Jack always snuck into his father's workroom late at night. Michael (because Jack called him that sometimes, when it was prudent to be reminded this man wasn't his real father) had been drinking a lot these past months, and usually always had passed out by the time the moon rose. Jack dutifully completed any homework (or anything that looked like homework, and could render him basically invisible to Michael's eye) until he heard the grunting snores from the living room. Michael hadn't slept in his own room for any two consecutive nights since February. Jack knew why, or thought he knew why, but none of that had any impact on him now standing in the workroom, panning the flashlight around.
The jars were still lined on pristine oak shelves, each brandishing a thin, identifying paper strip, scrawled in a bizarre code Jack had yet to crack. If it was even a code, and not just terrible handwriting.
The flashlight changed the jars' contents from a purply shadow to a shape imminent in form and meaning. Jack had just started sex ed in 7th grade, so he knew what he was looking at. Why did Michael keep such things? They were a woman's business, and he remembered nothing about keeping them in jars.
At least four times a month (once a week), Jack thought about asking his teachers about these jars. But something always stopped him, and Jack was hesitant to call it love.
But Michael had saved his life. When he fell into the underfrozen river that cold January. When the Subaru ran the red light. When the doctors said only an expensive surgery could fix his heart. Somehow all these events held Jack's tongue, though he knew on a basic level that no one should keep these fleshy sacks in jars, mummified in a thick liquid that looked like cough syrup. He held a love in his heart for his adoptive savior. If he told anyone about the jars, he would lose him.
--
Some more stuff related to the whole fetus-story thing. This poor kid is gonna be so fucked up, if I ever get around to actually writing the thing.
I leave Germany in eight days. That is basically a week. I am mildly freakin' 'bout the shit I have to finish up before leaving, mostly in relation to finding my goddamn Hausmeister and checking out, jesus. Can't the man just be in his office once.
My past week started out meh, but then I bitched all over the stupid cold that tried to ruin me. I ate 5 apples, 3 bananas, a pomegranate, and balanced meals over the course of two days and learned that bug. Coughing up phlegm at 4am and drowning in multivitamin juice (yummm) might have played a role as well.
Eventually, sometime in my future, I can see myself going to graduate school. It just seems that everything worthwhile (i.e. rakes in the dollars) needs a master's degree. I don't know if I want to get a Master's in German. I still am really interested in computer science, and even education at this point. Loyola has a nice looking CompSci program (also a pretty website) but my god it will cost bare minimum $22 000. What am I going to do with a degree in just German? I was even looking at College Park's library science program, because hey I've worked a few years in a library, that should count for something...
I just spent maybe 5 hours reading a free book at Google, and I have since completely lost the steam and stamina to finish this in a productive fashion.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
DO YOU HAVE TIME FOR A QUICKIE?
He sat down and tried to describe blood. From the television, dark-lit scenes of murders and betrayals. From the library, poetic nuances of slick. From his own head, nothing. He had never been murdered, shot, stabbed, beaten, victim to a horrific crime, a cop, at war, witness to a horrific crime, a gangster, a doctor, or a janitor. What right did he have to describe all the things a pool of blood entails? He had that same blood pulsing through his own body. But that blood was different from the kind you see in movies, on television, the front page, websites. Looking at spilt blood was like peering into a secret. The blood had something to hide, and when its secret became plastered on headlines, it could only hold its cards close and protest. No, it would cry, don't look! Don't be witness to my secret! But what secret, the boy wondered. Life!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
AND I WILL BE GREATER--FAR GREATER
I am a big fan of making allusions. Mostly in situations where it makes no sense and has no direct correlation to the events happening, except for the tags my brain has given it. Ugh, I just used internet-speak to describe my brain. Certain situations remind me of certain songs, through subject, word, and god knows what else. If I ever meet someone who gets the above allusion I might have to be his/her friend forever. Rockin' it old school (lawl 90s is oldschool now).
I cleaned my desk today. I should've taken pictures of the before and after because Jesus. Christ. I have a few uninvited flying guests to deal with, but I have a can of Febreeze, and hell if it can kill a spider why not? I have finished all the requirements for today and now it is just music and internet without a sliver of guilt.
Lately I've noticed how I sorta miss literature analysis. It's mostly because of the short story class I'm taking this semester. Like, themes and foils and blah are nice, but I think when I say "literature analysis" I mean "let's examine every word and see why the author picked it." I can trace this desire back to yesterday night, when I was thinking out a little paragraph in my head. The sentence I was mulling: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Now if you make it this: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, but that would start again."
Huh. That is the first time I have smashed a fly and seen blood.
Anyway! Awkward parallel structure aside, the choice to use "and" or "but" changes the meaning of the last clause in a subtle but significant way. The former implies that the ending and the starting are constant. Yes, it will end, yes, you have missed it, but (hilarious!) it will start again regardless. Also I think the "and" is bit more menacing. Meanwhile, the latter sentence is more forgiving? because the "but" signals, to me, a message like "it's okay you missed it, it'll happen again." There we go. I lost the thread of thought for a second. So. The first sentence doesn't care if you missed it, because it will happen again. The second sentence does care if you missed it, and so it will happen again.
In the end I went with the former sentence, and the paragraph it came from is this: "It was when the air still hummed with the resonance of the church bells that they found the body. There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Inspired by walking home from the train station and listening to the echoes of the bells. I have grandiose plans that this is the opening to a murder mystery. I had also played with the beginning phrase "it was when..." but I think that's enough overanalysis of words for today.
These past few weeks I have been pondering religion (derp derp). I'm an atheist, and of the general principle that organized religion is anti-intellectual (as are most of my parentheticals). But besides the logical, the emotional side of religion appeals to me, in some way? I have been trying to figure out why, for example, I can be moved by poems like those by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which are blatantly religious, but I don't believe in God. The conclusion I've reached is that for me religion serves a purpose as a literary construct. It is good fodder for stories/poems/etc because it is so rich in emotions and archetypes that shoot straight through logical thought. In that way I'll never not use religion, but I'll never be a user of religion. That's the easiest way I can describe it in mouthspeak.
Also surprise I still like anime. Just finished rewatching Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro and then I went and read all 202 chapters in a day or so. The series is nice and stands firmly apart from the manga, which knocked me flat with its ending. One, thank god for authors having the guts to kill off important characters in a serialized publication. Two, god damn. I would buy this series with real money (gasp shock) because it is magnificent. Character changes! Layers of plot! Motivation! But I still have an issue with things ending, those things being quantified as books/brain-involving media. But it's okay! If I buy it, and or reread it, the ending of the series becomes internalized, and then it is dealt with. I am getting better at this. Anyway omg omg fangirl lul.
And now to leave with a snippet/tangent piece of that story I started writing on my way back from Berlin. Warnings for spoilers! For something that doesn't exist yet!
Stepping into that other world, she closed her eyes and held his hand. The boundary passed through her body. For a white moment she experienced nothing, then it had moved onto her eyes, nose, mouth. Her throat closed like a serpentine vacuum, air clawing at the boundary to pass into her starving lungs. When it reached her heart and squeezed--oh god it squeezed--her memory went and she came back on a bed that was like her own but different. He slept lightly next to her and an arm twitch brought him awake and leaning concerned over her shoulder. "We've made it."
I cleaned my desk today. I should've taken pictures of the before and after because Jesus. Christ. I have a few uninvited flying guests to deal with, but I have a can of Febreeze, and hell if it can kill a spider why not? I have finished all the requirements for today and now it is just music and internet without a sliver of guilt.
Lately I've noticed how I sorta miss literature analysis. It's mostly because of the short story class I'm taking this semester. Like, themes and foils and blah are nice, but I think when I say "literature analysis" I mean "let's examine every word and see why the author picked it." I can trace this desire back to yesterday night, when I was thinking out a little paragraph in my head. The sentence I was mulling: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Now if you make it this: "There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, but that would start again."
Huh. That is the first time I have smashed a fly and seen blood.
Anyway! Awkward parallel structure aside, the choice to use "and" or "but" changes the meaning of the last clause in a subtle but significant way. The former implies that the ending and the starting are constant. Yes, it will end, yes, you have missed it, but (hilarious!) it will start again regardless. Also I think the "and" is bit more menacing. Meanwhile, the latter sentence is more forgiving? because the "but" signals, to me, a message like "it's okay you missed it, it'll happen again." There we go. I lost the thread of thought for a second. So. The first sentence doesn't care if you missed it, because it will happen again. The second sentence does care if you missed it, and so it will happen again.
In the end I went with the former sentence, and the paragraph it came from is this: "It was when the air still hummed with the resonance of the church bells that they found the body. There was a sense of something that had just ended, that they had just missed, and that would start again." Inspired by walking home from the train station and listening to the echoes of the bells. I have grandiose plans that this is the opening to a murder mystery. I had also played with the beginning phrase "it was when..." but I think that's enough overanalysis of words for today.
These past few weeks I have been pondering religion (derp derp). I'm an atheist, and of the general principle that organized religion is anti-intellectual (as are most of my parentheticals). But besides the logical, the emotional side of religion appeals to me, in some way? I have been trying to figure out why, for example, I can be moved by poems like those by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which are blatantly religious, but I don't believe in God. The conclusion I've reached is that for me religion serves a purpose as a literary construct. It is good fodder for stories/poems/etc because it is so rich in emotions and archetypes that shoot straight through logical thought. In that way I'll never not use religion, but I'll never be a user of religion. That's the easiest way I can describe it in mouthspeak.
Also surprise I still like anime. Just finished rewatching Majin Tantei Nougami Neuro and then I went and read all 202 chapters in a day or so. The series is nice and stands firmly apart from the manga, which knocked me flat with its ending. One, thank god for authors having the guts to kill off important characters in a serialized publication. Two, god damn. I would buy this series with real money (gasp shock) because it is magnificent. Character changes! Layers of plot! Motivation! But I still have an issue with things ending, those things being quantified as books/brain-involving media. But it's okay! If I buy it, and or reread it, the ending of the series becomes internalized, and then it is dealt with. I am getting better at this. Anyway omg omg fangirl lul.
And now to leave with a snippet/tangent piece of that story I started writing on my way back from Berlin. Warnings for spoilers! For something that doesn't exist yet!
Stepping into that other world, she closed her eyes and held his hand. The boundary passed through her body. For a white moment she experienced nothing, then it had moved onto her eyes, nose, mouth. Her throat closed like a serpentine vacuum, air clawing at the boundary to pass into her starving lungs. When it reached her heart and squeezed--oh god it squeezed--her memory went and she came back on a bed that was like her own but different. He slept lightly next to her and an arm twitch brought him awake and leaning concerned over her shoulder. "We've made it."
Saturday, October 17, 2009
ANATOMY? SURELY YOU JEST
I had a nasty little image pop into my head this morning and I decided it would be wise to write it down and share it with the internet. So, um it is somewhat disturbing, and I didn't research anything related to the biology I'm tackling. In my defense, I always have fucked up thoughts after waking up and for some reason I was thinking of The Constant Gardener and the wife's death and yeah. I didn't originally mean for the character to be male but it just sorta worked that way.
Before he knew it the lady was dead and hung upside down and her eye sockets still smoked from the hot poker he threw back into the fire and her belly oozed purple tissue and curls of intestine and something small and shrimp-like caught his eye and there was his hand squelching inside and ripping through connective tissues and brandishing a tiny, heavy thing the color of a tongue and the consistency of an overripe banana as he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. No real bones to give it solid form just pulpy tissue and
He reached for a jar.
Then of course I thought up a story to go with it which I'll probably not write anytime soon (haha) and it involves pseudoscience growing fetuses into babies and the complications that arise from having a kid when you're a fucking monster who still messes with preggers and their packages.
God, isn't it immature to constantly think of anything "noun and (possessive) plural noun" as a band name? Preggers and their Packages' new hit single "Just Shut Up and Go Away."
Before he knew it the lady was dead and hung upside down and her eye sockets still smoked from the hot poker he threw back into the fire and her belly oozed purple tissue and curls of intestine and something small and shrimp-like caught his eye and there was his hand squelching inside and ripping through connective tissues and brandishing a tiny, heavy thing the color of a tongue and the consistency of an overripe banana as he squeezed his fingers around it experimentally. No real bones to give it solid form just pulpy tissue and
He reached for a jar.
Then of course I thought up a story to go with it which I'll probably not write anytime soon (haha) and it involves pseudoscience growing fetuses into babies and the complications that arise from having a kid when you're a fucking monster who still messes with preggers and their packages.
God, isn't it immature to constantly think of anything "noun and (possessive) plural noun" as a band name? Preggers and their Packages' new hit single "Just Shut Up and Go Away."
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
I see the light is holding up my heart
I've been going through the fiction archives over at Strange Horizons, looking for a particular story, and of course reading a shit-ton of stories in the meanwhile. Today I was struck by just how much talent is on that site. I followed author bio links to really awesome blogs and it feels like the Internet is alive again. Basically this is an excuse for me to post this excerpt from "Up In the Air" by Richard Larson:
"Break-ups are sometimes necessary, and they are painful, and actually they're always entirely unnecessary. They make you feel worthless, like you wasted your time. Break-ups are like big battles in ancient wars where two armies run at each other from opposite ends of a field, waving big wooden weapons. Break-ups are like being hit in the head with a big wooden weapon after running across a field while knowing all along that you are about to get hit in the head with a big wooden weapon."
It is pure genius, and I think it has everything to do with the relationship of the last two sentences. There's that initial letdown of not carrying through with the metaphor of the armies, and then Larson attacks it from a slightly different angle (we last left the armies whilst they were still running, and now we are at the time after that running) that perfectly fills the expectation of using that metaphor. An added bonus is that note of fulitily that reflects the relationship it's representing. Marvelous.
I have a lot of favorite stories at that website. Link droppings!
Tim Pratt: Another End of the Empire - Clever reversal/antithesis of the "typical fantasy story"
Leah Bobet: Bears - Wonderfully bizarre
Alaya Dawn Johnson: Down the Well - The cincher is that small epiphany the narrator has about his education
Kit St. Germain: As He Was - Tragic, but damn
Tina Connolly: On the Eyeball Floor - One of my all-time favorites
I have started classes here in Germany and it's going as well as I was expecting. If everything gets counted as the classes I want, I'll be on my way to graduation and the overwhelming world that lies in wait. I've been playing with the idea of staying longer and picking up a few minors and maybe "cum laude" but then I remind myself to be a realist. I'm going to have an assfuck of student loans to pay off.
My spare time is generally made up of lots of thinking, and these days I'm trying to be more constructive with what my mind meanders through. Lately it's been on the separation of one's actual, inner self, and the presentation of self that various media give. I don't know if any of you whopping 2 people who read this do it, but sometimes I catch myself thinking of my self in terms of some outside source. Then the question becomes, is there a self of my own that exists without these outside sources? I don't have an answer, because the me that is thinking this doesn't exist without influence from an outside source. I have been raised around people, radios, televisions, the internet, and globalization. People are raised by people, with or without all the technology of today. So has there ever been a definite sense of one's own self? If our universe is our interactions with the world, where is one's self in that tangle? I can understand the urge to hermit oneself, to rip one from the "modern" (read: connected) world in a desire to solidify/form that elusive self.
I'm really interested in philosophy, but it seems like such a huge subject to broach. In order to understand modern philosophy, I have to understand the ancient, and somewhere along the lines I just get distracted. Leads to trolling wikipedia a lot. Today I was reading about solipsism and fallibilism. The former is basically the tenant that one's mind is all there is; everything else is out of one's own context and therefore uncertain. Fallibilism, in short summary, states that all knowledge could be wrong, for nothing is objectively knowable. When I was trolling TED.com earlier today, I watched this talk and it echoed some of (what I understand of) fallibilism and all that. Really nice insights. I seem so intelligent today, jeesh.
Another thing about not knowing about philosophy is that I don't know if what I'm mulling over has been mulled over before, and with better results. I need a walking talking philosophy encyclopedia.
Started the bare bones of a story during the trip back from Berlin. It was refreshing, because it's been a while since I've felt comfortable enough to do so? I think a lot of it had to do with having a row of seats to myself (us BCA-ers had the entire top of a train car) and with really inspiring music, by which I mean Elbow. What's funny is that the whole thing erupted out of some mindless doodling, which is really the first time that's happened. What sucks is that I started with a terrible, mindless droning of a prologue before getting to characters, so the world is set up in my head, but not on page as an easily accessible port for a reader. But I was in a German mood so I made a German character which is a shameless blatant ploy to use random German sentences. Mwhahahaha. German German German.
"Break-ups are sometimes necessary, and they are painful, and actually they're always entirely unnecessary. They make you feel worthless, like you wasted your time. Break-ups are like big battles in ancient wars where two armies run at each other from opposite ends of a field, waving big wooden weapons. Break-ups are like being hit in the head with a big wooden weapon after running across a field while knowing all along that you are about to get hit in the head with a big wooden weapon."
It is pure genius, and I think it has everything to do with the relationship of the last two sentences. There's that initial letdown of not carrying through with the metaphor of the armies, and then Larson attacks it from a slightly different angle (we last left the armies whilst they were still running, and now we are at the time after that running) that perfectly fills the expectation of using that metaphor. An added bonus is that note of fulitily that reflects the relationship it's representing. Marvelous.
I have a lot of favorite stories at that website. Link droppings!
Tim Pratt: Another End of the Empire - Clever reversal/antithesis of the "typical fantasy story"
Leah Bobet: Bears - Wonderfully bizarre
Alaya Dawn Johnson: Down the Well - The cincher is that small epiphany the narrator has about his education
Kit St. Germain: As He Was - Tragic, but damn
Tina Connolly: On the Eyeball Floor - One of my all-time favorites
I have started classes here in Germany and it's going as well as I was expecting. If everything gets counted as the classes I want, I'll be on my way to graduation and the overwhelming world that lies in wait. I've been playing with the idea of staying longer and picking up a few minors and maybe "cum laude" but then I remind myself to be a realist. I'm going to have an assfuck of student loans to pay off.
My spare time is generally made up of lots of thinking, and these days I'm trying to be more constructive with what my mind meanders through. Lately it's been on the separation of one's actual, inner self, and the presentation of self that various media give. I don't know if any of you whopping 2 people who read this do it, but sometimes I catch myself thinking of my self in terms of some outside source. Then the question becomes, is there a self of my own that exists without these outside sources? I don't have an answer, because the me that is thinking this doesn't exist without influence from an outside source. I have been raised around people, radios, televisions, the internet, and globalization. People are raised by people, with or without all the technology of today. So has there ever been a definite sense of one's own self? If our universe is our interactions with the world, where is one's self in that tangle? I can understand the urge to hermit oneself, to rip one from the "modern" (read: connected) world in a desire to solidify/form that elusive self.
I'm really interested in philosophy, but it seems like such a huge subject to broach. In order to understand modern philosophy, I have to understand the ancient, and somewhere along the lines I just get distracted. Leads to trolling wikipedia a lot. Today I was reading about solipsism and fallibilism. The former is basically the tenant that one's mind is all there is; everything else is out of one's own context and therefore uncertain. Fallibilism, in short summary, states that all knowledge could be wrong, for nothing is objectively knowable. When I was trolling TED.com earlier today, I watched this talk and it echoed some of (what I understand of) fallibilism and all that. Really nice insights. I seem so intelligent today, jeesh.
Another thing about not knowing about philosophy is that I don't know if what I'm mulling over has been mulled over before, and with better results. I need a walking talking philosophy encyclopedia.
Started the bare bones of a story during the trip back from Berlin. It was refreshing, because it's been a while since I've felt comfortable enough to do so? I think a lot of it had to do with having a row of seats to myself (us BCA-ers had the entire top of a train car) and with really inspiring music, by which I mean Elbow. What's funny is that the whole thing erupted out of some mindless doodling, which is really the first time that's happened. What sucks is that I started with a terrible, mindless droning of a prologue before getting to characters, so the world is set up in my head, but not on page as an easily accessible port for a reader. But I was in a German mood so I made a German character which is a shameless blatant ploy to use random German sentences. Mwhahahaha. German German German.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
OH DEAR LOOK AT THE TIME
Things have aligned to point to the universe that today is a good day for me. Even though my Vienna class was more like a competition to see how many stairs we could climb until we passed out. I wish my camera battery wasn't dead; it was such an idiotic oversight. I believe it is safe to say I climbed probably a thousand stairs, up and down. Just here:
imagine this in the sun
see all those people? see how tiny they look?
That, on top of walking around for three hours beforehand, climbing staircases to and fro and to and fro the U-Bahn stations. And she didn't even pay for my Eis. Sigh. But! It is pumpkin season and everything here follows the seasonal availability of foods and so every restaurant has all this delicious pumpkin stuff that I want to imbibe. I mention it only because I got a scoop of pumpkin ice cream today. First, Viennese Eis is so resplendent and amazing. Second, I had mouthfuls of toasted pumpkin seeds. !!!!
This post will now never be anything but banal, because I feel like going to bed a bit early. Viele Gruesse aus Wien!
imagine this in the sun
see all those people? see how tiny they look?
That, on top of walking around for three hours beforehand, climbing staircases to and fro and to and fro the U-Bahn stations. And she didn't even pay for my Eis. Sigh. But! It is pumpkin season and everything here follows the seasonal availability of foods and so every restaurant has all this delicious pumpkin stuff that I want to imbibe. I mention it only because I got a scoop of pumpkin ice cream today. First, Viennese Eis is so resplendent and amazing. Second, I had mouthfuls of toasted pumpkin seeds. !!!!
This post will now never be anything but banal, because I feel like going to bed a bit early. Viele Gruesse aus Wien!
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
THE BIG TWO-OH
Leaving for Germany in almost two weeks, and dealing with last minute flipping-a-shit financial problems. But the proper emails have been sent, and we'll see which direction things head. I'm at a bit of a low point of excitement because I have no language skills, and things at the house have been thrown off by my uncle's death. There's a lot of monthly bullshit to pay off/cancel subscription to, which I should make a list of.
My current list of things to do before leaving country includes silly things like finishing the continuation of my bookshelf comic project. This will not happen because I am never home and suck at knowing my artistic limits. Lol what is perspective? I get the basics but of course I go for the complicated changing-angle shot. Sigh. Also the only working copier in the house isn't, so unless I cut up the book I won't be able to even put the "words" up anyway. But I did paint a river and it looks like a mean river.
I'm not sure what I was thinking, dropping myself in a foreign country by myself. I'm a tad lacking in the social skills, but I've begun to conclude that a lot of the time this awkwardness is internalized. I can hold conversations with people if they line up with my level of humor. That last sentence doesn't explain nearly at all what I wanted to say. Anyway, I guess when it comes down to it, I don't remember how I made the friends I have now, so the same will happen again. I inherited some sense of natural charisma from my father.
I have a problem with my overwhelming naiveté. I subscribe to the "Sweep It Under The Carpet" notion and I sugarcoat the world when I see everyday what a terrible place it can be. There is not enough realism to temper my idealism, I have been told in a roundabout way. (On a side note: stop taking the opposite side to every argument.)
Whelp I am bored with this now
My current list of things to do before leaving country includes silly things like finishing the continuation of my bookshelf comic project. This will not happen because I am never home and suck at knowing my artistic limits. Lol what is perspective? I get the basics but of course I go for the complicated changing-angle shot. Sigh. Also the only working copier in the house isn't, so unless I cut up the book I won't be able to even put the "words" up anyway. But I did paint a river and it looks like a mean river.
I'm not sure what I was thinking, dropping myself in a foreign country by myself. I'm a tad lacking in the social skills, but I've begun to conclude that a lot of the time this awkwardness is internalized. I can hold conversations with people if they line up with my level of humor. That last sentence doesn't explain nearly at all what I wanted to say. Anyway, I guess when it comes down to it, I don't remember how I made the friends I have now, so the same will happen again. I inherited some sense of natural charisma from my father.
I have a problem with my overwhelming naiveté. I subscribe to the "Sweep It Under The Carpet" notion and I sugarcoat the world when I see everyday what a terrible place it can be. There is not enough realism to temper my idealism, I have been told in a roundabout way. (On a side note: stop taking the opposite side to every argument.)
Whelp I am bored with this now
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