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.

.

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.

Calisthenics 1, Week 6

Formandstructure
future
toher
fruit
beatntheair
beatthroughherhair
walkingonthemoon
kingonthemoon
wallofthekingonthemooninthehall
gone
one
sotheysayImwishingmydaysaway
soothsaw
othesawofteeth
thesusoflife
ifthesustanancecanhold
thetancancan
heta
meta
worldpeace

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

   

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?

 I am still thinking about this Dream

I am still thinking

about this dream

In the hospital room

faded yellow wallpaper 

and red roses.

Light coming from behind me

I see him

taken by God's twisted

sense of purpose. No!

This cant be right...

Losing my mind faster

than I can regain

my motor skills.

I see his face

all the years flash

by much too fast

This can't be happening.

A black sound grows louder in my head

and starts to swallow the room

from the outside edges inward.

I am still thinking about this dream 

but I can feel my feet.

Startled awake by fear

eyes clamped shut.

Thank God, it wasn't real.

I can wake up.

Take a deep breath

Open your eyes...

Faded yellow wallpaper

and red roses.

    

Classmate Response 2, Week 5

Response to Daniel's Improv. 1 Week 4

The piece im imitating is Ben Grimm in Retirement. Its located on pg 27 of the Writing Poetry textbook. I'm going to recreate the 4th stanza which goes like this:

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

     One hot, humid July afternoon in 1965, I squatted unhappily beside Sukey, our cow.  As the first squirts of milk fell, making a tinny sound in the metal bucket, my thoughts flowed as freely as Sukey's milk.
     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.   

Two of my favs

Neil Gaiman discusses Edgar Allan Poe
Some Strangeness in the Proportion: The Exquisite Beauties of Edgar Allan Poe.

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

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.

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 4

random text from my friend Desiree

"You HAVE to youtube "turtle sex" they make the FUNNIEST NOISES!!
5:50 PM"

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 4

"Bless you, man who made the first taco!"

Free Entry, Week 4

This was me just writing. I thought the story was going to be about one thing but it ended up taking on a life of its own. Would be interested in your responses - is it interesting to read? Do you think it is a good excercise in writing and leave it at that, or something I should devote more time to revising/making better?

                                                                               Altar 

When Pardon the Interruption replays on ESPN her husband snores. She doesn’t watch much television, but she always keeps the noise on in the background for him in case he wakes up. Spurred by the thoughts of her creative writing teacher, June had gone to the library with her daughter earlier and borrowed some audibooks on CD.  Now she could listen to the classics instead of ESPN.  She takes the CD and presses play. Some milky-voiced narrator reads while a jazzy tune, probably named something like “Sax in the Night” whines in the background. June had always wanted to read the classics. As it was, she loved curling up with her half-collection of Franklin Library books. They were leather-bound and puffy, lined with impressive 24 karat gold-leafed pages. Each book had its own silk placeholder sewn into the top binding and sent shivers up her spine when she folded the bookmarks over and rubbed them as she read.  When she opened them and inhaled deeply, the books smelled 47 - no -  67 years old. She loved the idea of reading them but never had any time. She just carted them around everywhere. She had taken them when her father died, and no one had objected. They knew she loved those books more than the rest of the family combined. She also took the best bookshelf in the whole wide world. Made of cherry wood, it stood about nine feet. When she was a little girl full of daydreams she would stand in front of it and stretch her arms way out. That was how wide it was, and the only way she had ever measured it. It was a simple design. Simple and good. Square, nothing fancy. You can’t find good old-fashioned, hand-crafted, American-made bookshelves anymore. Nowadays it’s all Ikea and Ashley’s Furniture. She thought to herself “particle board had destroyed America.”

                The bookshelf had a cupboard on the left that opened up like a refrigerator, and was about 2 shelves high. When she opened it there were mysteries of years placed slightly out of reach  - old 35mm film, loose rolls of undeveloped film that had expired, and projector slides. Rectangular boxes of slides with the words “Kodak” in yellow sprayed all about. They were mostly of her, when she was a little girl, making mud pies most likely. Old-fashioned flashbulbs and light detectors that were alien and fascinating in her palms peppered the slide boxes.  And games. The old role-playing board games with tons of tiny multi-colored squares of paper, each of which stood for something - probably different types of potions and weapons. One box was royal blue and had a picture of a barbarian on the front holding a club. Another one in a plastic case had something to do with vampires. 221B Baker Street was her favorite. It was a Sherlock Homes who-dunnit game. 

Then there was the hutch. It was right above the cupboard and folded outwards and down to form a shelf just perfect enough to pour a drink on. For as many years as she could remember there was always a bottle of undrunk Brandy in that hutch. It just had to be there, she guessed. Some things just have to be where they are.  The magnets that held the hutch closed were very strong, even after all these years,  and it always took her two tries to open it. Above and to the side of the hutch were the main shelves, the dividers spaced-out just oddly enough to be perfect. That is where the collections lived. The Classics, of course.  Half of them.  Also books on the best museums in the world. Books about fairies, wizards, knights and dragons. Among the collections lived artifacts, like her favorite lead dragon that stood magnificently tiny on the shelf like a powerful chess piece. It usually hung out right next to the generic, apple-green colored leaf-shaped bowl that had a matching lid (which usually covered fragments of old cigars and roaches from smoked joints). When June was in Junior High she discovered she had become quite popular for letting the other boys from the neighborhood come to her house and plunder its contents.

There was a ballerina too who stood about a foot tall. She was a bronze figurine who sat upon a wooden chest, hunched over, always looking down at her shoes, ribbons untied. She was beautiful and mysterious and despondent.  June had always wanted to ask the ballerina what was wrong and give her a hug. Also, she had always wondered why the ballerina belonged to her father – did he trap her there?  Why oh why didn’t June ever ask him?  She recalled her first year in the “gifted magnet” program when the class had read The Indian in the Cupboard. After the class had finished they were given an assignment to write a short story. The assignment was to pick something from home, a plastic doll or other such toy, and make it come to life like the Indian in the cupboard did. June can’t remember what the story was about but she remembers taking the assignment very seriously. And Mrs. Solomon had noticed, telling her mother she had a talented writer in the family. And Mrs. Solomon did not hand out compliments easily. In fact, she didn’t think that Mrs. Solomon cared much for her at all, which made the compliment all the more meaningful.  It was the first time she had really felt talented at anything except being pretty, which wasn’t really a talent at all. And so she wrote. But, she had treated this love just like everything else she had ever loved, finding fault with it however she could and eventually destroying it.  

Despite herself, and in her newest surge of self-fulfillment,  June has returned to this love and she can’t keep the stories straight now. The one about a sitcom. The racing horse. Eggplant parmesan. Fencing crabs. Stories swirl around her as she desperately tries to pin them down. She writes.  

June forgot all about the CD playing in the background. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “This side of Paradise.”  It was published in 1920 and was, according to the back cover, “considered daring an intellectual in its day.” This was no doubt the line that prompted her to take the story home in the first place. She had also picked up Hemingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea.” She restarts the audiobook from Chapter One.  She thinks about the family who is lucky enough to have that bookcase now, the ones who probably paid 100 bucks for her storage unit when she couldn’t afford that month’s rent and lost her bookcase forever. She hopes it has a good home and wonders if it still has some magic left in it. Maybe, somewhere, it is enchanting another little girl. Or maybe it has been long forgotten, covered by the heap of some garbage dump to decay painfully over time. 

Junkyard Quote 2, Week 4

Always do sober what you said you'd do drunk. That will teach you to keep your mouth shut.
Ernest Hemingway




Read more: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/e/ernest_hemingway.html#ixzz1lx4TFAiq

Calisthenics 2, Week 4

Litany - Thanks

To my left hand, with its royal blue smudges all along the pinky,
I thank you
And to static electricity, for making good use of a balloon,
I thank you too.
Thank you, thank you, to the plastic multicolored supersoaker
and to Michael Jackson's anti-gravity shoes
Gracias.
I give thanks to the almighty coin-changer
that replaces my need for thought with exact change,
and rolling wheels on luggage when I go to baggage claim.

Calisthenics 1, Week 4

Twisting a Cliche

You are as sweet
as honey
trapped in a bottle
forgotten
on the top shelf
of my pantry

Junkyard Quote 1, Week 4

from my Brookie. I get so much from her, I think her insight and sense of humor are great.
Today...

"Mom, I want to be the very last one to leave the library so I don't have to whisper."

Reading Response 1, Week 3

My Father’s Love Letters

On Fridays he’d open a can of Jax
After coming home from the mill,
& ask me to write a letter to my mother
Who sent postcards of desert flowers
Taller than men. He would beg,
Promising to never beat her
Again. Somehow I was happy
She had gone, & sometimes wanted
To slip in a reminder, how Mary Lou
Williams’ “Polka Dots & Moonbeams”
Never made the swelling go down.
His carpenter's apron always bulged
With old nails, a claw hammer
Looped at his side & extension cords
Coiled around his feet.
Words rolled from under the pressure
Of my ballpoint: Love,
Baby, Honey, Please.
We sat in the quiet brutality
Of voltage meters & pipe threaders,
Lost between sentences . . .
The gleam of a five-pound wedge
On the concrete floor
Pulled a sunset
Through the doorway of his toolshed.
I wondered if she laughed
& held them over a gas burner.
My father could only sign
His name, but he'd look at blueprints
& say how many bricks
Formed each wall. This man,
Who stole roses & hyacinth
For his yard, would stand there
With eyes closed & fists balled,
Laboring over a simple word, almost
Redeemed by what he tried to say.

Yusef Komunyakaa

from The Pleasure Dome: New and Selected Poems. Bridgeport, CT: Wesleyan UP, 2001.

My response:
Right from the opening line and the can of "Jax" I can already get a feel for this father. He drinks canned beer, so most likely all he cares about is the buzz the beer will bring him. He is no connoisseur. I like how the mother sends postcards of flowers "bigger than men." I think it is her way of telling her son that she is happy and surrounded by beautiful things. Things bigger and better than any man. Somehow he was happy his mother had gone, which shows us that the son was compassionate enough to realize that his mother was better off away from him; from them. Although I've never heard the song "Polka Dots & Moonbeams," we all agreed in class that the title alone sounded like a way for her to escape after she had been abused. It also reminded me of the scene in Girl, Interrupted when Daisy plays that dreadfully happy song and commits suicide near the end of the movie. Words like "claw hammer" and images of coiling extension cords are animalistic and viscious terms to use to represent the father. And all he can manage to say to try to get his wife back are the pathetically generic things like "baby, honey, please..." I also like the juxtaposition of the term "quiet brutality." We don't ususally picture brutality as "quiet," but it works. Some of the most brutal moments are awkward silences brought on by uncomfortable moments. Towards the end we get a glimpse of redemption and start to feel sorry fo the father...but not quite. "Almost."      

Classmate Response 2, Week 3

In response to : David's Free Entry
"Is this show still on?" She took her seat next to him on the old couch.
"Apparently. Man, I used to watch this all the time." His eyes weren't focused; he wasn't really watching the TV.
Pulling him out of his daydream, she leaned onto his shoulder.
"Remember the time someone said I reminded them of Sheldon?"
"Yeah, they're crazy. There's no way anyone could be like him."
"I guess it sort of makes sense, though. I think a lot."
"Not like him. He's neurotic, and I like being around you. He's the kind of person I think I'd only like on TV."
"Are you saying that if I acted like him, you wouldn't like me?"
He turned his head to the window. It's a normal day outside, the sun's heat was reaching the Earth as usual. She's not testing me is she? That's not like her. But she is a girl, I should pick my answer carefully, he thought.
"... Pretty much." He smiled a shy smile, and his eyes were less than confident in that answer.

Neither of them paid the show much mind. Her eyes looked at the screen while she watched the memories of past conversations about how she was or wasn't like Sheldon.
He had already seen this episode. Sometimes he would mouth a line before a character said it.

After a pause.
"Was that the right answer?"
She laughed. She smiled, and scooted closer to him.
Oh thank God. He thought.

I think this is a good start.

What I like: The concept. I have one in my head about American Idol and How I met Your Mother.I've been meaning to get them down...

I like the introduction and how normal the couple appears. It reminds me that with good writing, people can be regular people and the story can still be interesting. The "tone meter" is right in the middle. I also like the line about how he looks out the wondow and the sun's heat "reaching the Earth as usual." I thoght I was about to run into a cliche but the character just brushes it off as a mundane thing which gives the reader a little more insight into the character. Personally, I liked the timing and the length.

What can be improved: I want to know more about the particular episode and the possible parallels between the character on tv and the girl in real life. If you inject more descritions of the show  think it would round out the story nicely. Just my opinion!

Thanks for sharing :)

Junkyard Quote 4, Week 3

When asked, "Should one love one's enemy, those who do us harm?" Confucius replied, "By no means. Answer hatred with justice, and love with benevolence. Otherwise you would waste your benevolence."

-from The Worlds Religions, by Huston Smith.

Classmate Response 1, Week 3

This is in response to Taylor's Free Entry for this week, entitled The Fish.
The Fish can be found here.

I just HAD to comment on this! This piece has everything we have been talking about in class. You broke down all the littlest of details to be found in a swim meet and made it personal and exciting. I liked reading this for many reasons, but one of them was that I felt like as a normal outsider, I got a peak inside this swim world. What it feels like to compete, to have those nervous mothers in the stands that "love you no matter what," or just "want you to have fun" but secretely and lovingly want you to win. I have no idea how many times you have written/rewritten this piece but it defiitely showcases your effort! Some of my favorite lines "The loudspeaker blares with the words of my turn." The whole part about the bubbles, "Gliding under the water/withthe streamline of a Kingfisher./My feet greet like old friends/before I can think."

There were only two things that made me think twice - in the 3rd stanza you write "Searchign the water/I find the perfect place/to land my ship." This part kinds threw me off because you were already on the plank of the ship, about to jump off - not steering it. Maybe I am taking your metaphors too seriously, but it just threw me for a sec.

The other part was at the end of that same stanza when you say "The gap between me and her closing." The gap between her and I? she and I? Me and her doesnt sound right.

Other than that, again, I want to say that I think this is really an awesome poem. Oh...one more thing. I alos liked how you opened each stanza with one word that moves along the sequence of the poem. I think it was very well done.

Thanks for posting!!

untitled

Two swiftly floating souls left unattended fly...
only to fall like crisped leaves when cruel sun scorches sky.
I want the moon to kiss my face, and freeze my heart in place.
Oh Moon! Oh blesséd, dashing moon! Not to be tortured
by the incompatible number two.
I tempt the wine with drunken heart, laughing at my desires
just as medieval boys do to the slowly tortured upon wooded, splintered stages,
for all the world to see.
And what a show it is.

I know its prosy and abstract and genrally not very good, but I still like it...I suppose because it's mine.

Junkyard Quote 3, Week 3

My daughter discovering capers in the fridge...

"Mom, why do you have salted fish eyes in a jar? "

Free Entry 1, Week 3

ALL THE DIVINE LORDS

In Karachi, Pakistan, there is no talk of a dying religion.

Frankincense and Sandalwood preside over a ceremony rich with fire.

A child, made to be a man, dons a long white robe and is tying the Zoroastrian sacred cord.

This kushti, made of 72 threads symbolizing the 72 chapters of the Yasna,

which the boy wraps around himself three times to symbolize

Good thoughts, words and deeds.

He will wear this cord all his days,

Tying and untying as he recites his prayers.

His father, a psychologist by trade, forgets the details of the day and travels back into tradition.

His is training his son to become a priest, and so the boy must understand his history.

This great religion of the Persian Empire dwindled from 40 million to but a fraction of the power that once was - a power that once governed the greatest Persian Kings.

In 100 years this may all be lost, swept away like sands from a dessert over a thousand years.

The boy and his father fight the extinction of their faith.

These corded men, who belt themselves upon a moral life, weighing the good against the bad – stacking deeds like the counting blocks of a child…

The meaning of the language used in many formal prayers has been lost, yet the faith remains fixed in what endures.

Can a word still hold significance if the meaning is lost? Ahura Mazda cries “Yes!”

This Holy Scripture, a fixture; the most sacred of ornaments that decorate rituals.

Worshipping the good spirits through sacrifice and praise, haoma juices mixed with milk and herbs flow like the scriptures themselves from the mouths of the father and son.

The boy has been told many times,

Avesta – the scripture-

Usually translated to mean “command,” or “knowledge,” or simply “law.”

Divided into four:

The Yasna, Visparad, Yashts, and the Venidad,

He knows that the Yasna contains the Gathas, and are thought to be the true words of Zarathustra The Great Prophet.

The Gathas is the primary source of knowledge,

the well of which to drink and become full

Or to become flame, as in the consecrated fire that burns in the boy's chest,

yearning to repeat the words his heart knows so well.

He recites them from memory, alone with his father, and they are both proud.

The Visparad contains poetic invocations, praises and sacrifices to All the Divine Lords.

In a modern setting the idea of sacrifice as a form of worship seems strange

But he is not a student that takes the bus to school today. Today he is a prince of Ancient Persia, reciting the Visparad during the Six Holy Days of Obligation.

In the Yashta lie hymns of praise to twenty-one divinities

And one wonders, why aren’t there more?

Have the new ones been forgotten before the books can be rewritten?

Can one be blinded from the present by reciting the past?

Or can it be that there are no more human heroes, no more guardian spirits left

in the world of man?

The boy bows his head and thinks of the angels while Fravashis swirl about him, the guardian spirits, protecting their young priest.

The boy thinks of the Vendidad, which tells the story of creation. The story of the primeval flood. He is thankful for Zarathustra, thankful for the divine law.

As he reflects his hands instinctively reach to his belt.

He is fascinated by tradition, knowing that the words he recites today were spoken by Zarathustra himself.

He recalls the stories his father etched into his memory:

The invasions of Alexander the Great tearing through the canon of the Avesta and leaving little behind.

Islam, too, while proclaiming peace, sought to end the faith by suppressing their temples

And burning their scriptures.

What remained was fixed in the memory of the priests, passed down from ancient times to what has become rooted firmly in the boy’s mind. No one can burn his mind.

As the boy’s thoughts fill with the slightest feeling of disdain for those who would destroy his faith,

His training endures and the boy moves to recite The Call of Zarathustra,

A passage used as prayer, a call for divine help to destroy the powers of deceit,

promoting peace and truth.

“Give us your aid in abundance!” he cries,

Returning his gaze to the fire. Always returning to the fire,

The ultimate symbol of purity.

There is always a choice between good and evil.

And the boy hopes that, when his body lies bound on a tower of silence,

‘clothed with the light of heaven, and beholding the sun,’

Secured by his feet and hair,

after the birds and dogs have torn away his flesh

And only his bones remain

That the judgment of his soul on Chinvat bridge

where his deeds will be weighed

will allow his soul to ascend into heaven.

Whistle Pig

noun (Chiefly Appalachian)

 

a woodchuck.

 

Bet you didn't know that groundhogs couldbe called Whistle Pigs!

 

Happy Groundhog Day! Here's to the coming of spring!