She sat at the oak table stringing beads,
each specimen carefully lifted and inspected.
In one hand the gossamer string; it quivered
as blood pulsed her finger pads.
With windows opened to the spring chirping of birds,
she threaded: a small clink joined the silence of the kitchen.
This was factory work with grace. She continued.
Her threading lasted until I came home,
stringing lies in my head.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
Lynford and Natalie
There’s a crowbar in the trunk because I won’t wait for time to break down your defenses. It will be a quiet night, a dark forest clearing where even the trees will join in my chorus of worship. And the first blow will take you away from them and closer to me. My hair’s your breath and your clenched teeth are the sinews threading my heart. One pound, two pound. The sighs from your lips power this ancient engine churning inside. I have worked myself to perfection to serve you gasping under the starlight. The veins in my skin pump viscosity to spill it at your feet and the only answer I need is “Yes.”
Monday, August 4, 2008
IDLE RIFFRAFF
My parents went to Dover Downs Saturday night, and I was responsible for taking out the dogs Sunday morning. By morning, they meant no later than 7am. Completely unacceptable. So instead of sleeping for five or so hours, I decided just NOT to sleep. What did I do? Watched Heroes season 1 and drank (count 'em) 10 cans of diet coke. My little sister, who endeavored upon this quest with me, didn't quite make it (she offed at 5). We made Velveeta around 2. I had some bread sticks and yogurt to keep me metabolizing. It was a night, definitely. My final hour count was 40. I got about 9 hours of sleep, which my body decided wasn't enough for lucidity. Bit of bad timing, since I had a test this morning. I didn't bomb it, but I could recognize a significant difference in my performance. Oh well.
Hey guys here's an awesome experiment! Comment if you read this! (hahahaha)
So I finally finally started my bookshelf painting thing again. It was pretty nice. Of course I changed the original panel design, but I can't draw cats, so it's okay. I learned how to draw stairs~ That sort of thing makes me think I could one day draw for srsly but honestly I was just looking at a Google picture the entire time. But! They look convincingly like stairs. If drawing didn't involve things like perspective and 3 dimensions, I'd be rolling in the money. Now I only have one panel left! And three weeks to do it (that's cutting it close haha)
Yeah, ask me how much of my to-do list I've accomplished, and the answer would be no. I wanted to write a story or two, I wanted to write a sestina, I wanted to sketch some ARG I would never start, and what did I do instead? Stick figures. Mind you, the addition of legs was a nice improvement, but I could've been doing so much more. Sigh.
I'm going through a fantastically interesting period of German learning. Like I can feel myself actually learning it. It's weird, because I've done it before (with English), and now I'm conscious of what is happening. It's hard to think of myself as a brain and some flabs of meat, but this drives the point home. My brain is rewiring itself.
Hhhhhhuh. Guys, I still struggle at expressing myself. I think to some level I'm screwed up in the head. I can easily shun people. I make up complex character-based melodramas in my head just to experience a kind of emotional connection. I criticize my actions and then criticize my criticisms. I'm a hypocrite who loves humans on the large scale but can ignore the woman across the street asking for help. (in the moment we are monsters) Sometimes it's easier to lie to people, especially when it gets me away from awkward situations quicker. I think I hate my family, but I hate that I hate. I can pull meta-bullshit out of my ass.
Well. That's enough meta for now. I think my body wants to sleep.
Hey guys here's an awesome experiment! Comment if you read this! (hahahaha)
So I finally finally started my bookshelf painting thing again. It was pretty nice. Of course I changed the original panel design, but I can't draw cats, so it's okay. I learned how to draw stairs~ That sort of thing makes me think I could one day draw for srsly but honestly I was just looking at a Google picture the entire time. But! They look convincingly like stairs. If drawing didn't involve things like perspective and 3 dimensions, I'd be rolling in the money. Now I only have one panel left! And three weeks to do it (that's cutting it close haha)
Yeah, ask me how much of my to-do list I've accomplished, and the answer would be no. I wanted to write a story or two, I wanted to write a sestina, I wanted to sketch some ARG I would never start, and what did I do instead? Stick figures. Mind you, the addition of legs was a nice improvement, but I could've been doing so much more. Sigh.
I'm going through a fantastically interesting period of German learning. Like I can feel myself actually learning it. It's weird, because I've done it before (with English), and now I'm conscious of what is happening. It's hard to think of myself as a brain and some flabs of meat, but this drives the point home. My brain is rewiring itself.
Hhhhhhuh. Guys, I still struggle at expressing myself. I think to some level I'm screwed up in the head. I can easily shun people. I make up complex character-based melodramas in my head just to experience a kind of emotional connection. I criticize my actions and then criticize my criticisms. I'm a hypocrite who loves humans on the large scale but can ignore the woman across the street asking for help. (in the moment we are monsters) Sometimes it's easier to lie to people, especially when it gets me away from awkward situations quicker. I think I hate my family, but I hate that I hate. I can pull meta-bullshit out of my ass.
Well. That's enough meta for now. I think my body wants to sleep.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Some stream of consciousness writing
Just some words that have been floating around my head in various incarnations and finally found a way into reality.
The oblivion wraps her in warm breaths and silken fingertips - should she give in? - she hasn't felt at ease since she first discovered her body was fallible. Everyone tells her it's just youth and that feeling of indestructibility will fade until talk of dying becomes just as faded and inevitable as one's first apartment, or love.
-and why should she give in? It is more painful and alive to fight. She rejects this oblivion. It does not reject her.
I always have an issue typing up my stream-writing because I hardly ever punctuate or capitalize or (in one case above) use the correct words. Oh well. Raw writing.
I have noticed lately my responses to certain phrases, lines of dialogue, slogans, etc are hyped beyond normal. These words hold a significance to me, but I can't explain why. Some of them have come from dreams, some are connected to unrealized stories, some are just there.
FIELD-STOP hotel
as touch forbids, so sense compels
It loses something in translation
work quickly; we haven't time
"I wasn't lying."
she's there to stop him he's there to play it down
the terminal hand
the outsider/the observer/the one-who-came-before
The Harbinger brings word of your brother's death, Marley! do you rise to the challenge?
he burned out at 30 'cause he smiled too much
Ambrose Gilchrist has a twin
in the moment we are monsters
Well, German class is going well. I have not doodled once, and it feels great to have an energy outlet. Also, learning a language is a sweet way to feel hella smart.
The oblivion wraps her in warm breaths and silken fingertips - should she give in? - she hasn't felt at ease since she first discovered her body was fallible. Everyone tells her it's just youth and that feeling of indestructibility will fade until talk of dying becomes just as faded and inevitable as one's first apartment, or love.
-and why should she give in? It is more painful and alive to fight. She rejects this oblivion. It does not reject her.
I always have an issue typing up my stream-writing because I hardly ever punctuate or capitalize or (in one case above) use the correct words. Oh well. Raw writing.
I have noticed lately my responses to certain phrases, lines of dialogue, slogans, etc are hyped beyond normal. These words hold a significance to me, but I can't explain why. Some of them have come from dreams, some are connected to unrealized stories, some are just there.
FIELD-STOP hotel
as touch forbids, so sense compels
It loses something in translation
work quickly; we haven't time
"I wasn't lying."
she's there to stop him he's there to play it down
the terminal hand
the outsider/the observer/the one-who-came-before
The Harbinger brings word of your brother's death, Marley! do you rise to the challenge?
he burned out at 30 'cause he smiled too much
Ambrose Gilchrist has a twin
in the moment we are monsters
Well, German class is going well. I have not doodled once, and it feels great to have an energy outlet. Also, learning a language is a sweet way to feel hella smart.
Friday, June 27, 2008
The Ghost
So remember that brain cancer story I wanted to write? I pumped out a preliminary scene last night because I had a lot of energy that needed an outlet. It's rough, as in I haven't added in much setting description nor decided on the narrative tone I want to take. Actually it's mostly just dialogue. I got to know the characters a bit better. My little "theme" one-liner that I had in the back of my head (and at the top of the .doc) was "She was haunted by the ghost of the person she used to be." I thought about using that as the first line, but then I didn't.
She woke up an hour later, a sizable ounce of her brain gone. The entire tumor had been removed, they told her, but she would still need a few more months of chemo and would she mind posing with the surgeons? Such a rare operation needed to be documented properly.
Joachim shuffled in after the doctors had gone. He still carried the paperback he had walked in with last night. The bookmark had inched its way along while she was under the knife.
“You were on page 137,” she greeted.
He smiled. He rubbed his eyes and sank onto the corner of her bed. “Yes, honey.” He rubbed his eyes again. “How do you feel?”
“Nothing, mostly. I don’t feel any different.” She shifted. “What page are you on now?”
“316. The doctors said that the area of brain they operated on dealt mostly with memory. They’re going to have to test you out, to make sure you’re still ok. I was talking to a nurse, and she said the tests are mostly word memorization and basic history, like Independence Day and 911.” She stifled a yawn. “But, ah, that won’t be for a few more hours. Give the brain time to recover.” He traced his hand over her cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”
“I think I remember everything important,” she said. “How was your night? Did the book get any better?”
“No. No, it stayed about the same. I read when I could, tried to sleep, drank some coffee.”
“You do seem a little red in the eyes.”
A pause. “I was going to call your office, tell them the news. Any special messages?”
She hummed and tapped a finger. “Wish Angela an early happy birthday.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that now.”
The end. A horribly empty piece of writing. I have major issues with setting. I don't usually write any setting details until the next go-through, because otherwise I get super distracted and I don't finish writing what I had in mind. It's horrible and I get a lot of smack about it in workshop. I have to think about setting with a different part of my mind, and once I'm out of the writing track I am SO out of it. Like ugh. Also I think I have a thing for guys who ramble; it's so adorable to me.
Speaking of adorable, and soccer, since it is Euro 2008 season. I love love love love love it when soccer players head-butt a ball and fall on their asses. Like, when the goalie throws/kicks it across the field and some dude tries to knock it down and he gets a hit in but then just flails from overbalancing and plomps on his behind? POSSIBLY THE MOST ADORABLE THING EVER?
She woke up an hour later, a sizable ounce of her brain gone. The entire tumor had been removed, they told her, but she would still need a few more months of chemo and would she mind posing with the surgeons? Such a rare operation needed to be documented properly.
Joachim shuffled in after the doctors had gone. He still carried the paperback he had walked in with last night. The bookmark had inched its way along while she was under the knife.
“You were on page 137,” she greeted.
He smiled. He rubbed his eyes and sank onto the corner of her bed. “Yes, honey.” He rubbed his eyes again. “How do you feel?”
“Nothing, mostly. I don’t feel any different.” She shifted. “What page are you on now?”
“316. The doctors said that the area of brain they operated on dealt mostly with memory. They’re going to have to test you out, to make sure you’re still ok. I was talking to a nurse, and she said the tests are mostly word memorization and basic history, like Independence Day and 911.” She stifled a yawn. “But, ah, that won’t be for a few more hours. Give the brain time to recover.” He traced his hand over her cheekbone. “I’m so glad you’re ok.”
“I think I remember everything important,” she said. “How was your night? Did the book get any better?”
“No. No, it stayed about the same. I read when I could, tried to sleep, drank some coffee.”
“You do seem a little red in the eyes.”
A pause. “I was going to call your office, tell them the news. Any special messages?”
She hummed and tapped a finger. “Wish Angela an early happy birthday.”
He kissed her cheek. “I’ll do that now.”
The end. A horribly empty piece of writing. I have major issues with setting. I don't usually write any setting details until the next go-through, because otherwise I get super distracted and I don't finish writing what I had in mind. It's horrible and I get a lot of smack about it in workshop. I have to think about setting with a different part of my mind, and once I'm out of the writing track I am SO out of it. Like ugh. Also I think I have a thing for guys who ramble; it's so adorable to me.
Speaking of adorable, and soccer, since it is Euro 2008 season. I love love love love love it when soccer players head-butt a ball and fall on their asses. Like, when the goalie throws/kicks it across the field and some dude tries to knock it down and he gets a hit in but then just flails from overbalancing and plomps on his behind? POSSIBLY THE MOST ADORABLE THING EVER?
Saturday, June 14, 2008
HELLO
It is so laborious to blog/keep an online journal. Ugh. I should be in bed trying to sleep but instead I am awake and writing run-on sentences and possibly in a weird mood. I have concocted a bold print "To Do" list and tacked it to my wall. I need to save money for a trip with some girlfriends later in the summer. This will be difficult because I do not have many hours at the library this time around.
My other two major projects that need to be finished ASAP are my bookshelf comic-painting and my Council documentation. The first is almost there, just two panels left. I overestimate my artistic skills because I am surrounded by beautiful art in so many aspects of my life. I see images in my head that I want to recreate but I don't have the skill to live up the expectations my mind forms. I also give up too easily, I have learned and been told. But I am satisfied with the project so far (well ok this latest panel sucks). The idea behind it was to create a story using poem snippets as the text. It came to me one night when I was trolling my poetry books. I have picked lines from Byron, Tennyson, Eliot, Collins, Shearin, and Pound. It gives me an excuse to paint, which gives me an excuse to make pretty colors.
The Council documentation won't be talked about much, because it's too personal to be discussed with any embarrassment. I have just plowed through my sophomore year journals, and things are going well. The basic idea behind this project is to rifle through my high school lit journals and type out all the Council-related material (just think of it as a universe of characters). I don't know how I ever passed my fiction class, or any literary class for that matter. All I typed was adverbs and lacking descriptions. The Council is the greatest proof of the fallacy of living too much in one's head. After I have typed up everything, I have grand plans to create a basic time line of events, but I've had that aspiration for almost six years now.
Lastly, there are two ideas for stories I have wringing through my head. One is a quasi-high school drama with a character who pays too much attention to the wrong things and loses the big picture. I have had this idea for a while, as in maybe half a year. It started out as a mild journal word doodle, playing around with tone and author's license (I can't exactly call it poetic license). It will give me an excuse to use my human anatomy book more.
The second idea is very recent, fueled by my paranoia and the mood of some fiction I've been reading online (at Strange Horizons). See, the other day I had a horrible headache. Heat headache. It was disgusting. Oh, I think I wrote something about it, hold on. The pain was ferocious. It flowed in a thin river across her forehead and echoed into a deep waterfall at the base of her skull. There were puddles of intensity pulsating past her ears and she felt her entire existence would forever be stuck in this heightened state. It woke me up at five in the morning, and I had to go downstairs to find pills and interact with people. Afterwards, I passed out in my bed and slept for another five hours or so. The problem was, I had that phantom headache lingering with me the entire day, like if I was to turn my head the wrong way, the pain from that morning would come and crash down my walls of peace.
Anyway, a few days after that, I woke up dizzy as dizzy could be. It was Thursday, and I was supposed to work. I managed to take a shower somehow, after swaying my way through brushing my teeth and walking down the stairs. Then I started to get nauseous. Usually I walk to work, but I couldn't even walk to the kitchen without stumbling and falling to the side so I called out. The majority of my day was spent sitting down, staying very still, and drinking small sips of water and coke. Somewhere along the day everything got better. Now that phantom headache/dizziness is really infringing my thoughts, so I thought (obviously) brain cancer!
I do not have brain cancer. I thought about a character who had brain cancer and had a hunk of it removed. She wakes with vague clues to what she can only half remember but it's important to her because it used to be a part of her, and sets off on a journey to find whatever it was she lost. I say no more about it.
Well, I can be rather long-winded at times, can't I? One last thought: I recently started playing Etrian Odyssey again (I have an off-on relationship with that game). I am quite convinced it will take me ten years to finish and that it is an amazing game. Not as amazing as Pimp Professor Layton (oh my god so pimp), but up there. Goodnight.
My other two major projects that need to be finished ASAP are my bookshelf comic-painting and my Council documentation. The first is almost there, just two panels left. I overestimate my artistic skills because I am surrounded by beautiful art in so many aspects of my life. I see images in my head that I want to recreate but I don't have the skill to live up the expectations my mind forms. I also give up too easily, I have learned and been told. But I am satisfied with the project so far (well ok this latest panel sucks). The idea behind it was to create a story using poem snippets as the text. It came to me one night when I was trolling my poetry books. I have picked lines from Byron, Tennyson, Eliot, Collins, Shearin, and Pound. It gives me an excuse to paint, which gives me an excuse to make pretty colors.
The Council documentation won't be talked about much, because it's too personal to be discussed with any embarrassment. I have just plowed through my sophomore year journals, and things are going well. The basic idea behind this project is to rifle through my high school lit journals and type out all the Council-related material (just think of it as a universe of characters). I don't know how I ever passed my fiction class, or any literary class for that matter. All I typed was adverbs and lacking descriptions. The Council is the greatest proof of the fallacy of living too much in one's head. After I have typed up everything, I have grand plans to create a basic time line of events, but I've had that aspiration for almost six years now.
Lastly, there are two ideas for stories I have wringing through my head. One is a quasi-high school drama with a character who pays too much attention to the wrong things and loses the big picture. I have had this idea for a while, as in maybe half a year. It started out as a mild journal word doodle, playing around with tone and author's license (I can't exactly call it poetic license). It will give me an excuse to use my human anatomy book more.
The second idea is very recent, fueled by my paranoia and the mood of some fiction I've been reading online (at Strange Horizons). See, the other day I had a horrible headache. Heat headache. It was disgusting. Oh, I think I wrote something about it, hold on. The pain was ferocious. It flowed in a thin river across her forehead and echoed into a deep waterfall at the base of her skull. There were puddles of intensity pulsating past her ears and she felt her entire existence would forever be stuck in this heightened state. It woke me up at five in the morning, and I had to go downstairs to find pills and interact with people. Afterwards, I passed out in my bed and slept for another five hours or so. The problem was, I had that phantom headache lingering with me the entire day, like if I was to turn my head the wrong way, the pain from that morning would come and crash down my walls of peace.
Anyway, a few days after that, I woke up dizzy as dizzy could be. It was Thursday, and I was supposed to work. I managed to take a shower somehow, after swaying my way through brushing my teeth and walking down the stairs. Then I started to get nauseous. Usually I walk to work, but I couldn't even walk to the kitchen without stumbling and falling to the side so I called out. The majority of my day was spent sitting down, staying very still, and drinking small sips of water and coke. Somewhere along the day everything got better. Now that phantom headache/dizziness is really infringing my thoughts, so I thought (obviously) brain cancer!
I do not have brain cancer. I thought about a character who had brain cancer and had a hunk of it removed. She wakes with vague clues to what she can only half remember but it's important to her because it used to be a part of her, and sets off on a journey to find whatever it was she lost. I say no more about it.
Well, I can be rather long-winded at times, can't I? One last thought: I recently started playing Etrian Odyssey again (I have an off-on relationship with that game). I am quite convinced it will take me ten years to finish and that it is an amazing game. Not as amazing as Pimp Professor Layton (oh my god so pimp), but up there. Goodnight.
Monday, May 19, 2008
YOU HAS FORGET?
There is a competition and a drawing of matches. He gets the short and takes his place atop the shaky wooden bridge. He knows what he now faces and his eyes water until red and dry. It comes with a burp of air pressure and is nothing like what's expected. The air shimmers and rolls over the arena. This is the finality. He sees it lean toward him, all mottle-skinned and asp-like, and his fears leave him in the final second. He is swallowed in purity. It leaves him convulsing and screaming, raw animal yelps and deep sucking pants. The finality departs and the sun sets.
--
More examples of how I don't include many details and description in my writing. I live too much in my head to successfully transfer the imagery to pen and paper, and a lot of times I can't express what I experience in my mind because I'm untrained at conveying emotion. Or I haven't tried enough. I like writing tiny things for myself, which imply entire worlds. Most of my writing is a stepping stone that allows me to experience the events in my head. I am my characters because there's no way they could exist otherwise because I'm all that there is. My universe is myself and my interactions with other universes.
Her anger comes on too strong and she doesn't let up. The cupboards are rattling at the stiletto of her pace. She rumbles back and forth across the lofty kitchen. The cats are curled in their window perching, flicking ears at every footfall.
--
Well I thought about continuing that, because I've got another page or two in my journal, but it is mostly bad. Some of the phrases in the first paragraph are cute, so I'll share that. It's a fascinating trip to read back through my journal, because I find tiny gems. Tiny as in maybe a sentence or two. I like writing one-liners (see above, stepping stones).
"A great pleasure that is, being renowned for what one does for a living." -- This was a dialogue line that squeaked into my head one morning, probably in January. It had something to do with an older writer man, mostly cynical and dry witted. He was probably talking to a younger person when he said this. Maybe a reporter, or aspiring writer. Something along that feeling. Well, this is about the end.
--
More examples of how I don't include many details and description in my writing. I live too much in my head to successfully transfer the imagery to pen and paper, and a lot of times I can't express what I experience in my mind because I'm untrained at conveying emotion. Or I haven't tried enough. I like writing tiny things for myself, which imply entire worlds. Most of my writing is a stepping stone that allows me to experience the events in my head. I am my characters because there's no way they could exist otherwise because I'm all that there is. My universe is myself and my interactions with other universes.
Her anger comes on too strong and she doesn't let up. The cupboards are rattling at the stiletto of her pace. She rumbles back and forth across the lofty kitchen. The cats are curled in their window perching, flicking ears at every footfall.
--
Well I thought about continuing that, because I've got another page or two in my journal, but it is mostly bad. Some of the phrases in the first paragraph are cute, so I'll share that. It's a fascinating trip to read back through my journal, because I find tiny gems. Tiny as in maybe a sentence or two. I like writing one-liners (see above, stepping stones).
"A great pleasure that is, being renowned for what one does for a living." -- This was a dialogue line that squeaked into my head one morning, probably in January. It had something to do with an older writer man, mostly cynical and dry witted. He was probably talking to a younger person when he said this. Maybe a reporter, or aspiring writer. Something along that feeling. Well, this is about the end.
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