Brush the static out of your hair

Hey all! Sorry this is late. I wanted to post a bit of the graphic-novel-esque scenes I'm working on but my scanner is not cooperating with me. And then I fell asleep. :P Anyway, here's a few quick (and rough) glimpses into the world, little written snippets from different characters in different socioeconomic positions.



****
Cassie ran her hands along the smooth edge of the cavern, eyes closed. Her eyelids fluttered and Tobias could see the corners of words on her lips, a quiet whispered blur too fast for his comprehension. He wished sometimes he was like his sister, but he knew he wasn’t strong enough to be like her. He was fond of his arms and his legs and his skin and he just couldn’t just replace them with spare parts. He couldn’t bear the pain Cassie could. And he couldn’t bear the exile. It was luck alone that he could meet with her every couple of weeks, when George was posted on guard. George was his uncle, Cassie’s uncle. George understood. George wore an eye patch now, and his good eye looks the other way to let Tobias sneak food and notes to Cassie.

Cassie was on fire once. Cassie should have died, and many people said that she did. But Momma loved Cassie, Momma loved her more than her time or her job or her money. Momma brought Cassie back. Momma sat Tobias down on the couch and held his head in her hands and made Tobias look her in the red-rimmed eyes. “She’s different now, honey, she’s special. But she’s still our Cassie.”

Cassie didn’t talk for months. Cassie unwrapped the gauze after two weeks and looked plastic and cold, Cassie looked and looked and never saw you. Cassie nibbled on words and chewed and stared at the vid-window of the lawn we used to have when mom was young and we were in her belly. Sometimes she made the pictures move. Tobias read the manual but he didn’t know how to do that. Cassie looked out the window and waved to the children she saw playing there. “The window is a fiction”, Momma said. “There’s no one to play with on the other side, just miles and miles of soil and soot and stone.”

Cassie made a friend. They spoke through the window, shared stories. She was a little girl with blonde hair and silver eyes and cloudy white skin. She wore checkers and stripes and plaids and statics. Her name was Jenny.

Jenny always looked a little different. Her hair grew forwards and backwards and sometimes it floated around her like she was underwater. She liked to be barefoot and she liked to feel with her fingers and toes. She didn’t speak at first, but she liked to smile enthusiastically at anything Cassie did.

At night sometimes the giggling would wake Tobias up. The window would be on and the girls would be running through the fields together, playing tea party or braiding unruly blonde hair. Jenny and Cassie – she was sleeping in her bed, but Tobias watched her run.

The fingers clicked across the rough edges of the rock. Cassie was on the move, fluid steps along the Park’s edge as her fingers looped and traced the cracks in the wall. Tobias was a bit uncomfortable with the way the grass grew to meet her footsteps. She left a wake of silver clovers and forget-me-nots. She was frowning, even while she whispered, frowning with overcast eyes. She was searching, missed her window, missed her Jenny. Tobias followed because it was all he knew. The Park was theirs, the Park was dangerous, Momma said the news said the people said. The Park was theirs. Cassie was theirs.

*****
The first is Tobias and Cassie, brother and sister separated by the techological segregation. Cassie has no choice in the matter of being transhuman; she was all but reduced to cinders in some past accident, and the majority of her body (and perhaps even mind) is synthetic. I want to play on aspects of mythological rebirth with her (the pheonixical life from death), as well as parallel her current, transhuman state with mythological figures of dynaids or nymphs, creatures resembling humanity but innately bound to nature.

I also want to explore the 'childhood' and development of the AI consciousness growing from the forest above. I named it 'Jenny' as the first seeding programs that gave rise to these metallic Forests were called "Project Genesis". (Genesis obviously chosen for it's connotations to both Beginnings and the Garden of Eden, a paradise now forbidden to man, just as the forests above have become.)




*****

Ivan tapped on the monitor and squinted. Was the readout always this… pink? It didn’t matter. He leaned back in the worn leather recliner and kicked his legs up on the desk, watching the view unfold.

It was brilliant, always was, the sun rising over the mountainous horizon in the east and striking the gleaming canopy with its rays. You could hear it before you could see it – a trembling wave rippling over the valley as the petals and leaves shuddered and readjusted themselves to the optimal position, yearning towards the light. The first tree – the tallest among them, looming over the garden – shimmered pink and began to sing. The notes were picked up almost immediately, and in minutes the whole garden was awake.

It was truly beautiful – a paradise Ivan often walked through in his dreams, set in such painful contrast to the gloomy office he’d been confined to for the last seven months. Pushing buttons, redirecting thoughts. He turned the sequencer to 3 and adjusted the pitch and haw of the A.P.H.I.D.’s camera-mounted head, scanning the forests for irregularities.

*****

This one's barely worth posting. I don't have much on the APHIDS (Autonomous Plant-Hull Interface Drones) quite yet, but I want there to be a character (enter Ivan) or characters responsible for monitoring the changes to the cybernetic environment, perhaps concerned or amused or in awe of the rapid growth and physical developments occuring. I want them to be caught off gaurd by the consciousness, and not even recognize it as a thinking organism at first.

*****

Albatross

A soldier’s tent, stiff fallow canvas stretched out taut into the shape of a room. A rusted bunk and beaten mattress, adorned with an olive wool blanket, standard issue. A worn ironwood desk stacked with files and folders, its chair swiveled around, turned to face the center of the room. And a man, a commodore in full regalia, whose white-gloved fingers thoughtfully turned a small silvery sphere, over and over in his hand.

The orb was like any other - ornate, but nonetheless average. Approximately the size of a golf ball, it shone clear and crystalline, each tiny brilliant facet etched over with a swirling, lace-like pattern. The young Commodore removed his glove, and took the trinket delicately into his bare hand, rubbing his thumb softly over it’s surface. The orb hummed faintly, a thin electric whine, like a camera’s charge. The pattern lit up, and the crystal flickered, once, twice. Then all at once, the orb filled and flashed white, and the room was awash in its warm glow; luminous points and rays of color danced out from the individual facets, and in a moment or so they settled and focused, transforming the tent with the shimmering veneer of a prerecorded message.

It was a woman, hunkered down at the base of a gnarled and stunted tree, legs crossed Indian style beneath her. She leaned forward, face centered in the orb’s frame but masked in dark shadows. Beyond her the world unfurled, endless prairies and fields beneath a yellow sky, sun slung low, setting over her left shoulder. It wasn’t much to look at, really - a dusty little world, no different from the dozens of other dusty little worlds littering the cosmos. But here the sun had begun to set, and everything was touched in gold. It made the open plains seem more expansive, limitless. It gave the recording, and the woman, a timeless, lonely feel.

Hello. The hologram’s words were worn, low and deadpan. A thin smile cut across the woman’s face but wilted quickly.

This is a message for Joel Casey, of the Eastern Unity Station of Espera.
The time is.. She looked off to the side for a moment, leaned out of frame.
…time is oh four hundred. Twenty-third of March, U-one–seven-two.
She looked the commodore dead in the eyes, and he tensed, face stony, feeling uneasy. He turned the recorder in his hands slightly, shifting the world and the woman’s eye line off of him

…we’re safe, we settled in about…ah, six days ago, and not a word so far. Heads’ down, ears up. Danko says there’s chatter on the feed but nothing about us, far as he can figure. ’S good. Feels good, to slow down a sec, breathe. She breaks off in a shaky half-sigh, half-smile. She rubs her shoulder absently as she speaks, and for a moment, as the drab fabric parts, a deep and ugly wound can be seen, carved into her just below the collarbone. Danko says hey, by the way. Sends you his best. Say hi to Amita for him, let her know he’s safe too.

She trailed off, falling silent for a moment, and her eyes glanced away from the orb again, off into the distance. The sun struck her face now, revealed the dark bruises under her eyes, the furrowed lines that worried her face. Her black hair appeared dusted, washed out. Everything about her was faded, prematurely aged.

She sniffed, turned back to face the screen.


…do you want to see her?
The woman’s hand reached in close, and suddenly the world was a blur, shifting up into the air and spinning around. There was a small town, a handful of nondescript cabins with low-slung roofs, huddled together at the base of the nearest valley. There was a click, then another blur, as the viewframe zoomed, and a small girl came into focus, a child with short-cropped black hair, wiry frame and paper-pale skin. There were dark marks on her bare legs and arms, spidery scars that couldn’t quite be made out as she danced and frolicked from a far. She was chasing a grasshopper, sneaking close and then laughing as it bounded away from her.

…hard to believe how big she’s gotten, huh? Our little Sparrow, too old too fast… …because she had to be. I’ve kept her out of the most of it. The worst of it. I’d like to think that, anyway. I’d like to hope.

…’S just not fair.

The woman was silent for a moment, lost in the child’s play. In her own memories. Sparrow paused for a moment as well, bent low, ready to catch the tenacious little insect evading her. Her dark hair parted, and on the nape of her neck there was a dark sigil, a tattoo of an albatross, wings spread in flight. The ink seemed to be shifting, rearranging itself… scrolling lists, of digits and names too blurred to make out. Then, with a laugh and a pounce, she was out of the frame. The world blurred, and the camera was turned back to the woman.

…They’ve found room for us. A house, a job. A new name. She’ll be safe for now. And I--

Suddenly the woman gasped and her head took to the sky. Her eyes sparked, clear and bright, filled with an almost animalistic fear. She glanced back over to her bag and swore lightly.

The transport. Goddamn Uhaul. She laughed a bit, breathed out a shaky sigh and ran a hand through her dusty hair. You should see these things. It’s an amazing process, terraforming. Moon’s too dry so they’ve been shipping water in. Not on our account, of course. The Solace Corp has it’s hands on half the northern hemisphere, and there’s the whole NuWorlds Movement just west of here.


Reservoir drops are like these sparking waterfalls that open up from the sky. Oh, Sparrow loves it. Especially close to evening like this, it catches and blazes in the sun...

well here. Lemme turn this…

The world blurred and spun again, and the warm Saffron sky filled the tent, cloudless, serene. There was a small and growing vermilion streak in the center, the furnace flare of a ship breaking through the atmosphere. It grew.. and grew, large and square and…

Wait, that’s not..

Suddenly the camera was in chaos, a smear of grass and flying feet, and a low growling sound could be distinguished in the background, a distant roar.
Sparrow! Sparrow honey, come on, come on, we’ve got to run. Run, run, run, run…Shit! Oh Christ-

A thunderous crack, an explosion of noise, and the world twitched and blurred to static for a moment. A dark plume rose up in front of the camera, a column of smoke where one of the buildings used to be.

oh no, no..!
Sparrow!! SPARROW Get DOWN!!!
Sp- -

Another explosion - another ripple of static. But when the world came to this time, the camera lay on the ground. The dying yellow grass veiled most of the image.. but you could still see a sliver of sky go black. And you could still hear. Voices crying, screaming. Buildings crumbling. And above it all, a low roar that hung in the sky, growing louder and louder.



“Sir?” A man in sordid slacks and greasy hair stood in the doorway to the tent, barely visible amid the holographic foliage. The man nodded slowly, taking his hand off of the orb and slipping it quietly, reverently, back into his pocket. The scene flickered and faded, and the drab fallow tent came into view once again.

“Report, soldier.” His voice came out old and hollow.

“The area is secure, Commodore.” He hesitated, looking down at his scuffed and scabbed boots. “..there are no survivors.”

He nodded again. “And the girl?”

“Almost certainly destroyed, sir. We’re still… sifting. But we have every confidence-”

The commodore raised his hand to cut the boy off.
“Find her, then be confident.” He dismissed the boy, sent him back to his grudgework. Waited until he was down the hill, past the gnarled and stunted tree in the distance.
He closed his eyes, fingered the recording device in his pocket, and pushed down the bile rising in his throat.

*****

This is an older work (some of you from Writer's Bloc might recognize it), one that got me thinking on these sorts of ideas in the first place. I'm still debating how far off of planet earth I want to travel, and in the end I might opt to leave pieces like these out (for fear of extending the world beyond my means).


Feedback, questions, connections, or llamas appreciated.



Thanks ^_^

Project samples and developments

I wanted to have these poems posted after the following, but I can't figure it out. Here's what's up: I have written several poems from the language I've amassed from interviews. In the second found poem, I counted every fourth word (numbering technique). I played with form a lot more in this one than the first one posted. In the first one, I specifically wanted a very aligned and structured format. My poems vary significantly in form. Though a lot have a similar appearance, I'd like to think that the creative process calls for letting the language dictate the form I choose. That is, I have a conscious choice how I want to visually display the language, BUT the writing has in part been visually dictated by emotion and my subconscious.

Just to put in context once again, I am using language from these interviews and will be appropriating found text to create meaningful poems (I have paying close attention to form because I think the visual representation will be important). In my last post, I posted a bunch of questions. I have since added more questions that are configured to get a more personal response from the person being interviewed (versus merely their beliefs). Here is an example of one of the questions I asked, and one of the answers I got:

6. Gays can serve in the military, as long as they keep their sexual orientation secret. What do you think of our govt. in this context, and how do you think this enforced privatization of sexual orientation speaks to society? Do you believe sexual orientation is a private thing?

6. The privatization of sexual orientation speaks to the coercive power of our society. Sexual orientation is not a private thing in mainstream culture. Most heterosexual people wouldn't think twice about displaying photos of their partners or talking about their romantic relationships, because straight couples are the norm. But the enforced privatization of homosexuality keeps people in the closet. It forces queer people to hide their relationships and families from the public, so they have less power in society.

First half of the Horror Script

Hey!!

So I am feeling pretty sick and felt like sparing you all the chance of catching what ever I had but I still wanted to post some of what I've been working on with this final script. It's coming along nicely but one of the segments I wanted to share in this post is the first half of the horror segment. It's a good taste of what I've been doing and I think you can get a really good shot of how I am tying everything together (i.e. all 5 stories and time periods). This one leads in nicely from one of my stories to another and it is my first attempt at horror. I hope you guys like it and if you haven't gone to see the Oxford ghost I recommend it...the story I made up is fake but it really is pretty creepy. So anyway I had to email it over the listserv because although I could take screen shots they wouldn't all post on the blog for some reason. So if you're bored check it out and let me know what you think about where I'm going with the story. More to come. Thanks a lot!

Joey

Movie Time!

Basically, I decided I wanted to incorporate a multimedia element to my project. I want to include a DVD with a movie type thing in the chapbook. So, here's a first draft of the movie...I found some interviews from a chaplain, a "tie-down team", and several members of the press who have witnessed over 100 executions by lethal injection in Texas. A lot of their experiences centered around time, which was the theme of the movie. I took the text from their interview and arranged it in a poem-movie format thing. Keep in mind that I am playing around with the pacing and I want to add sound (maybe music, maybe not.) So let me know what you think of pacing as it is...and hopefully it works! Thanks guys!


and if that doesn't work

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EprITUTizKU

let me know if these work in your comments! thanks again.

Emma

This is a piece of my short story. I think it will be the very beginning of the story. It's Emma sitting in her room, during her Grandfather's funeral reception.

She knew, a little before the actual day, that it was his time. He had to leave her. She knew when he unclasped his gold watch from his pasty wrist. Hidden liver spots exposed for the first time in many years. “Here Emma, it’s yours now,” he had said.
The weight of it on her own wrist felt necessary. For if it wasn’t there, she would float up from her bedroom, unable to come down. The gold watch was her anchor to this life; it was a weight that gave her something aside for the emptiness within her.
She squeezed her hand around the watch, allowing the edges of its links to dig into her fingers. A small knock on her door interrupted the silence.
“Emma?” Her mother said through the wood. The door opened slightly and her mother peaked her concerned face into the dimly light bedroom.
“Please come down Sweetie. Every one is down stairs.” Emma was staring at her patchwork quilt, too guilty to look up. She felt the timid brush strokes of her mother’s hand on her shoulder, not hearing her light footsteps approach her. “There’s some of those oatmeal cookies you like.” Looking up at the green eyes identical to her own, Emma wondered if she would ever have the will to leave her room. The thought of conversing with her relatives made her flinch.
“You’re grandfather would have liked it if you came down to celebrate his life,” her mother finally said.
Emma smiled at this, with he in her mind’s eye. Her grandfather would give her a hidden smirk, his wiry eyebrows raised, because only she ever fully understood him. Yes, she would go down for her grandfather. So together, they walked out of her room, approaching the stiff air.

Dreams

Sorry for it being late, here is part of my story, it's the first part of the dream where the four main characters Ada, Cynna, Acario, and Rinnah finds themselves in the forest.

They found themselves in a dark forest where the thick fog seemed to cover their legs. All four of them found themselves searching frogs. It was hard for them to figure where they were but they all felt the present of the strong strangeness that hub them as a lullaby. It was so familiar but different like the first time they smelt the first scent of Superior. This experience was the only thing that connected them to one another. They were the Superior species that are granting this strange world with its presence. It was time to show this world what they were all about.

No matter how different the place was, how dark and dreary they all felt as if they were above . Around them they heard laughers, laughers of children, laughers of Mom, and Dad, Strange old man who played chess in central park, the contagious laughs of a young brown girl with honey in her eyes, the Puerto Rican cluster click whose voice scattered out as birds out of the whispering evergreen trees after they made a joke in their obnoxious language.

The forest was full of these marsh-leapers as they hop everywhere and everything. They were in their clothes, hair, and face yet not a single soul could have captured one. The green creatures played silently beneath their flesh waiting to be discover in the new day, the new age when they can play sleepily with dragons and prophets, and beast. Each frog croaked thrice which echo through the forest as a cricket giggle, wiggle giggle, which played with their emotions, their superiority. Ada leaped, Cynna jumped, Acario hopped and Rinnah slide in the filthy mud trying to capture a frog. Each individual noticed that each hybrid was different. Even though they all croaked the same staring through elastic like eyes, their black blueprints on the back of their backs kept changing and moving slowly conquering the green.

risk something or loose everything

This blog hasn't been working all the time. There's been a lot of error messages this week.

A grey interface screen shown light on Doug sitting in front of it. Doug looked down at his right arm still wrapped in gauze. A wave of itching sensation washed through his arm, spiked to pain, and faded. Doug looked back at the grey pulsing screen beckoning to him. He hadn't done this in a while. The muscular man with a robotic arm stood behind Doug watching the doors.

"Hell, man. You heard them. If I don't do this--it'll be my fault." Doug began unwrapping his right arm. "I can't live with that. Not her. Maybe a random. But not Fara."

"Man seemed like he spoke truth," the big man said.

"It could fry all the nerves in my arm. But--Fuck it." Doug opened a drawer to the left and pulled out a cord wrapped in plastic. He pulled the cord out and slowly connected each magnetic connecter to the plugs in his arm, five in all. They linked to a single plug. Doug slid that plug into the computer jack. He picked up another cord that ended in a two inch metal rod. "Here goes shit." Doug slid the two inch rod into the jack behind his left ear.

Doug's vision faded to a pulsing grey then cleared to show the access panel of his terminal. It was full of shortcuts to various sites he'd been before. Doug jerked as a pain pulsed through his arm and then went numb. A white hand appeared on the screen and responded to movements from his right arm. Doug wiggled his fingers and saw the hand on the virtual screen wiggle it's fingers.

I'm not sure what I'm going to have Doug do yet and who may or may not have Fara. But I feel like he's going to have to be put in danger that he chooses. The big guy in this is the big guy that approaches them at the table in my earlier post. Turns out that he was sent by some people. Not sure whom. I'm trying to let these details come naturally as I write the story. But Doug reprograms the big guy. Turns out that he is barely human and more like a human running programs downloaded to him. And since that guy didn't get what they wanted, they take Fara. I think that is how I see it happening now.

Doug logged out and pulled the link cable from his head. As his vision and other senses came back to him he felt a warm feeling in his arm. He looked down at it. The skin was red almost like a sunburn. The warmth grew and he felt heat coming from his arm. The room felt hot. Like a hot blow dryer in your face. Doug leaned over and vomited. The heat resided and a pulsing ache stabbed at his head. I hope that isn't how it'll be each time, Doug thought.

Beautiful Beat

this is more of a spoken song rather than rapped....its goes along with this song by Meshell N and its called beautiful


i feel as if i want to concure the world
some say i can, some say i cant, why not give it a whirl
can i let you in on a secret...
i just wanna push they buttons
i dont really wanna do it.
just cuz i can i want to see
all the wonders that surround me
i heard the world was beautiful
i want to see it all
why is it so hard to survive
teachers tell us that we just need a drive
but moms not always home and dad is just there
sometimes i wanna take over the world so theyd care
freedom...yea right
im just stuck here thinking bout it
never gonna be in my sight
where would i start you right, here in my head
while im layin in the bed, nothing is said
its all thoughts of what could be, who i could become
but hell im just anohter person, to dumb to succomb and make a run
freedom is there but i want it for the wrong reasons...
i change my mind faster than the seasons....

Hunger continued

Right now I like what I've come up with in terms of character setting and proposed scene but I'm just trying to flesh out a story arc that can carry it all. The best I've come up with so far is to have the two main characters steal or stumble upon money, and then in their decisions regarding what to do with it, I can explore some of the themes I'm interested in. What I'm looking for mostly is to stay consistent in the way the characters sound and my descriptions so anytime I stray from that, please let me know, and any ideas for where the story can go from here would be much appreciated.

Muck looked up at the room. Lizard tongues darted over cracked lips and yellow teeth. One man clutched at his knees and rocked back and forth, back and forth with unfocused eyes. Others supped water from Styrofoam cups and ran their hands, hands like carved wood through knotted hair. From this mass of crooked spines and elbows and teeth Muck could hear the collective prayers of the room sent upward:

“Jackson! What you doing with those beans over there? Pushing ‘em around isn’t going to put them in your belly any faster. Why don’t you slide them over here?” one said, going unanswered.
“What kind o’ meat you think this is? Turkey? Don’t taste like any turkey I ever had,” said another to the man across from him.
“Not turkey. Look at that skin. Too dark. Not chicken either though,” the man answered.
“Shit, I’m not worried. Salt’ll fix it.”
“I’ll put my beans up against your fruit you sum’bitch.” wagered another.
“Deal. I didn’t get any peaches anyway. Just those crusty old pears we always have.”
“Cheapo behind the counter didn’t give me any food. You see that? Bullshit!” cried a large man. “That’s right cheapo, you hear that? I’m a big man. The fuck kind of joke you think this is?”
“Look at J.R. right there. Old boy looks ridiculous. Hey J.R.! You sure are wearing the fuck out of that hat. Where’d you get that?” shouted one man across the room.
“Man,” he said drawling slow and pulling at the hair growing over his neck. “You know I look real nice in this here mother fucker.”
“Right there man, see? That big piece of meat floating right there?” A hunched figure jabbed a wooden finger at the glass separating him from the serving pot of meat and beans. “Yea that’s it, go right along the top. Give me those big pieces of meat, just like that. God bless.”

“…In God’s name we pray. Amen.” Muck and Tony stalked around the outside of the room to where the line started behind a stack of trays. A few other late arrivals stood with eyes cast to the floor waiting to be served. When it was their turn to approach the counter with their trays Tony stepped in front of Muck and craned his neck over the glass to look at the food.
“Give me a big scoop. Right off the bottom,” he said to the man behind the counter. “Been awhile since I had a good meal. I’m a growing boy, right?” The man smiled and drew a thick ladle of beans from the vat like mud from a river bottom. “That’s right, just like that. Thank you sir.”
Muck followed suit and the two boys picked a way to an empty table among the stooped men grown silent in a post-meal stupor. Ill-fated all in ill-fitting clothes.
“Did you see what I saw, Muck. That man behind the counter? I know you saw it,” Tony said leaning over his steaming bowl of beans.
“Tony, I fucking told you last time. I’m not taking anything from the people who work here.”
“I knew you saw it! Come on, it wouldn’t be like he’d miss it. He’s wearing sweatpants, doesn’t he know we can’t be trusted?”
“How do you know he’s even got his wallet on him. He probably left it in his car before he came in. Just let it be.”
“Well I’m checking. You know you’ll want me to share the money with you when I get it.” Tony’s eyes glassed over, the way all men’s do contemplating unknown riches. “Hurry up and eat, we’ll follow him out onto the street.”

So after meeting with Cathy, I have decided to make a compilation of different pieces of fiction told from different points of view but all relating to Freedom Summer. This portion is from the point of view of a black SNCC volunteer during his training in Oxford. I wanted to show that not everything was as friendly and productive as it may seem in records or retrospective looks at the noble feat of these volunteers. So here goes...

I remember they told us to be prepared for something very different from what we were used to. Yeah, very different. Awfully vague for what it actually was. I had been a volunteer for SNCC (Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee) for about six months when I caught wind of the Freedom Summer project taking place in a little Midwestern town in Ohio: Oxford. Up until then, I had honestly had very little interaction in general with white folks. I joined SNCC in my hometown of Detroit. Actually as far as hometowns go, that is a rather large place to claim, so I guess I missed out on some of the homey aspects of a safe and quaint hometown like Oxford, OH. Regardless, Before I left for the training, I remember our committee leader explaining to us that everyone was there to volunteer for a common cause. It would be different but also a learning experience. They tried to sugar coat everything, I know in retrospect. What I experienced during that time in Ohio could not have been foreseen fully for what it was.

            I don’t mean to make the experience sound like a nightmare. I assure you, it wasn’t. It was noble especially thinking on it now. But that doesn’t mean that it was all rainbows and unicorns. The SNCC volunteers seemed to naturally group together and the white volunteers seemed constantly segregated. It was as if they didn’t understand us nor we them. I remember one conversation I had during a training session on how to handle a violent situation if we were to be jumped or attacked. I was being attacked and this white volunteer was the attacker. To preface, we were told to act as if the situation were real so as not to create shock if the issue was really to play out while in Mississippi. I had no idea he would go this far.

            “Down you coon! No good [kicks to the ribs] son-of-a-bitch!”

            I curled into a ball as I was told by our instructors.

            “What the hell you think you are doin’ in these parts, nigger?”

            He went for my face, so I buried it in my hands. I could hear gasps from my friends and other volunteers forming around us in a circle. I continued to cover my face and felt his blows on my ribs, penetrating deeper and deeper. Finally the demonstration was over. I rose to see his face.

            He was red and panting, panting from his rage or from the drill. The seemingly kind man who had shaken my hand before was replaced with the hatred they taught us not to fear but to expect. It wasn’t all violent and terrifying, the training. But it was also clear that this was the bringing together of different groups. It was a lesson that could only be lived perhaps. 

more testing

Dialogue is something I consistently suck at, so I wanted to test Ray with someone he'd be more comfortable sharing with. I ended up with him not speaking as much as I'd like, but I couldn't come up with responses more fitting for his character. I think he needs to be older, rather than the younger guy I originally envisioned. Anyway, like the last post this is more in the vein of exploring his character, and I'm not sure if a scene like this would make it into the story. I did find myself liking his friend Daniel a lot, and I think I'd have some scenes featuring this guy and the relationship with his wife. I was shooting to have him be real energetic/talkative but he's got his own problems after the war, and it reflects in his marriage. I also wanted there to be a sort of trade-off between the way the guys talked in the army (about women and how they looked, as objects) and how they talk now, the idea being Daniels has adjusted and Ray doesn't know what to say. Does any of this come across?


He took a drag on his cigarette as she walked away.
“Somethin, huh?” he said, around the butt. “From speed dating.” Ray leaned against the side of the building, set the paper bag she gave him on the concrete. Daniels tapped out a jingle in his pockets and shifted his weight. Said he didn’t smoke anymore, was trying to quit. Kept trying to find something else to occupy his hands, his lips. He chewed gum, the pill kind that comes in little foil tablets.
“She know you’re a washed up son of a bitch?” Daniels said, chewing. He had let his hair grow long once he got back to the states, raggedy stuff that fell into his eyes.
“Women,” Ray said, watching her figure stoop into her sedan across the street. She waved and he held up his hand, nodding to her, “think they have everything they want, just after meeting you.” He kept his hand up as she turned to the wheel, starting up and pulling away.
Daniels nodded and looked up at him, squinting in the growing light.
“She’s got a nice set, Ray.” Daniels pulled out an old lighter from his pocket and started flicking it on and off. Ray exhaled and watched the smoke mingle with the mist from his breath. It was one of those cold, sharp mornings; the ones where you squint from the sun and rub your hands together and think about raking leaves. The two leaned next to glass doors of the VA like they did every Monday morning. Sessions started in about ten minutes.
“Molly’s pregnant again,” Daniels said, eyes on the sidewalk, listening to the snap of the lighter. The two liked to let the minutes speak between them, taking in the air as they spoke. Time seemed to move so much slower back home.
Ray smiled, inhaling.
“She’s out all day, right? Doing errands. Comes back with arms full of shopping bags with all sorts of clothes and napkins and forks and shit. Won’t stop talking about this woman she saw at the store, from her high school. Amanda. Amanda was this crazy bitch back in high school, and Molly’s talking all over herself telling me how different this girl was and how she’s really turned her life around. She had a steady job, working at this bath and kitchen store. Molly’s telling me all this while she’s unpacking the bags, putting candles in cabinets and running around the kitchen. She goes, ‘yeah Amanda and I are having lunch this Saturday’ and pulls out this open box of pregnancy tests and sets it right there on the table.”
Daniels had put the lighter back in his pocket and walked on to the sidewalk, facing Ray. His hands were out, animated, hopping around and telling his story. “ ‘But I don’t know if I’m going to go because I really wanted to try out these new shoes I saw at Kohl’s’ and she grabs the box and tosses it in the trash and starts telling me about the shoes. Baby, I said, what’s with the box? And she smiles, gives me a big hug, tells me she’s pregnant again, big kiss on the cheek, gives me an I love you, and goes back to the shoes!”
Ray flicked some of his ashes into the can next to him, and rubbed his hands together.
“Jesus, Danny. I would go nuts.”
“She’s done this four times already, and each time we had a big talk about it, and talked about how we’d get the money, and where we’d get the crib, or which kid wouldn’t get their own room anymore. Now she’s getting shoes! I don’t know what to do with her anymore,” Daniels said, letting his eyes read over the hours to the center, but not paying attention.
Ray brought out his cell and punched in a few digits. Text: Thanks babe! He flipped it shut. Going to see her later tonight, she’s got a nice place.
“It’s time,” Ray said, holding open the glass door. Daniels walked by him, shrugging.
“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Ray said. “If I was you I’d start selling those kids, or something.” Ray remembered them, cute little kids that always cleaned out the M & Ms he kept in his pockets

relationship stories thus far.

I'll post a few of the answers I got. To remind people, I'll post the questions first.

2. How long you've been with your significant other (S.O.)
3. Who approached/pursued who in this relationship? Tell me the story.
4. Say you wanted to see a movie and your s.o. wanted to see a different one. Explain what would happen.
5. Give me an example of when your partner makes you upset.
6. Give me the ratio of how much time you spend with your friends without your s.o. vs. the time you spend with only your s.o.
7. How has the media shaped your expectations of what your partner "should" be doing.
8. Who has more power in the relationship and why do you feel that way?

I'll remove the names and replace them with *** to keep peoples identities private.

girl 1:

2. About 6 ½ months
3. We were both interested in each other, but in other relationship at the time we met in Luxembourg. We started hanging out a lot as “friends” but it was pretty clear that we had more feelings for each other than that. One Sunday night a little after we were both single, *** brought me back a rose from Paris. That pretty much did it for me, and the next night I asked if he wanted to go hang out at one of the local bars in Luxembourg City. We went there, and after a few beers and a few games of darts, I finally got up the courage to tell him how I felt, and I kissed him. He says he was planning on talking about it the next day (we had plans to go shopping), but I just beat him to it.
4. He tends to really want me to be happy, so he would probably insist we go to the one I wanted to see, and I would insist we go to the one he wanted to see. Eventually, we might decide to see a different movie entirely, or go someplace else instead. However, if he was very insistent I wouldn’t mind going to the movie of my choice
5. He makes me upset when he beats himself up over the little things that don’t matter, or when he won’t speak his mind because he’s afraid it’s something I won’t want to hear.
6. I would say I spend an equal amount of time with my friends and with ***. However, he’s become very close with my friends, so the group of us hang out together a lot.
7. According to the media, I guess *** should be a little more aggressive, and not quite as sensitive and chivalrous as he is. The media really portrays that “tough guy” image that men are supposed to fulfill. Having had a tough guy, I can say that I much prefer the sweet, sensitive type.
8. I feel as though power is fairly equally balanced, but that *** is much more willing to go along with what I want to do because I’m generally more aggressive.

guy 1:

2 - Going on 7 months
3 - We both kind of did, though *** kind of started it. She facebook chatted me one day randomly in Luxembourg because she said I seemed sad. We hadn't really talked much before that. So we kind of commiserated about our respected SOs at the time and just started hanging out a lot. I ended up breaking things off with *** so that I could go after ***l.
4 - I would probably go see what she wanted to see. I'm pretty easy with movies.
5 - *** makes me upset when she blames herself for things that aren't her fault. Like if I'm in a bad mood and she isn't responsible at all for it, she'll take responsibility for it and beat herself up for it (not physically, of course).
6 - probably about 3/7 (friends to SO)
7 - Well, the idea I get about women from the media is that she should always be sexy and on the ball. I don't expect that, though. Everybody has their days, and being perfect is not a realistic expectation. I know I'm not perfect, so why should I expect her to be?
8 - I'd say that in theory, our power is about the same, although I feel that I'm more likely to cave than *** is.

girl 2:

2. 2.5 years
3. I was an RA in ***'s building... He said "Hey babe" one day to me and I thought he was the cutest thing! So I didnt know his name at that point. Talked to his RA to figure it out :) Then we exchanged a few fb messages before hanging out. I think the first time we hung out was a late night after going out. He brought water and wheat thins (my favorite snack). So I am not sure who pursed who but he made the first move for a kiss so I'd say him :)
4. We are both pretty understanding I would say so picking movies we normally go for whoever has a movie they want to see thats out. If we both have movies out, we both give in sometimes to see each others movies. I would say more often than not, he gives in and sees my movie though!
5. He makes me upset when I am leaving to go out of town or something and I say Ill miss you and he says "you wont be gone long" or "1 week is not long to not see each other".
6. I am not sure how to put it in ratio form. When going out on the weekends, or during the week, I go with *** because we have the same group of friends. Sometimes Ill go to lunch with my friends or hang out with them at parties on the weekends (but *** is always there for the weekend parties). Sorry I cant give a better description or ration :)
7. I think very little has the media shaped what a partner should be doing. I think a lot of my ideas of what he should be doing is based off past relationship positives or relationships of my friends and family.
8. I feel like he has more power because I leave a lot of the decisions because I am indecisive. There are certain things that I dont like for him to do or say and he respects that but most of the time I go with the flow for whatever he wants to do.

still waiting on guy 2

girl 3:

2. 19 months

3. He did -- he took the first step and got my phone number.
4. Honestly, I can't remember the last time that we didn't agree on a movie before hand. Most of the time we lay out the reasons for seeing one, and then the other. If it's a scary movie, then I explain that I will have nightmares later, and he'll have to deal with that. In most other cases, I can be persuaded with popcorn.
5. When it seems like he doesn't factor me into his plans.
6. (friends) 65 : (***) 35
7. Sometimes it feels like the media is pressuring us to have more dramatic moments -- like we should be having major issues like ex-wives or unexpected pregnancies. Of course, there are people who actually have huge problems like this, but I would say that the problems *** and I face are really more about things working out on time.
8. I would say he does -- I'm the one sticking around Ohio because he's gradauting late. In the other scenario, we're in a long distance relationship, in which I'm probably the one who will have to fly back.

guy 3:

2. 19 monthes
3.Well, we met at a party. And from there I got friends to talk me up to her. Then i got her number. After that it was pretty standard. We both kind of pursued each other
4. We'd probably think about it for a bit, then either watch my movie (since i tend to know more about these). Or watch both. Usually it's a good compromise.
5.There are times when she doesn't think ahead with plans, or over books and causes needless pain and suffering. We tend to not get on each others nerves though. And when we do, it doesn't really last longer then 15 minutes.
6. 70/30
7. I feel like thats a tough question. While the media has obviously had some sort of effect on our relationship, I feel like we have enough awareness of it that we accept it, or actively try and change it. Sometimes she cooks for me. Sometimes I pay. But that isn't all the time. It's a give and take
8. I feel like the power in the relationship isn't something that inherently is one or the others. Power shifts, and it definitely shifts in this relationship. And in some things she has more power than I do, and in others I have more power. It isn't a finite thing.

girl 4:

2. 8 months
3. Definitely he pursued me. Actually the only reason I knew who he was when we met was because my best friend liked him…I know I know. And we were at a party and he death-cupped me in beer pong and so we started flirting because I was mad haha. But I spent the night still trying to set him up with my friend, making them partners, leaving them alone etc. He got my number from a mutual friend after I left and texted me that night. At first, I was pretty cold to him, telling him because my friend liked him my hands were tied. At first I only cared because I felt bad for my friend, but he would text me non-stop, and eventually I started liking it and decided he was pretty funny and we’d text all the time. This was all within like 2 weeks. Then one night I got really drunk and told him to come over and although he resisted for a while because I was quite intoxicated I kissed him. And we talked and kissed a lot the next few days and really quickly realized we liked each other a lot.
4. If one of us wanted to see a movie in particular before we decided to go, we would see that one, or if someone had a stronger preference than the other we’d go with that. If not, we would both offer to see the other person’s movie, and eventually settle on the one we think both of us would enjoy the most. Either of us could insist on one and the other would acquiesce.
5. Whenever he does not see why I am as upset as I am about something, he treats me according to how upset he thinks I should be or how upset he would be in that situation. I wish he would give me the benefit of the doubt that although he does not see why it upsets me as much as it does, I am probably justified in feeling that way. Latest example was when an older, male teacher of mine hit on me and I was veryyy upset and he didn’t get it.
6. I’d say… 2:1 ***:friends
7. I would say in my case I formed my opinion of how a boy should treat a girl from my parents more than anything. So I think the influence of the media is more on trivial, superficial things that very meaningful ones. There are so much conflicting messages out there, I feel like my opinions are my own, but that is just a big mix of things I’ve seen or heard and I internalize what I like. So I think it has not been a significant impact, but probably more than I realize.
8. I have never had a relationship as balanced as this one (I usually have way more power) and this is a tough question. Ultimately I would say that I do if I absolutely had to choose, but truthfully it is more even than I ever thought possible. He gives me pretty much whatever I want, which is why I say that, but generally that goes both ways. If it came down to it, though, he’d be the one to sacrifice.

still waiting on guy 4

Anyway, that's all I have so far. Let me know if you have any ideas of how to remix all this information or how you would somehow organize it. I wasn't going to use all the sentences obviously, probably just pick out some of the most powerful statements from each.

Thanks!

Olivia

4 - oh no, not again

A reworking of post 2... ack, not getting too far, are we? Maybe I should have started at the beginning of the project, heh.

I am standing in the middle of no place, no feeling, life seen through the filter of a silent movie. You ask if I’m dreaming. Have you ever lived a dream, skipped a path paved with gumdrops and candied pecans? Truth in fantasy.
The world here is a self-contained speck of dust I’ve fallen into and I have to wonder if the fields of dreams filled with exotic (macadamia, coco, mongongo, etc.) girls with big coats of fur are out there real and calling me towards the path I follow because we all need something to believe. To justify the careless un-thinking that our imagination makes real like the way you now justify looking down upon me. Perchance to dream.
But this is it and this small patch of colorless earth both strange and familiar inherent in the cold calmness burning in me. Yet everything seems to have outgrown me - the safety of trees now expanding a few feet higher, a mile to me. This road I stand on. And now I am aware of the shadow of a winged beast engulfing me. There, ahead of me, the globular eyes of my blood nemesis, expressionless but glowing so heavily in the night as to practically create cones of blinding light. Just like I remember. And now it all comes back to me - the torture, the destruction, the acceptance.

My parents are dead. All around me. Nothing important.
Was it a politician or a minister? Nobody can say who spoke in the forum that day. I can say I was in the forum someday but someday there will be no recollection that words lived here. But I am here, somebody or nobody climbing down from the tree branch to hear this fellow.
Shall we trample it under our feet, look it in the eye and gun it down in the streets? Shall we drop our silent acorns overhead, swift the sickle never seen coming? How shall Shall we trample it under our feet, look it in the eye and gun it down in the streets? Shall we drop our silent acorns overhead, swift the sickle never seen coming? How shall innocence die?
We have to stop them before it happens again, he says. And we’re the crowd in front of the capital house, the sea of heads indistinct from tails. I can’t hear the Boss Upstairs, the crowd’s squeaky chants drowning out the reality-altering decision occurring upstairs, but later on the history books will reconstruct part of it for me.
Sir, we’ve got a situation, some faceless sap says. That mob sure looks rowdy today. Or, this is worse than the furry rights march of 1982.
When questioned about the impending crisis…
The squirrel standing behind the desk turns toward the window, hands folded.
…the Head Nut replied, the will of the people is clear. Our way of life is at stake.
And that’s where I come in, the newest recruit into the Delta Squirrel squadron of the 101st tree community.

New happenings thoughts and poems...

Heavens, it was bizarre. I run sound from the back of the room so the artists can read without folks beings distract by my behind the scenes-ness like it should be. In the process of this, and being one who like reading my own work, I implemented a wireless mic and invented the persona of "The phantom poet" (I did this months and months ago and it became popular and stuck).

In the guise of the phantom poet, and in the spirit of Halloween, I wrote and read some very scary poetry, starting with the serious stuff and ending with the funny one I call "star stuff" that ends with my vowing never again to eat at white castle's. Well, second to last, I read one I wrote called, "The poetry of magic" which is a mock incantation evoking the spirits of nature to aid me in my quest to purge evil that threatened to tip the balance of the universe toward darkness. After I read it, Chele, who was more than a little tipsy, came to me and kept saying "That was creepy". I said "thanks, I have more like that, but I'm going to do one more, but this one's funny." She kept repeating, "no, creepy. Damn Creepy." I asked John Kramer to play some whooshy synth stuff and announced that I was about to read the Phantom Poet's signature poem and folks who knew me applauded. John started playing, I had read four or five lines into it and Chele started screaming TIME OUT, TIME OUT! I asked her if she was serious and she turned her back to me and faced the crowd, and there was a crowd, and said, "IF ANYONE HAS ANY 'REAL' POETRY TO READ, PLEASE DO SO, BUT WE'LL HAVE NO MORE OF THAT." and pointed at me! Then she ran and locked herself in the bathroom for the rest of the event. John and I had to threaten to stay until she came out before she came out red and swollen as if she'd been crying.

Needless to say I was obliterated. In front of people I see at Creativa, and any other poetry readings I go to. I am the only person to have ever been shut down at all, let alone like that. This open mic poetry thing has had people cursing at God, saying "Fuck the police!" (which was read right before I went on), talking about gang banging and just about anything else you can imagine and I get shut down. I wrote and explained what happened to Dean Hall. I did so in a very professional manner without mentioning that I had been crushed like that. Poetry is my chosen field! Do you know how hard it is to run damage control on behalf of the person that had just slammed you worse than anyone in recent memory!? The next event, Chele 'confronted' me about the email to the dean and I tried to explain that I was trying to protect her. She didn't want any part of my explanation and apologized as an aside, under her breath, for being out of line. There were guys who came up to me after and said things like "Dude, you got TOLD, by a DRUNK bitch! That's GOTTA hurt!", "you should have backhanded her!", and "How can stand being poned like that with your own shit?" Man, that was probably the most humiliating thing I think has ever happened to me! By the very person who had meant more to me than nearly anyone on a professional level. I don't want to come as sounding over sensitive, but man! I felt so betrayed!

I had no recourse in my mind but to quit and remove myself from the scene. I was obviously causing bad vibes.

I feel horrible about the whole thing.

Here are the poems, and I apologize for the lengthy post, this was just huge for me.

This one I wrote for this class, it's called "The Poetry of Magic" and deals with superstitions and feelings of helplessness and begging the unknown for empowerment. It was the third poem of the four I was going to read.Poetry of magic
Hear me now all ye spirits,
earth and sky
ground and wind
stone and heaven
Hear me now all ye spirits,
sea and flame
ocean and inferno
fire and tide

I call on your essence, your vital energies
the power of creation that dwells deep
and eternal in the core of your being,
heed my words for I am the culmination
of the universal mind,
the realized dream of the everlasting creator
and the opus of the perpetual

I call on you to heed my words in the names
of all spirits holy and pure
every entity beneficent and true
all beings living, non-living, and never ending,
good and kind.

Awake, arise, come to my aid.
dark things walk among us,
we, who balance the universe
with goodness and evil
darkness and light
hatred and love
need thy
aid.

Things whose souls are rent and restless
torn and errant
spoiled and searching
for things they can no longer attain
seek to destroy the harmony of the world
the balance of the universe,
and the essence within my own being.

I ask only that you lend to me
the power to defeat and vanquish
the dark and vile spirit within me
banish the malignant being that curls around my soul
the foul essence that seeks to taint my own
with promises that tempt
secrets that should not be told
and thoughts that bring nothing
but ruin and decay to my life
and everlasting and immortal soul.

Come
Come
Come

Come to me
Come to me
Come to me

Come into me
Come into me
Come into me

Come
Come
Come

In a form fair and comely
until I dismiss you.

Fill me with your power
guide me with your wisdom
teach me with your lore
so that I may restore the balance
that other things, black and vile
have sought to ruin.

In the name of all spirits holy and pure
The eternal lords and ladies of air and heavens
The ancient giants of earth and stone
The everlasting rulers of water and wave
and The undying masters of fire and flame
I beseech, implore, and beg of thee
to hear my words and do my bidding.

so mote it be.
so mote it be.
so mote it be.


This one was the one I had begun reading that was shut down four lines in. It's called "Star Stuff"

Star Stuff

Clouds of irradiating gas
swirl in dense pockets of activity.
Matter clumps together, forced into violent
and hot contact by gravity and undeniable
accretion.
Eddies of particles converge and move
in single file
as the planets align in cosmic convergence.
Clockwork mechanics arrange atoms, molecules.
and large blocks together and move
all along.
They rumble, they crash, the conflict and concur
all in an ordered chaos,
entirely predictable, but never the same twice.
Fierce, terrible, awesome to behold
but nearly impossible to survive,
the material of countless larger bits ground
and digested in the system’s brew, the belly
of the beast that consumes all and from
which there is little hope of escape, rumbles,
thunders, and protests in its way along its inevitable course
toward its next place in the order, down the gravity well.
Solids merge, fuse, and split apart in raw fury with as much
force as nature can muster.
Liquids splash and gurgle, feral as the first oceans, awesome and
evident as the very hand of He himself who both creates and destroys.
Gases boil and morph into primordial mists of vapor, noxious, and
unbreathable.
a fourth, unidentifiable state of matter surrounds it all
like a glue that keeps the occurrence a cohesive entity.
Colors, sounds, and feelings never before experienced
are ejected beyond the rim of the event horizon
at incredible speeds as an irresistible force
that shakes the pillars of heaven with all the power
of the laws of legend and the gods of science.
And this is the last time I will ever eat at White Castle’s.


And finally, THIS one is the one I'm putting to music, it's called "The End"

In the end are we just dreaming?
In the end do we go on?
In the end does something beckon,
Like the coming of the dawn?
In the end are we delivered?
In the end does something call?
Is the end just a beginning?
In the end do we just fall?

What is that twinkling in the corner of your sparkling eye?
Essence incorporeal, or reflections of a lifetime passing by?
Spinning illusions as eternally through space we fly?
Images to be seen if the mind would only open up its eye.

CHORUS

Are we the products of the procreation of our kind?
Or are we each an aspect of the single universal mind?
Utter genetics and experiences intertwined,
Inside a temple bearing one new soul to which it is assigned.

CHORUS

Is that a soul departing as the final breath is through,
Or is it just evaporation of the mornings dying dew?
Cellular degeneration creeping up on me and you
The downy evidence in telling where the fledgeling angels flew.

Again, sorry for the lengthy post.

Jeff

Suttra Homo II

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*** Clicking on the image will make the image larger in your browser. Press CTRL and + to make the larger if you are using Firefox.


For this post I am including mostly text based pieces. These pieces are playing with subject matter from recent politics and primordial human emotion. These pieces explore doubt, hypocrisy, confusion, desire, commitment, chastity, and multiculturalism. In the piece "Exhibit A/Exhibit B" the bold text in Exhibit A is a news clipping from the incident. Exhibit B is text from the actual letter the priest wrote. Would it help if I included this information in the piece? Does it make a difference to the reader?

Let me know what you think about this collection as a whole. Or if "the spirit moves you" comment on individual pieces. What worked well? What did not work well? What does not make sense to you as a reader? How would you improve the pieces?

Get ready for the next post. It should be fun. =)

Wabi-Sabi

Ok, so Cathy pointed me in the direction of this Japanese aesthetic called Wabi-Sabi, and essentially it's centered on the flow of life and transiance. Artworks that employ wabi-sabi are all about how beauty can be humble, impermenant and imperfect -- and how this can be more beautiful than artficality, beacause it's more natural.

So I've been trying to work that into these poems. I'm trying to make them into small snapshots or objects -- kind of tiny, melencholy moments that aren't too complex, but are broken up in a poignant way that attempts to highlight the issues working in the pieces -- concerns about body image, aging, and the effects of time and self-esteem on self perception. None of them are longer than forty syllables, and I tried to make them homespun, and humble, both in their subject matter and consruction.

Wabi-sabi objects are often really rough, asymmetrical and I tried to transfer that onto the page by making the pieces seem ragged and definatly asymmetrical. I plan to continue to construct them in this way, and also to try to make them seem more unfinished, perhaps leaving off without any kind of ending.

One in a Million Beat

This goes to the song by aaliyah its called one in a million you can bring up the song on youtube without the lyrics just type in the instrumental version.

you dont know what i been thru
you just see me on the struggle
ima tell you now that i dont kno how
i ended up here wish i could tell
got a baby, in my belly, can you tell me
if its healthy
tryna live with in the system
but i dont have the basics like money

i really wanna try and make the best of this
but i dont kno where to start its like a hit and miss
wanna get a job but we in a recession
lord help me with this confession
i have this burden in my hands im tryna come up with a neccessary plan.
just want to make it work do you understand

i got supporters but they not in my shoes
thats why i walk around and just sing the blues
tehy tell us taht we gree here but i dont believe
cuz im on the streets with no money
can you hear that in my stomach
yea thatsa heart beat of my little one
a boy or girl dont care daughter or son
tryin to give em the world with my own hands
at the bottom of evonomy is where i stand
freedom wont come to me soon enough
cuz i gotta rely on everyones trust
that ill go thru the necessary step
to make sure i get that government check
so for right now ima eat right
talk to my baby morning, noon, and night
i hope one of you hear my prayer and you pray for me with my story i share
im a lonely women wit a baby on the way...
put me in your heart and hope that we okay....

quiet, again

These are experiments at specific locations/ times where being quiet had unexpected effects. I haven't been numbering (or naming) any of these for myself, and there are more that come "between" (around?) what I've posted. I haven't decided yet on a thematic/ organizing strategy for them, or even which ones I will keep (which will probably depend on their finished form)... but these are some of the works in progress.
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Quiet #4

“Nice” is the squeaky springs
attention.
Plastic-covered,
forced-to-
… No…
failed-to
shout

Things you can’t see without
first being
blinded.

Pushing up through slideshows,
damp hotel beds and
empty shoes
and skeletons.

The beginning of guilt,
and guilt
was my frown turned up
too much at the corner.

The short drive and she
never guessed
that we had been
a beginning.
_____________________________________________________
Quiet #5

The terrible shapes of things out of place, in the dark.
…is connected somehow to…
A new relationship, after one that’s long, makes you too deliberate.

______________________________________________________
Quiet #6

A happily-ever-
made of stained glass,
windows cracked like teeth
crunching
fenders that snarl and the work
of burned out bulbs
that entice like a prince,
but twisting,
and shining
whores with halos
of damp and light
fixed toward something-
after.

Final project

1. How do you feel about sexuality?
2. Are you hetero/homo/bi/pan sexual?
3. Are you born gay, or is it a choice you make?
4. Don’t ask, don’t tell prohibits anyone who "demonstrates a propensity or intent to engage in homosexual acts” from serving in the armed forces of the United States, because it is said to pose a threat to military-related capabilities and morale. Is sexual orientation a matter of morality?
5. The U.S. has spent millions on replacing troops that have been expelled from the military. A portion of this number violated Don’t ask, don’t tell. How does that make you feel?
6. Is your sexual orientation private?
7. Gays can serve in the military, as long as they keep their sexual orientation secret. What do you think of our govt. in this context, and how do you think this enforced privatization of sexual orientation speaks to society?
9. What do you believe prevents people from accepting homosexuality?
10. Do you think that the presidency should focus on gay rights with the same attention that he does on healthcare reform?
11. What is nature? How do you define natural?
12. Heteronormative marriage is an expectation in society, while homosexual union is a violation. The two lie on opposite ends of the spectrum so to speak. What does this say about acceptance and denial?

These are some questions I recently used for an interview. I am creatively working with the language now, and I am excited to see what I come out with. I think that the questions are pretty basic, and I hope they are not slanted at all, but I had a really good conversation, and I feel like his answers contained a lot of emotion, so I'm happy about that. I am not going to post the langauge, because it would just be one huge hogwash right now. The person I interviewed will play a significant part in my project because his language is going to be visually recurring. in my book, i decided that repetition will be important, and certain phrases I've extrapolated will be useful, I think, to repeat.

I will also be using articles and documents in my book because I want to intersperse my interviews (first-hand language) with found text (secondary language) from engaging texts. I really like an article called OFFENCES AGAINST ONE'S SELF: PAEDERASTY by Jeremy Bentham. [http://www.columbia.edu/cu/lweb/eresources/exhibitions/sw25/bentham/index.html#02] His article is the first known argument for gay law reform.

I am going to crash a college republican meeting. i think, with full disclosure even, i can get some good material from some of the more conservative folks out here, and I'm sure there are many on this campus.

Music composing making progress one day at a time. Will be recording my piece once the book is complete at jeff's studio.





I am currently working with the language

sometimes we forget: a poem

This poem- though not perfected yet- was one that I created from one person's story. (I'm not sure I even really like it yet...just experimenting)

I have a few different ideas of how I am going to use the material I collect.

Every poem is going to be different. This is a little more formal then the rest will be, as far as language goes.

I will give another example of a more informal one after.

sometimes we forget

sometimes we forget

things can go

wrong

we are not 

in vinc ible

we may escape 

close calls

dangerous withdrawals

uneasy pits in 

stomach

ache from mistakes

bars that prevent

every  thing   but

loneliness

sometimes we forget

we can get caught

sometimes we forget

there can be

con seq uences

of a mind misread

m i  s  l  e  a  d

or a lack of mind

control

no judgement

call

relapse 

in time would prevent

loss of life 

at best

sometimes we forget

there is no way back

sometimes we forget

it only takes 

o  n  e

to dig deep

turn regret into

belief

or another leaf

falling

catches a break 

sometimes we forget

in nature 

there are no mistakes

sometimes we forget

things can be 

f  i  x  e  d

we can sep ar ate

good from bad

by those who

care

we can break the

cycle

moving on

growing not up

but a new

sometimes we forget

life cannot be 

defined

but it can get

better

(I really don't like the last line/lines of this poem...any ideas?)

This poem was inspired by someone who got caught selling drugs, went to jail for a brief period, got put on probation, got expelled from school for a year, lived a life of escape through drugs and alcohol, worked to pay for court hearings, living expenses, etc. Throughout the whole thing this person learned who his/her true friends were, and found hope in a few select places that life could possibly get better. Today this person is back in school and living a much healthier and better life.

Informal poem:

i'm in it

and i'm in deep

this hole

shit hole deep

liquid in tears

seeping through

heaps of regret

mistake after

mistake leaking

through

into the cracks

lies to save

lies to invade

shit hole deep

life is what you make it

i made a shit hole deep

scrambling for air

tearing at the wall

i can reach

i reach for you

anyone

anything

shit hole deep

i am in deep

i am crawling

hands & knees

one foot won't work

it's stuck

shit hole deep

i screamed

no one heard me

shit hole deep

begging for another 

chance

no more trance

sleepless nights

sleep filled days

whiskey

shit hole deep

eventually

i ground stopped 

moving

shit hole deep

the battle

me against the shit

hole deep

deep underground

bound by shit

by error

by no air

shit hole deep

must get out

must reach for

the top

but i am in

shit hole

deep

the only way 

out

is to

stop digging.

(Just a rough idea of what I am starting to come up with...thoughts.)

m