Junkyard is my one downfall. I can't ever seem to gather enough ridiculous phrases, but here's what I've got for you today:
[1] "The world is small because it rains everywhere at once."
-- I was reading through my girlfriend's old creative writing notebook, when she found and pointed out a piece she really liked from class. It was pretty nice, but when I was finished reading it, my eyes immediately jumped to the top of the page, where the phrase "The world is small because it rains everywhere at once" was written without reference to anything else that I could discern. I went absolutely crazy over that one phrase, and I think it irritated her that I couldn't find the same appreciation for the story she really liked, but I am a sucker for phrases like that. It immediately struck me.
[2] "You're nothing but a whorecrux!"
-- I ran into a friend of mine from last semester recently, and we had much to talk about. We somehow got on the subject of Harry Potter, and it didn't take long to turn one of the central plot points in the series into a dirty--and nerdy--insult. I found myself yelling this on the second floor of the Humanities building, and it stuck with me.
This is all that comes to mind for now, but since I get four posts for this, I'll keep you posted.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Crankin' out that obligatory first post--you'll thank me later
Welcome to mah blog--not that you need a welcome mat, or an introduction; this is not some sort of nice go-to place when you feel low and need a pick-me-up, nor is it a particularly public forum. Instead, this will be a page splayed with my thoughts, and you are welcome to pick out the pertinent pieces and look over them with awe and wonder while you discard the chunks of chaff. I don't pretend to be well-read enough to stand up to the most learned scholars, and the gods all know that I could use some measure of help in all of my writing, but I hope to refine my technique over the course of the semester.
I'll generally explain what I put here, so if you choose to skip the first part, then that is of course your choice. If you want background, read it. If you don't care what I have to say about my work, draw your own conclusions and skip all the wordy nonsense before hand. It is of course, your choice. So that I don't completely waste time, I'll splash a non-introductory, more pertinent block of text for you to peruse--with my obligatory pre-poem explanation.
I was sitting down in the UCC the other day, and I was hit with a sudden and unwanted wave of nostalgia in the form of my remembering an old girlfriend. It just so happened I was sitting with my current girlfriend, which made things really awful because I absolutely zoned out so hard that she had to ask what was wrong. It was harder, I found, to explain what exactly was wrong, because I didn't know. I suddenly had a thought: long ago, I sat two floors down in the "Wolves Den" as they call it--I had only just bought two pairs of shoes. I was wearing one, and my girlfriend was proud that I bought two different pairs. She had her laptop out, and one of her friends passed by. We talked, and I don't remember what happened after that. The entire exchange was so insubstantial, but I remember just that piece of it without knowing why or how. I just sat, thinking about it, and I am not entirely sure it was even relevant. But, when I decided to write a poem for this free-write, the memory sprang to mind again. Hope you enjoy this. If you don't, tell me why. If you DO, hell, you can still tell me why. I like that too.
Blackened Talapia Over a bed of BraisedCarrots Celery
I always feel like time doesn't just end at the junction of seconds;
instead, it flickers endlessly both backwards and forwards
and at the most inconvenient times, it plucks the chords tied to my senses
in the most painful way possible. I stand among a crowd
and I see--right in front of me--windows, full of trees.
Get this, though: my mind overrides this image--the people flitting around
like motes of dust, wriggling tails while their gills pop open and closed
--with an image, three floors down. I am sitting at a bar stool, new shoes on my feet
and a woman is seated next to me who once held me close until I slept as a baby on her bosom.
And now, I stand--swollen with a sharp stab of something hot and white growing in my fists,
balled, quivering--staring out a window.
Sometimes leaves fall from trees and turn brown with age;
they crunch underfoot like cockroaches, but come spring, those leaves are back
and they seem just as green as the year before. I have the benefit of knowing:
those green leaves will raise a cacophony and I can remember the husk of shoes
that have been stripped soleless, entombing younger feet as they churn
useless old leaves to chalk that smear ugly lines across the sidewalk.
I'll generally explain what I put here, so if you choose to skip the first part, then that is of course your choice. If you want background, read it. If you don't care what I have to say about my work, draw your own conclusions and skip all the wordy nonsense before hand. It is of course, your choice. So that I don't completely waste time, I'll splash a non-introductory, more pertinent block of text for you to peruse--with my obligatory pre-poem explanation.
I was sitting down in the UCC the other day, and I was hit with a sudden and unwanted wave of nostalgia in the form of my remembering an old girlfriend. It just so happened I was sitting with my current girlfriend, which made things really awful because I absolutely zoned out so hard that she had to ask what was wrong. It was harder, I found, to explain what exactly was wrong, because I didn't know. I suddenly had a thought: long ago, I sat two floors down in the "Wolves Den" as they call it--I had only just bought two pairs of shoes. I was wearing one, and my girlfriend was proud that I bought two different pairs. She had her laptop out, and one of her friends passed by. We talked, and I don't remember what happened after that. The entire exchange was so insubstantial, but I remember just that piece of it without knowing why or how. I just sat, thinking about it, and I am not entirely sure it was even relevant. But, when I decided to write a poem for this free-write, the memory sprang to mind again. Hope you enjoy this. If you don't, tell me why. If you DO, hell, you can still tell me why. I like that too.
Blackened Talapia Over a bed of Braised
I always feel like time doesn't just end at the junction of seconds;
instead, it flickers endlessly both backwards and forwards
and at the most inconvenient times, it plucks the chords tied to my senses
in the most painful way possible. I stand among a crowd
and I see--right in front of me--windows, full of trees.
Get this, though: my mind overrides this image--the people flitting around
like motes of dust, wriggling tails while their gills pop open and closed
--with an image, three floors down. I am sitting at a bar stool, new shoes on my feet
and a woman is seated next to me who once held me close until I slept as a baby on her bosom.
And now, I stand--swollen with a sharp stab of something hot and white growing in my fists,
balled, quivering--staring out a window.
Sometimes leaves fall from trees and turn brown with age;
they crunch underfoot like cockroaches, but come spring, those leaves are back
and they seem just as green as the year before. I have the benefit of knowing:
those green leaves will raise a cacophony and I can remember the husk of shoes
that have been stripped soleless, entombing younger feet as they churn
useless old leaves to chalk that smear ugly lines across the sidewalk.
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