me:
I usually try and have my writing exercises be in story format, but this one looked too entertaining to pass up. Also, my apologies for not updating as regularly as usual. There are a number of contributing factors, but the truth is that I just didn't have a lot to say and didn't really feel like forcing the time into my day to come up with something. Which defeats the purpose of the whole "blog to force myself to write regularly thing." As far as excuses go, I actually did have some schoolwork to do, which was an interesting change of pace. I had a paper to write, and I have two tests tomorrow/today. And I got a Verizon iPhone. I'm not incredibly sure which of these was more to blame for my lack of posting. I'll probably go with the schoolwork, if only because I think I played with my phone mostly outside of my apartment, which is time I couldn't really be updating anyway. That might change with my new purchase though. I'm not sure how viable it will be to write whole posts on that small device, but I could probably save drafts of stuff and then finish/revise it later. Anyway, I've been keeping busy, but I'll try and keep things going here. Oh, and I'm trying to get the word out about my writing here, so there might be a post coming up in a different format from the usual, just to explain to any new readers what's going on.
Head-full of spinning importance
balanced by a handful of shredded cheese
Politics, philosophy, poetry:
peppers, picante
salsa, mild so as to not overwhelm
the senses.
Centuries of thought
dissolve in the crusty tortilla
lost in the maze of melting mozzarella,
distilled into simplicity
a poignant pique
of sundried tomato
poking through, then resigned
to the warm aura of sunflower nuts
and mushrooms.
Poem:
It's about how taking pleasure in doing some basic things well can outweigh the cerebral. Sometimes focusing on something smaller-picture can bring things into focus. This poem was a result of a request. Something as basic as "write a poem about a quesadilla." So if you're wondering what can be written about an everyday object or event, or just curious how I'd deal with a challenge, feel free to let me know. I think I'll probably come back and revise/add to this one later, but I think I'm off to a decent start. I sort of used it as a way to incorporate the sense of taste into my poetry, which is something I've never done and been wanting an excuse to try.
Observation:
My last entry had a poem about the riots in Egypt. I am not incredibly informed as to what is going on there, but I am afraid things aren't going to turn out as everyone hopes. This is not to say I think the riots won't accomplish their intended goal. I fully expect them to throw out the ruler that is (by all accounts) oppressing the citizens of the country. I even support this. However, this is a topic I have been discussing at length as it relates to some of my classes, and there is a very important distinction between political freedom and freedom from oppression. And I think we are conflating the two terms when we think that what is going on in Egypt is an amazing step forward for their country. Yes, they need to get rid of the dictator. That is only a small part of what it means to be free. They are primarily concerned with making things better for themselves in the immediate future. They see a problem, and the solution is to eliminate what is the most obvious aspect of that hindrance. But unless what they are striving for is a long-lasting political arena where people can interact as equals, this gap created by the absence of this dictator will simply be filled by another form of oppression. And unless they get their priorities together and stop acting as a mob only concerned with eliminating the immediate problem at hand, they will never achieve more than a temporary alleviation of their pain.
Exercise:
"Euphemisms"
For example:
~ garbage collector ---> "sanitation engineer"
~ tax collection ---> Internal Revenue Service
~ innocents killed / injured ---> "collateral damage"
Usually euphemisms are made up of latinate words; they tend to sound pompously obscure, as indeed, they are intended to obscure something unpleasant, low-status, or offensive. Have fun with this one! Try concocting euphemisms for the following:
~candy for breakfast-Temporary Energy Solution (or, Pessimistic Diet Plan, since when in doubt, eat dessert first)
~a defective tricycle-Aspiring Lawn Ornament (or, Bicycle)
~a gas guzzler-Oil Depletion Awareness Vehicle (or, A Saudi Conspiracy)
~a ridiculously big bouffant hairdo-Mobile Landmark Solution
~unemployed-Temporarily Transient
~painted the wrong color-A Good Base Layer (or, It Looks Fine, Honest, depending on who did it)
~a stolen election / ballot stuffing-Optimistic Interpretation of Public Will (or, Family Reunion, since we'd been wondering how our dead relatives would have voted)
~excessive redtape-Laziness Deterrent (or, Pure Motive Assurance)
~a cover-up of heinous corruption-Public Image Restructuring (or, Need To Know Basis)
~the dog peed on the carpet-Urine Trouble (get it, You're In Trouble, haha)
~civil war-Intra-country Dispute/Disagreement (or, We'll Handle Our Own Problems)
~a failing grade-Almost Passing (or, Lowering Expectations so When I Ace My Next Class Everyone is Impressed)
~tax evasion-Civil Disobedience (or, Gambling)
~a size too small-Self-Motivating Purchase (or, Ambitious Self-Image)
~this building could not withstand a minor tremor-Commentary on Transience of Human Architecture (or, Hoping This Isn't California)
~the living room is the size of a mop closet-Family Bonding (or, An Excuse to Reevaluate What's Important in Life)
Me:
I usually try and have my writing exercises be in story format, but this one looked too entertaining to pass up. Also, my apologies for not updating as regularly as usual. There are a number of contributing factors, but the truth is that I just didn't have a lot to say and didn't really feel like forcing the time into my day to come up with something. Which defeats the purpose of the whole "blog to force myself to write regularly thing." As far as excuses go, I actually did have some schoolwork to do, which was an interesting change of pace. I had a paper to write, and I have two tests tomorrow/today. And I got a Verizon iPhone. I'm not incredibly sure which of these was more to blame for my lack of posting. I'll probably go with the schoolwork, if only because I think I played with my phone mostly outside of my apartment, which is time I couldn't really be updating anyway. That might change with my new purchase though. I'm not sure how viable it will be to write whole posts on that small device, but I could probably save drafts of stuff and then finish/revise it later. Anyway, I've been keeping busy, but I'll try and keep things going here. Oh, and I'm trying to get the word out about my writing here, so there might be a post coming up in a different format from the usual, just to explain to any new readers what's going on.
February 7, 2011
It's Been a While
Fiddling
"Writing poetry can sometimes feel like breaking out the fiddle
as Rome burns to the ground."
So as Egypt bursts at the seams
and into flames,
I take up my bow; the strings scream
with protest
as unlyrical notes
drop onto the page
their echos wavering
in the heat.
Poem:
I've been hearing a lot about the protests in Egypt during classes, from news sources, etc. I figured I would write something about it, and wanted to really focus on the dual-meanings of some particular words. So the strings are "protesting" and "screaming." It's a bit of an analogy. Basically, this was an attempt at complexity. The lyrical is a bit ironic with the rhyme between the third and fifth lines, but obviously the poem is not focused around "poetic" lyricism, similar to how protests aren't concerned with "sounding good" even though they rely on the media's portrayal (just as the poem relies upon poetic devices).
Observation:
When people who have committed horrific crimes are asked why they did so, they almost always give a response related to an imbalance of power. It made them feel powerful to strangle their spouse after they were cheated on and felt helpless, for instance. Or they were abused as a kid, and so they abuse as an adult because they enjoy the reversal. Or they don't feel like there is a way for them to break the routine of their daily lives, and so they do something extreme to demonstrate they are not just another member of the silent masses. It is this constant assessment of who is in control that leads to so many discontented individuals. Especially when it turns out that very few come to the conclusion that it is they who have power over their choices. Kings (CEO's, the President, etc.) are enslaved by their responsibility to those they "rule," their very reign restricts their freedom of choice. They cannot, for instance, walk around normally without some precaution. And the underlings (peasants, laborers, aides, etc.) are obviously restricted by their lack of outright power. Unfortunately, it seems as though these power imbalances are nearly unchangeable, and if we continue to think in the same way we do now, societal contentment might be unachievable. One bright side might be that there is nothing forcing us to stick to this mentality as individuals. One of the greatest achievements in (relatively) recent history is that we have come to believe in (even if we don't consistently recognize) the fact that there is an inherent value to individual life. That is, it has stopped being the case that only a select few lead "meaningful" existences, and it has become the case that almost anyone can have their voice heard if they try hard enough. Sure, there are challenges, but increasingly constricting social and economic conditions actually have little to do with the political realm. So the next time you feel as though your voice is drowned out, or that you have no power to do anything, think about what it is that's really holding you back. I bet it's not your inability to engage yourself in discourse (meaningful interaction in an arena of equal footing, where equality refers to your right to hold a particular view).
Exercise:
"Quilt & Quotient, Etc."
Write a brief scene that includes the following:
~a quilt
~the word "quotient"
~a ball of rubber bands
~a morbidly obese hippopotamus
~the perfume of lilies
~the sound of popcorn underfoot
It was surprising sometimes what the well-meaning people sent to the children they sponsored. James walked into the community center, roughly constructed but still the center of life for the surrounding families. A popcorn machine in the corner, red and shining, was glaringly out of place, clashing with the peeling paint and boarded windows, the kernels underfoot popped in stuttered intervals as he walked by and into the office of the village leader. Just yesterday he had been on safari, witnessing what appeared to be morbidly obese hippos, some giraffes, and even (from quite a distance) what the guide assured him was a lion. But now he was taken aback by the conditions these people were in. And the rich people donating what they saw as essential amenities just made things worse. The gaunt girls with imploring eyes received the perfume of lilies from an old grandma who knew it went with anything. Who doesn't like to smell good, after all? And the beautifully-stitched quilt for the family across the street served little purpose in the sweltering heat. Eventually, when it stopped being a novelty, it would be shredded for cloth and used for sweat rags or toilet paper. Perhaps the only useful gift was sent by a young girl, who sponsored an equally young boy with her weekly allowance. Accompanying her last gift was a ball of rubber bands. After it had been thoroughly bounced, a few of the rubber bands had been requisitioned for various tasks. They held back mosquito netting, or immobilized a rattling part of the water pump. And despite its brief dismantling, the ball remained a pleasure, since when a heartfelt gift is divided, the quotient can sometimes be more than the dividend.
Me:
I had to stretch that last line a bit. The math terms were just a bit too out of place. Oh well...
The gap in my posting has been the result of my recent participation in a handball tournament in Fort Collins, Colorado. I am not too disappointed with how I played, even though I lost my second match. It was a great warm up for the national collegiate tournament in a few weeks. However, my inability to update (or access the internet at all) really highlighted how much I will appreciate my new iPhone, which is going to be here Thursday. I would certainly enjoy being an Apple fanboy if it weren't so much cheaper to build PC's myself. This will give me the opportunity to express my happiness with Apple's products without bankrupting myself (all at once, anyway).
"Writing poetry can sometimes feel like breaking out the fiddle
as Rome burns to the ground."
So as Egypt bursts at the seams
and into flames,
I take up my bow; the strings scream
with protest
as unlyrical notes
drop onto the page
their echos wavering
in the heat.
Poem:
I've been hearing a lot about the protests in Egypt during classes, from news sources, etc. I figured I would write something about it, and wanted to really focus on the dual-meanings of some particular words. So the strings are "protesting" and "screaming." It's a bit of an analogy. Basically, this was an attempt at complexity. The lyrical is a bit ironic with the rhyme between the third and fifth lines, but obviously the poem is not focused around "poetic" lyricism, similar to how protests aren't concerned with "sounding good" even though they rely on the media's portrayal (just as the poem relies upon poetic devices).
Observation:
When people who have committed horrific crimes are asked why they did so, they almost always give a response related to an imbalance of power. It made them feel powerful to strangle their spouse after they were cheated on and felt helpless, for instance. Or they were abused as a kid, and so they abuse as an adult because they enjoy the reversal. Or they don't feel like there is a way for them to break the routine of their daily lives, and so they do something extreme to demonstrate they are not just another member of the silent masses. It is this constant assessment of who is in control that leads to so many discontented individuals. Especially when it turns out that very few come to the conclusion that it is they who have power over their choices. Kings (CEO's, the President, etc.) are enslaved by their responsibility to those they "rule," their very reign restricts their freedom of choice. They cannot, for instance, walk around normally without some precaution. And the underlings (peasants, laborers, aides, etc.) are obviously restricted by their lack of outright power. Unfortunately, it seems as though these power imbalances are nearly unchangeable, and if we continue to think in the same way we do now, societal contentment might be unachievable. One bright side might be that there is nothing forcing us to stick to this mentality as individuals. One of the greatest achievements in (relatively) recent history is that we have come to believe in (even if we don't consistently recognize) the fact that there is an inherent value to individual life. That is, it has stopped being the case that only a select few lead "meaningful" existences, and it has become the case that almost anyone can have their voice heard if they try hard enough. Sure, there are challenges, but increasingly constricting social and economic conditions actually have little to do with the political realm. So the next time you feel as though your voice is drowned out, or that you have no power to do anything, think about what it is that's really holding you back. I bet it's not your inability to engage yourself in discourse (meaningful interaction in an arena of equal footing, where equality refers to your right to hold a particular view).
Exercise:
"Quilt & Quotient, Etc."
Write a brief scene that includes the following:
~a quilt
~the word "quotient"
~a ball of rubber bands
~a morbidly obese hippopotamus
~the perfume of lilies
~the sound of popcorn underfoot
It was surprising sometimes what the well-meaning people sent to the children they sponsored. James walked into the community center, roughly constructed but still the center of life for the surrounding families. A popcorn machine in the corner, red and shining, was glaringly out of place, clashing with the peeling paint and boarded windows, the kernels underfoot popped in stuttered intervals as he walked by and into the office of the village leader. Just yesterday he had been on safari, witnessing what appeared to be morbidly obese hippos, some giraffes, and even (from quite a distance) what the guide assured him was a lion. But now he was taken aback by the conditions these people were in. And the rich people donating what they saw as essential amenities just made things worse. The gaunt girls with imploring eyes received the perfume of lilies from an old grandma who knew it went with anything. Who doesn't like to smell good, after all? And the beautifully-stitched quilt for the family across the street served little purpose in the sweltering heat. Eventually, when it stopped being a novelty, it would be shredded for cloth and used for sweat rags or toilet paper. Perhaps the only useful gift was sent by a young girl, who sponsored an equally young boy with her weekly allowance. Accompanying her last gift was a ball of rubber bands. After it had been thoroughly bounced, a few of the rubber bands had been requisitioned for various tasks. They held back mosquito netting, or immobilized a rattling part of the water pump. And despite its brief dismantling, the ball remained a pleasure, since when a heartfelt gift is divided, the quotient can sometimes be more than the dividend.
Me:
I had to stretch that last line a bit. The math terms were just a bit too out of place. Oh well...
The gap in my posting has been the result of my recent participation in a handball tournament in Fort Collins, Colorado. I am not too disappointed with how I played, even though I lost my second match. It was a great warm up for the national collegiate tournament in a few weeks. However, my inability to update (or access the internet at all) really highlighted how much I will appreciate my new iPhone, which is going to be here Thursday. I would certainly enjoy being an Apple fanboy if it weren't so much cheaper to build PC's myself. This will give me the opportunity to express my happiness with Apple's products without bankrupting myself (all at once, anyway).
February 2, 2011
(The Much Anticipated) Part Two
Broken Brick
When the first brick fell, nobody noticed much
it's sheer red face splintered slightly
as it made contact with the cement below,
and the noise it made echoed only once,
bouncing off the wall it came from
and then out into the expanse of basketball courts
cracked open with weeds,
supporting poles bent in humility
as the rusted rims
and chain nets
waited for their turn to fall.
The brick sat undisturbed
as dust and grit worked their way gradually underneath
blown by the wind to probe the narrowness
between the sharp corner and the concrete.
And when the brick was picked up
an imprint of its intricacies remained,
fine lines unnoticed and quickly erased
by the same wind that put them there.
And when it was hurled through the nearest window
to land on a desk in front of a blackboard
it would have been justified in wondering
"I spent all that time protecting this?"
as its counterparts came tumbling down.
Poem:
I was just looking at my brick wall, and this is what happened. I thought of an abandoned school building and the role a brick plays or could play. And how that building must accumulate dust
and be worn down gradually, even though the same people that erected it might be the ones tearing it down. Anyway, I'm happy with it.
Observation:
When I say I don't understand why people my age (or high school age) find the ROTC appealing, I don't mean that it's bad to like the United States. I honestly believe this country is the best one available, and while there are obviously flaws (which might be getting worse all the time), it's as close as I think anyone's come to establishing a decent functioning government. What I don't understand is our military. This sentiment began a long time ago, but it's easier for me to articulate now that I have a bit of philosophy (and a hint of political science) under my belt. Let me begin by saying violence is not a way to actually resolve conflicts. This should be rather self-evident. Wars result when two nations can't actually come to an agreement. I think of it as a sort of mutual resignation to the fact that politics has failed. So the idea of the military from that perspective is depressing in itself.
From a different viewpoint, let's think about what it is the people in the military actually do. Let's face it: the people on "the front lines" are equipped with some of the least efficient weapons we have at our disposal. The idea of shooting little lead pellets at single targets at a time is an embarrassment to the powerful technology every nation knows is out there. Biochemical warfare, tactical strikes, and all sorts of crazy things that make people miserable/dead. Even if we delude ourselves into thinking that the threat of warfare plays an important role in establishing power relations, it isn't the people with the little rifles that are keeping other nations in check. It is our threat of complete destruction and the acknowledgment of our technical and tactical superiority. And it doesn't take a particular mile time to push a button or make a phone call, so the ROTC training doesn't make that much sense to me.
Exercise:
"Gone Fishing"
Bob and Joe went out in their canoe. What they reeled in was not a fish. What was it?
Bob and Joe were well aware their friendship wasn't advisable as far as naming was concerned. Who would believe two people with stereotypical, monosyllabic names just happened to hit it off? But there they were, in the canoe, having a great time, monikers be damned. When they reached the isolated area Bob had decided offered the most potential for fish, they put up their paddles and broke out the rods and tackle. Or rather, Bob broke out the rods and tackle, and Joe broke out the beer and his smartphone. Between downing beers and checking some scores, Joe shared some funny fishing videos. There were the classics, like the two lines getting hooked under the boat, and the fishhook to the hair of the beloved girlfriend, but the one that had Joe laughing the hardest involved a man who had hooked something fixed rather permanently to the bottom of the lake with the end result of both breaking the rod and in the resulting momentum change, taking his leave of the boat, much to the surprise of the dog who just sat there with a bewildered look on his face. Just to stay in the spirit of things, as he leaned over to show Bob a particularly salient detail, Joe took the liberty of looping the line he was about to cast around the box of bait. This resulted in a rather spectacular liberation for the worms, as well as a startled Bob and Joe spending the next few minutes extracting them from their clothes and hair.
Me:
I had a great day of class today. Also, yesterday I mailed in my entry to the national collegiate handball tournament. I would be more confident of its arrival had not a blizzard struck that day, but that's not the point. The point is that on the back of the current student status verification form was a square of thermochromic ink. And that stuff is awesome. In case you don't know, this ink changes with temperature. The instructions in fine print below the box read something like "This certifies the legitimacy of the document. It should fade when breathed on or rubbed." I paraphrased, since my memory wasn't considering that important when I was busy breathing on this little pink square over and over. It was like magic. It's true what they say about the little things. Made my day.
When the first brick fell, nobody noticed much
it's sheer red face splintered slightly
as it made contact with the cement below,
and the noise it made echoed only once,
bouncing off the wall it came from
and then out into the expanse of basketball courts
cracked open with weeds,
supporting poles bent in humility
as the rusted rims
and chain nets
waited for their turn to fall.
The brick sat undisturbed
as dust and grit worked their way gradually underneath
blown by the wind to probe the narrowness
between the sharp corner and the concrete.
And when the brick was picked up
an imprint of its intricacies remained,
fine lines unnoticed and quickly erased
by the same wind that put them there.
And when it was hurled through the nearest window
to land on a desk in front of a blackboard
it would have been justified in wondering
"I spent all that time protecting this?"
as its counterparts came tumbling down.
Poem:
I was just looking at my brick wall, and this is what happened. I thought of an abandoned school building and the role a brick plays or could play. And how that building must accumulate dust
and be worn down gradually, even though the same people that erected it might be the ones tearing it down. Anyway, I'm happy with it.
Observation:
When I say I don't understand why people my age (or high school age) find the ROTC appealing, I don't mean that it's bad to like the United States. I honestly believe this country is the best one available, and while there are obviously flaws (which might be getting worse all the time), it's as close as I think anyone's come to establishing a decent functioning government. What I don't understand is our military. This sentiment began a long time ago, but it's easier for me to articulate now that I have a bit of philosophy (and a hint of political science) under my belt. Let me begin by saying violence is not a way to actually resolve conflicts. This should be rather self-evident. Wars result when two nations can't actually come to an agreement. I think of it as a sort of mutual resignation to the fact that politics has failed. So the idea of the military from that perspective is depressing in itself.
From a different viewpoint, let's think about what it is the people in the military actually do. Let's face it: the people on "the front lines" are equipped with some of the least efficient weapons we have at our disposal. The idea of shooting little lead pellets at single targets at a time is an embarrassment to the powerful technology every nation knows is out there. Biochemical warfare, tactical strikes, and all sorts of crazy things that make people miserable/dead. Even if we delude ourselves into thinking that the threat of warfare plays an important role in establishing power relations, it isn't the people with the little rifles that are keeping other nations in check. It is our threat of complete destruction and the acknowledgment of our technical and tactical superiority. And it doesn't take a particular mile time to push a button or make a phone call, so the ROTC training doesn't make that much sense to me.
Exercise:
"Gone Fishing"
Bob and Joe went out in their canoe. What they reeled in was not a fish. What was it?
Bob and Joe were well aware their friendship wasn't advisable as far as naming was concerned. Who would believe two people with stereotypical, monosyllabic names just happened to hit it off? But there they were, in the canoe, having a great time, monikers be damned. When they reached the isolated area Bob had decided offered the most potential for fish, they put up their paddles and broke out the rods and tackle. Or rather, Bob broke out the rods and tackle, and Joe broke out the beer and his smartphone. Between downing beers and checking some scores, Joe shared some funny fishing videos. There were the classics, like the two lines getting hooked under the boat, and the fishhook to the hair of the beloved girlfriend, but the one that had Joe laughing the hardest involved a man who had hooked something fixed rather permanently to the bottom of the lake with the end result of both breaking the rod and in the resulting momentum change, taking his leave of the boat, much to the surprise of the dog who just sat there with a bewildered look on his face. Just to stay in the spirit of things, as he leaned over to show Bob a particularly salient detail, Joe took the liberty of looping the line he was about to cast around the box of bait. This resulted in a rather spectacular liberation for the worms, as well as a startled Bob and Joe spending the next few minutes extracting them from their clothes and hair.
Me:
I had a great day of class today. Also, yesterday I mailed in my entry to the national collegiate handball tournament. I would be more confident of its arrival had not a blizzard struck that day, but that's not the point. The point is that on the back of the current student status verification form was a square of thermochromic ink. And that stuff is awesome. In case you don't know, this ink changes with temperature. The instructions in fine print below the box read something like "This certifies the legitimacy of the document. It should fade when breathed on or rubbed." I paraphrased, since my memory wasn't considering that important when I was busy breathing on this little pink square over and over. It was like magic. It's true what they say about the little things. Made my day.
February 1, 2011
War: Part One
Photos
A wall of smiling faces is waiting to ambush whoever crests the stairs.
Children of innocence who haven't quite learned to grin on command,
who had to be taught to fake happiness
so the Christmas cards could represent the perfection
which runs on the surface deep into the generations,
sit still now, momentarily for eternity,
when we all know, as soon as the camera-flash faded
they were back to chattering, arguing,
then screaming for attention while older siblings
did endless somersaults in circles around the living room
and came up beaming in smiles and dizziness that didn't want for authenticity.
Poem:
The prompt I worked from said to take a photograph and extrapolate characters and their actions from it. I worked off a rough real-life setting, but mostly I just wanted to talk about the fact that as kids we (or at least I) placed no importance on these photographs. They were interruptions. I know I never could smile convincingly. I think it's sort of a bad sign that we put so much emphasis on our ability to fake a smile. It's indicative of nothing if not misplaced priorities.
Observation:
My class has us separated into conservatives and liberals for debating purposes. I am on the liberal side, since the middle ground filled up fast. On the far side across from me are a group of people with crew cuts who spend every pre-class minute discussing their ROTC training. I'm not going to comment on their conservative leaning. For all I know, they don't even know what political conservativism is. I'm certainly not sure I do. But it occurred to me as I overheard their boisterous conversation that the army is full of normal people. This thought occurred to me quite a long time ago when we were asked to recognize the people going into the military at my high school graduation. I couldn't participate wholeheartedly, since from the people that were standing I wasn't sure our military was being done any favors. Let's just say it wasn't the cream of the crop. But this feeling is reaffirmed on a daily basis now that I have to listen to these people talk to each other.
They invariably talk about their workout regimen. What they had to do as punishment for being late or answering questions incorrectly. They discuss the brutality of having to run two miles at a seven-minute pace. I ran two miles in 10:30 in high school. I'm sure I could do it in under 12:00 today. When they have finished bonding over their physical trials and tribulations, they move on to the difficult academic work. Sometimes they commiserate over how incredibly dense and inscrutable the reading material for the class was. I had no trouble. It's much easier than most of the stuff I read in my philosophy classes. At least political scientists sometimes want normal people to be able to understand them. The prevailing theory among philosophers seems to be, "the fewer people that can understand me, the less criticism I shall receive." Basically, I'm questioning the effectiveness of our military. This is nothing new, of course. I've always been a bit suspicious of anyone willing to risk life and limb for whatever it is they think they're fighting for. But in my politics class, we are currently discussing the nature of war, and it makes me curious just what it is soldiers intend on doing when they enroll in the ROTC. I'll talk more about that next time.
Exercise:
"The Piano Tuner"
Describe the piano tuner. What did he do to the piano bench?
Friedrich knew pianos. With a name like Friedrich, you had to know something, after all, and it had to be something finely balanced between practicality, sophistication, and the artistic. Friedrich took his name to heart (exactly as his parents had intended), and in no time his rapport with the instruments was widely known. Rich people never stopped needing their Steinways tuned, even if they never played them. The point was that they might someday, and when that day came, they had better not sound like rubbish. And since they couldn't quite tell when it was they started to sound like rubbish, Friedrich kept getting his calls. He spent a good deal of time in the same homes every year. Almost nothing was required of him, but since he loved being around the instruments, he was never opposed to a useless visit. One family in particular became so accustomed to his tune-ups they had him scheduled to come by on the third weekend of every other month for the next three years. And it was then that his bad habit began. It was boring to tune an in-tune piano every other month, and while he wanted to express how useless his visits were, he couldn't bear to let down the instrument in any way. He knew it was never played, but the principle of the matter prevented him from expressing his frustration. The piano bench, however, was an altogether different matter. Each visit, Friedrich would make a little mark on the left front leg. Not much more than a scratch, but to these people, even a scratch carried great importance. Every two months, the leg became more noticeable, a trail of horizontal tracks leading down to the floor.
Me:
My anticipation is starting to grow regarding my impending trip to Colorado to compete in a handball tournament. Really, it's more of a warm-up for the national collegiate tournament I'm entering later this month, but any handball outside of Ames is something worth getting excited for. I've actually been practicing on my own for a while now in an effort to improve my left hand, so it will be fun to gauge where I'm at. Other than that, life is progressing normally. I have a bunch of reading to do for my classes, some of which is interesting (as with the topic of war in my political science class), and some of which is merely obligatory. It will all get done, though, despite my lack of enthusiasm. It's my last semester, after all. I wouldn't want to start sounding stupid now.
A wall of smiling faces is waiting to ambush whoever crests the stairs.
Children of innocence who haven't quite learned to grin on command,
who had to be taught to fake happiness
so the Christmas cards could represent the perfection
which runs on the surface deep into the generations,
sit still now, momentarily for eternity,
when we all know, as soon as the camera-flash faded
they were back to chattering, arguing,
then screaming for attention while older siblings
did endless somersaults in circles around the living room
and came up beaming in smiles and dizziness that didn't want for authenticity.
Poem:
The prompt I worked from said to take a photograph and extrapolate characters and their actions from it. I worked off a rough real-life setting, but mostly I just wanted to talk about the fact that as kids we (or at least I) placed no importance on these photographs. They were interruptions. I know I never could smile convincingly. I think it's sort of a bad sign that we put so much emphasis on our ability to fake a smile. It's indicative of nothing if not misplaced priorities.
Observation:
My class has us separated into conservatives and liberals for debating purposes. I am on the liberal side, since the middle ground filled up fast. On the far side across from me are a group of people with crew cuts who spend every pre-class minute discussing their ROTC training. I'm not going to comment on their conservative leaning. For all I know, they don't even know what political conservativism is. I'm certainly not sure I do. But it occurred to me as I overheard their boisterous conversation that the army is full of normal people. This thought occurred to me quite a long time ago when we were asked to recognize the people going into the military at my high school graduation. I couldn't participate wholeheartedly, since from the people that were standing I wasn't sure our military was being done any favors. Let's just say it wasn't the cream of the crop. But this feeling is reaffirmed on a daily basis now that I have to listen to these people talk to each other.
They invariably talk about their workout regimen. What they had to do as punishment for being late or answering questions incorrectly. They discuss the brutality of having to run two miles at a seven-minute pace. I ran two miles in 10:30 in high school. I'm sure I could do it in under 12:00 today. When they have finished bonding over their physical trials and tribulations, they move on to the difficult academic work. Sometimes they commiserate over how incredibly dense and inscrutable the reading material for the class was. I had no trouble. It's much easier than most of the stuff I read in my philosophy classes. At least political scientists sometimes want normal people to be able to understand them. The prevailing theory among philosophers seems to be, "the fewer people that can understand me, the less criticism I shall receive." Basically, I'm questioning the effectiveness of our military. This is nothing new, of course. I've always been a bit suspicious of anyone willing to risk life and limb for whatever it is they think they're fighting for. But in my politics class, we are currently discussing the nature of war, and it makes me curious just what it is soldiers intend on doing when they enroll in the ROTC. I'll talk more about that next time.
Exercise:
"The Piano Tuner"
Describe the piano tuner. What did he do to the piano bench?
Friedrich knew pianos. With a name like Friedrich, you had to know something, after all, and it had to be something finely balanced between practicality, sophistication, and the artistic. Friedrich took his name to heart (exactly as his parents had intended), and in no time his rapport with the instruments was widely known. Rich people never stopped needing their Steinways tuned, even if they never played them. The point was that they might someday, and when that day came, they had better not sound like rubbish. And since they couldn't quite tell when it was they started to sound like rubbish, Friedrich kept getting his calls. He spent a good deal of time in the same homes every year. Almost nothing was required of him, but since he loved being around the instruments, he was never opposed to a useless visit. One family in particular became so accustomed to his tune-ups they had him scheduled to come by on the third weekend of every other month for the next three years. And it was then that his bad habit began. It was boring to tune an in-tune piano every other month, and while he wanted to express how useless his visits were, he couldn't bear to let down the instrument in any way. He knew it was never played, but the principle of the matter prevented him from expressing his frustration. The piano bench, however, was an altogether different matter. Each visit, Friedrich would make a little mark on the left front leg. Not much more than a scratch, but to these people, even a scratch carried great importance. Every two months, the leg became more noticeable, a trail of horizontal tracks leading down to the floor.
Me:
My anticipation is starting to grow regarding my impending trip to Colorado to compete in a handball tournament. Really, it's more of a warm-up for the national collegiate tournament I'm entering later this month, but any handball outside of Ames is something worth getting excited for. I've actually been practicing on my own for a while now in an effort to improve my left hand, so it will be fun to gauge where I'm at. Other than that, life is progressing normally. I have a bunch of reading to do for my classes, some of which is interesting (as with the topic of war in my political science class), and some of which is merely obligatory. It will all get done, though, despite my lack of enthusiasm. It's my last semester, after all. I wouldn't want to start sounding stupid now.
January 30, 2011
A Quick Post
The Bike
Power pressed these pedals once,
propelled her in painful ovals,
around banked turns,
hunched low with a grimace
as she suffered alone.
A lone figure in the stands
yelled times from his watch
as she sped by
first thirty minutes:
a record,
and then the reality
that another thirty minutes
remained.
The record stands
at Major Taylor Track.
The bike stands
in dust at the top of the stairs.
Poem:
I figured I'd include this one here both because I'm too tired to write a new poem and because it was remarkable that we got to ride outside three days in a row. So anyway, the poem is about my mom's record-setting ride. She set a lot of national records all at once, which I thought was a cool (and difficult) thing to do. So she set the half-hour record (along with some others) en route to the hour record. As far as poetic technique goes, I like how I repeated the word stands in the last two stanzas.
Observation:
The Australian Open is finished. As a die-hard Federer fan, I was less than thrilled with the final. Some good tennis got played, of course, but I figured I'd use this entry to document what really made this tournament fun to watch. Now, the air bubble under the court is in a previous post, but in that same spirit, here's another funny malfunction:
The best part is obviously the look on her face when she's just holding the handle of her racquet. Now, I have no idea how it's physically possible for a racquet to be holding itself together while she's standing there and then completely come apart, and I'm pretty sure this isn't in quite the same spirit as my other observations, but it was too funny to not share.
Exercise:
"Napo Says"
One way to bring energy into your writing is to bring in other voices. Try this: write something -- anything --- that includes at least two of the following quotations by Napoleon I:
"There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous"
"[The Channel] is a mere ditch"
"Not tonight Josephine"
"An army marches on its stomach"
"Not tonight Josephine." Reginald just wasn't in the mood for another argument. Especially not with his cat. She had been angrily stalking around the house for the past half hour trying to attract his attention in an effort to procure more food. An army marches on its stomach, after all, and if she was to spend the night on the lookout for intruders (or stray bits of plastic and string), she was sure she was going to need another helping. Reginald put down his paintbrush and gave her a glance. She fell over. Her legs stretched out behind her as she arched her back and twisted, bringing her belly into full view. "As if you're going to convince me you need more food by showing off how fat you are." But Reginald got up anyway. As he did so, he bumped the easel and the painting fell forward onto the stool he had just vacated. He swore briefly, grabbing at it quickly and setting it back on its tray. The damage had been done. He chuckled. The perfect nature scene he had been working on now contained what was unmistakably a flying saucer. "I guess it's true. There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous."
Me:
I have a temper. Sometimes I regret having matured the small amount that I have, since I recall fondly the days of slamming doors and stomping off. The days when noise was all that was needed to alert everyone to my bad mood and let off some steam. But all of this is really just serving as preamble so I can introduce this other clip from the Australian Open:
Now, Wawrinka is by no means the first guy to break a racquet in frustration. However, he is the first guy I've seen to do it in so impressive a manner. Again, the physical properties of tennis equipment bewilders me. I was sure the racquet would at least bounce. When it snapped along that axis, I was sure this must be something Wawrinka practices. Like "Okay, I've hit my 300 forehands for the day, now to work on my racquet-breaking."
In other news, I actually have a fair number of things noted to write about in the future. I was just a bit tired tonight. Today was my birthday, so I'm still trying to digest all the sugars I ingested. So stay tuned, I guess.
Power pressed these pedals once,
propelled her in painful ovals,
around banked turns,
hunched low with a grimace
as she suffered alone.
A lone figure in the stands
yelled times from his watch
as she sped by
first thirty minutes:
a record,
and then the reality
that another thirty minutes
remained.
The record stands
at Major Taylor Track.
The bike stands
in dust at the top of the stairs.
Poem:
I figured I'd include this one here both because I'm too tired to write a new poem and because it was remarkable that we got to ride outside three days in a row. So anyway, the poem is about my mom's record-setting ride. She set a lot of national records all at once, which I thought was a cool (and difficult) thing to do. So she set the half-hour record (along with some others) en route to the hour record. As far as poetic technique goes, I like how I repeated the word stands in the last two stanzas.
Observation:
The Australian Open is finished. As a die-hard Federer fan, I was less than thrilled with the final. Some good tennis got played, of course, but I figured I'd use this entry to document what really made this tournament fun to watch. Now, the air bubble under the court is in a previous post, but in that same spirit, here's another funny malfunction:
The best part is obviously the look on her face when she's just holding the handle of her racquet. Now, I have no idea how it's physically possible for a racquet to be holding itself together while she's standing there and then completely come apart, and I'm pretty sure this isn't in quite the same spirit as my other observations, but it was too funny to not share.
Exercise:
"Napo Says"
One way to bring energy into your writing is to bring in other voices. Try this: write something -- anything --- that includes at least two of the following quotations by Napoleon I:
"There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous"
"[The Channel] is a mere ditch"
"Not tonight Josephine"
"An army marches on its stomach"
"Not tonight Josephine." Reginald just wasn't in the mood for another argument. Especially not with his cat. She had been angrily stalking around the house for the past half hour trying to attract his attention in an effort to procure more food. An army marches on its stomach, after all, and if she was to spend the night on the lookout for intruders (or stray bits of plastic and string), she was sure she was going to need another helping. Reginald put down his paintbrush and gave her a glance. She fell over. Her legs stretched out behind her as she arched her back and twisted, bringing her belly into full view. "As if you're going to convince me you need more food by showing off how fat you are." But Reginald got up anyway. As he did so, he bumped the easel and the painting fell forward onto the stool he had just vacated. He swore briefly, grabbing at it quickly and setting it back on its tray. The damage had been done. He chuckled. The perfect nature scene he had been working on now contained what was unmistakably a flying saucer. "I guess it's true. There is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous."
Me:
I have a temper. Sometimes I regret having matured the small amount that I have, since I recall fondly the days of slamming doors and stomping off. The days when noise was all that was needed to alert everyone to my bad mood and let off some steam. But all of this is really just serving as preamble so I can introduce this other clip from the Australian Open:
Now, Wawrinka is by no means the first guy to break a racquet in frustration. However, he is the first guy I've seen to do it in so impressive a manner. Again, the physical properties of tennis equipment bewilders me. I was sure the racquet would at least bounce. When it snapped along that axis, I was sure this must be something Wawrinka practices. Like "Okay, I've hit my 300 forehands for the day, now to work on my racquet-breaking."
In other news, I actually have a fair number of things noted to write about in the future. I was just a bit tired tonight. Today was my birthday, so I'm still trying to digest all the sugars I ingested. So stay tuned, I guess.
January 28, 2011
Just Another Similar Post
Slippery Sister
She struck out headstrong
in reaction to criticism
and warning
dug her blades
beneath the surface
with a purpose
and her kayak
floated away
from our resting place.
The going was smooth
for my sister
the socially acceptable sibling
who didn't criticize everyone
for anything
(at least to their faces),
and then it came time to turn around
and paddle back,
and the smoothness of motion
flipped.
She was upside-down
underwater in an instant
and in that instant
my warning of the boat's unsteadiness
made me think
"I told you so,"
while simultaneously I thought
"This is it,
she's going to die."
I could imagine her life
vest pressing her relentlessly
up into the bottom of the boat
while the splash skirt
held her legs cramped
against the blue plastic sides.
She wasn't strong enough
to say things outright
and I wasn't strong enough
to hold my tongue
and she wasn't strong enough to rip the cord
to free herself
but she was slippery
and skinny enough
to wiggle free
as it seemed she always did.
And as her face broke the surface
I wondered if she noticed
her own recklessness
how close she came to death
in my eyes
as the blue bottom of the kayak
floated empty
in the dark water.
Poem:
I'm getting into these poetry books. This one wasn't directly in the style of another author, but I really like the poem "You Can Have It" by Phillip Levine. The exercise associated with the section was about family as inspiration, and it asked me to describe a moment that epitomized a member in my family. So I tried.
Observation:
Yesterday's post reminded me of another example of a universal happy gesture: the high five. If you say something in an excited tone and follow it up with a high five, it completely circumvents any rational comprehension of what you just said. One instance in particular comes to mind. It was my junior year of high school, and the band had to play at the senior's graduation (as we did every year). This was a painful process, and not one any of us looked forward to. Then my grandmother died. I was to be out of town on the weekend of graduation, and when I told my friends, they were pretty jealous. I hadn't mentioned the reason for my absence. One of the ensuing conversations went like this:
Fellow student: I heard you're getting out of playing this weekend.
Me: Yeah! My grandma died so I don't have to play!
At this point I held my hand up for a high five, and was not disappointed. However, the look on the guy's face after he processed what I had said was pretty amusing. The pause and slow change in facial expression from a jealousy-tinged happiness to a slightly sad confusion made me laugh. Then he was sure I had been joking about my grandma dying, which made me laugh more. And then, since nobody could possibly be laughing so much about the death of a relative, he was sure I wasn't telling the truth. So I held up my hand for another high five. By the time he figured out my grandma was actually dead, he was one in quite a state.
Exercise:
"Orange Traffic Cone, etc"
Write a brief scene that incorporates the following: an orange traffic cone; a miniature cat; fried fish; velcro; Teddy Roosevelt; polkadots.
Harold was out on one of his expeditions. He wove his single speed courier bike (purchased second-hand at a rather eccentric man's garage sale) to the other side of an orange traffic cone, skirting the construction and putting him out of the busy traffic. The smell of fried fish wafted from a nearby restaurant's patio, the polkadots on the awning defying any attempt to criticize its menu. Harold pulled up to his destination, a local antiques store, and rang the bell at the glass-topped counter, momentarily distracted by the miniature porcelain cat peering up at him through the shining surface. The owner poked her head out of the back room long enough to ascertain his identity before shouting "be right out Harold!" and disappearing again. Sure enough, in a few seconds she had returned, a thin, stiff folder in her hands.
"Just as you requested. An authenticated letter signed by Teddy Roosevelt from his campaign trail. Should look good with the rest of your collection."
He nodded, undid the velcro on his shoulder bag, and gingerly took the document from her. He placed it inside the large binder contained within, and handed her his credit card.
Me:
I rode my bike outside two days in a row this week! Oh, the excitement. And the cold. Maybe that's what made it exciting. There's nothing quite like wondering whether you still have toes to spice up a bike ride. So anyway, riding was fun. It's nice to see that the hours (albeit fewer than probably advisable) I put in on the trainer haven't been completely in vain. My cadence is improved from last year (at least for now), and while the hills were a bit of a rude awakening after the monotonous landscape of my living room, it was nice to have some variation. And the company was infinitely better than the muted television. It's fun to have an activity the whole family can get into. And with my mom's history as a national record-holder, it's pretty a pretty inspiring crowd to be around, too. All in all, an enjoyable few days on the road.
She struck out headstrong
in reaction to criticism
and warning
dug her blades
beneath the surface
with a purpose
and her kayak
floated away
from our resting place.
The going was smooth
for my sister
the socially acceptable sibling
who didn't criticize everyone
for anything
(at least to their faces),
and then it came time to turn around
and paddle back,
and the smoothness of motion
flipped.
She was upside-down
underwater in an instant
and in that instant
my warning of the boat's unsteadiness
made me think
"I told you so,"
while simultaneously I thought
"This is it,
she's going to die."
I could imagine her life
vest pressing her relentlessly
up into the bottom of the boat
while the splash skirt
held her legs cramped
against the blue plastic sides.
She wasn't strong enough
to say things outright
and I wasn't strong enough
to hold my tongue
and she wasn't strong enough to rip the cord
to free herself
but she was slippery
and skinny enough
to wiggle free
as it seemed she always did.
And as her face broke the surface
I wondered if she noticed
her own recklessness
how close she came to death
in my eyes
as the blue bottom of the kayak
floated empty
in the dark water.
Poem:
I'm getting into these poetry books. This one wasn't directly in the style of another author, but I really like the poem "You Can Have It" by Phillip Levine. The exercise associated with the section was about family as inspiration, and it asked me to describe a moment that epitomized a member in my family. So I tried.
Observation:
Yesterday's post reminded me of another example of a universal happy gesture: the high five. If you say something in an excited tone and follow it up with a high five, it completely circumvents any rational comprehension of what you just said. One instance in particular comes to mind. It was my junior year of high school, and the band had to play at the senior's graduation (as we did every year). This was a painful process, and not one any of us looked forward to. Then my grandmother died. I was to be out of town on the weekend of graduation, and when I told my friends, they were pretty jealous. I hadn't mentioned the reason for my absence. One of the ensuing conversations went like this:
Fellow student: I heard you're getting out of playing this weekend.
Me: Yeah! My grandma died so I don't have to play!
At this point I held my hand up for a high five, and was not disappointed. However, the look on the guy's face after he processed what I had said was pretty amusing. The pause and slow change in facial expression from a jealousy-tinged happiness to a slightly sad confusion made me laugh. Then he was sure I had been joking about my grandma dying, which made me laugh more. And then, since nobody could possibly be laughing so much about the death of a relative, he was sure I wasn't telling the truth. So I held up my hand for another high five. By the time he figured out my grandma was actually dead, he was one in quite a state.
Exercise:
"Orange Traffic Cone, etc"
Write a brief scene that incorporates the following: an orange traffic cone; a miniature cat; fried fish; velcro; Teddy Roosevelt; polkadots.
Harold was out on one of his expeditions. He wove his single speed courier bike (purchased second-hand at a rather eccentric man's garage sale) to the other side of an orange traffic cone, skirting the construction and putting him out of the busy traffic. The smell of fried fish wafted from a nearby restaurant's patio, the polkadots on the awning defying any attempt to criticize its menu. Harold pulled up to his destination, a local antiques store, and rang the bell at the glass-topped counter, momentarily distracted by the miniature porcelain cat peering up at him through the shining surface. The owner poked her head out of the back room long enough to ascertain his identity before shouting "be right out Harold!" and disappearing again. Sure enough, in a few seconds she had returned, a thin, stiff folder in her hands.
"Just as you requested. An authenticated letter signed by Teddy Roosevelt from his campaign trail. Should look good with the rest of your collection."
He nodded, undid the velcro on his shoulder bag, and gingerly took the document from her. He placed it inside the large binder contained within, and handed her his credit card.
Me:
I rode my bike outside two days in a row this week! Oh, the excitement. And the cold. Maybe that's what made it exciting. There's nothing quite like wondering whether you still have toes to spice up a bike ride. So anyway, riding was fun. It's nice to see that the hours (albeit fewer than probably advisable) I put in on the trainer haven't been completely in vain. My cadence is improved from last year (at least for now), and while the hills were a bit of a rude awakening after the monotonous landscape of my living room, it was nice to have some variation. And the company was infinitely better than the muted television. It's fun to have an activity the whole family can get into. And with my mom's history as a national record-holder, it's pretty a pretty inspiring crowd to be around, too. All in all, an enjoyable few days on the road.
January 27, 2011
In Which I Have Fun With Behavioral Analysis
Empty Chocolate Box
If life is like a box of chocolates
I can only assume it's meant to be devoured
rapidly, and wholeheartedly,
the pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded
to get to the good stuff.
And when the first layer of goodness
is gone
you realize all too suddenly
you only have half left
and even though it's true
there's some marzipan in your past
and in your future,
waiting to take you by surprise
with its clash of soapy texture
and a hint of bitterness
you know it's going to be worth it
when you get to the richness of the truffles.
But those are for another time;
right now you're full of it all
and on the brink of sickness,
so you try to put back the layer of gold
even though it doesn't sit quite straight
and rattles around on top
of a cheap and empty plastic tray.
Poem:
Today's prompt was: pick an object and write a prose poem about it. Use any memories it may provoke and make comparisons in your description. The putting back of the gold top is supposed to represent a midlife crisis, but I'm not sure that comes through. I like extended metaphor, so I tried it out here. Let me know what you think!
Observation:
Today's observation was prompted by my bus driver. There was an amazingly large crowd of people waiting at the stop, and not all of them could fit on the bus. Knowing this sometimes happens, the bus company puts two buses on the route during busy times. So there's little chance of those people being left there, but they don't seem to know that. They all look aroundf confused as they come to the realization that there really isn't any way for them to cram themselves on. I'm already getting to know some people a little better than I was expecting while I was waiting next to them at the stop. So anyway, the bus driver lets almost everyone on the bus, and then the last two or three people are left on the curb as he pulls away. They look pretty sad, but to top it all off, he gives them a thumbs up.
Now, the fact that they found this reassuring amazed me. It seems there are some gestures out there that are so internalized, so universal, that they carry with them an inherent sense that everything is going well. I imagined the same situation, except without another bus on the way. I wonder how long that sense of reassurance would last. Would they turn to each other and say "No, it has to be okay. He gave us a thumbs up. No way this could turn out poorly." So the next time you want to get away with stranding someone somewhere, I guess just give them a thumbs up as you leave. The chances of them chasing after you are pretty slim. They'll probably stand wherever they are waiting for you to come back for quite some time. The thumbs-up, I have decided, is a pretty powerful gesture.
Exercise:
"The Ironic Fortune Cookie"
The fortune in the fortune cookie read: "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." This turned out to be ironic. How so?
George pocketed his fortune and left the restaurant, eager to find out if it would prove to be accurate. "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." He certainly hoped so. Of course, that's what the fortune-writing people expected of him. It's not like they'd put out fortunes about inelegant surroundings, or say that, while the elegant surroundings sure were spectacular this time of year, they just weren't in his future at the moment. But despite having this knowledge, he was optimistic. It was a typical midwestern winter, and the wind was whipping the snow into a moderate frenzy. The waves of white washing across the black of the road were pretty viewed from the warmth of his car. Always the practical driver, he kept an eye on the lights ahead. He noticed the next one turning yellow for the cross traffic, and, as usual (and slightly proud of himself), he didn't bother braking. Sure enough, it turned green just as he got to the intersection.
The man in the Dodge Charger, on the other hand, was much less cognizant of the light's duration. He skidded through the intersection, having only noticed the yellow light at the last minute, and as he slammed on the brakes, he met harshly with the side of George's Ford Focus. George had a brief flash of thought: "At least I know the hospital will have some elegance to it." The paramedics that arrived on the scene a while later had the man from the Charger immobilized and were optimistic that the damage to his neck would respond well to treatment. And George was buried in one of the most elegant graves in the nearby cemetery.
Me:
Throughout my life people have told me to think before opening my mouth. Recently I have decided this has never been my problem. The problem is what I think about before opening my mouth. See, I'm not thinking about whether or not I should open it. That's taken as a given. The thought process is more of an anticipation game. So rather than "what are the advantages and disadvantages of opening my mouth in this particular situation," I'm thinking "So when I say such-and-such, it's likely it will provoke a certain reaction, so I should have a response ready for that, but if they react this other way, I should be able to say something else." I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been following directions for all these years. I give what I say a great deal of thought. I'm just not prioritizing correctly.
If life is like a box of chocolates
I can only assume it's meant to be devoured
rapidly, and wholeheartedly,
the pretty gold foil of childhood eagerly discarded
to get to the good stuff.
And when the first layer of goodness
is gone
you realize all too suddenly
you only have half left
and even though it's true
there's some marzipan in your past
and in your future,
waiting to take you by surprise
with its clash of soapy texture
and a hint of bitterness
you know it's going to be worth it
when you get to the richness of the truffles.
But those are for another time;
right now you're full of it all
and on the brink of sickness,
so you try to put back the layer of gold
even though it doesn't sit quite straight
and rattles around on top
of a cheap and empty plastic tray.
Poem:
Today's prompt was: pick an object and write a prose poem about it. Use any memories it may provoke and make comparisons in your description. The putting back of the gold top is supposed to represent a midlife crisis, but I'm not sure that comes through. I like extended metaphor, so I tried it out here. Let me know what you think!
Observation:
Today's observation was prompted by my bus driver. There was an amazingly large crowd of people waiting at the stop, and not all of them could fit on the bus. Knowing this sometimes happens, the bus company puts two buses on the route during busy times. So there's little chance of those people being left there, but they don't seem to know that. They all look aroundf confused as they come to the realization that there really isn't any way for them to cram themselves on. I'm already getting to know some people a little better than I was expecting while I was waiting next to them at the stop. So anyway, the bus driver lets almost everyone on the bus, and then the last two or three people are left on the curb as he pulls away. They look pretty sad, but to top it all off, he gives them a thumbs up.
Now, the fact that they found this reassuring amazed me. It seems there are some gestures out there that are so internalized, so universal, that they carry with them an inherent sense that everything is going well. I imagined the same situation, except without another bus on the way. I wonder how long that sense of reassurance would last. Would they turn to each other and say "No, it has to be okay. He gave us a thumbs up. No way this could turn out poorly." So the next time you want to get away with stranding someone somewhere, I guess just give them a thumbs up as you leave. The chances of them chasing after you are pretty slim. They'll probably stand wherever they are waiting for you to come back for quite some time. The thumbs-up, I have decided, is a pretty powerful gesture.
Exercise:
"The Ironic Fortune Cookie"
The fortune in the fortune cookie read: "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." This turned out to be ironic. How so?
George pocketed his fortune and left the restaurant, eager to find out if it would prove to be accurate. "Elegant surroundings will soon be yours." He certainly hoped so. Of course, that's what the fortune-writing people expected of him. It's not like they'd put out fortunes about inelegant surroundings, or say that, while the elegant surroundings sure were spectacular this time of year, they just weren't in his future at the moment. But despite having this knowledge, he was optimistic. It was a typical midwestern winter, and the wind was whipping the snow into a moderate frenzy. The waves of white washing across the black of the road were pretty viewed from the warmth of his car. Always the practical driver, he kept an eye on the lights ahead. He noticed the next one turning yellow for the cross traffic, and, as usual (and slightly proud of himself), he didn't bother braking. Sure enough, it turned green just as he got to the intersection.
The man in the Dodge Charger, on the other hand, was much less cognizant of the light's duration. He skidded through the intersection, having only noticed the yellow light at the last minute, and as he slammed on the brakes, he met harshly with the side of George's Ford Focus. George had a brief flash of thought: "At least I know the hospital will have some elegance to it." The paramedics that arrived on the scene a while later had the man from the Charger immobilized and were optimistic that the damage to his neck would respond well to treatment. And George was buried in one of the most elegant graves in the nearby cemetery.
Me:
Throughout my life people have told me to think before opening my mouth. Recently I have decided this has never been my problem. The problem is what I think about before opening my mouth. See, I'm not thinking about whether or not I should open it. That's taken as a given. The thought process is more of an anticipation game. So rather than "what are the advantages and disadvantages of opening my mouth in this particular situation," I'm thinking "So when I say such-and-such, it's likely it will provoke a certain reaction, so I should have a response ready for that, but if they react this other way, I should be able to say something else." I guess what I'm trying to say is that I've been following directions for all these years. I give what I say a great deal of thought. I'm just not prioritizing correctly.
January 26, 2011
In Which I REALLY Wanted to Write a New Poem
Mesa Verde
The cliffs were hazardous enough even with the ladders
built for tourists not quite fit enough
to haul themselves hand over hand
using crevices in the rock.
I can't imagine the ancient people, content
in their mud-plastered city of pale yellow,
their elderly clambering up the vertical walls
still spry, or left to die.
Now the hazards include the road at the top
cars passing, blind to the once-city
directly below, and we're told to look carefully
or "boom! no more grandma!"
The canyon below is a strip of life
cutting through the arid flatness
its green bottom mocking
those thirsty people above.
Poem:
I used a prompt for this one, since I was struggling for ideas. The prompt was rather specific: Gather four distinct sets of details about an occasion and use one in each of four stanzas, each with four lines. I wrote about a guided tour at Mesa Verde, where we had to climb huge wooden ladders to even gain access to the cliff cities. I still have the tour guides "boom! no more grandma!" written down in my notebook. It was hilarious at the time, but I tried to make it a little more insightful in the poem itself. All in all, I liked the exercise.
Observation:
I made some rice a while ago, and the leftovers were in the refrigerator daring me to use them to make something delicious. Little did they know I had recently acquired a bottle of soy sauce. So I had rice, sunflower seeds, and soy sauce, and it was delicious. The observation part of this story has to do with the soy sauce. Now, I already knew soy sauce was basically just liquefied salt, but I made sure to get the one that said it had less sodium just in case that made a difference. That's what the bottle said: "Less Sodium." This is, of course, in contrast to "low sodium," which is a label found on many other foods. To put that label on soy sauce would be to say "not soy sauce." So they went with "less." Now, less apparently means that the amount of sodium has been reduced by 34% from the normal amount. Which is significant. But there's still 25% of your daily value of sodium in on tablespoon of the stuff. So while there is "less," I would have loved to see them try and get away with "low."
Exercise:
"Down into the Cellar"
The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
Write on!
The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
"Of course it is," she replied. "Nothing about this place seems to function as it should."
"It is beautiful, though." He stumbled over some old equipment on his way to the only window before letting some light through. He opened the shutter, and through the cloud of dust that billowed inward, the sun shone bright. The brick walls surrounding them seemed to be biding their time, waiting to be extracted from the layers of cobwebs before glowing once more with the warmth of being lived in.
Me:
I have terrible hygiene. It's no secret to the people that know me. But this has finally come around to interfere in my life directly. It was inevitable, really. Here's what happened: I got the hot and cold taps of the shower mixed up. Apparently I take showers so infrequently I can't even remember how to control the temperature. And it hurt, since I was trying to make it colder. And because I'm so insensitive, after I turned up the hot water I just thought I must not have turned it enough to make it colder, so I turned it up more before figuring it out. And then I felt really dumb and vowed never to make that mistake again. And I figure the best way to avoid making the mistake is to just never shower again. Seems logical.
The cliffs were hazardous enough even with the ladders
built for tourists not quite fit enough
to haul themselves hand over hand
using crevices in the rock.
I can't imagine the ancient people, content
in their mud-plastered city of pale yellow,
their elderly clambering up the vertical walls
still spry, or left to die.
Now the hazards include the road at the top
cars passing, blind to the once-city
directly below, and we're told to look carefully
or "boom! no more grandma!"
The canyon below is a strip of life
cutting through the arid flatness
its green bottom mocking
those thirsty people above.
Poem:
I used a prompt for this one, since I was struggling for ideas. The prompt was rather specific: Gather four distinct sets of details about an occasion and use one in each of four stanzas, each with four lines. I wrote about a guided tour at Mesa Verde, where we had to climb huge wooden ladders to even gain access to the cliff cities. I still have the tour guides "boom! no more grandma!" written down in my notebook. It was hilarious at the time, but I tried to make it a little more insightful in the poem itself. All in all, I liked the exercise.
Observation:
I made some rice a while ago, and the leftovers were in the refrigerator daring me to use them to make something delicious. Little did they know I had recently acquired a bottle of soy sauce. So I had rice, sunflower seeds, and soy sauce, and it was delicious. The observation part of this story has to do with the soy sauce. Now, I already knew soy sauce was basically just liquefied salt, but I made sure to get the one that said it had less sodium just in case that made a difference. That's what the bottle said: "Less Sodium." This is, of course, in contrast to "low sodium," which is a label found on many other foods. To put that label on soy sauce would be to say "not soy sauce." So they went with "less." Now, less apparently means that the amount of sodium has been reduced by 34% from the normal amount. Which is significant. But there's still 25% of your daily value of sodium in on tablespoon of the stuff. So while there is "less," I would have loved to see them try and get away with "low."
Exercise:
"Down into the Cellar"
The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
Write on!
The ancient door creaked open and from the darkness she caught of a whiff of something like old apples. She pulled the string to the lightbulb; the stairwell remained dark. "Bulb's dead," he said.
"Of course it is," she replied. "Nothing about this place seems to function as it should."
"It is beautiful, though." He stumbled over some old equipment on his way to the only window before letting some light through. He opened the shutter, and through the cloud of dust that billowed inward, the sun shone bright. The brick walls surrounding them seemed to be biding their time, waiting to be extracted from the layers of cobwebs before glowing once more with the warmth of being lived in.
Me:
I have terrible hygiene. It's no secret to the people that know me. But this has finally come around to interfere in my life directly. It was inevitable, really. Here's what happened: I got the hot and cold taps of the shower mixed up. Apparently I take showers so infrequently I can't even remember how to control the temperature. And it hurt, since I was trying to make it colder. And because I'm so insensitive, after I turned up the hot water I just thought I must not have turned it enough to make it colder, so I turned it up more before figuring it out. And then I felt really dumb and vowed never to make that mistake again. And I figure the best way to avoid making the mistake is to just never shower again. Seems logical.
January 25, 2011
In Which I Eat Irresponsibly
Driving West
Where are the houses?
All I see are cars,
and few enough of those.
Portable lives, I suppose,
which I can access, briefly,
if I choose to stare
as we pass,
living life out in the interim
between destinations.
Too bad for those others
going east,
too blurred for me to discern
their busy lives.
And at this speed
I don’t have to worry
that their problems
will become mine,
that the parents are unhappy,
only taking the kids on vacation
as an unconscious apology
for their impending and ugly divorce.
The brief passing period is perfect
since I see their lives
but don’t have to.
Poem:
I got curious about the people I pass or who pass me on road trips. It's quite interesting to think about all the people on the road at any one time. Thousands of people in motion all over the country. So much of human life is spent in transit these days, and I just felt like writing a poem about what that feels like as I peer into their car windows every once in a while.
Observation:
Today I showed up to class to find out it was canceled. This is hardly the first time this has happened, but seeing as I spend an inordinate amount of time on my computer, I always get an email before I leave saying there's no reason to leave the apartment. No email today. So I sat on a bench outside the classroom and watched people walk up, read the sign on the door, look around in the same confusion I did, and walk away. Then a guy I've known since elementary school walked over to me and struck up conversation. Ben Ruppert is a Baptist, and one of the only religiously-inclined people I actually enjoy talking to about the subject. We have an unspoken agreement to remain reasonable and only talk about things we feel comfortable with. And since he's started taking some philosophy classes, we have a context in which we can do this. Ben defends what I see as the only viable defense for the existence of God. It's called
presuppositional apologetics, and if that name isn't enough to scare you off, you're doing better than most. Basically, it describes why rational, science-minded people like myself will never agree with rational, religious-minded people like Ben. It's a really fun thing to talk about, especially if you both agree to remain calm, reasonable, and avoid name-calling and cheap shots. So instead of class, I spent my hour from eleven to noon engaging in real philosophic discussion. It was a nice change of pace, since the class is progressing slowly and only occasionally deserving of its claim to philosophy.
Exercise:
"Hank and Helen: The Beachfront Condo"
This is a dialogue exercise. Hank and Helen are married. Hank is a pessimist. Helen is an optimist. They discuss whether or not to buy a beachfront condo.
"I don't know. It can't be much worse than it is here, I guess." Hank looked around their half-million dollar apartment with a critical eye. The shower had started dripping just yesterday, and if that wasn't a sign of impending disaster, it was at the very least an immense annoyance. The whole point of owning a nice apartment was so you wouldn't have to associate with people like plumbers. It might be a better bet to just buy a new place. Chances were good that the people looking to sell had just fixed all the little things in an effort to make the condo more appealing. "First it's the shower, then it's the refrigerator, and all of a sudden, the roof is caving in."
"Don't be silly," Helen replied. "There's nothing wrong with our place that a little love won't fix I have the plumber coming on Tuesday. Everything will be fine."
"You say that now, but once we let the plumber in, it's a sure bet he'll find something else that needs fixing. And then it's a never-ending process of repairs. In no time we'll have plumbers coming in to re-plumb the mistakes the first plumber made. No thank you."
Helen rolled her eyes. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? It's just a little drip in the shower. If you're so worried about it, we can just have the shower replaced. No need to look at a whole new property. Besides, I have high hopes for the garden I started on the roof here. And I'm just sure that Mrs. Mathews will warm up to us eventually. She can only hold our slight disruption against us for so long, after all."
"That slight disruption you're talking about wouldn't happen to be when the movers broke her door with the armoire, would it?"
"Well..."
Me:
I ate too much today, and it kind of ruined my night. I went into the kitchen with the intent to make a couple of pieces of bread with pesto, cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes, but I opened the bag of bread to see a bit of mold on parts of it. So, like any irresponsible college student, I picked off the moldy bits and promptly stuck all of the remaining pieces in the toaster two by two and consumed them. Eight pieces of delicious bread later, and I was full, but I had already started dinner by that point, and wound up eating that too. So I retreated to my room to lie down for a while. This was a fine state of affairs, but I let myself have a day off of biking yesterday, so I felt obligated to get back to it today, which only resulted in my stomach feeling terrible. I made myself stay on the bike for quite a while, but I don't feel like I did very well, and I didn't feel very well doing it. Stupid bread. And just to clarify, I'm fully aware that if there's mold on the bread, it means the whole amount of bread is technically infected with the mold. It's not that I pick off the mold and think I've sanitized it. It's just that I don't like looking at mold as I eat it. That is to say, I'm not opposed to the principle of eating mold; I just don't like seeing it as I do so.
Where are the houses?
All I see are cars,
and few enough of those.
Portable lives, I suppose,
which I can access, briefly,
if I choose to stare
as we pass,
living life out in the interim
between destinations.
Too bad for those others
going east,
too blurred for me to discern
their busy lives.
And at this speed
I don’t have to worry
that their problems
will become mine,
that the parents are unhappy,
only taking the kids on vacation
as an unconscious apology
for their impending and ugly divorce.
The brief passing period is perfect
since I see their lives
but don’t have to.
Poem:
I got curious about the people I pass or who pass me on road trips. It's quite interesting to think about all the people on the road at any one time. Thousands of people in motion all over the country. So much of human life is spent in transit these days, and I just felt like writing a poem about what that feels like as I peer into their car windows every once in a while.
Observation:
Today I showed up to class to find out it was canceled. This is hardly the first time this has happened, but seeing as I spend an inordinate amount of time on my computer, I always get an email before I leave saying there's no reason to leave the apartment. No email today. So I sat on a bench outside the classroom and watched people walk up, read the sign on the door, look around in the same confusion I did, and walk away. Then a guy I've known since elementary school walked over to me and struck up conversation. Ben Ruppert is a Baptist, and one of the only religiously-inclined people I actually enjoy talking to about the subject. We have an unspoken agreement to remain reasonable and only talk about things we feel comfortable with. And since he's started taking some philosophy classes, we have a context in which we can do this. Ben defends what I see as the only viable defense for the existence of God. It's called
presuppositional apologetics, and if that name isn't enough to scare you off, you're doing better than most. Basically, it describes why rational, science-minded people like myself will never agree with rational, religious-minded people like Ben. It's a really fun thing to talk about, especially if you both agree to remain calm, reasonable, and avoid name-calling and cheap shots. So instead of class, I spent my hour from eleven to noon engaging in real philosophic discussion. It was a nice change of pace, since the class is progressing slowly and only occasionally deserving of its claim to philosophy.
Exercise:
"Hank and Helen: The Beachfront Condo"
This is a dialogue exercise. Hank and Helen are married. Hank is a pessimist. Helen is an optimist. They discuss whether or not to buy a beachfront condo.
"I don't know. It can't be much worse than it is here, I guess." Hank looked around their half-million dollar apartment with a critical eye. The shower had started dripping just yesterday, and if that wasn't a sign of impending disaster, it was at the very least an immense annoyance. The whole point of owning a nice apartment was so you wouldn't have to associate with people like plumbers. It might be a better bet to just buy a new place. Chances were good that the people looking to sell had just fixed all the little things in an effort to make the condo more appealing. "First it's the shower, then it's the refrigerator, and all of a sudden, the roof is caving in."
"Don't be silly," Helen replied. "There's nothing wrong with our place that a little love won't fix I have the plumber coming on Tuesday. Everything will be fine."
"You say that now, but once we let the plumber in, it's a sure bet he'll find something else that needs fixing. And then it's a never-ending process of repairs. In no time we'll have plumbers coming in to re-plumb the mistakes the first plumber made. No thank you."
Helen rolled her eyes. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound? It's just a little drip in the shower. If you're so worried about it, we can just have the shower replaced. No need to look at a whole new property. Besides, I have high hopes for the garden I started on the roof here. And I'm just sure that Mrs. Mathews will warm up to us eventually. She can only hold our slight disruption against us for so long, after all."
"That slight disruption you're talking about wouldn't happen to be when the movers broke her door with the armoire, would it?"
"Well..."
Me:
I ate too much today, and it kind of ruined my night. I went into the kitchen with the intent to make a couple of pieces of bread with pesto, cheese, and sun-dried tomatoes, but I opened the bag of bread to see a bit of mold on parts of it. So, like any irresponsible college student, I picked off the moldy bits and promptly stuck all of the remaining pieces in the toaster two by two and consumed them. Eight pieces of delicious bread later, and I was full, but I had already started dinner by that point, and wound up eating that too. So I retreated to my room to lie down for a while. This was a fine state of affairs, but I let myself have a day off of biking yesterday, so I felt obligated to get back to it today, which only resulted in my stomach feeling terrible. I made myself stay on the bike for quite a while, but I don't feel like I did very well, and I didn't feel very well doing it. Stupid bread. And just to clarify, I'm fully aware that if there's mold on the bread, it means the whole amount of bread is technically infected with the mold. It's not that I pick off the mold and think I've sanitized it. It's just that I don't like looking at mold as I eat it. That is to say, I'm not opposed to the principle of eating mold; I just don't like seeing it as I do so.
January 22, 2011
Blogs in General, and Some Poems (potential)
Separation
There is no drinking allowed on the college campus,
but the campus ends at Lincoln Way.
Good old honest Abe
trying to separate the alcohol from the students.
But Welch Avenue spearheads into Lincoln Way,
trying desperately to rip through it
to reach those kids who try so hard to stay focused
and touch them with the outside world.
The name changes at the next intersection.
Welch becomes "Union Drive"
but not before it has encroached ever so slightly
into the land of academia.
And Lincoln goes back on his word
as they swarm across at the conclusion of class
and wait in the cold (and sometimes rain)
to go in to the bars.
Poem:
I have decided to keep the exercise section to just fiction exercises, since the only poetry exercises I'm planning on doing will have poems as their direct result. I think it would be silly to have two poems in a post, especially when I have a hard enough time coming up with them as it is. So on days like today where I use one of my books' exercises, I'll just post the prompt in this section so you have some idea of how it came about. Prompt for today:Write about where you live as if you've never been there. Use specific names.
I tried to be a bit fancy, and I really don't like how it turned out. I was giving the whole "double meanings" thing a shot, with "welch" meaning to go back on one's word, and Lincoln Way as more of a principle than a street name. But I think it just got confusing. I've just always gotten a kick out of how our campus is so set apart from the rest of town, and yet the "real world" crowds right up to us and the bars are right across the street. But I think there's a better way to go about capturing that idea.
Observation:
I've frequently clicked the little button at the top of the page that says next blog. Every time I do, I get my hopes up, but I don't think they have ever been satisfied. It seems like a huge number of the blogs out there are family ventures. They write about their days now instead of calling people on the phone, I guess. It makes sense from some points of view. This way they don't have to tell each friend individually what's going on in their life. They just post it for them to see when they have time. And they get to say exactly what they want to say without having to worry about being interrupted. I know I hate it when I'm trying to tell a story about my puppy and the person I'm talking to thinks their story about their dad dying is more important. Well, this solves that problem. But probably the biggest problem it solves is the problem of having to actually care about other people at all. Every person can post what's going on with their family and never have to read about their friends' activities. It's like there is this whole blogging "community" where everyone has agreed to write down their heartfelt experiences to be mutually ignored. But at least they can say they shared. In case you haven't picked up on this, I'm against the use of blogs for the purpose of meaningful communication, in much the same way I am against the idea of Facebook as a site for friends. Both blogs and Facebook have their uses, but they're not the ones they claim when they advertise.
Which makes me wonder what my blog looks like to any people who stumble across it using that button up there. Am I only interesting to the people who already know me? Would I stop and look at my blog if it wasn't mine? I have no idea, but I sort of doubt it.
Exercise:
"Your Best Friend is a Mirror"
Make this old saying your first line--- and start writing.
Your best friend is a mirror. They are perfectly capable of showing you who you really are, but most of the time they just lie to you because you let them. It's always the lighting, if I'm not mistaken. All of the mirrors in the world are located under harsh florescent lights, and you just can't trust what they're telling you. The acne looks worse, and your body is always falling apart. But you know it's just the bad lighting. Just like when your friend looks at you and shakes their head. As long as you stop them before they say what they're thinking, as long as you squeeze in your side of the story, you can change the light they see you in. You can take the florescence and turn it into the soft light of a restaurant, or the flickering of a fireplace. You can stop them from showing you what you really look like. Just make sure you get the first word in.
Me:
I really like the idea from the exercise above. I think I'll write a poem about it. That took much less than five minutes to write, but I was happy with where it was going and didn't feel like I could do the idea justice without properly thinking about it, so I cut out a bit early. I read the prompt and was very skeptical of the metaphor. I have never considered best friends to be mirrors, nor have I heard that saying. So I took it as a bit of a challenge, and I'm really glad I did. I'm going to post this now so it's up before I leave for the rest of the morning. Nothing that interesting has happened to me anyway. I know on days like that I promised I'd fill you in a bit on my past, so here's the random fact for today: I've always plunged headfirst into things. Those things have been intangible, like sports, books, and big ideas, but in this case I mean it a bit more literally. Like open windows, metal poles, and doorways. It's a miracle I have any functioning brain cells left at all. The best was the time I got four stitches in my forehead trying to run away from a dodgeball. I dodged the ball really well. Not so much for the volleyball net-pole.
There is no drinking allowed on the college campus,
but the campus ends at Lincoln Way.
Good old honest Abe
trying to separate the alcohol from the students.
But Welch Avenue spearheads into Lincoln Way,
trying desperately to rip through it
to reach those kids who try so hard to stay focused
and touch them with the outside world.
The name changes at the next intersection.
Welch becomes "Union Drive"
but not before it has encroached ever so slightly
into the land of academia.
And Lincoln goes back on his word
as they swarm across at the conclusion of class
and wait in the cold (and sometimes rain)
to go in to the bars.
Poem:
I have decided to keep the exercise section to just fiction exercises, since the only poetry exercises I'm planning on doing will have poems as their direct result. I think it would be silly to have two poems in a post, especially when I have a hard enough time coming up with them as it is. So on days like today where I use one of my books' exercises, I'll just post the prompt in this section so you have some idea of how it came about. Prompt for today:Write about where you live as if you've never been there. Use specific names.
I tried to be a bit fancy, and I really don't like how it turned out. I was giving the whole "double meanings" thing a shot, with "welch" meaning to go back on one's word, and Lincoln Way as more of a principle than a street name. But I think it just got confusing. I've just always gotten a kick out of how our campus is so set apart from the rest of town, and yet the "real world" crowds right up to us and the bars are right across the street. But I think there's a better way to go about capturing that idea.
Observation:
I've frequently clicked the little button at the top of the page that says next blog. Every time I do, I get my hopes up, but I don't think they have ever been satisfied. It seems like a huge number of the blogs out there are family ventures. They write about their days now instead of calling people on the phone, I guess. It makes sense from some points of view. This way they don't have to tell each friend individually what's going on in their life. They just post it for them to see when they have time. And they get to say exactly what they want to say without having to worry about being interrupted. I know I hate it when I'm trying to tell a story about my puppy and the person I'm talking to thinks their story about their dad dying is more important. Well, this solves that problem. But probably the biggest problem it solves is the problem of having to actually care about other people at all. Every person can post what's going on with their family and never have to read about their friends' activities. It's like there is this whole blogging "community" where everyone has agreed to write down their heartfelt experiences to be mutually ignored. But at least they can say they shared. In case you haven't picked up on this, I'm against the use of blogs for the purpose of meaningful communication, in much the same way I am against the idea of Facebook as a site for friends. Both blogs and Facebook have their uses, but they're not the ones they claim when they advertise.
Which makes me wonder what my blog looks like to any people who stumble across it using that button up there. Am I only interesting to the people who already know me? Would I stop and look at my blog if it wasn't mine? I have no idea, but I sort of doubt it.
Exercise:
"Your Best Friend is a Mirror"
Make this old saying your first line--- and start writing.
Your best friend is a mirror. They are perfectly capable of showing you who you really are, but most of the time they just lie to you because you let them. It's always the lighting, if I'm not mistaken. All of the mirrors in the world are located under harsh florescent lights, and you just can't trust what they're telling you. The acne looks worse, and your body is always falling apart. But you know it's just the bad lighting. Just like when your friend looks at you and shakes their head. As long as you stop them before they say what they're thinking, as long as you squeeze in your side of the story, you can change the light they see you in. You can take the florescence and turn it into the soft light of a restaurant, or the flickering of a fireplace. You can stop them from showing you what you really look like. Just make sure you get the first word in.
Me:
I really like the idea from the exercise above. I think I'll write a poem about it. That took much less than five minutes to write, but I was happy with where it was going and didn't feel like I could do the idea justice without properly thinking about it, so I cut out a bit early. I read the prompt and was very skeptical of the metaphor. I have never considered best friends to be mirrors, nor have I heard that saying. So I took it as a bit of a challenge, and I'm really glad I did. I'm going to post this now so it's up before I leave for the rest of the morning. Nothing that interesting has happened to me anyway. I know on days like that I promised I'd fill you in a bit on my past, so here's the random fact for today: I've always plunged headfirst into things. Those things have been intangible, like sports, books, and big ideas, but in this case I mean it a bit more literally. Like open windows, metal poles, and doorways. It's a miracle I have any functioning brain cells left at all. The best was the time I got four stitches in my forehead trying to run away from a dodgeball. I dodged the ball really well. Not so much for the volleyball net-pole.
Cold and Air Bubbles
A Cold Walk
There is only a thin crust of ice on the puddles
still crisp and rippling underneath
when pressed on, and the grass stems poking
through, like straws letting in the air
are weak points from which cracks radiate
as my foot forces water out around the edges
and bubbles skirt along the underside.
Eventually one foot sinks through.
Nothing that delicate can hold for long
under the constant pressure,
and water wells up out of the hole,
its release a relief
like a secret you knew you couldn't keep
but were waiting for the right time to share.
Poem:
It's Friday, which means I'm supposed to be expanding my style by encountering the work of other authors. Up for today's consideration is the work of Ted Kooser. If you haven't heard of him, you should look him up. I particularly like the style he uses in poems like "Mourners."
Mourners
After the funeral the mourners gather
under the rustling churchyard maples
and talk softly, like clusters of leaves.
White shirt cuffs and collars flash in the shade:
highlights on deep green water.
They came this afternoon to say goodbye,
but now they keep saying hello and hello,
peering into each other's faces,
slow to let go of each other's hands.
Ted Kooser
Delights and Shadows
Copper Canyon Press (c) 2004
I'm not sure it's legal to put this on my blog, but I don't think people should be mad at me for spreading good poetry. If anything, this should be incentive for you to buy the book if you like it. He didn't get to be Poet Laureate without knowing how to write poetry, after all. If I get yelled at, I'll take it down.
Observation:
I turned the heat down at my apartment yesterday after looking at my gas bill. Not that it was horrendous or anything, but it was about double what it was at this time last year, which drew my attention to the fact that I'm living less frugally than I used to. My bedroom is still quite warm though. The two televisions, the computer, and my almost constant body heat make it easily five to ten degrees warmer than the rest of the place. It's a bit inconvenient, though, since I like the air outside of my blankets to be cold when I fall asleep. That's the only time though. And if I turn the heat down to the point where my room is the right temperature for falling asleep, there's absolutely no way the rest of the apartment will be bearable. I guess this makes a good argument for having separate rooms for my technology and my sleeping quarters. Or maybe it's an argument for a one-room dwelling, so I wouldn't have to worry about the rest of the place being cold. Sounds like I'm destined for a trailer park.
Exercise:
"Lulu & Sandra Make Salad"
Lulu and Sandra are sisters. Lulu is jealous of Sandra. Sandra thinks Lulu is bossy. They are in Lulu's kitchen preparing a salad. Write the scene with dialogue.
Sandra wasn't sure the salad ingredients required quite as much attention as Lulu was giving them. She was sure that there must be something else Lulu could do other than look over her shoulder.
"Now, I know you probably don't do this much at home, what with having your own maid and all, but it's important not to cut the peppers too small. People like a bit of a crunch to their peppers, I've found."
"Okay, Lulu; I've got it. Isn't there something else you could be doing?" Sandra's grip on the knife was growing decidedly less relaxed, and her motions became more deliberate with her sister's criticism. Lulu was reveling in the fact she was finally the one in charge. Normally these dinners were held at Sandra's house, but Lulu had risen to the occasion after the recent fire.
"I suppose I could find something," Lulu said. She didn't move. If anything, she hovered closer.
"Well?" Sandra turned, knife still in hand. "Why don't you do that?"
Me:
Last night there was an interesting phenomenon at the Australian Open, where there was an air bubble underneath the surface of the court. This air bubble stopped the ball from bouncing at all, which was sight I found completely astounding. I have decided my blog might be less boring if I add things like this for you to see for yourself.
So that was definitely something I had never seen or heard about before. The way the ball didn't even roll was just hilarious to me. Apparently they just wound up using a power drill and a hammer to get the air out and continued play.
In what is hopefully the last chapter in the saga of the deaf girl, she was back in class today. This might still be an indicator that she's secretly reading my blog and accepted my implied apology.
Also while I was on campus, I began to think today might be particularly cold, as four different people commented on my shorts. Two of them were exclamations made to friends that I overheard, and two people just directly informed me of the facts of my attire. Much to their surprise, I was already aware of what I was wearing. I do appreciate their good intentions though. If I had been wearing them by accident, I certainly would have been glad to have my attention drawn to that fact.
There is only a thin crust of ice on the puddles
still crisp and rippling underneath
when pressed on, and the grass stems poking
through, like straws letting in the air
are weak points from which cracks radiate
as my foot forces water out around the edges
and bubbles skirt along the underside.
Eventually one foot sinks through.
Nothing that delicate can hold for long
under the constant pressure,
and water wells up out of the hole,
its release a relief
like a secret you knew you couldn't keep
but were waiting for the right time to share.
Poem:
It's Friday, which means I'm supposed to be expanding my style by encountering the work of other authors. Up for today's consideration is the work of Ted Kooser. If you haven't heard of him, you should look him up. I particularly like the style he uses in poems like "Mourners."
Mourners
After the funeral the mourners gather
under the rustling churchyard maples
and talk softly, like clusters of leaves.
White shirt cuffs and collars flash in the shade:
highlights on deep green water.
They came this afternoon to say goodbye,
but now they keep saying hello and hello,
peering into each other's faces,
slow to let go of each other's hands.
Ted Kooser
Delights and Shadows
Copper Canyon Press (c) 2004
I'm not sure it's legal to put this on my blog, but I don't think people should be mad at me for spreading good poetry. If anything, this should be incentive for you to buy the book if you like it. He didn't get to be Poet Laureate without knowing how to write poetry, after all. If I get yelled at, I'll take it down.
Observation:
I turned the heat down at my apartment yesterday after looking at my gas bill. Not that it was horrendous or anything, but it was about double what it was at this time last year, which drew my attention to the fact that I'm living less frugally than I used to. My bedroom is still quite warm though. The two televisions, the computer, and my almost constant body heat make it easily five to ten degrees warmer than the rest of the place. It's a bit inconvenient, though, since I like the air outside of my blankets to be cold when I fall asleep. That's the only time though. And if I turn the heat down to the point where my room is the right temperature for falling asleep, there's absolutely no way the rest of the apartment will be bearable. I guess this makes a good argument for having separate rooms for my technology and my sleeping quarters. Or maybe it's an argument for a one-room dwelling, so I wouldn't have to worry about the rest of the place being cold. Sounds like I'm destined for a trailer park.
Exercise:
"Lulu & Sandra Make Salad"
Lulu and Sandra are sisters. Lulu is jealous of Sandra. Sandra thinks Lulu is bossy. They are in Lulu's kitchen preparing a salad. Write the scene with dialogue.
Sandra wasn't sure the salad ingredients required quite as much attention as Lulu was giving them. She was sure that there must be something else Lulu could do other than look over her shoulder.
"Now, I know you probably don't do this much at home, what with having your own maid and all, but it's important not to cut the peppers too small. People like a bit of a crunch to their peppers, I've found."
"Okay, Lulu; I've got it. Isn't there something else you could be doing?" Sandra's grip on the knife was growing decidedly less relaxed, and her motions became more deliberate with her sister's criticism. Lulu was reveling in the fact she was finally the one in charge. Normally these dinners were held at Sandra's house, but Lulu had risen to the occasion after the recent fire.
"I suppose I could find something," Lulu said. She didn't move. If anything, she hovered closer.
"Well?" Sandra turned, knife still in hand. "Why don't you do that?"
Me:
Last night there was an interesting phenomenon at the Australian Open, where there was an air bubble underneath the surface of the court. This air bubble stopped the ball from bouncing at all, which was sight I found completely astounding. I have decided my blog might be less boring if I add things like this for you to see for yourself.
So that was definitely something I had never seen or heard about before. The way the ball didn't even roll was just hilarious to me. Apparently they just wound up using a power drill and a hammer to get the air out and continued play.
In what is hopefully the last chapter in the saga of the deaf girl, she was back in class today. This might still be an indicator that she's secretly reading my blog and accepted my implied apology.
Also while I was on campus, I began to think today might be particularly cold, as four different people commented on my shorts. Two of them were exclamations made to friends that I overheard, and two people just directly informed me of the facts of my attire. Much to their surprise, I was already aware of what I was wearing. I do appreciate their good intentions though. If I had been wearing them by accident, I certainly would have been glad to have my attention drawn to that fact.
January 21, 2011
In Which I Make it Really Hard to Come Up With Titles for My Entries Due to Their Random Contents
2 degrees off
You did more than a 180,
turned further from me
than opposite can imply,
and now suddenly
we joke and such
like 360 happened
and it’s okay again.
But really it’s a 358
or so, since there’s a gap
I’m not sure we can close.
2 degrees of difference
between the way we were
and now, slightly askew
2 pointer fingers trying to meet
with one eye closed
and depth perception a bit off.
Poem:
I'm constantly fascinated with other people's ability to put things behind them. I am not that sort of person. So when people pretend that things are okay when I know they're not, I try to play along, but always feel what I hope this poem conveys. And the worst part is, I'm pretty sure everyone feels this way during these awkward situations where we all pretend things are okay, but nobody can break the facade. Nobody wants to, I guess. So we just keep going, a bit off, until we forget. Except I rarely forget.
Observation:
In the class that I dropped (Philosophy of Technology), my professor said that we students were part of the computer generation. He said he had experienced the boom of computer use, but that we were the ones raised on it. I found myself questioning this. It may be true that I am quite dependent on computers. I take them for granted, use them constantly, and understand almost nothing about them. But I look at the people these days who are even more attached to their iPods and phones than I am, and I wonder whether there will ever be an actual computer generation. I remember when the internet was relatively new. I remember using floppy disks that stored almost nothing. Compared to what the kids today are used to, that stuff is ancient. And I'm sure it will be the same when those kids age ten years. My dad remembers when calculators were a ridiculously expensive commodity, and he's obviously lived through everything I have. Sure, if it's understanding how computers work that defines the computer generation, he's not a part of it, but then neither am I. And neither are the kids today. As technology becomes more prolific. complicated, and specialized, the number of people who understand all of any single thing diminishes. Programmers understand software (though not usually all the programming languages involved), developers understand hardware (and hardly ever all hardware), and the common people understand what's still wrong. So if there is a computer generation, it's certainly not mine, or if it is, I'm not part of it.
Exercise:
Your Mom at Five"
Imagine you are your mother. You're five years old. What are you seeing / thinking / doing?
I just finished watching a nature show, and oh my goodness the animals and the trees and the water and the grasses and everything looked so interesting. I've never seen anything like a crocodile here, but I guess they wouldn't like the ice very much. They would look so funny slipping around on their short legs! I guess I'll just take it for granted that huge things like rhinos and elephants exist. I know monkeys exist, because people have told me not to act like one, but they look like they're having so much fun that I don't want to stop. But the best part was the giraffes. I'm even less sure they are real. They're taller than my house, and their colors are like the fieldstone of the walls around me, all spotted with brown. They look so funny when they bend down to drink, front legs splayed open and maybe one good shove could send them tumbling. But I love them, and when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I know exactly what to tell them. "I'm going to be a giraffe," I say, and I stretch my neck as far as I can. I dream big.
Me:
And now you all know my mom wanted to be a giraffe when she grew up. True story. At least nobody told her she couldn't be. I actually have no idea how that came about, or at what age, so forgive my inaccuracies. But it's worth a story, I think.
Brownies were made at my apartment recently, which is an event I have mixed opinions on in retrospect. See, I eat an unhealthy amount every time they come out of the oven, which is obviously terrible. But on the other hand, I then feel sick for the rest of the night, which prevents me from eating as much quantity-wise as I might normally. Yes, this is a horrible thing, and bad for me in that it stops me from eating vitamins and results in me eating unhealthy or useless calories, but by the time I went to bed, I actually did weigh a bit less than I normally do at night.
And the last thing I have to say: the deaf girl I wrote about a while ago was gone from my last class. I really hope my blog had nothing to do with it. I'm quite confident it didn't, since according to the statistics it shows me readership peaked about a week ago and has been declining ever since. So I guess this is my desperate plea for you to spread the word if you enjoy reading. Thanks (both for reading, and in advance for any readers you might send my way).
You did more than a 180,
turned further from me
than opposite can imply,
and now suddenly
we joke and such
like 360 happened
and it’s okay again.
But really it’s a 358
or so, since there’s a gap
I’m not sure we can close.
2 degrees of difference
between the way we were
and now, slightly askew
2 pointer fingers trying to meet
with one eye closed
and depth perception a bit off.
Poem:
I'm constantly fascinated with other people's ability to put things behind them. I am not that sort of person. So when people pretend that things are okay when I know they're not, I try to play along, but always feel what I hope this poem conveys. And the worst part is, I'm pretty sure everyone feels this way during these awkward situations where we all pretend things are okay, but nobody can break the facade. Nobody wants to, I guess. So we just keep going, a bit off, until we forget. Except I rarely forget.
Observation:
In the class that I dropped (Philosophy of Technology), my professor said that we students were part of the computer generation. He said he had experienced the boom of computer use, but that we were the ones raised on it. I found myself questioning this. It may be true that I am quite dependent on computers. I take them for granted, use them constantly, and understand almost nothing about them. But I look at the people these days who are even more attached to their iPods and phones than I am, and I wonder whether there will ever be an actual computer generation. I remember when the internet was relatively new. I remember using floppy disks that stored almost nothing. Compared to what the kids today are used to, that stuff is ancient. And I'm sure it will be the same when those kids age ten years. My dad remembers when calculators were a ridiculously expensive commodity, and he's obviously lived through everything I have. Sure, if it's understanding how computers work that defines the computer generation, he's not a part of it, but then neither am I. And neither are the kids today. As technology becomes more prolific. complicated, and specialized, the number of people who understand all of any single thing diminishes. Programmers understand software (though not usually all the programming languages involved), developers understand hardware (and hardly ever all hardware), and the common people understand what's still wrong. So if there is a computer generation, it's certainly not mine, or if it is, I'm not part of it.
Exercise:
Your Mom at Five"
Imagine you are your mother. You're five years old. What are you seeing / thinking / doing?
I just finished watching a nature show, and oh my goodness the animals and the trees and the water and the grasses and everything looked so interesting. I've never seen anything like a crocodile here, but I guess they wouldn't like the ice very much. They would look so funny slipping around on their short legs! I guess I'll just take it for granted that huge things like rhinos and elephants exist. I know monkeys exist, because people have told me not to act like one, but they look like they're having so much fun that I don't want to stop. But the best part was the giraffes. I'm even less sure they are real. They're taller than my house, and their colors are like the fieldstone of the walls around me, all spotted with brown. They look so funny when they bend down to drink, front legs splayed open and maybe one good shove could send them tumbling. But I love them, and when people ask me what I want to be when I grow up, I know exactly what to tell them. "I'm going to be a giraffe," I say, and I stretch my neck as far as I can. I dream big.
Me:
And now you all know my mom wanted to be a giraffe when she grew up. True story. At least nobody told her she couldn't be. I actually have no idea how that came about, or at what age, so forgive my inaccuracies. But it's worth a story, I think.
Brownies were made at my apartment recently, which is an event I have mixed opinions on in retrospect. See, I eat an unhealthy amount every time they come out of the oven, which is obviously terrible. But on the other hand, I then feel sick for the rest of the night, which prevents me from eating as much quantity-wise as I might normally. Yes, this is a horrible thing, and bad for me in that it stops me from eating vitamins and results in me eating unhealthy or useless calories, but by the time I went to bed, I actually did weigh a bit less than I normally do at night.
And the last thing I have to say: the deaf girl I wrote about a while ago was gone from my last class. I really hope my blog had nothing to do with it. I'm quite confident it didn't, since according to the statistics it shows me readership peaked about a week ago and has been declining ever since. So I guess this is my desperate plea for you to spread the word if you enjoy reading. Thanks (both for reading, and in advance for any readers you might send my way).
January 20, 2011
Winter
Spring
It is that day
when everyone else realizes
spring is inevitable
swarming the newly-soft ground,
spreading their blankets
where I stood in the drifts
just a week ago.
They throw Frisbees,
running, catching, dropping,
imperfect and annoying,
since I had laid claim
to this spot when it was still,
ice, and snow.
Poem:
I used to spend a lot of time on campus. I would hang out in computer labs, meet people to throw frisbees at all hours, and just be there in general. On multiple occasions I went on the open area of central campus while it was still covered in a foot of snow and threw with some equally crazy people. So this poem is about that. And about the fact that other people are only willing to do these things when the weather is perfect. I like to think that sets me apart. The thing I dislike most about this poem has to be the title, which is incredibly cliche.
Observation:
People are like gas. And, while it may seem like something I would say, in this case I am not talking about flatulence. I'm talking about how they expand to fill whatever space they are given. But I guess they're really more like a liquid, since they are obviously strictly bound by gravity, and so tend to stick to the surface. Either way, this characteristic can be quite annoying. It makes it incredibly hard to pass people on a bike, for one thing. I can't begin to count the number of times I've been stuck behind a group of chattering girls taking their sweet time walking between classes. They hardly make way for people going the opposite direction, so it's no surprise they take no account of the fact that there could be a person on a bicycle behind them who is constrained to the sidewalk by snow and yet doesn't really care what they put in their hair this morning. When I'm biking with someone else it's not too difficult to remedy the problem. I simply start talking really loudly as we make our approach. Sometimes I talk really loudly about the fact that it's necessary to talk really loudly in order to get people to let you by. Now, I know people think they make bicycle bells for this sort of thing, but I can't stand them. I generally can't stand the people that use them. "Ding ding! Make way, for it is I, the person so uptight and snobbish that I feel it is necessary the tone of a bell precede me wherever I go." Not for me. In general, I'm perfectly fine making a jaunt off the sidewalk to go around, but this snowy weather is interfering. It was slow going today between classes. I was almost late, despite leaving earlier than usual.
Exercise:
"Extremely Famous"
You (or your fictional character) are suddenly extremely famous. In what ways does your (or your character's) life change?
His meteoric rise to fame was nothing like he had pictured it. He was supposed to make it big with his voice. He had auditioned for American Idol on three separate occasions, for crying out loud. Every time they told him to keep trying, that if he loved singing, to keep at it. He wasn't supposed to be famous for simply being alive. The floods had been getting a lot of local news coverage, but when the video of him on his porch floating downstream hit the internet, something about it struck a national chord. He had just been sitting there. Well, and when he noticed the camera, he had started singing. He wasn't the kind of guy to pass up a bit of attention. And now here he was, the star of YouTube smash hit "Weird Singing Guy Floating Away" and he was being interviewed by morning talk shows and the local newspaper. Even his friends were calling him up to talk. At first he tried to use the attention to get some recognition for his voice, but he soon realized the laughter directed his way was not due entirely to his sense of humor. Disheveled and a bit downtrodden, he went back to his porch (the only part of his house he could reliably locate), and sat wondering what to do next. Fame was fine and all, but it hadn't gotten him off the porch.
Me:
I felt surprisingly bad today. I never really got my day going how I was hoping, and it all concluded with a rather poor showing on my bicycle. My legs were tired, my calf was cramping, and I just couldn't get focused. Things I take for granted were giving me pain, and for that reason, I retreated to my room to try and at least enjoy my night. But for some reason, that didn't quite go according to plan either. I can't really explain it. Some rhythm of my day was off, and it persisted. There was nothing I could point to as the cause, but the accumulation of it all left me quite underwhelmed. I don't know whether this is a common occurrence among others, but I can't really recall it happening prior to this. Maybe it's what they refer to as waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Anyway, hopefully it will be gone soon.
I had my first poetry class today, and I plan on using it and this blog in tandem to improve my writing. I think I'll start including some poetry exercises on occasion, too, since I have two books centered around finding things to write poems about, and I wouldn't want them to go unused. Besides, it good to have a break from fiction exercises every once in a while.
It is that day
when everyone else realizes
spring is inevitable
swarming the newly-soft ground,
spreading their blankets
where I stood in the drifts
just a week ago.
They throw Frisbees,
running, catching, dropping,
imperfect and annoying,
since I had laid claim
to this spot when it was still,
ice, and snow.
Poem:
I used to spend a lot of time on campus. I would hang out in computer labs, meet people to throw frisbees at all hours, and just be there in general. On multiple occasions I went on the open area of central campus while it was still covered in a foot of snow and threw with some equally crazy people. So this poem is about that. And about the fact that other people are only willing to do these things when the weather is perfect. I like to think that sets me apart. The thing I dislike most about this poem has to be the title, which is incredibly cliche.
Observation:
People are like gas. And, while it may seem like something I would say, in this case I am not talking about flatulence. I'm talking about how they expand to fill whatever space they are given. But I guess they're really more like a liquid, since they are obviously strictly bound by gravity, and so tend to stick to the surface. Either way, this characteristic can be quite annoying. It makes it incredibly hard to pass people on a bike, for one thing. I can't begin to count the number of times I've been stuck behind a group of chattering girls taking their sweet time walking between classes. They hardly make way for people going the opposite direction, so it's no surprise they take no account of the fact that there could be a person on a bicycle behind them who is constrained to the sidewalk by snow and yet doesn't really care what they put in their hair this morning. When I'm biking with someone else it's not too difficult to remedy the problem. I simply start talking really loudly as we make our approach. Sometimes I talk really loudly about the fact that it's necessary to talk really loudly in order to get people to let you by. Now, I know people think they make bicycle bells for this sort of thing, but I can't stand them. I generally can't stand the people that use them. "Ding ding! Make way, for it is I, the person so uptight and snobbish that I feel it is necessary the tone of a bell precede me wherever I go." Not for me. In general, I'm perfectly fine making a jaunt off the sidewalk to go around, but this snowy weather is interfering. It was slow going today between classes. I was almost late, despite leaving earlier than usual.
Exercise:
"Extremely Famous"
You (or your fictional character) are suddenly extremely famous. In what ways does your (or your character's) life change?
His meteoric rise to fame was nothing like he had pictured it. He was supposed to make it big with his voice. He had auditioned for American Idol on three separate occasions, for crying out loud. Every time they told him to keep trying, that if he loved singing, to keep at it. He wasn't supposed to be famous for simply being alive. The floods had been getting a lot of local news coverage, but when the video of him on his porch floating downstream hit the internet, something about it struck a national chord. He had just been sitting there. Well, and when he noticed the camera, he had started singing. He wasn't the kind of guy to pass up a bit of attention. And now here he was, the star of YouTube smash hit "Weird Singing Guy Floating Away" and he was being interviewed by morning talk shows and the local newspaper. Even his friends were calling him up to talk. At first he tried to use the attention to get some recognition for his voice, but he soon realized the laughter directed his way was not due entirely to his sense of humor. Disheveled and a bit downtrodden, he went back to his porch (the only part of his house he could reliably locate), and sat wondering what to do next. Fame was fine and all, but it hadn't gotten him off the porch.
Me:
I felt surprisingly bad today. I never really got my day going how I was hoping, and it all concluded with a rather poor showing on my bicycle. My legs were tired, my calf was cramping, and I just couldn't get focused. Things I take for granted were giving me pain, and for that reason, I retreated to my room to try and at least enjoy my night. But for some reason, that didn't quite go according to plan either. I can't really explain it. Some rhythm of my day was off, and it persisted. There was nothing I could point to as the cause, but the accumulation of it all left me quite underwhelmed. I don't know whether this is a common occurrence among others, but I can't really recall it happening prior to this. Maybe it's what they refer to as waking up on the wrong side of the bed. Anyway, hopefully it will be gone soon.
I had my first poetry class today, and I plan on using it and this blog in tandem to improve my writing. I think I'll start including some poetry exercises on occasion, too, since I have two books centered around finding things to write poems about, and I wouldn't want them to go unused. Besides, it good to have a break from fiction exercises every once in a while.
January 17, 2011
Oh Television...
Why I’m not Sleeping
It’s too nice to take a nap,
so I go outside and look at the clouds
for inspiration,
but it’s too sunny to write,
and I’d rather lie down
where the wind doesn’t reach
and enjoy the red and orange
heating my eyelids as I turn my face
and listen.
You’re a continent away
as your voice breaks the ambiance.
Out of reach,
but tempting me to grasp-
though my hand remains empty
in the end-
and yet, for a while,
I can feel your softness
as it slides away.
Poem:
This one is included here by request. I undoubtedly would have gotten around to putting it on here anyway, but having someone actually like my poems enough to request one pretty much trumps whatever else I might have done. So let this be a lesson to you, dear reader. If you have any interesting ideas for a poem, just comment on my post. It can be as vague as “write a poem about a piece of jewelery,” or as specific as “remember that time we were hanging out and the television wouldn't work so we played cards instead and even though the cards were really bent and you could tell when the jack of spades was coming it was fun? Could you write about that?” I'd be delighted. (That never actually happened, but it's a pretty specific example.) Or if you are familiar with any of my poetry, you can of course let me know what you like.
Observation:
I just saw a commercial for a VW Jetta that highlighted its intelligent crash-response system. Now, I'm generally all for technology doing things for us, but is it really that necessary to have your doors unlocked for you when you're in a crash? I'm oblivious to the details required to make this a feature, but obviously there's something tied into the door's locking mechanism, so isn't that just another thing that could go wrong with your door's ability to open at some point down the road? And that's really a small gripe compared to the issues I have with the commercial in general. Maybe it's just me, but the commercial seems to be taking it for granted that whoever buys this car is going to crash it. I would really like to think that the selling points of a car could be things that make the driving experience better rather than implying there's a good chance you're going to be in a life-threatening situation.
It's gotten to the point where any feature a company can think of to stick in a vehicle automatically becomes something they think will make buyers want to spend thousands of dollars on. I can sort of see the logic with truly interesting ideas, like when all-wheel drive was invented, or integrated GPS/MP3 technology, but this seems to have gone a bit off-target. Just to reiterate, the company is saying, “Now, we know our car might poor handling and could exhibit brake failure at any moment, but don't worry. We've thought of that. No, we haven't tried to prevent crashes. But when you do find yourself closely acquainted with whatever tree, lamppost, or pedestrian happened to be in your way, we have this really swell technology that will make sure you can get out and start running from the cops right away.”
Exercise:
"Shelly's Scene Objective"
Actors identify their characters' overall objective, as well as their scene objective. Applying this to writing, assume your character is "Shelly"; her overall objective is to get married; her scene objective is to get "Kyle" whom she has just met, say, in a coffee shop, to ask her on a date. Write the scene from Shelly's point of view.
Kyle would do nicely. He seemed to be of an appropriate age, his build suggested moderate physical activity, and the computer in front of him demonstrated both means and intelligence. In short, there was nothing wrong with him. Good enough. Shelly carefully looked just past him, making sure there was no way she could be mistaken for staring, just waiting for him to make a move. While she was prepared to stay like this for hours, she was sure the coffee she had noticed him drinking (at a not-displeasing rate) would necessitate locomotion of some sort in the near future. And she would be ready. Her napkin was all set at the edge of the table, just waiting to be blown slightly by an inexplicable breeze, and she was poised just as precipitously, ready to retrieve it. It would be no fault of hers that Kyle might be passing her table just as she leaned down, and certainly she couldn't be held responsible should she require him to introduce himself after such a rude oversight. Yes, it was the waiting, the stalking, Shelly enjoyed the most.
Me:
I might be letting television back into my life. It's astonishing the way it doesn't seem important until you look to see what's on. After that, there's almost no resisting. Luckily, most of what I'm watching right now is sports, and since I can't stand the commentators anyway, I can mute them and do something else at the same time. Today that activity was biking with a basketball game on in the background. Unfortunately, I noticed immediately that there was a decrease in my form on the bike while I was trying to watch the action on screen. Perhaps I should have shut off the game and focused on my riding, but I told myself that there will be things happening during a race too, and I will need to maintain good form through distractions all the time. So I came up with a compromise. I took the commercial breaks as a time to focus on form and do a bit of an interval-style workout and just focused on keeping my cadence up while the big people on TV were doing interesting things. I'm not sure how I did, but I think if I can use this to develop the habit of maintaining a good cadence no matter what is going on around me, that will be significant accomplishment.
It’s too nice to take a nap,
so I go outside and look at the clouds
for inspiration,
but it’s too sunny to write,
and I’d rather lie down
where the wind doesn’t reach
and enjoy the red and orange
heating my eyelids as I turn my face
and listen.
You’re a continent away
as your voice breaks the ambiance.
Out of reach,
but tempting me to grasp-
though my hand remains empty
in the end-
and yet, for a while,
I can feel your softness
as it slides away.
This one is included here by request. I undoubtedly would have gotten around to putting it on here anyway, but having someone actually like my poems enough to request one pretty much trumps whatever else I might have done. So let this be a lesson to you, dear reader. If you have any interesting ideas for a poem, just comment on my post. It can be as vague as “write a poem about a piece of jewelery,” or as specific as “remember that time we were hanging out and the television wouldn't work so we played cards instead and even though the cards were really bent and you could tell when the jack of spades was coming it was fun? Could you write about that?” I'd be delighted. (That never actually happened, but it's a pretty specific example.) Or if you are familiar with any of my poetry, you can of course let me know what you like.
Observation:
I just saw a commercial for a VW Jetta that highlighted its intelligent crash-response system. Now, I'm generally all for technology doing things for us, but is it really that necessary to have your doors unlocked for you when you're in a crash? I'm oblivious to the details required to make this a feature, but obviously there's something tied into the door's locking mechanism, so isn't that just another thing that could go wrong with your door's ability to open at some point down the road? And that's really a small gripe compared to the issues I have with the commercial in general. Maybe it's just me, but the commercial seems to be taking it for granted that whoever buys this car is going to crash it. I would really like to think that the selling points of a car could be things that make the driving experience better rather than implying there's a good chance you're going to be in a life-threatening situation.
It's gotten to the point where any feature a company can think of to stick in a vehicle automatically becomes something they think will make buyers want to spend thousands of dollars on. I can sort of see the logic with truly interesting ideas, like when all-wheel drive was invented, or integrated GPS/MP3 technology, but this seems to have gone a bit off-target. Just to reiterate, the company is saying, “Now, we know our car might poor handling and could exhibit brake failure at any moment, but don't worry. We've thought of that. No, we haven't tried to prevent crashes. But when you do find yourself closely acquainted with whatever tree, lamppost, or pedestrian happened to be in your way, we have this really swell technology that will make sure you can get out and start running from the cops right away.”
Exercise:
"Shelly's Scene Objective"
Actors identify their characters' overall objective, as well as their scene objective. Applying this to writing, assume your character is "Shelly"; her overall objective is to get married; her scene objective is to get "Kyle" whom she has just met, say, in a coffee shop, to ask her on a date. Write the scene from Shelly's point of view.
Kyle would do nicely. He seemed to be of an appropriate age, his build suggested moderate physical activity, and the computer in front of him demonstrated both means and intelligence. In short, there was nothing wrong with him. Good enough. Shelly carefully looked just past him, making sure there was no way she could be mistaken for staring, just waiting for him to make a move. While she was prepared to stay like this for hours, she was sure the coffee she had noticed him drinking (at a not-displeasing rate) would necessitate locomotion of some sort in the near future. And she would be ready. Her napkin was all set at the edge of the table, just waiting to be blown slightly by an inexplicable breeze, and she was poised just as precipitously, ready to retrieve it. It would be no fault of hers that Kyle might be passing her table just as she leaned down, and certainly she couldn't be held responsible should she require him to introduce himself after such a rude oversight. Yes, it was the waiting, the stalking, Shelly enjoyed the most.
Me:
I might be letting television back into my life. It's astonishing the way it doesn't seem important until you look to see what's on. After that, there's almost no resisting. Luckily, most of what I'm watching right now is sports, and since I can't stand the commentators anyway, I can mute them and do something else at the same time. Today that activity was biking with a basketball game on in the background. Unfortunately, I noticed immediately that there was a decrease in my form on the bike while I was trying to watch the action on screen. Perhaps I should have shut off the game and focused on my riding, but I told myself that there will be things happening during a race too, and I will need to maintain good form through distractions all the time. So I came up with a compromise. I took the commercial breaks as a time to focus on form and do a bit of an interval-style workout and just focused on keeping my cadence up while the big people on TV were doing interesting things. I'm not sure how I did, but I think if I can use this to develop the habit of maintaining a good cadence no matter what is going on around me, that will be significant accomplishment.
January 16, 2011
The Australian Open and Other Things I Can't Help But Watch
Walls
Thank you for walls,
the thin boundaries
preventing
life from entering my day.
The door to the classroom
closes,
and you are forgotten
for the most part,
but when I leave
my thoughts alone
they turn
to places I can no longer go.
So I prolong my day
with people,
only alone
to fall asleep
but inevitably
there is that moment
(those hours)
between climbing into bed
and forgetting
that belongs to you.
Poem:
This one doesn't really require any explanation. Upon looking at it again, I'm not too sure of some of the really short lines, but that might just be left over from yesterday's style change.
Observation:
I went to see "The Social Network" recently at our local discount movie theater. I mention this not because I'm intending to write a movie review, but simply to discuss my reason(s) for seeing it. I hold no delusions. I'm perfectly aware that the only reason I ever wanted to see it was because of the previews. In fact, I distinctly recall thinking, "That movie looks really bad, but I need to know what happens after that scene in the preview." You know a method is effective if it works despite its incredibly obvious nature. It's sort of like blackmail that way. They hold the rest of the movie hostage, issue you a ransom note in the preview, and to fulfill your desire you have to fork over perfectly good money. And the whole time you're thinking, "Is this really necessary?" Now, I'll admit I have left some of my metaphorical loved ones to die. I was fully intending to see movies like "Despicable Me" and "Dinner for Schmucks" even though I was pretty sure they held no value beyond a couple of forced laughs. But I just never had the heart to pay the fee required of me, and left them at the mercy of those toying with me.
But "The Social Network" was just too tempting. All of the scenes that showed Mark Zuckerberg in a supremely confident position even as he was being sued for millions of dollars, then cut out before I learned anything quite relevant just frustrated me enough to spend some money. And I was completely right. So I guess I can't be disappointed with the movie, since it did absolutely everything I was expecting. I'm now in this interesting dichotomy, where I'm a bit disappointed that it didn't do more that I was expecting, but not allowed to be disappointed because it did exactly what I knew it was going to do. There were the gratuitously underdressed girls, the beginning of the company, the computer jargon-filled phrases, and the completely unwarranted scenes included only because they were guaranteed a few laughs. All in all, I thought it was worth my time, since I saw it late at night and wasn't going to be doing much otherwise, but it's not really a movie I would recommend. Unless you've seen the previews. Then your decision to spend the money is completely warranted.
Exercise:
"Popol Vuh: Seven Random Bits"
I just pulled the Popol Vuh off the shelf and found these seven random bits:
~sweet drink!
~Jaguar
~undone
~you tricksters!
~And they remembered what had been said about the East.
~vagabonds
~corn with fish
What can you write in five minutes that incorporates all of these?
And the village was concerned about the jaguars, for they remembered well what had been said about the East and how it had been foretold that at the first sign of the large cats, ominous things were to follow. They organized a feast, inviting important members from surrounding village councils to partake in what might be the last gathering before the supernatural events overwhelmed them. They had corn with fish, potatoes, and in the center of the long, crudely cut table, a boar sat, roasted in all its glory. And the drink. Sweet drink! Mulled wine of many varieties, touches of honey, and for those who wanted, grain alcohol. They were merry in the face of unusual portents, and by the time the last vessel of wine had been emptied, they had almost put them out of mind. But in an instant, it all came undone. The table shook, the sky flashed, and a deep unease came over the crowd. All they could think of was the influence of the supernatural, and they raised their faces to the sky, crying "You tricksters!" at the gods, sure that in no time they, the chiefs of the area, would be reduced to vagabonds.
Me:
I'm just sitting here wondering how many people have realized the headings of my blog sections spell "poem." Other than that, not a lot of interesting stuff has been happening. Except, of course, for the beginning of the Australian Open. I still enjoy tennis a great deal, and I am conveniently awake for a decent amount of the live broadcast. I started tennis on a whim, for the most part. It all started at some courts near my grandma's house in Wisconsin, where my mom and I went to hit for some reason I don't remember. Well, I had seen some of my high school classmates playing on various occasions, but once I'd tried it out for a while, I began to question what about the sport was so difficult. This was at the beginning of my sophomore year. By the spring I had made the bottom of the varsity team. The next year I was near the top, and ready to work toward a state title for my senior year. I was serving at over a hundred miles and hour, and with some work on my backhand, I felt like I could make a good showing. And then it ended. As has happened with almost everything I've tried, I just lost my grasp on what was important about the sport. My period of rapid improvement had expired, and I realized that even if I did as well as I was hoping, I wouldn't be in a good position to continue playing in college. So I cut my losses, or so I told myself. Looking back, it's more obvious that I didn't like dealing with the pressure. Once I had stopped exceeding expectations and started simply meeting them, it became harder to motivate myself. It had lost its appeal.
Thank you for walls,
the thin boundaries
preventing
life from entering my day.
The door to the classroom
closes,
and you are forgotten
for the most part,
but when I leave
my thoughts alone
they turn
to places I can no longer go.
So I prolong my day
with people,
only alone
to fall asleep
but inevitably
there is that moment
(those hours)
between climbing into bed
and forgetting
that belongs to you.
Poem:
This one doesn't really require any explanation. Upon looking at it again, I'm not too sure of some of the really short lines, but that might just be left over from yesterday's style change.
Observation:
I went to see "The Social Network" recently at our local discount movie theater. I mention this not because I'm intending to write a movie review, but simply to discuss my reason(s) for seeing it. I hold no delusions. I'm perfectly aware that the only reason I ever wanted to see it was because of the previews. In fact, I distinctly recall thinking, "That movie looks really bad, but I need to know what happens after that scene in the preview." You know a method is effective if it works despite its incredibly obvious nature. It's sort of like blackmail that way. They hold the rest of the movie hostage, issue you a ransom note in the preview, and to fulfill your desire you have to fork over perfectly good money. And the whole time you're thinking, "Is this really necessary?" Now, I'll admit I have left some of my metaphorical loved ones to die. I was fully intending to see movies like "Despicable Me" and "Dinner for Schmucks" even though I was pretty sure they held no value beyond a couple of forced laughs. But I just never had the heart to pay the fee required of me, and left them at the mercy of those toying with me.
But "The Social Network" was just too tempting. All of the scenes that showed Mark Zuckerberg in a supremely confident position even as he was being sued for millions of dollars, then cut out before I learned anything quite relevant just frustrated me enough to spend some money. And I was completely right. So I guess I can't be disappointed with the movie, since it did absolutely everything I was expecting. I'm now in this interesting dichotomy, where I'm a bit disappointed that it didn't do more that I was expecting, but not allowed to be disappointed because it did exactly what I knew it was going to do. There were the gratuitously underdressed girls, the beginning of the company, the computer jargon-filled phrases, and the completely unwarranted scenes included only because they were guaranteed a few laughs. All in all, I thought it was worth my time, since I saw it late at night and wasn't going to be doing much otherwise, but it's not really a movie I would recommend. Unless you've seen the previews. Then your decision to spend the money is completely warranted.
Exercise:
"Popol Vuh: Seven Random Bits"
I just pulled the Popol Vuh off the shelf and found these seven random bits:
~sweet drink!
~Jaguar
~undone
~you tricksters!
~And they remembered what had been said about the East.
~vagabonds
~corn with fish
What can you write in five minutes that incorporates all of these?
And the village was concerned about the jaguars, for they remembered well what had been said about the East and how it had been foretold that at the first sign of the large cats, ominous things were to follow. They organized a feast, inviting important members from surrounding village councils to partake in what might be the last gathering before the supernatural events overwhelmed them. They had corn with fish, potatoes, and in the center of the long, crudely cut table, a boar sat, roasted in all its glory. And the drink. Sweet drink! Mulled wine of many varieties, touches of honey, and for those who wanted, grain alcohol. They were merry in the face of unusual portents, and by the time the last vessel of wine had been emptied, they had almost put them out of mind. But in an instant, it all came undone. The table shook, the sky flashed, and a deep unease came over the crowd. All they could think of was the influence of the supernatural, and they raised their faces to the sky, crying "You tricksters!" at the gods, sure that in no time they, the chiefs of the area, would be reduced to vagabonds.
Me:
I'm just sitting here wondering how many people have realized the headings of my blog sections spell "poem." Other than that, not a lot of interesting stuff has been happening. Except, of course, for the beginning of the Australian Open. I still enjoy tennis a great deal, and I am conveniently awake for a decent amount of the live broadcast. I started tennis on a whim, for the most part. It all started at some courts near my grandma's house in Wisconsin, where my mom and I went to hit for some reason I don't remember. Well, I had seen some of my high school classmates playing on various occasions, but once I'd tried it out for a while, I began to question what about the sport was so difficult. This was at the beginning of my sophomore year. By the spring I had made the bottom of the varsity team. The next year I was near the top, and ready to work toward a state title for my senior year. I was serving at over a hundred miles and hour, and with some work on my backhand, I felt like I could make a good showing. And then it ended. As has happened with almost everything I've tried, I just lost my grasp on what was important about the sport. My period of rapid improvement had expired, and I realized that even if I did as well as I was hoping, I wouldn't be in a good position to continue playing in college. So I cut my losses, or so I told myself. Looking back, it's more obvious that I didn't like dealing with the pressure. Once I had stopped exceeding expectations and started simply meeting them, it became harder to motivate myself. It had lost its appeal.
Friday-ish Post
When a man dies of starvation in the United States it's a real trick,
since calories are everywhere, waiting to be picked up
and put back in play, burned off and added to entropy.
We seem to pride ourselves on our food, and our practice
of discarding food, which is probably fine, since it gives the homeless
something to do. The dumpsters have ladders on the outside
to encourage clambering up to peer over the edge
like a toy boat in a stream, hovering just before it plunges
over the cascade. But should they take the plunge into the manky smells
they will note there is no such convenience to help them out.
Peeking in is encouraged, and it's sure sometimes there will be
that treasure glinting back up at you. They put it there to tempt you,
the expiration date just yesterday, and not even old enough
to start changing colors or smells. Its nutrition information
says it has calories galore, and who cares the vitamin percentages
dwindle in reverse proportion to the percentage of daily value
of saturated fat? It's a trap. It shouldn't be a surprise.
I mean, they didn't even put a ladder on the inside.
Since I missed my update for Friday, I thought I'd do my “in the style of another poet” poem for today. I have a number of poetry books on my shelf, and I was planning on doing one in the style of Lawrence Raab, whose book The Probable World I greatly enjoyed. But then I realized the reason I enjoy it is because we have similar styles and views on a lot of things. So I wound up opening a book I have for my poetry class this semester for the first time. It's called Inseminating the Elephant. I'm not really sure was was going through the author's head when she called it that. Who wants to admit they're reading a book with that title? But anyway, that's the style I tried to imitate. Some things that are different from the way I normally write: sentences ending in the middle of a line
longer lines in general
obscure analogies
talking about death in a casual way
train of thought style
uncommon descriptive words
Observation:
In my Philosophy of Law class there are two people in the front of the room. One is obviously the professor, but the other is a sign language interpreter, which is something I was not really expecting. Now, I sit in the front row, and I happen to be on the side of the deaf girl, so I am uniquely positioned to make a few comments on the situation. Obviously, I have nothing to say against the idea of there being a deaf person in the class. But if I'm not allowed to do things unrelated to class because the people around me might find it distracting, what should be said of having a person right in front of me gesticulating wildly? Granted, it's not like she chose to be deaf, and it's not like this introductory class requires my undivided attention, but if I'm frequently busy watching the sign language communication, and I can only assume I'm not the only one thoroughly intrigued.
And as long as I'm on the topic of special accommodations, I guess I'll mention the fact that the teacher requested that someone take notes in a carbon-sheeted notebook so the girl could have a copy. But the teacher already writes all of the important things on the chalk board. So I'm not sure what the deaf girl is actually doing all class. She doesn't have to take notes and she doesn't have to participate. It probably sounds like I dislike her being in class. This is not the case. I just wanted to point out some things that people might not be considering.
On that same line, I want to talk about some other things this has made me think of. The first is that knowing sign language must be pretty awesome. It's so easy to talk without people knowing what you're saying. For all I know, the translator person is saying funny jokes about how awful I dress. Then it occurred to me that while there are some fun sides to sign language, it must suck occasionally. Like, whenever you want to do something with your hands, it means you're essentially mute for the duration you want to be, for instance, writing something down. Also, it was quickly made evident that some things are just really cumbersome for sign language. The teacher made some point about mathematical constants, and to illustrate it she put the equations for gravitational attraction saying “gravitational force equals the product of the two masses times the universal gravitational constant divided by the distance squared.” As she said that, I looked at the interpreter-person in the front of the room. She looked so depressed.
Exercise:
"Grandpa Is Backing Out..."
Grandpa should not be driving. But no one dares to hide the car keys. What happens this time? Write the scene.
Rich old men have the fastest cars to ever travel ten below the speed limit. That is, except for Herbert. Herbert isn't about to let all that money go to waste. He spent half on his car, and put half aside for speeding tickets and, should the need arise, bail. When I watch from across the street (usually from the relative safety of my living room), I wince every time the garage door opens. Before it's even two thirds of the way up, out tears the Ferrari Enzo, glaringly red, with sunglasses doing their best to hide the wrinkles behind the steering wheel. A mashing of gears ensues, and a thunderous noise later he has disappeared from view, though the black number eleven he has left behind remains a testament to his takeoff. Screeches, honks, and dull roar echo back over the housetops, and I am impressed by the fact that all of these fade without the din of sirens being added to the mix. “Huh. He doesn't usually make it quite that far,” I remark to myself as I turn away from the window. We'll see if upon his return he has the patience to wait for the garage door to open all the way. Last time he didn't quite, and there's still a bit of a red streak along the bottom of the door.
Me:
I'm okay, I guess. I'm afraid class being back in session means that my thoughts have turned away from the interesting things going on around me and toward the interesting things going on in my head. So all that's really been preoccupying my time has been silly philosophy, none of which is interesting enough to include here. Examples of topics include what makes “acting” distinct from other ways of “doing,” the difference between rationality and reasonability, and the idea of diversity. The most interesting of these might be diversity, since in class we were discussing whether or not diversity could be something that could be forced. We had just concluded that at least some types of diversity were necessary (a conclusion I'm still not quite sure I agree with, though I can see why people might think so), and that led to the question of what would happen if diversity stopped occurring naturally. Like, what if we all grew so homogenized that it wasn't quite natural to think of ourselves as a diverse populace? Could we force people into diversity in order to maintain the discourse many think is necessary for any sort of progress?
Speaking of diversity, I learned that one of the biggest determining factors for a person's opinion on gay rights is whether or not they know a homosexual. A person who comes in close contact with someone who identifies as gay is incredibly more likely to vote for things like gay marriage and anti-discrimination legislature. This probably seems obvious, but it made me think of how many people are afraid to come out to the people they know. Because of this fact, though, when a person stays in the closet, not only are they making themselves unhappy, they are making it harder for people like them. According to factual sources (Wikipedia), between two and thirteen percent of people identify as homosexual. Now, even taking a number near the bottom of that range, say five percent, means that if every homosexual made their orientation known, and if everyone had twenty close friends/family members, everyone would support gay rights legislation. Obviously these leaps in conclusions are incorrect due to population distribution and peoples' standards for friend selection (among many other things), but I still think that fact should lend encouragement to the people out there who are struggling.
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