Calisthenics 1, Week 3

Free from Cliche's

The moon was beautifully full, and the stars shone like diamonds in the sky.

"The moon held high above the congregation, large and round as the Bishop's communion wafer. The stars flickered with anticipation like the reflection of the wine in the priest's eyes."

this is what I was getting at today...si o no?  

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 3

From Pretty Little Rooms...

"Charlie Chaplin enters a Charlie Chaplin Look-alike Contest



And comes in third."

p.16 - This is a great poem!

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 3

I was driving the kids to school this morning and we're having the usual conversations...I'm saying something like "Well you guys had a nice night's rest  - you think you're ready to face the day and do your best?" The kids reply affirmatively but I can see my son looks perplexed. He is troubled by something...

"Mom, I wish I knew who my cowboy ancestor was. I wonder if he had a horse named Peppermint."

Calisthenic Excercise 1, Week 2

Active Voice

The math problem was hard.

April shifts in her seat that feels like a rock, staring at the screen,trying to find the slope of the tangent to the curve y=8x squared at negative three and 72. She expands the equation, multiplies and cancels out what she can. Two times eight xh plus eight h-squared, all over h. She factors, cancels, divides. Her aching fingers replace the h with zero. 16x. She is so close. She substitutes x with negative three, triumphantly entering negative 48 in the box and gets...a wrong answer. Shit!  

Classmate Response 2, Week 2

This is in response to Daniel's entry which can be found in its entirety here.

Opening his mouth wide, he makes a sound like a tuba. {I picture his mouth like a tuba as well!}
With one hand he beats his chest twice to check for more gas. {I like that he beats his chest twice, its very specific and it makes me compare him to an animal in my mind. A filthy ape!}
He leans back in his booth, letting his feet slide out in front of him. {This is much better than the cliché of unbuttoning his pants or a belt. Love it!}
He eyes the five wrappers on his tray with a strange mixture of triumph and regret.

{So far I am drawn by your imagery. Very good.}


Funnily enough,{awkward beginning/word choice? } it doesn't look very different than it did about ten seconds ago. Clean glass looks the same as broken glass. {Interesting thought. I like it. } It's dark out; imagine the sky at night, then suddenly it's covered by white lines like a veins throughout a body.{Confusing and not much action here. Can you possibly talk about throwing a rock and it hitting the glass, or how you use whatever tool to break the glass? } Then little chunks of the sky fall to the ground. And if you look back at the spot your eyes were just fixed at, nothing seems to have changed.{I like this part too} That's what it looks like when you break into a store.{anti-climactic ending}

Everyone stopped talking as if someone had died. {I can imagine the hush falling over the room, good start. } The corners of about half the mouths in the room are climbing up their respective faces.{I like the imagery of the smiles climbing up faces } Everyone else's eyes are wide and bouncing around like billiard balls looking for the culprit. {“bouncing around like billiard balls” may be used elsewhere but I think it is fresh enough here. I like it anyway} Cam's eyes jump left and right. The corners of his mouth are trying not to cross the Red Sea of his cheeks {good! } too quickly. Finally, someone says something. "Seriously, who farted?"


I can see you have a knack for imagery; keep it up! Thanks for sharing!

Facebook status

The sexual position 69 is now 96. Due to the poor economy the price of eating out has gone up.

Classmate Response 1, Week 2

This is in response to Daniel's free entry which can be found here.

First and foremost, I love your poetry. Or writing. It suits my own personal style and so I really enjoy devouring it. I don’t have much to add in the way of suggesting improvements for the words or piece itself because I found myself enthralled by it. What I will say is that I think you need to work on developing a structure to your posted content. You need to control how the reader sees the words on the page - control the tempo, the flow, the lines, everything. It would be much more dramatic if it wasn’t so hard to read. This is how I would start…do you think it makes a difference?
“I’m trying to curb my reluctant enthusiasm to write because my words are never felt
Only heard for the diction that they aspire to be.
They say to be a poet is an ailment, in tune with nature’s voice.
So does that mean I’m sick?
Sick with withering ambitions
Because of vowels that don’t listen
To the consonants
And it becomes complicated, a clashing cacophony
When it should be blossoms that bloom blissfully…
Something like euphony.”

This is how I interpret your writing, and I hope you see the difference and added impact the structure lends to the piece. That’s what I’m trying to show anyway. I’d love to see you work out the structure and repost. Beautiful piece, thank you for sharing it

captcha

forado

a captcha phrase I had to enter to post a comment just now. I love it. I want to add an exclamation to the end and shout it out...


Forado!!

Reading Response 1, Week 2

I didn’t want to write about Abducted By Circumstance, mainly because I haven’t read all of it...I thought I would go to some of our other sources. I chose to respond to “Always Pears, Plums, Oranges” from the book 32 Poems by Katie Chaple. (page 8)

Always Pears, Plums, Oranges

We have the painters and poets to blame,

those artists’ dark still lifes, the halo of fruit surfacing

out of mahogany, the plumpness

of citrus and plum, glowing as though some great child

were within. The poets with pyramids

fo grapes, the sun of the orange,

then all those pears – the sliding hourglass

of a man’s hands, and, of course, the fall apples.

All in abundance. Then there, in the back, and extra,

like a jar of paperclips, a shadow is the banana-

for the bow of interest, for a little reality. A glimpse

of what isn’t rounded, f what isn’t easily picked,

doesn’t fit effortlessly in the hand. After all, how romantic

is its plunk into cereal? The slick slip of peel.

The red lips closing around the barrel. Easy

jokes: is that a banana in your pocket? Yes,

we have no bananas. A reminder of what’s hard

and unlikely. Where are the bananas?

There – a bunch, the curve

of an open, empty palm. 

Chaple starts off by blaming the artists and poets, which I think is a great start. Immediately I am thinking “why is she blaming artists and poets…especially when she IS a poet” you would think artists would revere other artists and sing them holy praises, but she takes a different approach so I want to keep reading. She talks about “The halo of fruit surfacing out of mahogany” – what great imagery. And it’s true. I have two still lifes in my kitchen that were handed down from my mother and I just love the way the fruit “glows” – and it is funny how these still lifes always seem to be painted on rich, dark mahogany surfaces. So I’m thinking this poem is about the cliché of art, how typical it is to see the triangular mound of grapes, the round apples, the typical pears and plums. It struck me that these usually have to be painted from afar because if you get really, really close you probably can’t tell one rounded thing from another. But you could have the tiniest fraction of a banana poking out and you would recognize it as a banana. Because it is different. And although these other majestic and romantic fruits may seem appealing, only the banana nourishes with potassium. It is unique… “A glimpse of what isn’t rounded, what isn’t easily picked.” Sometimes we have to look past the obvious to find the strength and beauty in all things, which may not always come easy. This is where the meaning of the poem starts to develop and change for me. “A reminder of what’s hard and unlikely.” I LOVE the description of a banana as unlikely. It works so perfectly – the word is off-center, unlikely itself to be used as a description and I just love it. “Where are the bananas? There – a bunch, the curve of an open, empty palm.” What a neat twist at the end, comparing them to fingers joined to a palm. I would have never described them that way. It seems obvious now, but she states the obvious in a way you are not expecting. This makes me think: In almost every culture, the image of an open palm conveys the same meaning: openness, listening,  a willingness to accept what is given. For some it can mean turing yourself over to a higher power. And it can also mean to be in the moment, to accept your hunger or emptiness in the same way you accept feeling full. This is a great place to end, giving the reader more to think about after the poem is done.

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 2

"A little Elvin Magic goes a long way..."

I saw this on the back of a truck barfing out noxious fumes along the 16 on my way home. I thought: I wish I had some elvin magic. Those clever little Keebler Elves. And it occured to me that if I did, that's exactly where I would put it - in a cookie. Not in some mystic lamp to be thrown into a sandy dessert, lost for thousands of years. But right in a cookie, where it surely belongs.

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 2

"Mommy, you have stretch marches on your tummy"

Blue in a Red State

This was the first little snippet I had written in years. It reminded me of how much I love writing and was the precedent for taking this class. I would love to hear any suggestions for improvement. It's not even close to being "there" but I'm not quite sure where to start..... the opening is particularly weak.  


          I am a living, breathing Southern-California “valley girl”, born and raised for 28 years in the San Fernando Valley. I have the characteristic blond hair and blue eyes; I love the beach and sushi. Even in my home state of California I thought myself to be a dying breed. After high school most of the people I met came from out of state, seeking the fame, fortune and glamorous life that Hollywood promised to all those that would love her. Waitresses were never waitresses – they were actresses. Customer Service reps were recording artists. And everyone you met had a scandalous celebrity story to tell. California was my home, though - I was no impostor. I was no visiting tourist. I was an insider, allowed to silently smirk at the foolhardy aspirations of these immigrants.

       I have elbowed my way through the squalid and litter-filled streets of Hollywood, stepping on her gum-stained stars past bands of spiky-haired teenage runaways costumed in leather jackets and Doc Martens. I have swaggered through the pristine, palm tree-lined streets of Beverly Hills, Prada bags in tow. I have enjoyed a Shakespearean play on an outdoor stage nestled in the Hollywood Hills, while choirs of California Towhees united in a chipper refrain. I have powwowed to the heavy bongo beats of Venice beach drum circles beside dreadlocked hippies burning woodsy patchouli incense. I have hiked through the Malibu shrubs, inching my way down the coastline just to find a perfectly secluded spot of beach on which to sip a local microbrew on a hot and windy summer day. I grew up tough, for in my neighborhood, amongst such beauty there was also a palpable sense of danger. I have lived by gangs, drug dealers and perverts. When I was 15 a drunken gang member named “T-Wack” found his way into my neighborhood and pointed a silver glock to my head, repeating “I don’t care, I’ll shoot you right now.” Those two minutes were the most terrifying moments of my existence.

            But it was this contrast that I came to love, for it symbolized the irony and hypocrisy embedded in a modern society. The juxtaposition of my surroundings helped to keep me grounded. I went to school with the rich kids and the poor kids. Beautiful art galleries housing expensive masterpieces were plagued with bums. I made great friends with differing racial backgrounds and religious beliefs. I learned very quickly to be tolerant of others and to grow a thick skin. I grew up in a tolerant state where smoking reefer was considered to be healthier than smoking cigarettes. It was a culture all its own: liberal, democratic, and (as Face book categorizes) “spiritual, not religious”. In many of the absurd situations I found myself experiencing, I never felt like an outsider. Like a chameleon, I could always change colors and adapt to my surroundings. Circled by family and friends, I never felt alone.

 

         Three years have passed. Me, my husband and our two children moved to Georgia for a job opportunity we couldn’t refuse. The South: land of peaches, grits, tornadoes, mosquitoes and shrimp. The South: religious, conservative and republican. We knew things would be different, but I don’t think we could fully prepare for the extreme culture shock. We could only hold tight to each other and brace ourselves for the impact. The first thing I missed was the food. No all-natural health food Trader Joes and Whole Foods markets. No Jack-In-The-Box. No authentic Thai food restaurants or half-priced sushi. No Baja-style carne asada dollar tacos. Sure there are restaurants in Georgia, but nothing that feels like…well, home. But those were superficial concerns, I told myself. What really made me feel like an outsider were the differences between the west-coast liberalism and decidedly southern conservatism. And I, once the proud native, can now relate to Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land. I find myself in a different place where people call me “Miss April.” I keep looking behind me to see who this “Miss April” is. I can’t seem to escape biscuits – they’re everywhere! I feel eyes boring into my back when I am out with my husband because I am white and he is Puerto Rican. It has taken me some time to understand the southern drawl that many Georgians speak with, and I can’t help wondering to myself if I sound strange to them…do I sound like an outsider? I try to make friends, but casual conversation turns acrid in my mouth when political and religious subjects come up, as they invariably will.
          

          One evening during a camping trip I was sitting around the campfire with some of the scout parents trying to make conversation. The pack leader reaches up to adjust the lantern and I can see a holstered gun on his belt. I asked him if it was loaded. He passionately exclaimed that he was exercising his second amendment right to bear arms and further explained that he had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. This made me extremely nervous around the boys. During that same evening the men were all talking about the Democratic Party and how horrible Obama’s administration was performing. I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. “I think you should all know that I am a Democrat and I support president Obama. I am in favor of Government oversight because history has shown us that large capitalist corporations will knowingly commit egregious acts that harm others and damage the environment to turn a profit. They cannot be trusted to regulate themselves.” Everyone went stiff. The fire crackled and spit in disdain while the crickets chirped like a group of frantic old gossiping knitters: “Did you hear that?” “Gasp!” “Oh my…”

          This is a very militaristic community and many have families serving in the armed forces. They believe their work is honorable, while I believe it to be ill-conceived. My eyes are flooded by pro-life and anti-gay bumper stickers. I want to trade in the country music and dirty south rap for my old alternative and hip-hop radio stations. I am a blue alien in a red state. Here, life is a steady, methodical and predictable stream. I try to relate, as it is in my nature to adapt to my surroundings, but there are many “laws” here that I will never be able to agree with.

          Yesterday evening, after I had given the kids their baths I caught myself saying: “Y’all need to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.” I stopped dead in my tracks, enough for the kids to notice. My five-year-old cocked her head sideways like a Labrador perking its ears up in anticipation: “What mommy?” I cracked a smile. “Nothing, sweethearts. You two need to brush your teeth and get ready for bed.”

                                                   Perhaps I can learn to love purple.

Super Long Free Entry, Week 2

Eggplant Parmesan

      I always start with the sauce. I work in my galley kitchen that is much too small, endlessly shuffling things around to make them work. “You have to start with a good base!” My father would say, so I pour an extra virgin, first-cold pressed olive oil into the large saucepan. I add the garlic. It doesn’t take long for the aroma to hit my nose and so I add olives, red pepper flakes and capers. I used to measure these things out, but I can eyeball the amounts now. After a minute I toss in the tomatoes and let them simmer over a low heat. As I watch the tomatoes boil and pop I think back to when we were kids and my brother accidently broke the needle on our record player. My dad looked at us and said “Just tell me the truth and no one will get hurt. I just want to know what happened.” I didn’t see my brother break the needle, but it must have been him, because I knew I didn’t do it. And I convinced my brother to fess up. I can remember telling him that it was always better to tell the truth – to accept responsibility. My brother, with his bouncy blonde curls, saw the truth in my eyes. Resolved to do the right thing he made his way into the other room to tell my dad the truth. Then I remember hunching over myself, clasping my hands to my ears so as to drown out the thunder of my brother being thrown against the walls of the house. I think that was the last time my brother ever told the truth.

       I stir the pot, adding basil, salt and pepper. I should mention that this is not my father’s recipe. Not entriely. I watched him make eggplant parmesan countless times but I never thought to ask him how to make the sauce. Maybe I always thought I could ask him later. Or that I could easily pick out a substitute from the myriad of choices at the local grocer. After all, it was just sauce. But I’ve never been able to find anything that comes close. His sauce was surprisingly sweet and oniony. The only trick I learned from him was one time in the kitchen; he took a palm full of sugar and added it to the sauce. “This is the secret ingredient!” he confided with a bursting smile.

                I open the cupboard to grab the bread crumbs, garlic powder and oregano. I mix them with some salt and pepper in a shallow glass bowl. I grab three eggs out of the fridge. My husband comes peeking in around the corner but he dare not cross the boundary into the kitchen. He is annoyed that all the cupboards are open and I’ve managed to use every pot and pan we own. My mom used to complain about the same thing when my dad cooked...

                I set up the second bowl of flour and I start arranging my assembly line. I hum to myself, anticipating the end result. The third bowl is for the egg wash that will help the flour and breadcrumbs stick to the eggplant. I crack the eggs into the bowl and as I whisk them into froth I remember my brother again. This time he is eight. My mom had picked me up from a friend’s house and as we turned the corner to our street we saw fire trucks and flashing lights. My best friend was running down the street towards us, tears flinging back into her jet-black hair. “It’s your brother” was all my mom said.  Matter-of-fact. I remember seeing him in the hospital. His eyes looked like shiny hard boiled eggs resting on top of his head they were so swollen. His skull was a cracked egg running from his eye all the way to the back of his head. He had more than 200 staples holding his brains in.  The first words out of his mouth: “Is dad mad at me for breaking my skateboard?”

                I’m ready to fry the eggplant. I move from bowl to bowl, dredging then dripping the eggplant slices as I continue to sing. This is when my father was happiest too, in the kitchen. He would scat jibberishly jazzy tunes and make up lyrics to songs he didn’t know, occasionally snapping his hands down and across like a lounge singer impersonating Sinatra or Manilow.  He really was quite talented. I remember one time when he helped me make a lagoon scene for a story we had read in 5^th grade. He molded dolphins out of clay for me. They were beautiful.

                I always watch the eggplant fry and it always takes too long. I have no patience. Dad always seemed to enjoy this part – the waiting. When he wasn’t a snarling monster he was s slow animal taking in the moment. I crowd as many slices into the pan as I can making sure to cook them until tender and well-browned on both sides. As I set them to drain on a paper towel I notice that one of the eggplant’s bread-crumb crusts has cracked and split away, exposing the flesh. It reminds me of the terrifying crack in my dad’s tongue that would open up like the San Andreas fault when he folded it under his clenched teeth - when he was about to strike.

                I combine 2 pounds of whole milk ricotta cheese, ½ cup of Parmigiano, 2 eggs, basil, salt and pepper to taste. I preheat the oven to 350. I hear the phone ring. I grab the large buttered baking dish my mother handed down to me – the same dish that has cooked this meal a hundred times before. I have my eggplant, ricotta mixture, tomato sauce and shredded mozzarella cheese.  Layers. Always layers. Sauce, eggplant, ricotta, mozzarella. Repeat.  I finish the top with a handful of Parmigiano. I slide it into the oven and wait.

“April”

“Yes dad?”

“You have to do something about your brother.”

A flash of anger.

“I can’t dad. I’m a mom now. I have my own family and my own problems. I want to help him but I can’t!”

He knows I am going to hang up.

“Wait April, don’t hang up. I’m sorry. Just tell me you’ll try to look after him. Don’t be angry with me. I love you. ”

“Ok. I love you too dad.”

                The dish comes out great, bubbling hot and nicely browned. It looks splendid. I take it to my family who are sitting together at the table. I cherish the first bite, but something isn’t quite right. Some people don’t get lucky enough to have “I love you” be the last words they say to someone. But if I could go back and change anything...anything at all, I would have asked my dad to tell me how to make his sauce.  

lingering calisthenic excercise

This is yet another attempt at defamiliarization.

Same topic.

When researching  maggots (because I’m not that creative!)

I ran across a few odd ways that maggots are used.

For instance, I didn’t know that they are a very popular bait for catching fish.

Or that they were used in antiquity as a medical procedure for cleaning out dead tissue from festering wounds.

Forensic entomologists also use them to date or recognize the time of death on recently deceased humans or animals.

Interesting, no?  

 

 

 Untitled

Attracting fish.

They are the hunted now, on the hook

Ice fishing bait

In an ironic twist of fate

To be dissected, sold for profit

Thrown into the swim

An Anglers best friend

 

 

Used in a small wounds,

Controlled and sterile -

Disinfected to resemble shiny medical tools,  

sucking necrotic tissue from pressure ulcers,

leaving living tissue pure

‘safe and effective.’

 

Approximating time of death,

Essential in dating corpses.

These recorders arrive promptly by noon -

conceived directly on their food;

useless after 80 hours.

Past Tense

I walked out of my room to find that our dog had shat on the floor.

Its funny to use the proper past tense for a word like shit.


- I had this scribbled down along with verb tense. Then I started looking up English terms for correct usage of verbs... the present tense, the past tense, the present perfect tense, the future tense, alternative future constructions.

Improv 1, Week 2

For my improv piece I wanted to emulate the ideas found in both “Under the Vulture Tree” and “Ode to the Maggot.” Both poems were able to defamiliarize their subjects and also were quite successful in making these “gross” things appear ethereal or divine. I have taken the subject of the maggot and tried to so the same in my own way – by comparing it to a Hindu yogi.

“Ode To The Yogi Maggot”

Stillness at first

Still from far away.

Twisting their bodies into pretzel shapes,

Look closer and you will see

wispy-haired Yogis on their paths to enlightenment.

Abstaining from worldly pleasures,

approaching their work in the spirit of love,

every bite a sacred ritual, fulfilled as a sacrifice

to God’s Glory.

Mystics, these are - Sramana,

Owning:

no house

no property

no sons

no cattle.

eating only what is given,

committing no sin.

Meditating over their work, peaceful, detached,

living in their heads, one with the Earth.

Uniting the spirit of the dead with their God that lies concealed

In the deepest recess of decay.

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 2

Viscid comes from the Latin word for mistletoe, visc. Mistletoe was used to make a sticky paste to trap birds called birdlime. It is clearly also related to the word "viscous."

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 2

                          Lateralus

"Black then white are all I see in my infancy.
red and yellow then came to be, reaching out to me.
lets me see.
As below, so above and beyond, I imagine
drawn beyond the lines of reason.
Push the envelope. Watch it bend.

Over thinking, over analyzing separates the body from the mind.
Withering my intuition, missing opportunities and I must
Feed my will to feel my moment drawing way outside the lines."

Tool. Lateralus (2001)

 

I didn't know that this song was connected to the Fibonacci sequence until I stumbled upon this video tonight, which I found to be enticing... perhaps I will take on of my musings and change it to follow the same sequence...

Also, Tool rocks and Fibonacci is a cool word.

If I am

If I am to bear a cross
it will be a Celtic cross.
Broken and chipped at the corners

There are writers’ writers, of course, and M. John Harrison is one of those. He moves elegantly, passionately, from genre to genre, his prose lucent and wise, his stories published as sf or as fantasy, as horror or as mainstream fiction. In each playing field, he wins awards, and makes it look so easy. His prose is deceptively simple, each word considered and placed where it can sink deepest and do the most damage.

Classmate Response 2, Week 1

This is in response to Drika's excercise that can be found here.


"Tell: Her boyfriend left her and broke her heart.

Show: The ashen pieces float away on the wind, and out of her life just like him. The fire blazes when it touches the cologne drenched bear, destroying the last shrine to him. That is those that could be destroyed."


I think some of the words here may be a bit abstract. Ashen pieces of what? Can you expand on that image? I can picture a cologne-drenched bear ablaze - but its not really in any setting, the bear is just kind of floating around in space burning. Is she in her living room or backyard? Try to set the scene for our internal cameras and I think this will work much better.

One of the best scenes ever...From Tombstone

Curly Bill: [takes a bill with Wyatt's signature from a customer and throws it on the faro table] Wyatt Earp, huh? I heard of you.
Ike Clanton: Listen, Mr. Kansas Law Dog. Law don't go around here. Savvy?
Wyatt Earp: I'm retired.
Curly Bill: Good. That's real good.
Ike Clanton: Yeah, that's good, Mr. Law Dog, 'cause law don't go around here.
Wyatt Earp: I heard you the first time.
[flips a card]
Wyatt Earp: Winner to the King, five hundred dollars.
Curly Bill: Shut up, Ike.
Johnny Ringo: [Ringo steps up to Doc] And you must be Doc Holliday.
Doc Holliday: That's the rumor.
Johnny Ringo: You retired too?
Doc Holliday: Not me. I'm in my prime.
Johnny Ringo: Yeah, you look it.
Doc Holliday: And you must be Ringo. Look, darling, Johnny Ringo. The deadliest pistoleer since Wild Bill, they say. What do you think, darling? Should I hate him?
Kate: You don't even know him.
Doc Holliday: Yes, but there's just something about him. Something around the eyes, I don't know, reminds me of... me. No. I'm sure of it, I hate him.
Wyatt Earp: [to Ringo] He's drunk.
Doc Holliday: In vino veritas.
["In wine is truth" meaning: "When I'm drinking, I speak my mind"]
Johnny Ringo: Age quod agis.
["Do what you do" meaning: "Do what you do best"]
Doc Holliday: Credat Judaeus apella, non ego.
["The Jew Apella may believe it, not I" meaning: "I don't believe drinking is what I do best."]
Johnny Ringo: [pats his gun] Eventus stultorum magister.
["Events are the teachers of fools" meaning: "Fools have to learn by experience"]
Doc Holliday: [gives a Cheshire cat smile] In pace requiescat.
["Rest in peace" meaning: "It's your funeral!"]
Tombstone Marshal Fred White: Come on boys. We don't want any trouble in here. Not in any language.
Doc Holliday: Evidently Mr. Ringo's an educated man. Now I really hate him.

Boredom

I wanted to do another take on show and tell, but with a different twist. Can you "show" without describing anything?

Tell:
The girl was bored.

Show:
Sigh. Open book. Read.
Close book. Get up. Go to the computer.
Sit. Check email. Stand.
Nothing new.
Stretch. Yawn. Walk to the kitchen.
Open the fridge. Grab nothing. Back to the couch.

  

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 1

Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma?
I've seen those English dramas too
They're cruel
So if there's any other way
To spell the word
It's fine with me, with me

Why would you speak to me that way
Especially when I always said that I
Haven't got the words for you
All your diction dripping with disdain
Through the pain
I always tell the truth

-Vampire Weekend

Calisthenics 1, Week 1

Tell: Maddie's boyfriend left her and broke her heart.

Show:
Maddie sits in a threadbare recliner - the one that, until this morning, used to sit next to the loveseat across the room. Now it sits by the bay window facing the abandoned street. The wind rushes and colored leaves whirl about wrapped in a pre-winter chill. Her knees are bent high to her chest, pinning her pear-green chenille throw to her body for comfort. She's thinking. While Maddie thinks, her big toe instinctively pokes out of a hole in the bottom left corner of the throw. It feels good; familiar. She watches her toe circle 'round and 'round, sortof like he used to twirl his fingers through her curls. She holds a tissue in her right hand, a half-empty glass of $9.99 Barefoot Chardonnay in her left. The bottle is on the kitchen counter with an oval "SALE" sticker on the front, slightly covering the cute little footprint logo, which annoys her. She brings the wine glass to her lips. She looks down now, through her swollen eyes, through the glass past the stem, to the cover of a book obtrusively perched on the wooden table next to her.
She rolls the glass left, then right, watching the letters of the title warp and sway:
"How to love yourself without him."
The "him" is in bold italics.
She reaches to the table, past the book.
Pulling the last tissue from the tissue box, the scraping sound echoes like teeth on a fork throughout the idle house.    

Degenerate

Mr.Staples (math instructor) "So what is your major?"
Me: "Computer Science"
Mr. Staples: "What do you want to do?"
Me: "I want to make video games"
Mr. Staples: "Oh, so you want to contribute to the degeneration of society?"


....


old people

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 1

"Experements have shown that even monkeys will work longer and harder to discover what is on the other side of a trapdoor than they will for either food or sex."

Smith, Huston. The World's Religions. New York : Harper-Collins, 1991. 20. Print.

Artifacts

One night at my favorite bar
I swooned over the lead singer
of a jammy-band, full of funk
just my style.
I told this fellow that he should let me sing -
that the band needed a woman's touch.
My touch would do him some good.
He said "To be a great artist,
one must be able to sing about anything."
He produced two quarters
and set them on the corner of the bar
in a sloppy puddle of spilt Newcastle.
I was thirsty.
"Sing about these two quarters."
I wanted to tell him to drop dead
so I could stick those quarters over his gleaming eyes
and send him straight to hell.
Instead I said nothing; a defeated fool.
For years I have contemplated that moment,
and what I could have said -
what I should have said.
Sometimes in the shower I sing about two quarters.

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 1

"Paper Bag" - Fionna Apple

I was staring at the sky, just looking for a star
To pray on, or wish on, or something like that
I was having a sweet fix of a daydream of a boy
Whose reality I knew, was a hopeless to be had
But then the dove of hope began its downward slope
And I believed for a moment that my chances
Were approaching to be grabbed
But as it came down near, so did a weary tear
I thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag

Hunger hurts, and I want him so bad, oh it kills
'Cause I know I'm a mess he don't wanna clean up
I got to fold 'cause these hands are too shaky to hold
Hunger hurts, but starving works, when it costs too much to love

And I went crazy again today, looking for a strand to climb
Looking for a little hope
Baby said he couldn't stay, wouldn't put his lips to mine,
And a fail to kiss is a fail to cope
I said, 'Honey, I don't feel so good, don't feel justified
Come on put a little love here in my void,' he said
'It's all in your head,' and I said, 'So's everything'
But he didn't get it I thought he was a man
But he was just a little boy

Morning walk

This morning the sky was my favorite shades of blue. Alternating dark blue and florescent blue; so bright in places it punches your eyes awake. Clouds passing over the moon like a warning in a poorly-written novel. We talk, the three of us and our scroungy pup, of the day. We talk of the possibilities beholden in the beginning of anything - and I am feeling confident.  As we pass the double rod-iron gate it swings open, and a car pulls up. We hear crying. Sobbing.  Grief? Lament? We do not know, but this woman is in deep pain and shaken to the core. It’s the kind of utter sadness that immediately infects those around it, enveloping them in the early morning darkness that just held promises moment ago. It strikes me that such an event is the way of life, a gate swings open and brings hope; that same gate closes to trap another in despair. I hope she is okay; perhaps her driving up the steep hill means there is hope in ascension. Or maybe she’s just going home…

I kiss my daughter on the forehead, my son on the cheek. He won’t let me kiss his lips anymore. One day he will cry this way, but today is not that day.    

Titles

I am the 98^th percentile child in reading and science, the leadership award winner of wasted talent.

perspicacious

Having keen mental perception and understanding; discerning.

from Latin, meaning "sharpness of sight."

I am a human bean

One of the best things about water is when you put ice cubes in it, it doesn’t get all watery.

Angel. An everyday word without a rhyme.

Free Entry 1, Week 1

I am a serious writer.  I have my special spot, speckled with interesting things to look at. Things that make me interesting.  My hand- painted Celtic cross, for example, which reminds me that I am artistic. I have a ring. Ring? Hold on, it’s my mom. I have to get that. Ok. Where was I? God that woman is crazy. Was I really born from her? She can say the strangest things sometimes. Oh yes. Writing.  My work! I have a nice spot by the window where I can look out and see the thump.  Thump? What are these kids doing now? I’ll be right back.

Ok. I’ve successfully moderated the lego fight. God I hate stepping on legos. Now back to the business at hand.  I had this interesting idea involving flow theory. I like the way that concept…flows? I’ll need to look flow up in the thesaurus, see if I can’t fix that...too redundant.  I also like the word “autotelic” – how interesting. Automatic. Teller. Automated teller. Like those canisters that shoot up and down the tubes in place of conversation at my bank. Back and forth, back and forth. I like watching them shoot around. If I had more money, or more to deposit, I would do that three times a day. Drive up to the drive-through just to watch those canisters shoot up, down and…yes? I know honey, but mommy’s doing homework. Can you make yourself a bologna sandwich? Already had one? Open the door, I don’t like it when you talk to me through the door.  Have you eaten an apple? You have? What about those peanut butter crackers you like. No? You want something hot? Okay. I’ll be right there. Let me just click save.   

Classmate Response 1, Week 1

Response to Free Entry 1, Week 1 by Osayame Gaius: E-Journal - ENGL 2060  

Whilst revisiting an earlier post, "Junkyard Quote 1-2, Week 1", my mind drifted to a lyric/poem that has been lurking in its recesses. Below is my first attempt to expose it.

I told Suzie I loved her,
She said "Shut up!
Just lie here,
and hold my hand."

So,
we kept floating.
Floating in a sea of light.
Floating in a sea of light.

We looked to our left,
and saw several mute angels;
stupefied.

We imagined them singing:
"They are floating,
Floating in a sea of light,
They are floating in a sea of light."

When we finally stopped,
no longer fading,
I looked over to her,
and parted my lips.
She inserted a pill,
and said,
"Don't make promises you can't keep."

So,
we kept on floating.
Floating in a sea of light.
Floating in that glorious sea of light.

I like the first stanza for two reasons. First, for the juxtaposition of the opening term "love" followed by "shut up." Secondly, I like the use of short, monosyllabic words - they punch the reader and tell them that this isn't going to be a typical love poem and made me feel like I needed to shut up and hold on for the ride. Think later, but for now just read.

"Floating in a sea of light" seems a little used. Perhaps you can expand on that more. Is the light colored? Does it have a temperature? What words can you use besides "float?" I like the idea but perhaps the reader can be given more specifics here to really feel this sea...

I like the line "Don't make promises you can't keep" and that stanza also has a good feel. Again, maybe you can think of a more specific way to describe "fading" as it seems a little abstract. At first I thought it was fading from the sexual afterglow, but then after the mention of the bill I am thinking that the ecstasy wore off or something... so I like the way I was almost "tricked" there. I also remember a similar situation I had many years ago. I stayed up all night talking to this guy and we were so involved in the moment that we gushed our life stories to each other and somehow admitted that we loved each other and that possibly we were each other's soul mates. After the "buzz" was gone we didn't even exchange numbers. Was it really just drugs making us feel that way, or were the drugs trying to tell us something we refused to give into once "real life" took hold again? Interesting thought to ponder...

This is my first response so I hope that a) it helps you and b) this is what we are supposed to be doing!

See you in class.
-April

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 1

“Eleven. I made eleven passes in a row. I don’t know how much money Sonny won, but it was a lot. He would always say that the working man was a sucker, and I was going to the best school in the world, the University of Belmont Avenue, and that I was getting two educations: one from the street, and one from school. That way, I’d be twice as smart as everybody.”  

De Niro, Robert, dir. A Bronx Tale. Home Box Office (HBO) Home Video, 1993. Film. <http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0106489/>.

Practice free entry

So yesterday I am telling my 6 yr. old daughter Brooke about how I committed the "dark abyss" in class during our calisthenics. Today she was reading me "Go Dog Go" by Dr. Seuss and she said (in a markedly adult way) "See now here's a problem...this line says 'the yellow sun!' We already know the sun is yellow, so they should have just cut that part out!"

This makes me proud :-)  

Practice junkyard quote

Taken from my facebook page, for starters...

"As human beings, we are endowed with freedom of choice, and we cannot shuffle off our responsibility upon the shoulders of God or nature. We must shoulder it ourselves. It is our responsibility."
~ Arnold J. Toynbee

"When you judge another, you do not define them, you define yourself." Wayne Dyer

"You have to grab your American Dream. They're not just handing them out anymore." -me.