30 March 2011
Note
Please excuse the formatting on that last post. Blogger had a seizure trying to deal with my copying and pasting from a word processor.
Conference Killer - A rough poem
I was recently at a philosophy conference, when a poem struck me. After listening to one gloriously presented lecture, a second lecturer took the spotlight. Well... the rest is in the poem.
Conference Killer
Conference Killer
The battlefield set - pitting academic against academic
In a conference, competition: who will win the day?
One skillful warrior completes his task,
the crowd eager to continue the fight
A second must be given his chance
awkwardly he sits reading, his notes becoming crumpled
as he foams at the mouth with excitement
not stopping to wipe away the spittle,
weapon wildly wielded: the mind has learned, the tongue has not
slurring well thought words with a foreign sound
Inertia gone, the crows loses interest
their eyes roaming the room like prowling cats
avoiding mutual acknowledgement of boredom
others politely look attentive, leaning forward in their seats
willing themselves to not be revealed, a yawn giving them away
Few have the endurance to outlast the incomprehensible
the lecturer surfaces from his berserking on the field
the sole survivor in the slaughter of interest
Yes, I know it's rough, but I'm having a hard time moving on it. And I'm not kidding about the spittle. The second stanza is almost reporting. Of course, so is the third. Anyways. There is some writing for the day.
Book Challenge Update
So I just finished An Echo in the Bone by Diana Gabaldon. Another good book. I made my comments about the direction her writing is taking in my first book challenge blog. You can see them there. I must say, I didn't think she would end it so abruptly. Lots of things are hanging in the air at the end of this book. Only the last scene has any kind of conclusive feeling of relief and even that situation leaves lots of questions hovering in the brain. It's kinda frustrating, but I guess that is how book in series get sold. I won't be able to resist the next one. We never found out what happened in the situation with Arch Bug. We never found out how Claire and Jamie were going to manage to work out what had become of their life. We never figured out if Rob was just trying to get rid of Roger to get at Brianna and the children. We never figure out if they're all going to go back in time again.... back back in time... sorta. I'm sorry. I promise - that didn't spoil anything. That's another book down.
6) An Echo in the Bone (Diana Gabaldon)
oh - AND
7) Light of Eidon :Legends of the Guardian Kind, Book 1 (Karen Hancock)
I forgot to add this to my list. I read it after My Antonia. It was okay. Someone read up on their history of the Catholic Church and the Great Schism plus ancient and concurrent beliefs in Egypt (etc) at the time and decided to write a thinly veiled book about it. It wasn't terrible. I was, in fact, much like Gladiator. I'm surprised that there wasn't a lawsuit at some point. At any rate, it was amusing and also a book that I've read.
7/30 complete
6) An Echo in the Bone (Diana Gabaldon)
oh - AND
7) Light of Eidon :Legends of the Guardian Kind, Book 1 (Karen Hancock)
I forgot to add this to my list. I read it after My Antonia. It was okay. Someone read up on their history of the Catholic Church and the Great Schism plus ancient and concurrent beliefs in Egypt (etc) at the time and decided to write a thinly veiled book about it. It wasn't terrible. I was, in fact, much like Gladiator. I'm surprised that there wasn't a lawsuit at some point. At any rate, it was amusing and also a book that I've read.
7/30 complete
29 March 2011
Daily writing
I plan on trying to write daily and post daily, but these may not be the same thing. I'm working on the second P&W prompt (and struggling with it a bit). It's gone from being a poem to becoming a short story of sorts. I've got a narrative going, but I'm still working on creating some tension in the scene. Could just end up being some character studying. At any rate, I'm writing, but it may be a few days before it gets here. The lack of post yesterday was because my computer is slowly dying of chipset cancer or something and it took Colin many hours of struggled surgery and post op to get it back into the ICU, where it's starting to be able to make internet connections again and sleep without trouble.
That being said, I wrote a poem that's pretty rough right now during a philosophy conference that I went to this weekend and I plan on trying to brush that up a bit today and post a (still rough) copy of it. Trying out a metaphor that I'm not sure works in the beginning, but takes it where I want to go in the end.
That being said, I wrote a poem that's pretty rough right now during a philosophy conference that I went to this weekend and I plan on trying to brush that up a bit today and post a (still rough) copy of it. Trying out a metaphor that I'm not sure works in the beginning, but takes it where I want to go in the end.
26 March 2011
The gift of insomnia
Since I could not sleep and I've been wanting to try a red dress prompt, I tackled one this evening and decided to post it. It's not very good and the only real memory from kindergarten that appears accurately is the first paragraph of my response. There doesn't seem to be any narrative theme that's developed here either. I just wrote what came until it stopped.
from the red dress club:
from the red dress club:
For this week's RemembeRED prompt, we're asking you to remember kindergarten. If, after thinking about it for a while, you can't recall anything, move on to first grade.
Mine your memories and write about the earliest grade you can recall. What was special? What was ordinary? What did you feel? Hear? See? Smell?
Don't underestimate the power of your memory. If you have a difficult time remembering, sit down and freewrite...you'll be surprised what comes to the surface.
Immerse yourself in crayons, chalk dust, and those tiny milk cartons and then come back on Tuesday, March 29th and link up.
Mrs. Yashinski’s black hair stood up in a tall column of tight curls, not unlike those of Marge Simpson, though it would be many years before I could ever make that simile. She didn’t look Polish, but she could have been married to one of the many in town. Her eyes seemed to slant and she always painted her lips on large in red. Her large rectangular teeth showed en masse when she laughed and she liked me, which seemed important.
She taught us and we learned our alphabet, to write them and read them. It was what you did in pre-school. And then the next year in kindergarten she taught us to put the words together and began to read. She seemed to do everything in steps, just like we did. She drew her letters in the proper stroke order, step by step. Just like counting and adding, step by step. Just like sitting and taking out your lunch in a polite and gentle manner, step by step.
I sometimes wonder if she went home and cooked dinner step by step, and walked her dog, step by step, or even did the gardening with her husband, step by step. Could a person’s life be so broken into bite-size pieces and never flow together? Could one pause between those pieces for the rest of their lives?
The only time her steps lost their individuality and her person became a seamless current was when she would read aloud. She did not do as the other teachers and read, the pause and share the picture, then pause and ask the question, then pause and respond to the reply. No. She would hold the book in view and read, sometimes from the pages that she turned in the single breath between sentences and other times it seemed from the memory itself. How could this be the same woman? The one thing I really learned from this woman was how to get drawn into the story. The words would drip from her lips like honey, drawing me in as a bee. She shared that secret moment with us, helping us find it, in which the story became real until we could think of nothing but seeking that moment to relish.
Mrs. Yashinski taught everything step by step, broken down, living life in a piecemeal puzzle. She taught us letters and words, but never reading. Reading she did not teach. Reading she gave as a gift.
Another prompt from the P&W list...
So this is another writing prompt from Angelspeak (the link in my post on Thursday). I'm going to warn you, it's the first prompt of the year and it's a long post, so if you want to skip the writing process (which I can completely understand), then read the prompt, note the poem I picked and the skip to the final product at the bottom. Here we go:
“Choose a favorite poem written by somebody else, type a copy of it, delete every other line from the poem, and write your own lines to replace those you’ve deleted. Next, delete the remaining lines from the old poem so that only your lines remain. Read what you have, and revise it, adding new lines to fill in the gaps.”
I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
--
Remove every other line and replace them with your own:
A free bird leaps on the back
of the oceans’ waves, till the crashing starts
Till the current ends and dips his wing
He stretches wings and opens his throat
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
playing actor to the passerby, begs for scraps
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
their eyes pity his slow trudging ways
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
repeating the comforting lies to himself
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
the pitying acquaintance, head shaking
The free bird thinks of another breeze
from a past lost to all but his memory
The sighing trees [of a summer night past]
sough for him again with the rushing grassy
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
settling to night’s nest without hope for change
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
bound by lies accepted as truths
The caged bird sings with
the crackling voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
But longed for still and his
tears shed are only for himself
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
--
Remove the remaining original lines and replace them with your own: (I decided to stick with the bird imagery, since we have wings and nesting)
The salt and pepper pelican wings along the crests
of the oceans’ waves, till the crashing starts
another chance at a meal has passed him by
He awkwardly stretches wings ashore and opens his throat
and calls for mother to provide chance again.
The sooty tern paces his cage, five steps left and five right
playing actor to the passerby, begs for scraps
and the freedom of months at sea, but
their eyes pity his slow trudging ways
Our grayscale friend gobbles dinner on the shore,
repeating the comforting lies to himself
of the freedom each avian feels
the pitying acquaintance, head shaking
The tern relives the waves on a breeze
from a past lost to all but his memory
the call of the ocean crashing on shore, liveoaks
sough for him again with the rushing [of] grassy
dunes, once merely the bedding of youthful rendezvous
alone he turns to stale sea oats
settling to night’s nest without hope for change
with chains around his feet, he is equally
bound by lies accepted as truths
The tern too opens his throat
the crackling voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
and of those who in freedom fetter themselves, his
tears shed are only for himself
as he calls to the skies for freedom.
--
As a third part, I’ve revised it to make it more coherent. I'm not completely pleased with how it's turned out, but it's a much better draft than anything above. Perhaps I'll continue to rework it:
Salt and pepper, a pelican wings along cresting
Ocean waves until the crashing signals another chance
Another meal has passed him by
Awkwardly he stretches his wings on shore, opening
His pouched throat, Provide the chance again!
The sooty tern paces her cage five steps left, five right
A black and white clown for the passerby, she begs for scraps
And the freedom of months at sea, but their eyes
Amuse and pity her slow continuous trudge
The unfettered grayscale gorges on the shore,
Repeating the comforting lies to himself of the freedom
Each avian feels, while confining himself to sea's edge
His pitiful acquaintance shaking her head
She relives flowing currents above and below
A breeze from a past lost to all but fading memory
The call of the ocean crashing on sore, liveoaks
Sough for her again with the rushing of grassy
Dunes, once merely the bedding of youthful rendezvous
Alone she turns among a corner of stale sea oats
Settling to a nightly nest without hope for change
With chains around her feet, wings clipped,
She has been bound by lies accepted as truths.
The tern too opens her throat, a crackling
Voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
And of those who in freedom fetter themselves,
Her tears shed are only for herself
As she calls to the skies for liberty.
“Choose a favorite poem written by somebody else, type a copy of it, delete every other line from the poem, and write your own lines to replace those you’ve deleted. Next, delete the remaining lines from the old poem so that only your lines remain. Read what you have, and revise it, adding new lines to fill in the gaps.”
I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou
A free bird leaps on the back
Of the wind and floats downstream
Till the current ends and dips his wing
In the orange suns rays
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
Can seldom see through his bars of rage
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
Of things unknown but longed for still
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
The caged bird sings of freedom.
The free bird thinks of another breeze
And the trade winds soft through
The sighing trees
And the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
His shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
So he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings with
A fearful trill of things unknown
But longed for still and his
Tune is heard on the distant hill
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
--
Remove every other line and replace them with your own:
A free bird leaps on the back
of the oceans’ waves, till the crashing starts
Till the current ends and dips his wing
He stretches wings and opens his throat
And dares to claim the sky.
But a BIRD that stalks down his narrow cage
playing actor to the passerby, begs for scraps
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
their eyes pity his slow trudging ways
The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
repeating the comforting lies to himself
And his tune is heard on the distant hill for
the pitying acquaintance, head shaking
The free bird thinks of another breeze
from a past lost to all but his memory
The sighing trees [of a summer night past]
sough for him again with the rushing grassy
Lawn and he names the sky his own.
But a caged BIRD stands on the grave of dreams
settling to night’s nest without hope for change
His wings are clipped and his feet are tied
bound by lies accepted as truths
The caged bird sings with
the crackling voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
But longed for still and his
tears shed are only for himself
For the caged bird sings of freedom.
--
Remove the remaining original lines and replace them with your own: (I decided to stick with the bird imagery, since we have wings and nesting)
The salt and pepper pelican wings along the crests
of the oceans’ waves, till the crashing starts
another chance at a meal has passed him by
He awkwardly stretches wings ashore and opens his throat
and calls for mother to provide chance again.
The sooty tern paces his cage, five steps left and five right
playing actor to the passerby, begs for scraps
and the freedom of months at sea, but
their eyes pity his slow trudging ways
Our grayscale friend gobbles dinner on the shore,
repeating the comforting lies to himself
of the freedom each avian feels
the pitying acquaintance, head shaking
The tern relives the waves on a breeze
from a past lost to all but his memory
the call of the ocean crashing on shore, liveoaks
sough for him again with the rushing [of] grassy
dunes, once merely the bedding of youthful rendezvous
alone he turns to stale sea oats
settling to night’s nest without hope for change
with chains around his feet, he is equally
bound by lies accepted as truths
The tern too opens his throat
the crackling voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
and of those who in freedom fetter themselves, his
tears shed are only for himself
as he calls to the skies for freedom.
--
As a third part, I’ve revised it to make it more coherent. I'm not completely pleased with how it's turned out, but it's a much better draft than anything above. Perhaps I'll continue to rework it:
Ocean waves until the crashing signals another chance
Another meal has passed him by
Awkwardly he stretches his wings on shore, opening
His pouched throat, Provide the chance again!
The sooty tern paces her cage five steps left, five right
A black and white clown for the passerby, she begs for scraps
And the freedom of months at sea, but their eyes
Amuse and pity her slow continuous trudge
The unfettered grayscale gorges on the shore,
Repeating the comforting lies to himself of the freedom
Each avian feels, while confining himself to sea's edge
His pitiful acquaintance shaking her head
She relives flowing currents above and below
A breeze from a past lost to all but fading memory
The call of the ocean crashing on sore, liveoaks
Sough for her again with the rushing of grassy
Dunes, once merely the bedding of youthful rendezvous
Alone she turns among a corner of stale sea oats
Settling to a nightly nest without hope for change
With chains around her feet, wings clipped,
She has been bound by lies accepted as truths.
The tern too opens her throat, a crackling
Voice of dreams long dead and past long gone
And of those who in freedom fetter themselves,
Her tears shed are only for herself
As she calls to the skies for liberty.
24 March 2011
2011 Book Challenge
So.... I set myself a book challenge for 2011 on the Goodreads website... but I have to admit that I HATE that website. It seems so convoluted for no apparent reason. I figure, why don't I just keep my tabs on my new literature blog? No reason I shouldn't.
So here it is. I set my goal fairly low at 30 books for the year. It's been so long since I've gotten to really read just for pleasure (thanks to my time at university...) so I started this past Christmas by getting a Kindle before moving to Hong Kong. It's really helped, I must say. There are lots of free books and I've been reading much more frequently. Not that I don't believe in buying paper copies (I love a real book in my hands), but it's more environmentally sound and easier to carry when traveling halfway across the world. No really. When we went to Bangkok for the honeymoon, we loaded maps from the internet as PDFs and used them as we walked around Bangkok. So worth it.
So I'm going to start posting the books that I read on the blog. I'll post them after I read them. I don't know that I'll be reviewing, but I'll try to make it some kind of comment and keep a count. Here's my list for the year thus far:
1) The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien)
2) The Two Towers (J.R.R. Tolkien)
3) The Return of the King (J.R.R. Tolkien)
What can I say. It had been a while (since middle school) since I'd read them and I'm writing my own fantasy fiction right now, so I figured reading genre would help.
4) My Antonia (Willa Cather)
It'd never read of any Cather's work before, but I found all of it (or at least most of it) for free for the Kindle, so why not? There is a lot more Cather on my list for this year's reading.
5) A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Diana Gabaldon)
I've been reading this author since I was in high school and fell in love with the Outlander series then. I bought a copy of the book a few years ago, but didn't get to finish it with all of my school work. I've finally finished it and was happy to do so. I've got to say that Gabaldon has started relying on some stock descriptions a bit for her work, but I'm already invested in the characters and the plot, so I've found I can turn a blind eye for that. I'm reading her next book in the series (An Echo in the Bone) right now. I'll post when I finish it.
5 out of 30 down. 25 more to go.
I encourage everyone else to set a reading goal as well. It's helped me to feel less guilty about the time I spend reading and get back into the swing of setting aside time to read.
Happy Reading!
So here it is. I set my goal fairly low at 30 books for the year. It's been so long since I've gotten to really read just for pleasure (thanks to my time at university...) so I started this past Christmas by getting a Kindle before moving to Hong Kong. It's really helped, I must say. There are lots of free books and I've been reading much more frequently. Not that I don't believe in buying paper copies (I love a real book in my hands), but it's more environmentally sound and easier to carry when traveling halfway across the world. No really. When we went to Bangkok for the honeymoon, we loaded maps from the internet as PDFs and used them as we walked around Bangkok. So worth it.
So I'm going to start posting the books that I read on the blog. I'll post them after I read them. I don't know that I'll be reviewing, but I'll try to make it some kind of comment and keep a count. Here's my list for the year thus far:
1) The Fellowship of the Ring (J.R.R. Tolkien)
2) The Two Towers (J.R.R. Tolkien)
3) The Return of the King (J.R.R. Tolkien)
What can I say. It had been a while (since middle school) since I'd read them and I'm writing my own fantasy fiction right now, so I figured reading genre would help.
4) My Antonia (Willa Cather)
It'd never read of any Cather's work before, but I found all of it (or at least most of it) for free for the Kindle, so why not? There is a lot more Cather on my list for this year's reading.
5) A Breath of Snow and Ashes (Diana Gabaldon)
I've been reading this author since I was in high school and fell in love with the Outlander series then. I bought a copy of the book a few years ago, but didn't get to finish it with all of my school work. I've finally finished it and was happy to do so. I've got to say that Gabaldon has started relying on some stock descriptions a bit for her work, but I'm already invested in the characters and the plot, so I've found I can turn a blind eye for that. I'm reading her next book in the series (An Echo in the Bone) right now. I'll post when I finish it.
5 out of 30 down. 25 more to go.
I encourage everyone else to set a reading goal as well. It's helped me to feel less guilty about the time I spend reading and get back into the swing of setting aside time to read.
Happy Reading!
A P&W prompt from February
This is prompt I completed in February from the Poets & Writers Magazine that I picked up from Angelspeak, which is written by a friend of mine. You should check out her blog for writing prompts, book reviews, and other writing articles. She does the prompts and shows the entire process of writing and drafting the poetry. She challenges those who read her blog to attempt their own, so that's what I'm here to do. I'm going to go ahead and state now - I'm not great at titling my writing. Perhaps I'll get better at is as I go along, or I'll title things more deliberately after I feel they're closer to completion. Just saying don't expect it.
Prompt:
"Make a list of objects. One thing should be from your desk, one from your closet, one a body part, one a thing you covet that belongs to someone else, one enormous, one slippery, and at least one that makes an odd or evocative sound. Now, describe each using a simile. Do this twice for each one. Using as many of the similes as you can, write a poem with a title such as “Checklist to Survive a Nuclear Winter” or “Things That Have Nothing To Do With Grief.”"
Here's my list of objects and similes:
Yellow chrysanthemums - as tree in Brooklyn; like an art nouveau portrait amid the art deco skyscrapers
Rubber band exercise equipment - like an unused shower cap; as potential energy holds back the kinetic energy
Hands - like the tools of a sculptor; like the mouths of hungry children
Understanding - like a deaf man with people screaming at him; like God among the creatures of the earth
Building - like a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels; like the skyline of Metropolis
Flat mate - as a live fish in the hands of a toddler; as a guilty adolescent in a confessional
The man on the corner - like the billboard man outside the metro if he had no Jesus to proclaim; like a deaf man singing Amazing Grace
-
The man on the corner shouts like the preacher outside the metro, if he had no Jesus, no eschat to proclaim
Like the skyline of Metropolis, my building shoots up next to him, mockingly playing as a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels
As a tree in Brooklyn, the chrysanthemums on my desk paint the art nouveau portrait amid the art deco giants beyond the window
A flat mate climbing the stair as a guilty adolescent in a confessional, another night of evasion, as a live fish in the hands of a toddler; I stand like God among the among the creatures of the earth, understanding, then crumble as a deaf man with people screaming at him
My hands grasp like the mouths of hungry children, as tools of a sculptor willing transformation
The man on the corner cries his senseless song, like a deaf man singing Amazing Grace, and I understand
-
Here's what I finally settled on:
Struggling for comprehension, I wander to my window.
The man on the corner shouts like the street preacher with no Jesus, no eschat to proclaim.
The skyline of Metropolis, my building shoots up next to him, mocking
a satire as a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels .
As a tree in Brooklyn, the chrysanthemums on my desk in bright yellow
painting the art nouveau portrait amid the art deco giants that raise the sky.
A flat mate climbs the stair, glances sideways as a guilty adolescent
in a confessional, another night of evasion, as a live fish in the hands of a toddler.
I stand like God among the creatures of the earth,
understanding, then crumble as if built on foundations of sand.
My hands grasp like the mouths of hungry children,
as tools of a sculptor, willing transformation.
Rubber bands lie on the floor inert, as potential holds back
the kinetic, as an unused shower cap.
The man on the corner cries his senseless song, the deaf man singing
Amazing Grace. I understand.
Prompt:
"Make a list of objects. One thing should be from your desk, one from your closet, one a body part, one a thing you covet that belongs to someone else, one enormous, one slippery, and at least one that makes an odd or evocative sound. Now, describe each using a simile. Do this twice for each one. Using as many of the similes as you can, write a poem with a title such as “Checklist to Survive a Nuclear Winter” or “Things That Have Nothing To Do With Grief.”"
Here's my list of objects and similes:
Yellow chrysanthemums - as tree in Brooklyn; like an art nouveau portrait amid the art deco skyscrapers
Rubber band exercise equipment - like an unused shower cap; as potential energy holds back the kinetic energy
Hands - like the tools of a sculptor; like the mouths of hungry children
Understanding - like a deaf man with people screaming at him; like God among the creatures of the earth
Building - like a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels; like the skyline of Metropolis
Flat mate - as a live fish in the hands of a toddler; as a guilty adolescent in a confessional
The man on the corner - like the billboard man outside the metro if he had no Jesus to proclaim; like a deaf man singing Amazing Grace
-
The man on the corner shouts like the preacher outside the metro, if he had no Jesus, no eschat to proclaim
Like the skyline of Metropolis, my building shoots up next to him, mockingly playing as a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels
As a tree in Brooklyn, the chrysanthemums on my desk paint the art nouveau portrait amid the art deco giants beyond the window
A flat mate climbing the stair as a guilty adolescent in a confessional, another night of evasion, as a live fish in the hands of a toddler; I stand like God among the among the creatures of the earth, understanding, then crumble as a deaf man with people screaming at him
My hands grasp like the mouths of hungry children, as tools of a sculptor willing transformation
The man on the corner cries his senseless song, like a deaf man singing Amazing Grace, and I understand
-
Here's what I finally settled on:
Struggling for comprehension, I wander to my window.
The man on the corner shouts like the street preacher with no Jesus, no eschat to proclaim.
The skyline of Metropolis, my building shoots up next to him, mocking
a satire as a hollowed, dead Redwood full of squirrels .
As a tree in Brooklyn, the chrysanthemums on my desk in bright yellow
painting the art nouveau portrait amid the art deco giants that raise the sky.
A flat mate climbs the stair, glances sideways as a guilty adolescent
in a confessional, another night of evasion, as a live fish in the hands of a toddler.
I stand like God among the creatures of the earth,
understanding, then crumble as if built on foundations of sand.
My hands grasp like the mouths of hungry children,
as tools of a sculptor, willing transformation.
Rubber bands lie on the floor inert, as potential holds back
the kinetic, as an unused shower cap.
The man on the corner cries his senseless song, the deaf man singing
Amazing Grace. I understand.
Welcome
I'm starting this blog with the purpose of having a place to put the odds and ends that are my semi-gathered thoughts and bit of writing that I am trying to push myself to complete. I am hoping to post here a few times a week with writing prompts and probably some educational ranting (that is ranting on the topic of education - whether you find my ranting educational is something else completely). I've got a few posts already prepared from a set of writing prompts that I have been completing, so those should be up shortly.
Cheers!
The title of the blog has a brief explanation, but if you require something more definite, I will put you in contact with my husband. He's the philosopher and can explain these things in much more detail than I can.
I wish myself luck and patience with this blog. No doubt you, the reader, will need it as well.
Cheers!
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