I am writing this post mainly because I'm putting off homework, but also because I felt like it would be a nice night to write and clear the cobwebs out of my brain.
I realized (I'm doing this "realization" thing quite often this week) that I really like to think about something before I say it. Writing, however, is a different story. Let me give you an example.
We had a simple task in speech class: tell a story about a personal example of miscommunication. Yeah, I knew it was easy, but I kept drawing blanks because I was over-analyzing. "I could tell this story, but..." or "Perhaps this wasn't miscommunication as much as it was..." etc., etc. until eventually I nearly drove myself mad and said whatever came to mind at the very last minute. I'm fairly sure this happens daily for me. Honestly, even when someone says "Hello, how are you", I say "Good, how are you?" but I'm thinking "Well, I'm not really good (well), but this is what most people say" and "How am I today? I have no idea, really. A little tired, ticked off at my teacher, happy because I can crunch leaves, thinking about the past (what do I even feel about that?), slightly worried about this or that" ... and the thoughts go on. I don't necessarily think this is a bad trait to have, but when I'm put on the spot I freeze.
Anywho, this interesting phenomenon makes me a slightly reckless writer. I can sit down and write and write and write and not care what I'm writing or why I'm writing. I just like to write :) Ironically, most of my deep thoughts come to me when I'm writing, not when I'm vocal. Weird.
Speaking of deep thoughts. This blows my mind. I was looking back at some old pictures and happened upon a sympathy card from Hurst freshman year. When I looked at the handwriting, I thought that it seemed a bit too familiar. I realized, with a bit of a start, that my current handwriting is very, very similar to his. When I say similar, I mean that my handwriting could perhaps be mistaken for his. Yet another ridiculous aspect of myself to add to the rather large pile of Hurst influence. I may forever be looking at my life critically, wondering what part of me Hurst hasn't affected. Last night I was talking about freshman year with a friend and realized that telling people about that time is embarrassing to me and tends to create notions that I don't want to create. So I lie. Nothing huge or scandalous, but I do lie. What can you do?
Admiration. Contemplation. Procrastination.
All right. Homework calls :)
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Place Essay
About the fabulous Arbuckle Acres...just the first paragraph of my essay :)
On a cold day, the brown-tinged muck of a river is silent, droopily reclining in a bed littered with glass and cigarettes and crawdads. The trees around my bench are forlorn and still, housing twittering birds and perhaps rabid squirrels gnawing away at acorns. Brown grass freckles the dirt, limply bent from little feet. My bench, however, is a throne. One of the only old ones left after the Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, my bench is spattered in blood-red paint. The sections that have been chipped away are deep brown, reliable, stained with age and rain. Pens, sharpies, pencils and knives have scratched away to my bench’s core, leaving remnants of teenage romances, remembrances of happier days when Sheila loved Tom and Sara loved Bobby. Spewed around the hearts are words that rebellious adolescents have etched on my bench while giggling and sneering, pointing out the deed to their impressed friends. Here and there droppings have landed on my red bulls-eye bench, and I carefully find a spot that is not littered with gifts from the birds. Securely bolted to a square cement foundation, I know my bench is going nowhere. Why would it be moved, anyway? The view is a picture. The trees are a fortress to my left and right, thick white oaks rooted deep. Below me winds the river that continues to exist despite decades of careless men who throw their beer cans into the copper water. Across the river stand leftovers of a once enormous forest, paved for foot trails and a neighborhood further back. Most days I see the marathon runners and the frustrated wives toting hyperactive children who are always several yards ahead, old couples who attempt to enjoy the scenery and one another, angsty pubescent boys and girls whose anxious faux-confident voices carry across the river to my bench, a lone walker with her dog, a tired man in a suit who needs a vacation. Above me the clouds loll against a smoky blue sky. I sit, listening to the voices of strangers and the scamper of rabid squirrels, feeling the chilled planks of my bench even with a coat on, tasting the copper water in the air, smelling the earthy greenness of the park. I sit, because this is my bench.
On a cold day, the brown-tinged muck of a river is silent, droopily reclining in a bed littered with glass and cigarettes and crawdads. The trees around my bench are forlorn and still, housing twittering birds and perhaps rabid squirrels gnawing away at acorns. Brown grass freckles the dirt, limply bent from little feet. My bench, however, is a throne. One of the only old ones left after the Parks Department decided to beautify Arbuckle Acres, my bench is spattered in blood-red paint. The sections that have been chipped away are deep brown, reliable, stained with age and rain. Pens, sharpies, pencils and knives have scratched away to my bench’s core, leaving remnants of teenage romances, remembrances of happier days when Sheila loved Tom and Sara loved Bobby. Spewed around the hearts are words that rebellious adolescents have etched on my bench while giggling and sneering, pointing out the deed to their impressed friends. Here and there droppings have landed on my red bulls-eye bench, and I carefully find a spot that is not littered with gifts from the birds. Securely bolted to a square cement foundation, I know my bench is going nowhere. Why would it be moved, anyway? The view is a picture. The trees are a fortress to my left and right, thick white oaks rooted deep. Below me winds the river that continues to exist despite decades of careless men who throw their beer cans into the copper water. Across the river stand leftovers of a once enormous forest, paved for foot trails and a neighborhood further back. Most days I see the marathon runners and the frustrated wives toting hyperactive children who are always several yards ahead, old couples who attempt to enjoy the scenery and one another, angsty pubescent boys and girls whose anxious faux-confident voices carry across the river to my bench, a lone walker with her dog, a tired man in a suit who needs a vacation. Above me the clouds loll against a smoky blue sky. I sit, listening to the voices of strangers and the scamper of rabid squirrels, feeling the chilled planks of my bench even with a coat on, tasting the copper water in the air, smelling the earthy greenness of the park. I sit, because this is my bench.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Fade
Did some hard-core revising all weekend...most of my poems have changed. This one seemed to be the favorite of a few of my classmates, it was the baby of one of my other poems, about an old friend (true story with quite a bit of fiction added in :D) Here it is, hope you like!
Fade
Curls, a snarled knot of sleep, and
shaky hands smoothing the tangles as
I watch from the frame of your bedroom.
Fading blaze of the stars and a
breath of frost as
hushed gruff voices order you to pack.
Drawers groaning, zippers and velcro,
my low moans.
Your boyish back,
swaddled in a white t-shirt, a hole at
the collar.
Badges gleaming from pockets,
I had no choice.
Ziploc bags from my kitchen,
white powder.
Stooped shoulders and you turn around,
their hands on your elbows.
Steps, the muffled heartbeat of
bare feet on carpet.
Your head down, I reach to
loosen a tangle you forgot;
my tears hit your hair.
Fingers beneath your chin, I
lift to see your pale eyes,
my pale eyes.
Sneering teeth rear back and
spit in my face.
Shrinking, cringing, as they
heave you into the night.
Red and blue cascade on the walls and
then black.
My son is gone.
Fade
Curls, a snarled knot of sleep, and
shaky hands smoothing the tangles as
I watch from the frame of your bedroom.
Fading blaze of the stars and a
breath of frost as
hushed gruff voices order you to pack.
Drawers groaning, zippers and velcro,
my low moans.
Your boyish back,
swaddled in a white t-shirt, a hole at
the collar.
Badges gleaming from pockets,
I had no choice.
Ziploc bags from my kitchen,
white powder.
Stooped shoulders and you turn around,
their hands on your elbows.
Steps, the muffled heartbeat of
bare feet on carpet.
Your head down, I reach to
loosen a tangle you forgot;
my tears hit your hair.
Fingers beneath your chin, I
lift to see your pale eyes,
my pale eyes.
Sneering teeth rear back and
spit in my face.
Shrinking, cringing, as they
heave you into the night.
Red and blue cascade on the walls and
then black.
My son is gone.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Revision Poem
Latest assignment: take a favorite line from one of your poems and create a new poem. Here's what I came up with...
Breath like vinegar and sweat and
crusty fingernails, clods of dirt hidden in crevices and
rouge like pools of blood.
A shadow, tall and erect hunched in the back,
beckoning.
Short nod, muted clink of heels across the dusty linoleum floor,
an arm outstretched (artificial gentleman) and
a car ride to a dark room.
My sister.
I remember slamming doors and the same heels
clinking on the sidewalk.
I remember tears, moans, a family who didn’t want
a stain.
My own ragged breaths, a rhythm of don’t be her, don’t be her,
don’t be her.
Torn shirts, patched jeans, cold feet in the morning,
it didn’t have to come to this.
She used to take me shopping, eyeing the
impossible.
I didn’t understand her new
clothes, new shoes.
Only fifteen, begging for
things.
Night, rhythms, short quick breaths,
sniveling, money.
Together we inhale, exhale, tears streaking our faces.
Breath like vinegar and sweat and
crusty fingernails, clods of dirt hidden in crevices and
rouge like pools of blood.
A shadow, tall and erect hunched in the back,
beckoning.
Short nod, muted clink of heels across the dusty linoleum floor,
an arm outstretched (artificial gentleman) and
a car ride to a dark room.
My sister.
I remember slamming doors and the same heels
clinking on the sidewalk.
I remember tears, moans, a family who didn’t want
a stain.
My own ragged breaths, a rhythm of don’t be her, don’t be her,
don’t be her.
Torn shirts, patched jeans, cold feet in the morning,
it didn’t have to come to this.
She used to take me shopping, eyeing the
impossible.
I didn’t understand her new
clothes, new shoes.
Only fifteen, begging for
things.
Night, rhythms, short quick breaths,
sniveling, money.
Together we inhale, exhale, tears streaking our faces.
Monday, September 6, 2010
No Sentences but in Things
Here is my latest poem...not allowed to write sentences, but instead make a list of things :)
One tattered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five
yelling "so it goes" in a muffled sort of way,
Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh tossed in the corner,
How-to guides not yet creased,
A browned Bible holding up my new Harry Potters,
Some stray pens, forgotten and inkless,
Leftover journals carefully positioned behind children's books
because I don't want to be reminded of what is inside,
Carl Jung's Undiscovered Self lying open and highlighted,
One old paper of yours listing the classics that I should read,
Bolded names like Eugenides, Eco, Kierkegaard, Cicero--
books you gave me, hissing snakes,
not wanting to be remembered but wanting
to be opened.
One tattered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five
yelling "so it goes" in a muffled sort of way,
Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh tossed in the corner,
How-to guides not yet creased,
A browned Bible holding up my new Harry Potters,
Some stray pens, forgotten and inkless,
Leftover journals carefully positioned behind children's books
because I don't want to be reminded of what is inside,
Carl Jung's Undiscovered Self lying open and highlighted,
One old paper of yours listing the classics that I should read,
Bolded names like Eugenides, Eco, Kierkegaard, Cicero--
books you gave me, hissing snakes,
not wanting to be remembered but wanting
to be opened.
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