Somewhere in an old book,
edges frayed and stale like bread
A woman shuffles bare feet
raked through rocks ground into pebbles
over a thousand years.
"Don't look back" angels command
to the cities of the plains
nuzzled by the Jordan river
(which could have been the Garden of Eden
if not for the venality
of sex and taxes).
"Don't look back" her husband commands
but her instinct...
a little girl and her curiosity-
a woman and her intuition-
a mother and her compassion-
...
"Don't look back."
But the woman who confronts angles
and their decrees
who, known only for her refusal
and disobedience,
is not even extended the courtesy of a name
to admonish.
After all,
is it not the gift of a woman
-a measure of her spirit-
to look back?
To reach out for the child, abandoned,
like spilt table salt?
Monday, October 1, 2012
Monday, April 2, 2012
Response to Live Readings
This was my first live reading of the semester and I enjoyed myself. I was glad I got to witness the two different genres, I thought that was a very interesting way to promote creative writing, as I enjoy writing both. I thought each reader had their own distinct style of reading, even though they both seemed a little uncomfortable on stage. I suppose that why writer's write though, they like to hide behind their words. Ok, maybe not hide. But I can understand being nervous just the same. What I really liked was that I was able to immerse my children in the culture, even if they didn't understand most of it. We had a really cool discussion on the way home and now my son is constantly trying to find new ways of describing things. Like on the way home form baseball we stopped to get gas and he said the grass looked like thousands of reaching fingers. It made me smile. I am definitely going to try to make it to more of these events next semester.
Reading Response, Week 10
On Happy Endings, by Margaret Atwood.
What a lovely little ditty! Immediately I was jealous of the idea. Again...I seem to be running into this choose your own adventure scenario everywhere I go. Ok, so this isn't exactly a choose your own adventure, more like a spoof - which is why I love it. "John and Mary Meet. What happens Next? If you want a happy ending, try A."
In the very beginning the words concoct this sing-song narrator voice full of overly-saturated sweetness. "They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging.They buy a house. Real estate values go up."
The tone in this piece is lighthearted in juxtoposition with the actual content (which is very sad) and it makes the reading go by very fast. I can see myself using this technique to make fun of these modern notions of poetry and story endings.
"You have to face it, the endings are the same however you slice it. Don't be deluded by any other endings, they're all fake, either deliberately fake, with malicious intent to deceive, or just motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality."
I love how the only authentic ending is death. John and Mary die. John and May die. John and Mary die.
Indeed, so much for endings. Like this class :(
Beginnings are always more fun. I have to say, though, that I enjoyed very much the stretch in between with all of you.
Now on to my other what's....
What a lovely little ditty! Immediately I was jealous of the idea. Again...I seem to be running into this choose your own adventure scenario everywhere I go. Ok, so this isn't exactly a choose your own adventure, more like a spoof - which is why I love it. "John and Mary Meet. What happens Next? If you want a happy ending, try A."
In the very beginning the words concoct this sing-song narrator voice full of overly-saturated sweetness. "They both have worthwhile and remunerative jobs which they find stimulating and challenging.They buy a house. Real estate values go up."
The tone in this piece is lighthearted in juxtoposition with the actual content (which is very sad) and it makes the reading go by very fast. I can see myself using this technique to make fun of these modern notions of poetry and story endings.
"You have to face it, the endings are the same however you slice it. Don't be deluded by any other endings, they're all fake, either deliberately fake, with malicious intent to deceive, or just motivated by excessive optimism if not by downright sentimentality."
I love how the only authentic ending is death. John and Mary die. John and May die. John and Mary die.
Indeed, so much for endings. Like this class :(
Beginnings are always more fun. I have to say, though, that I enjoyed very much the stretch in between with all of you.
Now on to my other what's....
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Classmate Response 2, Week 10
from Brittany's calisthenic here
Character Development Exercise:
Orange Shirt
I think sometimes you only use the right chunk of your brain. Wearing your neon orange v-neck t shirt with khaki pants and flip flops. Folding your arms because mama didn't give you the dessert that your mouth was wet for. Stomping your way up the stairs like Godzilla through the narrow streets of Japan. I have always wondered if you actually like your own personality , or if you pretend to be someone else that's frilly and quiet. Of course, this person would be your complete opposite. Just like that orange shirt you are loud and begging to be seen. Sometimes I find myself wishing you to Never-land where the ticking alligator could run you from Goo Lagoon to Skull Island.After doing so, somehow, someway I find that I would miss you. I missed you and your boom box of a voice, even though I would never tell you that. Without you there would be no pink pajama coffee breath breaks in the cricket nights. If you were gone home would be like Treasure Island with no map to mark "X."
This was as far as I could write in class, and I didn't edit it yet or anything. Now that I read it, it seems like a free write just to get ideas down
My response:
I didn't finish mine either but I really like the idea of having a template from which to create a character, similar to the template we used to create interesting dialogue. These are tool I think I will be able to keep and use in my future writing. Your character development seems very strong to me thus far, and its ironic that we both got to the same sentence and stopped! I am going to try to finish mine, I hope you get around ot finishing yours and then, use this character in a story or poem! Thats the other interesting thing to consider - what parts of the character you will imploy in your work and which parts just help you to solidify the character in your head to keep you grounded when writing.
Character Development Exercise:
Orange Shirt
I think sometimes you only use the right chunk of your brain. Wearing your neon orange v-neck t shirt with khaki pants and flip flops. Folding your arms because mama didn't give you the dessert that your mouth was wet for. Stomping your way up the stairs like Godzilla through the narrow streets of Japan. I have always wondered if you actually like your own personality , or if you pretend to be someone else that's frilly and quiet. Of course, this person would be your complete opposite. Just like that orange shirt you are loud and begging to be seen. Sometimes I find myself wishing you to Never-land where the ticking alligator could run you from Goo Lagoon to Skull Island.After doing so, somehow, someway I find that I would miss you. I missed you and your boom box of a voice, even though I would never tell you that. Without you there would be no pink pajama coffee breath breaks in the cricket nights. If you were gone home would be like Treasure Island with no map to mark "X."
This was as far as I could write in class, and I didn't edit it yet or anything. Now that I read it, it seems like a free write just to get ideas down
My response:
I didn't finish mine either but I really like the idea of having a template from which to create a character, similar to the template we used to create interesting dialogue. These are tool I think I will be able to keep and use in my future writing. Your character development seems very strong to me thus far, and its ironic that we both got to the same sentence and stopped! I am going to try to finish mine, I hope you get around ot finishing yours and then, use this character in a story or poem! Thats the other interesting thing to consider - what parts of the character you will imploy in your work and which parts just help you to solidify the character in your head to keep you grounded when writing.
Classmate Response 1, Week 10
From Taylor's free entry
What does it feel like?
How do you know when something is right?
Some say it hits you like a bullet to your brain-
But that's too overused, too cliched.
What does it really feel like?
When the sun hits the dew in the morning,
Or the bird hits the high C.
Maybe when the Neapolitan soft serve swirls into a clean spiral on the cone,
Or the cat stretches out on the hammock in the midday sun for a nap.
Is that what it feels like?
But then how do you know when something is wrong?
Some say you just know-
But that's the cowards answer.
What does it really feel like?
When the mugger grabs your purse on the bustling street and disappears,
Or the little girl’s chin and lips start wobbling up and down, faster and faster.
Maybe when your mother looks up across the table with tears in her big brown eyes,
Or the student’s blank stare when you ask for that paper from last week.
Is that what it feels like?
My response:
I always like questions in poetry. One, becasue it gives you an idea of what the heck the poem is about. Maybe I'm getting too old, but these days I like to spend my time insode the words and imagery of the poem rather than trying to figure out its meaning. I also like thispoem because not only am I thinking about what feel "right" and what feels "wring", but also what is going on in the authors world to make him or her question right and wrong in the first place.
The imagery is great, form the bird hitting the high C, to the soft serve cone (I picture someone pulling down the nozzle and having to time it just right to get it to swirl right. If you've ever worked at one of these places you'd know its actually an art), to the lazy catch stretching out.
I also like the continutity of the piece. In the beginning you offer an explanation to what feels right, but then you dismiss it in favor of other ideas. And you do the same again when trying to define the "wrong."
I enjoyed this piece
What does it feel like?
How do you know when something is right?
Some say it hits you like a bullet to your brain-
But that's too overused, too cliched.
What does it really feel like?
When the sun hits the dew in the morning,
Or the bird hits the high C.
Maybe when the Neapolitan soft serve swirls into a clean spiral on the cone,
Or the cat stretches out on the hammock in the midday sun for a nap.
Is that what it feels like?
But then how do you know when something is wrong?
Some say you just know-
But that's the cowards answer.
What does it really feel like?
When the mugger grabs your purse on the bustling street and disappears,
Or the little girl’s chin and lips start wobbling up and down, faster and faster.
Maybe when your mother looks up across the table with tears in her big brown eyes,
Or the student’s blank stare when you ask for that paper from last week.
Is that what it feels like?
My response:
I always like questions in poetry. One, becasue it gives you an idea of what the heck the poem is about. Maybe I'm getting too old, but these days I like to spend my time insode the words and imagery of the poem rather than trying to figure out its meaning. I also like thispoem because not only am I thinking about what feel "right" and what feels "wring", but also what is going on in the authors world to make him or her question right and wrong in the first place.
The imagery is great, form the bird hitting the high C, to the soft serve cone (I picture someone pulling down the nozzle and having to time it just right to get it to swirl right. If you've ever worked at one of these places you'd know its actually an art), to the lazy catch stretching out.
I also like the continutity of the piece. In the beginning you offer an explanation to what feels right, but then you dismiss it in favor of other ideas. And you do the same again when trying to define the "wrong."
I enjoyed this piece
The Material Realities of Poetry
Hidden in the back of an L.A. Weekly,
slipped between the sexy latina and Kinky Kendra
wondering about porno chicks and if their fathers ever watch
any of their films?
slipped between the sexy latina and Kinky Kendra
wondering about porno chicks and if their fathers ever watch
any of their films?
Missing You
I look around for you, because somewhere in this moment there’s a remnant of a joke we’ve shared before. And I forget; you haven't been around for a long time now.
Calisthenics, Week 10
Character Development:
Asparagus
1. I think sometimes, when you smile, you hate me.
2. The way others would see your asparagus-colored eyes glitter with enthusiasm, I see the spark of fiendish malady.
3. I know this becasue your left eye goes crooked (like one of those glue-on googly eyes you get at craft stores) when you look at me; like there is so much power processing inside your brain that you can only focus one eye at a time.
4. Your laugh is as commanding as as witches cackle.
5. Whn no one is looking, though, you retreat into a world of little girls who sit on the curb making mudpies, collecting spiders and talking ot the other characters in your head that understand you much better than I ever can.
6. You are a chameleon of temperment.
7. I watch through the second story window as you bounce around, pigtails flapping, lifting your shirt up to show the boys how you are all the same.
8. Instead, I wish to show you how rermarkeable you are.
9. You bend down, pick up a hairy caterpiller, and place it on a stick - chasing the new girl on the block around the parking lot, delighting in her shrieks.
10.
11.
12.
13.
15.
Asparagus
1. I think sometimes, when you smile, you hate me.
2. The way others would see your asparagus-colored eyes glitter with enthusiasm, I see the spark of fiendish malady.
3. I know this becasue your left eye goes crooked (like one of those glue-on googly eyes you get at craft stores) when you look at me; like there is so much power processing inside your brain that you can only focus one eye at a time.
4. Your laugh is as commanding as as witches cackle.
5. Whn no one is looking, though, you retreat into a world of little girls who sit on the curb making mudpies, collecting spiders and talking ot the other characters in your head that understand you much better than I ever can.
6. You are a chameleon of temperment.
7. I watch through the second story window as you bounce around, pigtails flapping, lifting your shirt up to show the boys how you are all the same.
8. Instead, I wish to show you how rermarkeable you are.
9. You bend down, pick up a hairy caterpiller, and place it on a stick - chasing the new girl on the block around the parking lot, delighting in her shrieks.
10.
11.
12.
13.
15.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Improv, Week 10
The 4 o’clock drive thru line at Starbucks on a Sunday afternoon
Line 1:
Behind the old man with a sixty thousand dollar jaguar, she
waits.
Members only jacket, a tire fills with air.
Gritting, his sharp yellow teeth match Ralph Lauren shirt.
She wonders what a man driving a sixty thousand dollar car
can be so upset about.
Later:
The car drinks its own milk, purring and content.
Happy as its owner who doesn’t rush to fill her day with
nicotine and energy drinks
Instead, the driver sits deep in the woods of Montana
feeding sticks into a fire,
Waiting for the speaker to ask its questions with muffled
voice and purposeful pleasantries
She fishes and watches baseball games in dugouts constructed
of synapses,
Electrical impulses whisk her away to the Middle Ages- all
monk robes, dirty sex, chain link and wood.
An impatient honk forces her up two inches.
Scribbling thoughts as she tosses two ripped dollars into
the tip jar, happy to pay for the pleasure of waiting, the man behind the
counter wants to appease her
“Busy scribbling, so busy” he remarks. “Oh yes, very busy”
she says, relaxed.
and wonders if anyone notices
How warm it is in the car with the afternoon sun beating
down through the windshield
Breaking the freezing wind outside
Free Entry 1, Week 10
A Bottle of Jack Daniels mixes with Norwegian blood she
didn’t know she had
Until two months ago
Now she has a bubble blowing grandmother
Who cried when they met after 31 years
Even though the grandmother, with curly blond hair and a
tired look,
didn’t know who she was. She grinned with yellow teeth
and the corners felt fakely upturned; forced by antidepressants
and the instinct of someone who has lost recollection
to instead fake a smile.
Still, she believed somewhere deep inside those tears
Falling down wrinkled pale skin
Lied a memory of her love, long sought
And all this strange grandmother could say is how much this
young woman meant to her
How beautiful she was, and sweet
and how the cats outside love flower arrangements and soda.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 10
Cold War Kids
We Used To Vacation lyrics
I kissed the kids at noon
Then stumbled out the room
I caught a cab
Ran up a tab
On 7th and flower
Best recital I had to ruin
Missed my son's graduation
Punched the Nickles boy
For taking his seat
Gets all that anger from me
Still things could be much worse
Natural disasters on the evening news
Still things could be much worse
We still got our health
My paycheck in the mail
I promised to my wife and children
I'd never touch another drink
As long as I live
But even then
It sounds so soothing
This will blow over in time
This will all blow over in time
I'm just an honest man
Provide for me and mine
I give a check to tax deductable
Charity organizations
Two weks paid vacation won't heal the damage done
I need another one
Still things could be much worse
Natural disasters on the evening news
Still things could be much worse
We still got our health
My paycheck in the mail
I promised to my wife and children
I'd never touch another drink
As long as I live
But even then
It sounds so soothing
To mix a gin
And sink into oblivion
I promised to my wife and children
That accident
Left everyone a little shook up
But at the meetings
I felt so empty
This will blow over in time
This will all blow over in time
Then stumbled out the room
I caught a cab
Ran up a tab
On 7th and flower
Best recital I had to ruin
Missed my son's graduation
Punched the Nickles boy
For taking his seat
Gets all that anger from me
Still things could be much worse
Natural disasters on the evening news
Still things could be much worse
We still got our health
My paycheck in the mail
I promised to my wife and children
I'd never touch another drink
As long as I live
But even then
It sounds so soothing
This will blow over in time
This will all blow over in time
I'm just an honest man
Provide for me and mine
I give a check to tax deductable
Charity organizations
Two weks paid vacation won't heal the damage done
I need another one
Still things could be much worse
Natural disasters on the evening news
Still things could be much worse
We still got our health
My paycheck in the mail
I promised to my wife and children
I'd never touch another drink
As long as I live
But even then
It sounds so soothing
To mix a gin
And sink into oblivion
I promised to my wife and children
That accident
Left everyone a little shook up
But at the meetings
I felt so empty
This will blow over in time
This will all blow over in time
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 10
Man may be fiction and life and illusion but God will always belove ignoringhim changs nothing."
Gotta love random bathroom stall quotes.
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 10
-Santa Claus"
Junkyard Quote 1, Week 10
"dreamless cemetary"
my son came up with this as we left the reading on Wednesday night. Brooke was saying how downtoen Carrollton looked like a dark, spooky graveyard...which prompted out discussion that those words seems "available." So I challenged the kids to think of ways to describe a graveyard that was maybe a little more different or unique. And Aidam came up with dreamless, which I thought was pretty darn cool.
my son came up with this as we left the reading on Wednesday night. Brooke was saying how downtoen Carrollton looked like a dark, spooky graveyard...which prompted out discussion that those words seems "available." So I challenged the kids to think of ways to describe a graveyard that was maybe a little more different or unique. And Aidam came up with dreamless, which I thought was pretty darn cool.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Improv, Week 9
This is actually an improv off of Morgan's piece she submitted for workshop. I liked the idea of a "normal" person wishing for something a little dark and sinister to enter their lives. So I started this piece, which is still a very rough draft.
I need
to be snuck up on, grabbed tightly by the arms
leaving red finger marks like claws
slapped, maybe. Definitely shoved up against a wall, or shoved into a counter
the force leaving a mark.
Taken, not planned
like bologna sandwhiches:
one without crust, the other without mustard
cut into triangles and served with apple slices
no sugar added, 100% fruit juice.
I will cry, bite, kick
feel the flesh and blood collect under painted fingernails
the struggle over him, under him, is the struggle to let go
of all things collected
like hope, and state quarters. We are only missing two-
Puerto Rico and Guam. And Minnesota, for awhile.
But we have American Samoa, isn't that impressive?
Like my balcony, the image I thrust onto the neighbors
lined with solar-powered party lights shaped like Japanese lanterns
and silk flowers that blow slightly in the breeze
nestled into real potting soil.
I need
to be snuck up on, grabbed tightly by the arms
leaving red finger marks like claws
slapped, maybe. Definitely shoved up against a wall, or shoved into a counter
the force leaving a mark.
Taken, not planned
like bologna sandwhiches:
one without crust, the other without mustard
cut into triangles and served with apple slices
no sugar added, 100% fruit juice.
I will cry, bite, kick
feel the flesh and blood collect under painted fingernails
the struggle over him, under him, is the struggle to let go
of all things collected
like hope, and state quarters. We are only missing two-
Puerto Rico and Guam. And Minnesota, for awhile.
But we have American Samoa, isn't that impressive?
Like my balcony, the image I thrust onto the neighbors
lined with solar-powered party lights shaped like Japanese lanterns
and silk flowers that blow slightly in the breeze
nestled into real potting soil.
Free Entry, Week 9
When I am famous,
I will have only one rule, and that will be:
no black.
no black picture on the back cover of my book
no black poetry
no black scarf
no black heels
no black hair, cut short, curly.
no black stare, looking down in some thoughtful contemplaation of death captured
by black and white film through a black lens
rolling, twisted by pale ghangly fingers, the antenneas of a distinguished photographer
who dons a raven-woven turtleneck, matched by sable argyle socks and stygian-framed glasses.
No inky blobs of sorrow, no ebony journal, no obsidian earings that frame a face of slate-dotted pupils.
Not even a starless night will droop from my fountain pen,
which will be
raw umber, asparagus, or thistle.
I will have only one rule, and that will be:
no black.
no black picture on the back cover of my book
no black poetry
no black scarf
no black heels
no black hair, cut short, curly.
no black stare, looking down in some thoughtful contemplaation of death captured
by black and white film through a black lens
rolling, twisted by pale ghangly fingers, the antenneas of a distinguished photographer
who dons a raven-woven turtleneck, matched by sable argyle socks and stygian-framed glasses.
No inky blobs of sorrow, no ebony journal, no obsidian earings that frame a face of slate-dotted pupils.
Not even a starless night will droop from my fountain pen,
which will be
raw umber, asparagus, or thistle.
Classmate Response 2, Week 9
Free Entry 1 (Week 9)
This is a
rough first draft, critiques welcomed!
True Falsity
What makes someone love relentlessly?
Have them skirt past the reality of your actions
only believing the lies you told,
even though they know the hiding truth?
What makes someone hate relentlessly?
Focusing on the truth behind those actions,
those lies you told at the beginning,
even though they know the reasons why?
How do you get back there?
To that place where all was cliche,
sparkling red wine, deep maroon sunsets,
those images you were skirting like the plague?
How do you know those were there in the first place?
Did you make them up,
keeping yourself protected, fortressed in
by the fantasy of what could be?
True Falsity
What makes someone love relentlessly?
Have them skirt past the reality of your actions
only believing the lies you told,
even though they know the hiding truth?
What makes someone hate relentlessly?
Focusing on the truth behind those actions,
those lies you told at the beginning,
even though they know the reasons why?
How do you get back there?
To that place where all was cliche,
sparkling red wine, deep maroon sunsets,
those images you were skirting like the plague?
How do you know those were there in the first place?
Did you make them up,
keeping yourself protected, fortressed in
by the fantasy of what could be?
My response to Taylor:
There are a couple of things I like here. I like the questions...in the
beginning, you pair love with beleiving lies - an interesting way to uncover the
theme of love. hdig truth seems odd, I would think about the wording there. You
have a couple of recurrances, truth and skirting. The the hate comes in and the
poem becomes kind of circular, a "what came first, the lie or the reason behind
the lie?" this creatres interest and I think you can expand here if you wish.
What was this lie that has formed a wedge between these characters? How do you
get back there? I think this last stanza is the most powerful because the reader
senses the speaker's urge to go back to the naivity of the new relationship,
before she knew "the truth." May of us would claim that we are string and we
would stand up for ourselves and run form anything toxic, but "truth" be told
maybe what we want more is to just be ignorant again so we dont have to face the
pain. The circularity of the piece keeps going around, because then the reader
can think "was there ever a lie in the first place, or maybe it was the speaker
lying to herself/himself?" Really good for a first draft, I hope you keep
working on it!
Classmate Response 1, Week 9
Improving Wk 9
I am about
to try the 6 word stories... I don't know how well they are, but that is why it
is an improv post.
1. Silence watches the slowly sinking red van.
2. The hands withered under constant pressure.
3. Cold eyes glazes over the crash.
1. Silence watches the slowly sinking red van.
2. The hands withered under constant pressure.
3. Cold eyes glazes over the crash.
My response to Morgan:
I really like the first one becasue of the imagery and the questions the sentence
raises. Silence is a great word to use here because you wonder why it is so
quiet after a wreck. Is it a wreck? Maybe its a van beng carried away by a flood
and eveyone else is too busy trying to stay alive to notice..or there is so much
going on that these individual detaisl can only be noticed by the silence. Why
red? Is there anyone inside?
I think this is what a 6 word story aims to achieve -the ability for the reader to vsualize something as well as the ability to raise questions enough to keep the reader occupied long after the 6 words have been read.
In the second one I like the use of the word "withered" I tried doing to 6 word story as well and realized that a)its hard and b) you have to be veryprecise in the words that you choose.
In the third one, I like the cold eyes. But if were talking cars, I like the first one better.
Great attempt!
I think this is what a 6 word story aims to achieve -the ability for the reader to vsualize something as well as the ability to raise questions enough to keep the reader occupied long after the 6 words have been read.
In the second one I like the use of the word "withered" I tried doing to 6 word story as well and realized that a)its hard and b) you have to be veryprecise in the words that you choose.
In the third one, I like the cold eyes. But if were talking cars, I like the first one better.
Great attempt!
Friday, March 16, 2012
Junkyard Quote 1-4, Week 9
"Put that in your junkyard balls"
My husband, again waking up delirious from sleep saying something and thinking it was clever or funny enough to put in my junkyard. But what I thought was so funny is how he thought junkyard and balls somehow went together. The kids and I have this game we play where we wake him up and ask him random questions to which he always responds "yes." Daddy, can we adopt a racoon? "yes." Kinda sucky for him, the poor guy, but amusing for us!
"if you read as though/each word is a newborn, read for/the page as it's turning, history fails/like a memory stuttering its vowels."
Proxy, from Ghost season by Melanie Jordan
My mother's laugh in my waking life is harsh, the sound of pebbles being thrown against a metal garage door."
from "Waking Life" by Dionne Irving
"Red is the color of a, rushing into your first words, barbaric and without shame, stamped as it is on report cards and meat."
A from "Consolation Miracle" by Chad Davidson
My husband, again waking up delirious from sleep saying something and thinking it was clever or funny enough to put in my junkyard. But what I thought was so funny is how he thought junkyard and balls somehow went together. The kids and I have this game we play where we wake him up and ask him random questions to which he always responds "yes." Daddy, can we adopt a racoon? "yes." Kinda sucky for him, the poor guy, but amusing for us!
"if you read as though/each word is a newborn, read for/the page as it's turning, history fails/like a memory stuttering its vowels."
Proxy, from Ghost season by Melanie Jordan
My mother's laugh in my waking life is harsh, the sound of pebbles being thrown against a metal garage door."
from "Waking Life" by Dionne Irving
"Red is the color of a, rushing into your first words, barbaric and without shame, stamped as it is on report cards and meat."
A from "Consolation Miracle" by Chad Davidson
Monday, March 12, 2012
Classmate Response 2, Week 8
From Daniel's improv:
For this weeks improv. I decided to go back to another
piece i was working on and redo another improv, only with different skills.
Last time:
Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me.
Compositions, Pens light patchwork that covers the scars
always open. Wondering, do lights pierce
Translucent skin that's distant. Losing feeling
from these blood tipped pencils.
Writing will reconstruct me again. As it always has.
My update
Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me.
Parkers and Waterfords. Fallen trees covering these gashes
newly drained. Wondering, do writers pierce
their bodies when their ready. Spurting emotions
from these blood tipped pens.
Nature will reconstruct me. As the world already realizes
Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me.
Compositions, Pens light patchwork that covers the scars
always open. Wondering, do lights pierce
Translucent skin that's distant. Losing feeling
from these blood tipped pencils.
Writing will reconstruct me again. As it always has.
My update
Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me.
Parkers and Waterfords. Fallen trees covering these gashes
newly drained. Wondering, do writers pierce
their bodies when their ready. Spurting emotions
from these blood tipped pens.
Nature will reconstruct me. As the world already realizes
My response:
I remember this one! I have also attempted to start some
rewrites and it is not an easy task, trying to figure out what to keep, what to
trash, and what you really want to say the second (or third) time around, after
the initial “burst” of writing has taken place. I really like the change to
"parkers and waterfords" - it
is very specific. "Fallen trees covering these gashes newly drained"
is also beautifully written, in my opinion. The meter is in tune with the tone
of the piece. The question is a good one - "do writers pierce their bodies
when their ready?" But I think you mean they're as opposed to their?
Spurting emotions is much more rich both linguistically and visually, and the
change from “writing” to “nature” as a healer is very smart. Nature is the
healer, writing is the disease. :) "As the world already realizes" is
a little clunky on the tongue. I liked the first ending line better "As it
always has." So, if anything, I would keep the original or play with that
last line a little bit. I think this is a wonderful example of how a poem can
evolve in such a thoughtful way. I think professor Davidson is right, too, you
wouldn't look at this and see that it is an improv of another piece - it has a
life all its own.
Calisthenics, Week 8
I wanted to try the Synatax mimicry excercise on page 100 of our Poetry book.
"Take a poem you admire and copy it out, leaving blank all the major nouns, verbs and adjectives, but retaining all the syntax, punctuation, and line breaks."
And I drifted away from them, slow, on the pull of the river,
reluctant, looking back at their roost,
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those dwarfed transfiguring angels,
who flock to the side of the poisoned fox, the mud turtle,
crushed on the shoulder of the road,
who pray over the leaf-graves of the anonymous lost,
with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.
And I hurdled away from them, nimbly, on the eve of the twilight ,
agog, scanning their frowns,
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those plague-bearing badgers,
who bombard the obliques of trampled souls, the exposed youth,
toiling on the edge of a brighter day,
who crow over the intentions of the silently brilliant,
with hatred enough to break us all and steal our peace.
"Take a poem you admire and copy it out, leaving blank all the major nouns, verbs and adjectives, but retaining all the syntax, punctuation, and line breaks."
And I drifted away from them, slow, on the pull of the river,
reluctant, looking back at their roost,
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those dwarfed transfiguring angels,
who flock to the side of the poisoned fox, the mud turtle,
crushed on the shoulder of the road,
who pray over the leaf-graves of the anonymous lost,
with mercy enough to consume us all and give us wings.
And I hurdled away from them, nimbly, on the eve of the twilight ,
agog, scanning their frowns,
calling them what I'd never called them, what they are,
those plague-bearing badgers,
who bombard the obliques of trampled souls, the exposed youth,
toiling on the edge of a brighter day,
who crow over the intentions of the silently brilliant,
with hatred enough to break us all and steal our peace.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Junkyard Quote 4, Week 8
From the movie, "The Way" which I watched today. I liked the movie. This is the part where the travelers on Pilgrimage find Jack (James Nesbitt) is an Irish travel writer who when younger had desires to be great author like Yeats or Joyce but never wrote the novel he dreamed of. He is the last to join the quartet and has been suffering from "writer's block."
"This place is brimming with significance! Thats the problem with this whole damn road."
"Problem?"
"Metaphor, man. Your walking out all alone, and suddenly in the middle of nowhere,
you see a dogfight near a cheese farm. What does that dogfight mean? And despite its literalness, the idea of a pilgrims journey on this road is a metaphor bonanza. Friends, the road itself is amongst our oldest tropes. The high road and the low, the long and winding, the lonesome, the royal, the open road and the private. You have the road to hell, the Tobacco Road, the crooked, the straight and the narrow. There's the road stretching into infinity, bordered with lacy mists favored by senitmental poets. There's the more dignified road of Mr. Frost, and for Yanks, every four years, there's the road to the White House. Then you have the road which most concerns me today, the wrong road, which I fear I must surely have taken."
"This place is brimming with significance! Thats the problem with this whole damn road."
"Problem?"
"Metaphor, man. Your walking out all alone, and suddenly in the middle of nowhere,
you see a dogfight near a cheese farm. What does that dogfight mean? And despite its literalness, the idea of a pilgrims journey on this road is a metaphor bonanza. Friends, the road itself is amongst our oldest tropes. The high road and the low, the long and winding, the lonesome, the royal, the open road and the private. You have the road to hell, the Tobacco Road, the crooked, the straight and the narrow. There's the road stretching into infinity, bordered with lacy mists favored by senitmental poets. There's the more dignified road of Mr. Frost, and for Yanks, every four years, there's the road to the White House. Then you have the road which most concerns me today, the wrong road, which I fear I must surely have taken."
Friday, March 9, 2012
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 8
At the 1976 Montreux Jazz Festival, Nina Simone, who Janis admired greatly, commented on Joplin:
You know I made thirty-five albums, they bootlegged seventy. Oh, everybody took a chunk of me. And yesterday I went to see Janis Joplin's film here. And what distressed me the most, and I started to write a song about it, but I decided you weren't worthy. Because I figured that most of you are here for the festival. Anyway the point is it pained me to see how hard she worked. Because she got hooked into a thing, and it wasn't on drugs. She got hooked into a feeling and she played to corpses
Junkyard Quote 2, Week 8
"I ache for the beat of a drum and not just the pitter patter of a dull lifeless cavity."
A random line I scribbled on one my scratch papers.
A random line I scribbled on one my scratch papers.
Classmate Response 1, Week 8
In response to http://taylorboltz.blogspot.com/2012/03/calisthenics-entry-1-week-8.html
Cupcake Memory Wars
Flipping through the 500 plus channels
the screen stops on the Food Network,
where a panel of pastry judges gorge on twelve cupcakes.
Not red velvet or chocolate chip, but rather
pistachio with lemon meringue or devils food with rum and citrus.
I ponder the excitement felt by those three,
tasting the different combinations, the different themes wrapped
in tinfoil cups topped with witch hats and flying fondent monkeys.
But then I wonder about the two finalists and the depression
the sink into, like butter into batter,
the fact that they can't revel in the glorious melting or bitter crumbling
of these Cupcake Wars.
I remember the days where my mother and I
would sit and bake and watch these whisking battles.
Who can create the tastiest mini cake while also
keeping in mind the theme of the day. I ache to remember more,
to taste less dark chocolate of now
and more raspberry filling of before-
my cupcake memories burnt and washed out.
My response:
My daughter and I love to watch cupcake wars together, but I always hate the end where they make the two finalists hustle to build these diplays with 1000 cupcakes in 2 hours - they always look sloppy! Soo...anyway.... I think the subject of cupcake wars is very interesting, especially in the context of reversal becaseu you are literally dealing with "sweet" subject matter! In the beginning, I love the line "Not red velvet or chocolate chip, but rather pistachio with lemon meringue or devils food with rum and citrus." You nailed it here with specificity. I want one of both, please. :) Another powerful line is "the different themes wrapped in tinfoil cups topped with witch hats and flying fondent monkeys." Again, very specific, and the language is fun, having the thmes wrapped up in tinfoil cups verus the cupcakes. I will echo what Drika says as well, the "butter into batter" is very visual and another powerful line that stands on its own. The part that confuses me a litle is "the fact that they can't revel in the glorious melting or bitter crumbling of these Cupcake Wars." This can use more explanation...why can't they revel? Im not sure the idea is developed here fully and I think you can tweak it to have more impact and/or clearer meaning. And at the very end i like the line "I ache to remember more, to taste less dark chocolate of now and more raspberry filling of before" but again I get a little lost. Why is this memory turing sour? Did something happen between the mother and daughter? I can sense that something has gone awry but I have no idea why the speaker is so sad. Overall though, some very strong writing and imagery. Be more direct with your intentions in the end and this would be a great piece...imo
Cupcake Memory Wars
Flipping through the 500 plus channels
the screen stops on the Food Network,
where a panel of pastry judges gorge on twelve cupcakes.
Not red velvet or chocolate chip, but rather
pistachio with lemon meringue or devils food with rum and citrus.
I ponder the excitement felt by those three,
tasting the different combinations, the different themes wrapped
in tinfoil cups topped with witch hats and flying fondent monkeys.
But then I wonder about the two finalists and the depression
the sink into, like butter into batter,
the fact that they can't revel in the glorious melting or bitter crumbling
of these Cupcake Wars.
I remember the days where my mother and I
would sit and bake and watch these whisking battles.
Who can create the tastiest mini cake while also
keeping in mind the theme of the day. I ache to remember more,
to taste less dark chocolate of now
and more raspberry filling of before-
my cupcake memories burnt and washed out.
My response:
My daughter and I love to watch cupcake wars together, but I always hate the end where they make the two finalists hustle to build these diplays with 1000 cupcakes in 2 hours - they always look sloppy! Soo...anyway.... I think the subject of cupcake wars is very interesting, especially in the context of reversal becaseu you are literally dealing with "sweet" subject matter! In the beginning, I love the line "Not red velvet or chocolate chip, but rather pistachio with lemon meringue or devils food with rum and citrus." You nailed it here with specificity. I want one of both, please. :) Another powerful line is "the different themes wrapped in tinfoil cups topped with witch hats and flying fondent monkeys." Again, very specific, and the language is fun, having the thmes wrapped up in tinfoil cups verus the cupcakes. I will echo what Drika says as well, the "butter into batter" is very visual and another powerful line that stands on its own. The part that confuses me a litle is "the fact that they can't revel in the glorious melting or bitter crumbling of these Cupcake Wars." This can use more explanation...why can't they revel? Im not sure the idea is developed here fully and I think you can tweak it to have more impact and/or clearer meaning. And at the very end i like the line "I ache to remember more, to taste less dark chocolate of now and more raspberry filling of before" but again I get a little lost. Why is this memory turing sour? Did something happen between the mother and daughter? I can sense that something has gone awry but I have no idea why the speaker is so sad. Overall though, some very strong writing and imagery. Be more direct with your intentions in the end and this would be a great piece...imo
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Reading Response, Week 8
Bigfoot Stole My Wife
I love short opening lines that catch your attention. When you write that becomes a fundamental - teachers will tell you, even in scholarly writing, to always start with an "attention grabbing" sentence. "The problem is credibility" does that for me. it peeks my curiosity. And then to keep going with it , to continue and repeat the theme in the second sentence leaves my mouth watering. I am also drawn by the theme. In the very first paragraph I can't help but thinking of the time when I asked my mother if I told her, promised her, that Aliens visited me and no one else believed me, would she? Of course she said yes.
The way the second paragraph starts is where I start to have that tingly feeling - when subjects tell you that they've basically been paranoid for two years you start to get the feeling that you are in the midst of something strange going on. I love the way he admits to being too caught up in gambling to see the problem, but decides to remain completely oblivious to what the problem is! I gad to snicker at the signs of intrusion and the smell. I love how disconnected he is. I want to lie him, but he's a total shmuck. And then he defends himself by calling the world a bunch of cynics. Then, when we get to the story about the trailer being washed away I get that aha moment because he talks about something real happening that seems unlikely, like the "impossible possible" scenarios I pondered as a child and immediately thought of when starting to read this story. It's like the author read my mind. I like how, in the ending, the subject is telling us to believe. Believe in everything. Do not question, be blind in the faith of all words. he has to, because if not he will have to face reality - something he has been running from all his life.
I love short opening lines that catch your attention. When you write that becomes a fundamental - teachers will tell you, even in scholarly writing, to always start with an "attention grabbing" sentence. "The problem is credibility" does that for me. it peeks my curiosity. And then to keep going with it , to continue and repeat the theme in the second sentence leaves my mouth watering. I am also drawn by the theme. In the very first paragraph I can't help but thinking of the time when I asked my mother if I told her, promised her, that Aliens visited me and no one else believed me, would she? Of course she said yes.
The way the second paragraph starts is where I start to have that tingly feeling - when subjects tell you that they've basically been paranoid for two years you start to get the feeling that you are in the midst of something strange going on. I love the way he admits to being too caught up in gambling to see the problem, but decides to remain completely oblivious to what the problem is! I gad to snicker at the signs of intrusion and the smell. I love how disconnected he is. I want to lie him, but he's a total shmuck. And then he defends himself by calling the world a bunch of cynics. Then, when we get to the story about the trailer being washed away I get that aha moment because he talks about something real happening that seems unlikely, like the "impossible possible" scenarios I pondered as a child and immediately thought of when starting to read this story. It's like the author read my mind. I like how, in the ending, the subject is telling us to believe. Believe in everything. Do not question, be blind in the faith of all words. he has to, because if not he will have to face reality - something he has been running from all his life.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Improv, Week 8
I'm sure if I look hard enough this is improving something... work with me here. :)
"Don't read in the dark, it'll ruin your eyes" my mom always said in passing. I don't think she really gave a shit about my eyes since she never bothered to turn on a light. I think she said it out of some visceral motherly instinct to be bothered by whatever her mother was bothered by, because that would make her a good parent. That, and she was convinced that I was lying on the eye chart tests in school because she thought I wanted glasses and was purposely trying to destroy my eyesight. Which I was. Silly of me, though, because genetics would kick in just fine. I assumed it was genetics. My mother had great eyesight, stemming from captivating olive green and brown flecked eyes. She also had a loud infectious laugh, and a smile that could - and did - enchant most people she beamed it at. People would later tell me that I had her smile and her laugh...but I didn't have her eyes. My brother and sister did, but not me. I thought green eyes were supposed to be recessive. After third grade, when we learned about genetic possibilities through charts and graphs, exes and ohs, I was convinced my mother's genes were stronger than any man's because her green genes kicked the ass of my stepfathers black holes. I never met my father but I assumed many things. One: he must have terrible eyes. I would wonder if he had the same eyes as me, calm-sea eyes, boring and flat. Somewhere between gray and blue. I would stare into the mirror and will my eyes to sparkle, but they never did.
...just the start. Any input before I keep going?
"Don't read in the dark, it'll ruin your eyes" my mom always said in passing. I don't think she really gave a shit about my eyes since she never bothered to turn on a light. I think she said it out of some visceral motherly instinct to be bothered by whatever her mother was bothered by, because that would make her a good parent. That, and she was convinced that I was lying on the eye chart tests in school because she thought I wanted glasses and was purposely trying to destroy my eyesight. Which I was. Silly of me, though, because genetics would kick in just fine. I assumed it was genetics. My mother had great eyesight, stemming from captivating olive green and brown flecked eyes. She also had a loud infectious laugh, and a smile that could - and did - enchant most people she beamed it at. People would later tell me that I had her smile and her laugh...but I didn't have her eyes. My brother and sister did, but not me. I thought green eyes were supposed to be recessive. After third grade, when we learned about genetic possibilities through charts and graphs, exes and ohs, I was convinced my mother's genes were stronger than any man's because her green genes kicked the ass of my stepfathers black holes. I never met my father but I assumed many things. One: he must have terrible eyes. I would wonder if he had the same eyes as me, calm-sea eyes, boring and flat. Somewhere between gray and blue. I would stare into the mirror and will my eyes to sparkle, but they never did.
...just the start. Any input before I keep going?
Free Entry, Week 8
A Trip to Grandma's
She has mini-steps leading to the front door, granny. Little brick steps for her steps. Pulling the screen door that creaks white with old age, the hydraulic door closer shushes me as I enter, like a finger wagging a cautionary tale over my head. The door clasps shut, tight, with a click. It smells like pantry boxes of expired mac n' cheese, old clothes and plastic medicine bottles. The carpet in the living room is an old sea-foam green and white doilies abound. The couch has a Victorian pattern of overly-red roses and I remember how big the couch used to be when I was little. Now the roses seem bigger than the memories. Tchotchkes crowd the room, keeping granny company. Fake finches and painted styrofoam eggs nest the house as I search for their mother. On my way down the hall I pass "The Cat Room," appropriately titled as such by granny herself. Pictures of cats are everywhere; blanketing everything from the dresser to the bedding. She loves these animals dearly, but doesn't keep any of her own. Probably because she is getting too old. She had trouble stepping off her big-little steps last month and now she has to use a walker and go to physical therapy. Her spine is compressed and her medications numerous, but she still manages to go to work at the local library - the one with the dressed up ceramic pig in a flowery white hat that greets you at the door. Dear sweet granny, the life-long librarian. Fat and short, like a weeble-wobble. You know, those plastic toys that are weighted and rounded at the bottom? You can push them with your finger, but they don't fall down. They almost topple but then spring back to life in an instant of motivation, or instinct. I'm not sure which. Maybe both. As I enter her room, I see a lifetime of accumulation. Pictures of my mom when she was young. Pictures of my aunt and her first husband...and my aunt and her second husband. She's shoving cake into his mouth. Everything is brass. The bed frame, the picture frames, the clock on the wall. Cheap brass, sea-foam green carpet and a boxy television - so old it still has knobs on it. I look to the bed and see a book flipped carefully over, holding an important place open for granny to return to. It has a picture of a young lady on the front, all stuffy-dress and made of tea. She sits on a sofa that bears a rosy resemblance to the one in the living room. Out of boredom I grab the book, curious to see what sweet old ladies read. "...he takes her from behind, his member entering her forcefully as she bites down on his wrist." Eyes twitching, I place the book down exactly as I found it and escape back to the fake finches, who, with their beady black eyes will bear into my soul and know that I know.
I don't think I'll sit on that couch ever again.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Classmate Response 2, Week 7
Improv/Imitation Entry 1 (Week 7)
This is an improv off the concept that Katie Chaple used, the concept of taking something in the news and using it as a triggering subject: I read an article today about some sort of video taken by an iPhone of the Mayan pyramid which showed a light beam coming from the top.End of Days
A photo taken in seconds.
The quick click click captures
our end of days.
The stream of light emblazoned
in the memory of the iPhone 4.
Can the mesmerizing glitch symbolize our doom?
Now, photoshop dissects,
studies each pixel and the saturation sensor
wondering if their never failing software failed.
Meanwhile, the human race paces,
on the edge of their pyramids,
waiting to tumble off the edge
and watch ruins emerge from the lightbeams of Heaven.
Response:
What a cool piece!
"A photo taken in seconds" - how many things happen quickly, without serious thought, that nowadays becomes viral or vitally important. I like the "emblazoned light memorializing the iPhone 4." This part makes me feel like there could be something happening here with serious undertones but it all seems a little silly when your proof comes in the form of an iPhone.
Then you have people studying these images like Jesus burns on toast, trying to use math and statistics to determine reality - when the reality they should be focusing on goes unattended.
My favorite line is "Meanwhile the human race paces,/on the edge of their pyramids,/waiting to tumble off the edge/and watch ruins emerge from the lightbeams of Heaven."
For some reason this reminds me of the Meat Puppets song Plateau...
Improv 1, Week 7
This is just the beginning. I had read this article on Struck it Lucky (who is still very much alive) in my husband's ESPN magazine and I wanted to do something with it. I've been carting this damn article around for weeks, trying to make something happen. I was moved by David Bottom's poem "A Heron ont he Oconee" and although this is a loose improv, I liked the idea of decay, remembrence, and breaking a poem into parts. Chaple must have got it from him too, as she does it quite a bit in her book. Anyway, here goes:
Part 1.
A flag snaps in the breeze,
the maiden horse clad in navy blue Struck it Lucky.
The crowd, white and moneyed, wears Brooks Brothers and
Lilly Pulitzer.
Part II.
Injected with Lasix to control internal bleeding, front legs
wrapped
In neoprene ice packs, stuffed cotton balls in ears.
899 days of existence
amount to mud fever and grass sickness.
swelling, spraining, tearing,
breaking.
Part III.
Still, Stall 31 is exactly the same. A 14 x 14 room of cinderblock
and wood
A layer of straw on the floor, fresh water in a bucket
A bale of hay dangling outside its door. Struck It
Lucky
Nevermore.
random
What the hell is with all this hipster self-titling? Anyone who calls himself a hipster is obviously anything but...
annoying!!
annoying!!
Free Entry, Week 7
Pyramids
playing with shapes and patterns
like Euclid and his elements. Like Confucius,
who sees tradition in all things diamond-shaped and formed
like pentagons, squares and isosceles triangles held together
by religious glue and right angles. There is order and chaos
the battle over form and formlessness never concludes
mantras form clusters of stars that rise and swirl
like marble fudge batter
unbounded by a common recipie, hands broken free,
hitting the tongue like a gulp of sand.
playing with shapes and patterns
like Euclid and his elements. Like Confucius,
who sees tradition in all things diamond-shaped and formed
like pentagons, squares and isosceles triangles held together
by religious glue and right angles. There is order and chaos
the battle over form and formlessness never concludes
mantras form clusters of stars that rise and swirl
like marble fudge batter
unbounded by a common recipie, hands broken free,
hitting the tongue like a gulp of sand.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Classmate Response 1, Week 7
Calisthenics, Wk7
In class
on Thursday we did an assignment were a student was asked a bunch of random
questions about her childhood in Chicago and we as a class took down notes on
her answers, some were simple and some of her answers were completely out there.
From there we had to write a short draft with her answers and this is
mine:
The pegs are all knit into the rug as she tries to make another star-like pattern. The close space between the glowing pegs remind her of the short distance between her ghost town and the Wasco candy store, a yellow and not yet ripe orange color warming her hands. From behind she can feel the cat's sly eyes goring into her human frame. As she silently wishes for the cat to die by the cold tangled silver coils of a slinkey, she sister plunges a royal blue peg up into the unknown space of her nose.
The pegs are all knit into the rug as she tries to make another star-like pattern. The close space between the glowing pegs remind her of the short distance between her ghost town and the Wasco candy store, a yellow and not yet ripe orange color warming her hands. From behind she can feel the cat's sly eyes goring into her human frame. As she silently wishes for the cat to die by the cold tangled silver coils of a slinkey, she sister plunges a royal blue peg up into the unknown space of her nose.
Reading Response 1, Week 7
A Heron on the Oconee
1
Now on the Oconee, on this shallow elbow of quiet water,
the first moist sunlight seeps through the thicket,
and a heron streaked in feathered lightstrides out among the rocks.
Ruffled and muddy, it wobbles out into the river
and balances on sticks among the rocks,
utterly motionless among the rocks.
2
Near the end, the way my old man stared into the distance,
the way he leaned from his armchair
toward a window, elbow quivering on his walker,
and gazed through oak beanches into a broken sky,
is the way this heron, ruffled, muddy,
stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees.
-David Bottoms, from We Almost Disappear
I like how this poem is purposely split into sections. This is surprising because it is a calculated move that I would think would take some of the intrigue out of "figuring out" the poem. I had to stop and think about what a "shallow elbow of quiet water" looks like, and it reminded me of the time not too long ago where I watched a heron walk out of the woods into the shallow water behind my grandparent's backyard in Kentucky. Yes, I know this has no place in a critique, but it made me pick up the phone and call my grandparents. And language that calls you to action is a powerful thing. The first part, recalling the independant and strong heron and then later comparing the elbow of the water with the shaky elbows of his father was magestically tragic. I wonder if he had Alzheimers becasue of the last line, where this heron "stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees." Both images are serene, strong and silent...but for completely different reasons.
1
Now on the Oconee, on this shallow elbow of quiet water,
the first moist sunlight seeps through the thicket,
and a heron streaked in feathered lightstrides out among the rocks.
Ruffled and muddy, it wobbles out into the river
and balances on sticks among the rocks,
utterly motionless among the rocks.
2
Near the end, the way my old man stared into the distance,
the way he leaned from his armchair
toward a window, elbow quivering on his walker,
and gazed through oak beanches into a broken sky,
is the way this heron, ruffled, muddy,
stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees.
-David Bottoms, from We Almost Disappear
I like how this poem is purposely split into sections. This is surprising because it is a calculated move that I would think would take some of the intrigue out of "figuring out" the poem. I had to stop and think about what a "shallow elbow of quiet water" looks like, and it reminded me of the time not too long ago where I watched a heron walk out of the woods into the shallow water behind my grandparent's backyard in Kentucky. Yes, I know this has no place in a critique, but it made me pick up the phone and call my grandparents. And language that calls you to action is a powerful thing. The first part, recalling the independant and strong heron and then later comparing the elbow of the water with the shaky elbows of his father was magestically tragic. I wonder if he had Alzheimers becasue of the last line, where this heron "stares downriver at the water rippling into the trees." Both images are serene, strong and silent...but for completely different reasons.
Calisthenics 1, Week 7
From Taylor's interrogation
One half-hour outside retiree town, between not-yet-ripe orange lizards and tangled slinkies
The Lady Across the Street sells cereal and candy from behind the dusty counter of the corner store.
She squints and tries to bring the light-bright dreams of her youth back to life, like she did for that kitten just that one time -
holding a tangerine to the sky she imagines herself there, on a unknown planet. Planet Elgin,
where 9 year olds kids run the Dairy Queen and old ladies with pukish yellow skin play football.
One half-hour outside retiree town, between not-yet-ripe orange lizards and tangled slinkies
The Lady Across the Street sells cereal and candy from behind the dusty counter of the corner store.
She squints and tries to bring the light-bright dreams of her youth back to life, like she did for that kitten just that one time -
holding a tangerine to the sky she imagines herself there, on a unknown planet. Planet Elgin,
where 9 year olds kids run the Dairy Queen and old ladies with pukish yellow skin play football.
Junkyard Quote 1-4, Week 7
"Eight piggies in a row, Oh
Eight piggies in a row. Could they laugh? no no!
Could they cry? no no!
There were eight piggies in a row..."
- this is a song from one of Raffi's children's CDs that freaks me out.
"But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened
And that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so rough
You didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know"
-Gotye, Somebody that I used to know
"A fish hawk fell from a dead tree and thrashed the river,
clawing up another trout. I thought, sure,
to have tumbled so far
and finally to have reached a beginning."
-David Bottoms, Montana Wedding Day
"Turtles really have long legs,
But they don't stretch 'em out
Until its very late at night,
And then they run about,
Racin' over hill and field,
Until mornin' comes - and then
They curl 'em back inside their shells
And crawl around again."
-Shel Silverstein, The Truth About Turtles
Eight piggies in a row. Could they laugh? no no!
Could they cry? no no!
There were eight piggies in a row..."
- this is a song from one of Raffi's children's CDs that freaks me out.
"But you didn't have to cut me off
Make out like it never happened
And that we were nothing
And I don't even need your love
But you treat me like a stranger
And that feels so rough
You didn't have to stoop so low
Have your friends collect your records
And then change your number
I guess that I don't need that though
Now you're just somebody that I used to know"
-Gotye, Somebody that I used to know
"A fish hawk fell from a dead tree and thrashed the river,
clawing up another trout. I thought, sure,
to have tumbled so far
and finally to have reached a beginning."
-David Bottoms, Montana Wedding Day
"Turtles really have long legs,
But they don't stretch 'em out
Until its very late at night,
And then they run about,
Racin' over hill and field,
Until mornin' comes - and then
They curl 'em back inside their shells
And crawl around again."
-Shel Silverstein, The Truth About Turtles
Monday, February 27, 2012
untitled
sucking failure through
a Burger King straw
dripping fries
in ketchup tears
licking "what-ifs" from
the slowly sliding sides of
a soft-serve cone
while children scream and shout,
dragging grease and chicken nuggets
through plastic tubes
like maze rats.
Fake flame-broiled processed
thoughts on a bun
consumed, not absorbed.
Exhausted
like a mother of three
with no time
too much laundry
broke
and broken
by her own expectations.
a Burger King straw
dripping fries
in ketchup tears
licking "what-ifs" from
the slowly sliding sides of
a soft-serve cone
while children scream and shout,
dragging grease and chicken nuggets
through plastic tubes
like maze rats.
Fake flame-broiled processed
thoughts on a bun
consumed, not absorbed.
Exhausted
like a mother of three
with no time
too much laundry
broke
and broken
by her own expectations.
.
What is the point of words
running together like tired shoes
in a three-legged race?
Odd shoes, tied loose,
lose.
Tight words, like song birds,
fly.
Trains of thought
that run together
with no space
crash against one another
at the slightest brake
derailing progress
bursting into flame.
running together like tired shoes
in a three-legged race?
Odd shoes, tied loose,
lose.
Tight words, like song birds,
fly.
Trains of thought
that run together
with no space
crash against one another
at the slightest brake
derailing progress
bursting into flame.
Calisthenics 1, Week 6
Formandstructure
future
toher
fruit
beatntheair
beatthroughherhair
walkingonthemoon
kingonthemoon
wallofthekingonthemooninthehall
gone
one
sotheysayImwishingmydaysaway
soothsaw
othesawofteeth
thesusoflife
ifthesustanancecanhold
thetancancan
heta
meta
worldpeace
future
toher
fruit
beatntheair
beatthroughherhair
walkingonthemoon
kingonthemoon
wallofthekingonthemooninthehall
gone
one
sotheysayImwishingmydaysaway
soothsaw
othesawofteeth
thesusoflife
ifthesustanancecanhold
thetancancan
heta
meta
worldpeace
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Junkyard Quote 3, Week 6
"Mo Foster had a brain splat...mom, whats a brain splat?" - my daughter, reading over my shoulder. The little sneak.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Free Entry 1, Week 6
I wish I had a horse named Peppermint
back in the days of dust, leather,
and wooden signs
that smack back and forth in the wind-trails
left by me and my Peppermint
as we dash to and from town
on another adventure
fraught with coyotes
and canned beans.
A man who names his horse Peppermint
is not afraid of drink,
of gambling and a game of Liar's Dice.
He can wear the same clothes for months
and is not afraid of a gun
or the opportunity to use it.
Out there, under the stars,
playing a harmonica,
it is more comforting to have a lovely lady at your side
than a fearsome Thunderbolt or Apache.
When we ride into town
and I saddle up to the bar
I always order two shots,
one for her and one for me.
If I could trade places with my cowboy ancestor
I would visit a house of ill repute
and, when finished, sing in the outhouse
while a crack of light shines through a half-moon
cut out of the door
I would spit in a spitoon
and relish in the clang of my spurs
as they bite into the ground
and Peppermint's hide
as we ride off.
back in the days of dust, leather,
and wooden signs
that smack back and forth in the wind-trails
left by me and my Peppermint
as we dash to and from town
on another adventure
fraught with coyotes
and canned beans.
A man who names his horse Peppermint
is not afraid of drink,
of gambling and a game of Liar's Dice.
He can wear the same clothes for months
and is not afraid of a gun
or the opportunity to use it.
Out there, under the stars,
playing a harmonica,
it is more comforting to have a lovely lady at your side
than a fearsome Thunderbolt or Apache.
When we ride into town
and I saddle up to the bar
I always order two shots,
one for her and one for me.
If I could trade places with my cowboy ancestor
I would visit a house of ill repute
and, when finished, sing in the outhouse
while a crack of light shines through a half-moon
cut out of the door
I would spit in a spitoon
and relish in the clang of my spurs
as they bite into the ground
and Peppermint's hide
as we ride off.
Junkyard Quotes 1-2, Week 6
The laws of nature are but the mathematical thoughts of God.-Euclid
The most savage controversies are those about matters
as to which there is no good evidence either way.
-Bertrand Russel
Monday, February 20, 2012
Reading Response 1, Week 5
Pretty Little Rooms
The last paragraph is the most striking for me because I am facinated by the way Katie Chaple talks about how science can analyze the past in ways we never imagined. Similar stories abound of once unsolved mysteries being brought to light with the help of test tubes and beakers. And although the science is nice to have, I like how Katie Chaple wants to talk about the woman ...specifically, why no one is thinking of her as a person and asking more heartfelt questions about her. "They don't ask questions they don't know the answer to." But arent these "unasked" questions more interesting than the blunt truth of the discovery? I think so. Adn teh last line is brilliant "Whose body was not loved enough/ that her skull could travel like apebble,/could be used to punctuate the line of a man's body?" The imagery here, a woman's skull placed by the feet to punctuate the body !!! - the exclamation point seeming to yell "Figure me out! " Notice me! Look here! Care!
Just wonderful.
The last paragraph is the most striking for me because I am facinated by the way Katie Chaple talks about how science can analyze the past in ways we never imagined. Similar stories abound of once unsolved mysteries being brought to light with the help of test tubes and beakers. And although the science is nice to have, I like how Katie Chaple wants to talk about the woman ...specifically, why no one is thinking of her as a person and asking more heartfelt questions about her. "They don't ask questions they don't know the answer to." But arent these "unasked" questions more interesting than the blunt truth of the discovery? I think so. Adn teh last line is brilliant "Whose body was not loved enough/ that her skull could travel like apebble,/could be used to punctuate the line of a man's body?" The imagery here, a woman's skull placed by the feet to punctuate the body !!! - the exclamation point seeming to yell "Figure me out! " Notice me! Look here! Care!
Just wonderful.
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Love Story
Someone is prying my pelvis bone open
from the front
with a crow bar.
Punched from the inside, I breathe big
until the pressure releases.
I push my thumb into my ankle and watch
my thumbprint
slowly decompress
like a hand released from memory foam.
I carry three gallons of extra blood and water around
like Lipton tea.
When I walk my hips pop; I wish I could pop my legs off
and reattach them
like I used to do to my Barbie dolls.
My chest is a road map of blue veins that drive
into darkened areolas.
My head gets faint, and I can feel the pounding of my heart
against my eardrum.
Ritualistic sleeping: one pillow pressed up
against my back,
one
between my knees.
One
for my head,
one
for my arm.
Settle in, breathe. Shift, breathe.
Now I have to pee.
Get up, use the bathroom, lay back down.
Switch sides.
Rearrange pillows.
Sigh.
It feels as if my sides are going to rip
like the college-ruled paper torn
from my notebook.
My tongue, swollen and crinkled
like accordian bag bellows.
Sharp pain
Sweat patches
Metal mouth
Dry heaves
No whiskey
endless tea.
All for the love
of baby-to-be.
from the front
with a crow bar.
Punched from the inside, I breathe big
until the pressure releases.
I push my thumb into my ankle and watch
my thumbprint
slowly decompress
like a hand released from memory foam.
I carry three gallons of extra blood and water around
like Lipton tea.
When I walk my hips pop; I wish I could pop my legs off
and reattach them
like I used to do to my Barbie dolls.
My chest is a road map of blue veins that drive
into darkened areolas.
My head gets faint, and I can feel the pounding of my heart
against my eardrum.
Ritualistic sleeping: one pillow pressed up
against my back,
one
between my knees.
One
for my head,
one
for my arm.
Settle in, breathe. Shift, breathe.
Now I have to pee.
Get up, use the bathroom, lay back down.
Switch sides.
Rearrange pillows.
Sigh.
It feels as if my sides are going to rip
like the college-ruled paper torn
from my notebook.
My tongue, swollen and crinkled
like accordian bag bellows.
Sharp pain
Sweat patches
Metal mouth
Dry heaves
No whiskey
endless tea.
All for the love
of baby-to-be.
Free Entry 1, Week 5
Just the beginning of something I started awhile back... trying to get some of these ramblings into a form I can work with. Honestly i have no idea how Im going to use this...
Crab Fight
Have you ever seen a clan of Chilean Stone Crabs migrating?
The sea floor is covered with them, crawling along in their sidelong gait,
raking up the muck of the sea bed. Thousands at a time, inching sideways towards the other clan like
well-trained fencers preparing to duel. Uniformed in spiky orange combat gear,
they rear up, exposing hairy undersides, and clash like symbols in epic
proportions. The front lines form a momentous stalagmite as the battle for king
of the hill begins. Clambering, creeping, groveling, writhing, the skilled
crabs draw their claws like epee and descend upon their foes. One finds the
sweet spot in the other’s joint and makes a fatal plunge, popping the claw like
a rotisseur pops the joint of a chicken
leg. Recoiling, threshing, astute and bold, the king of the hill is
uncompromising.
Improv 2, Week 5
From Instructions, by Neil Gaiman, which can be found here. Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite contemporary authors. I love the mysticism in this piece, so I'm Improving it in my own way...
Instructions
Go out from the house, child, taking 127 paces South.
If you don't know where South is, that's okay.
Just spin around until you are dizzy. Then turn right.
Shut your eyes tight and count to ten. Open them. You should see
a skinny dirt path you never noticed before. Take it.
If you see an old crooked man with saucer ears,
small, square teeth and an eye patch -
Don't look away. Instead, look into his one good eye
and smile.
He may just give you the gift of a well-told story.
Go past the barren tree that twists like a unicorn's horn
but remember, as you pass, to say a prayer.
Take a bowl and place it on your head
and take a towel too. You can wrap it around yourself
or sit on it and have a picnic, if you wish.
Pay the Great Blue Moose a visit and give him clam chowder
if you have any. Pass the farm with six red chickens
and ring the bell at the edge of the gate. If you see the farmer,
tip your bowl-hat and say "How do you do?"
When you come to the edge of the forest, stop.
Bend down and grab a fistfull of grass. Blow it out of your hand
and sing "Yasha'el Maelin Katurna!" and pick up a rock.
This will protect you from the wicked things that eat children.
Do not be afraid when it gets dark. Listen to the purple nightingale,
who sings for you alone. Step carefully along the path and
watch out for creatures littler than you. When you get tired,
call out for the thee-eyed squirrel. His name is Daniel.
He will let you sleep in his treehouse if you use kind words.
In the morning, you will find yourself in your bed, cuddled up
with your favorite pillow and blanket.
Things will look the same. But you will be different.
Under your pillow you will find your magic rock.
Carry it with you
always.
Instructions
Go out from the house, child, taking 127 paces South.
If you don't know where South is, that's okay.
Just spin around until you are dizzy. Then turn right.
Shut your eyes tight and count to ten. Open them. You should see
a skinny dirt path you never noticed before. Take it.
If you see an old crooked man with saucer ears,
small, square teeth and an eye patch -
Don't look away. Instead, look into his one good eye
and smile.
He may just give you the gift of a well-told story.
Go past the barren tree that twists like a unicorn's horn
but remember, as you pass, to say a prayer.
Take a bowl and place it on your head
and take a towel too. You can wrap it around yourself
or sit on it and have a picnic, if you wish.
Pay the Great Blue Moose a visit and give him clam chowder
if you have any. Pass the farm with six red chickens
and ring the bell at the edge of the gate. If you see the farmer,
tip your bowl-hat and say "How do you do?"
When you come to the edge of the forest, stop.
Bend down and grab a fistfull of grass. Blow it out of your hand
and sing "Yasha'el Maelin Katurna!" and pick up a rock.
This will protect you from the wicked things that eat children.
Do not be afraid when it gets dark. Listen to the purple nightingale,
who sings for you alone. Step carefully along the path and
watch out for creatures littler than you. When you get tired,
call out for the thee-eyed squirrel. His name is Daniel.
He will let you sleep in his treehouse if you use kind words.
In the morning, you will find yourself in your bed, cuddled up
with your favorite pillow and blanket.
Things will look the same. But you will be different.
Under your pillow you will find your magic rock.
Carry it with you
always.
Improv 1, Week 5
I am Still Thinking about this Crow
I am still
thinking
about this
crow
that with its
pair of black scissors –
by two brisk
swishing sounds –
cut an aslant
arc
on the matte
paper of the sky
over the
toasted wheat farms
of the Yush
valley;
I am still
thinking
about this
crow
that facing
the nearby mountains
said something-
with its
lungs dry cawing-
that the
mountains echoed it, baffled,
for such a
long time
in their
rocky heads.
Sometimes I
ask myself that at high noon,
flying over
the toasted farms of wheat,
to cross over
a grove of poplars,
what that
crow –
a crow with
such stubbornly sable color,
with such
rigid, definite presence –
could have
said with such fury and bawl
to those old
mountains –
those slumbering
pious hermits –
that they, in
the midday of summer,
would repeat
it over and over
for such a
long time?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Classmate Response 2, Week 5
Response to Daniel's Improv. 1 Week 4
Pillbugs and night crawlers keep me soft and arable.
Beetles,ants,always scurrying through the capillaries
they've rebuilt. Lately, a mole
cricket riddles a network
of bores in my right forearm,
the ache in my wrist.
Earthworms will repair me in time. They always have.
My part:
Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me.
Compositions, Pens light patchwork that covers the scars
always open. Wondering, do lights pierce
Translucent skin that's distant. Losing feeling
from these blood tipped pencils.
Writing will reconstruct me again. As it always has.
My response:
"Coughing spurts of ink sustaining me."
[coughing spurts of ink, like blood, providing sustenance. Strong first line.]
"Compositions, Pens light patchwork that covers the scars"
[In the first piece beetles and ants are connected - they are both bugs. In the second piece, compositions and pens are connected but not really the same thing, and pens might not work as bandages as well as, say, "manuscripts" would. Also, "scars" are by definition, healed wounds. They are closed, not open,even though they are marks. Perhaps you can play with the word here, Maybe its a wound, gash, cut, trauma??]
"always open. Wondering, do lights pierce
Translucent skin that's distant.[? Sorry, I have this thing about punctuation!] Losing feeling
from these blood tipped pencils."
[Here I think an ink "pen" would tie the piece back to the beginning and reinforce the blood/ink reference, but i like the "loosing feeling," like the pencil is a finger that's losing blood form writing so much]
"Writing will reconstruct me again. As it always has."
[So true, isn't it?]
As always, I love your style. Thanks for sharing. I'm finding more and more that improving is really fun to do, and it's fun to read how other people reinterpret things.
Classmate Response 1, Week 5
In response to Beverly's Free Entry - Week 4 - A Memoir - Milking the Cow
I cannot believe I have to do something this low and demeaning. My best friend, Sandra, never has to do anything like this. I hope nobody I know drives by.
As I sat milking and feeling sorry for myself for being a farmer's daughter, the smell of freshly mown grass
permeated the air. Sukey shifted from one foot to another and gently swished her tail to swat flies from her undulating reddish-brown coat. Sweat beads built up and rolled down my face and the cleavage trapped in my bra. The bucket was almost full. Soon I'd be free to take a bath and scrub the cow tit smell from my hands for my date with Bob. I felt positive that he'd never ask me out again if he could see me in this embarrassing situation.
With no warning, Sukey's tail switched violently and caught in the wire mesh rollers in my hair, leaving half the rollers entangled in her coarse, smelly, shitty tail. Sukey was the victim of a huge horsefly bite. This event set off a chain reaction which included Sukey stepping in the brimming bucket of milk, thereby spilling its contents, my producing a near blood-curdling scream of total exasperation and frustration., followed by my mother dashing out the back door to see what was causing all the commotion.
"What happened?"
"That dumb old cow just jerked out my rollers with her gross tail, stepped in the bucket, and spilled the milk! This is so unfair!"
Mother thought the whole scene was hilarious and collapsed onto the grass in a fit of hysterics. Her infectious laughter broke down my defenses, and I too dissolved in tears and laughter. The absurdity of the situation provided much-needed levity and release from the mundane monotony of another day on the farm.
My response:
Hey Beverly!
I love the name of the horse and the tinny sound the milk makes when it hits the pail. I can hear it in my head. :) There are two suggestions I have. At the end I am struggling to find the revealed subject. There's a glimpse of one, shared between the girl and her mother...perhaps it could be strengthened? One of the questions I have is why is the character so embarrassed to be milking a cow on a farm? Why is it so terrible? If the story explains that emotion more I can share in that moment at the end when the daughter cries and laughs at the same time. Also, as I was reading I had an urge to put everything in the present tense. You might want to give that a try - telling the story as if it is happening, and not as if it already happened. That might make the "calamity of errors" with the horse and curlers work better as well because it will read faster.Just suggestions...
Thank you for posting. I loved the imagery of curlers stuck in a shitty horse tail too. That image is great!
Calisthenics 1, Week 5
"I hate American Idol. All those people parading themselves around, trying to make themselves into something big and not really doing anything to earn it. As if they are so great stardom should just fall into their laps."
"Didn't you take singing lessons?" Maggie yawns out, flipping the channels obsessively.
"And the ones that make it to the top...sure they might be quasi-talented, but their success is so veiled by manufactured pomp and circumstance..." (she spits the words "pomp" and "circumstance" out like sunflower seed shells on a dugout floor) "... It's a slap in the face of the art form. A total sham."
"Yea, but I luuuv Kelly Clarksons's new song" Maggie gushes. Just then, an unexpected piercing "beeeeeeeep" from the Emergency Broadcast System blares out its own tune.
"Didn't you take singing lessons?" Maggie yawns out, flipping the channels obsessively.
"And the ones that make it to the top...sure they might be quasi-talented, but their success is so veiled by manufactured pomp and circumstance..." (she spits the words "pomp" and "circumstance" out like sunflower seed shells on a dugout floor) "... It's a slap in the face of the art form. A total sham."
"Yea, but I luuuv Kelly Clarksons's new song" Maggie gushes. Just then, an unexpected piercing "beeeeeeeep" from the Emergency Broadcast System blares out its own tune.
Two of my favs
Neil Gaiman discusses Edgar Allan Poe
Some Strangeness in the Proportion: The Exquisite Beauties of Edgar Allan Poe.
Some Strangeness in the Proportion: The Exquisite Beauties of Edgar Allan Poe.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
theophany
n pl -nies
(Christian Religious Writings / Theology) Theol a
manifestation of a deity to man in a form that, though visible, is not
necessarily material
[from Late Latin theophania, from Late Greek
theophaneia, from theo- +
phainein to show]
theophanic [θɪəˈfænɪk],
theophanous adj
Random reading
"With he curious exception of ants, intraspecial warfare is seldom found. Where it has broken out, the species has usually destroyed itself."
-The World's Religions
-The World's Religions
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Junkyard Quotes 1-4, Week 5
#1. "I had a dream that Matt Dillon wanted to fight me." - my husband
#2. "Everyone at times finds himself or herself asking whether life is worthwhile, which amounts to asking whether, when the going gets rough, it makes sense to continue to live. Those who conclude that it does not make sense give up, if not once and for all by suicide, then piecemeal, by surrenduring daily to the encroaching desolation of the years." - The World's Religions by Huston Smith.
#3. "And I never wanted anything from you/except everything you had/and what was left after that too, oh" - The Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine.
#4. "In his wrinkeld white dress shirt and worn tweed coat, he's larger than his own circumstances - a mind bulging at its human seams. Professor Henderson steps toward him, trying to adjust the microphone on his lapel, and Taft remains still like a crocodile having its teeth cleaned by a bird."- The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason.
#2. "Everyone at times finds himself or herself asking whether life is worthwhile, which amounts to asking whether, when the going gets rough, it makes sense to continue to live. Those who conclude that it does not make sense give up, if not once and for all by suicide, then piecemeal, by surrenduring daily to the encroaching desolation of the years." - The World's Religions by Huston Smith.
#3. "And I never wanted anything from you/except everything you had/and what was left after that too, oh" - The Dog Days are Over by Florence and the Machine.
#4. "In his wrinkeld white dress shirt and worn tweed coat, he's larger than his own circumstances - a mind bulging at its human seams. Professor Henderson steps toward him, trying to adjust the microphone on his lapel, and Taft remains still like a crocodile having its teeth cleaned by a bird."- The Rule of Four by Ian Caldwell and Dustin Thomason.
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"in medias res", or "into the middle of things"; this describes a popular narrative technique of starting in the middle of a story, in the midst of action - not at the beginning. This is what I like about your piece. I feel like there is a backstory or something that happened before she lays pegs into the rug..perhaps we'll get to see what happened before this moment later in the piece if you continue working on it.