72 “Moisture makes the soul succumb to joy.”- Heraclitus pg. 47
This is juicy and packed with meaning. The first that jumps across my screen is very sexual, but the next is very primitive or basic; water.
115 “Dogs, by this same logic, bark at what they cannot understand.”- Heraclitus pg. 81
This makes me think of politics for some reason. I just imagine Congress or a court room filled with fat politicians arguing about money and equal rights.
104 “Always having what we want may not be the best good fortune. Health seems sweetest after sickness, food in hunger, goodness in the wake of evil, and at the end of daylong labor sleep.” Heraclitus pg. 69
This could really be interpreted as a reflection on American society today. Today we are a wasteful and ungrateful community. We only appreciate or love the basic elements of our day when we have to go without them.
“what is very dangerous about people:
they want you to be the same person that they met
that they assume they know
when you are constantly becoming yourself, that is to say, being who you really are,
they become uneasy
they have nothing to hold on to
for this reason people make disappointing friends”
Aryan Kaganof- A Paradox About People
“if one bothers to do that at all - it consumes one
and then one day you wake up and you have become one of the yobs that you always thought you were merely humouring”
Aryan Kaganof- On Fittin In
“those who say that life begins at 40
are lying”
Aryan Kaganof- On life beginning at 40
“sticks and stones might break your bones
but words can fucking kill you”
Narike Lintvelt
Watching Avatar, I had an epiphany. ‘I see you’ struck me as the most profound and honest declaration of love I had ever heard (or seen). I. See. You. Not what you look like. Not what you do for me. Not what I can get from you. Not how I imagine you. Just you. Who you are. All of you. Now and ever.
Ah, dreams…
Narike Lintvelt
We leave one morning, brains full of flame,
Hearts full of malice and bitter desires,
And we go and follow the rhythm of the waves,
Rocking our infinite on the finite of the seas:
Some happy to escape a tainted country
Others, the horrors of their candles; and a few,
Astrologers drowned in the eys of a woman,
Some tyrannical Circe of dangerous perfumes.
-The Journey by Charles Baudelaire
who did you become?
that’s not anybody
i know wearing
your clothes
wearing
your
eyes
who did
you become?
who’s that wearing
your hair? wearing your
smile? who’s that trying so
hard not to wear your tears
Sasha Grey- On seeing a photograph of someone I once thought I knew
Monday, April 19, 2010
Poem Box (click image to see full size)
This is my poem box! I had to make it twice because my room mate threw it away the first time :( I made it out of a Coach shoe box because of the red interior. I used sugar, feathers, and REAL hair (thank goodness for friends who like hair extensions)!. Here is the poem I based the box on:
Indian Princess
She is beneath the surface.
Weeping, head in hands, harsh moans.
Silk face and a feather tipped crown.
Whipping her face with the wind, watering her lips with the rain, he tore her in two.
Tearing into scarred flesh, gently ravaging her frame.
He was breathless, bloody and partial to her.
He bent her into whatever he liked, curving his thin lips into a sharp smirk.
He gripped her long hair and scorned its softness.
His love was pungent.
He let her sleep, covering her eyes with petals.
And when she woke, her native feet were dirty pennies dancing on white sand.
She ran tenderly into morning, pellets of mist tickled her face.
Death, in silent sweet disposition.
More Verbal Photographs
The sun was hazy through dirty old windows. Pitiful plastic blinds made shadows on the old gray tables. How much longer do I have to be in here?
Asian eyes smiled at me across an old wooden desk. She smelled like hemp and mandarin orange tea with a hint of cinnamon and yesterday.
Red lips, cherry-berry current to be exact in the shape of a kiss. Pooched out and poking at me.
He ran his dirty finger along the bridge of his slender pinkish peach nose.
He smiled; the bushy hairs in his muddy brown mustache hid his swollen pink lips. They were swollen from the passionate kiss his boyfriend laid on him, the kiss that he thought no one noticed, but I noticed.
Green plastic earrings dangling from pink ears. They slap her face when she turns her head too quickly, almost as if they are telling her to be still.
He zipped his oversized hoodie around both them, and held her. He was standing there looking like a dark brown mama kangaroo holding his mismatched baby.
They bounce across the wide street in neon purple, pink, and green outfits. It is funny to see them try and chat through short breaths and long strides.
He was shimmery, running in the sun. A white tank top folded and tucked neatly in the waist band of his bright blue shorts.
There was glitter on his arms like he’d just hugged a bucket of sparkles. He picked at one spec until he pinched his skin, he flinched and looked around. No one saw…but me.
Asian eyes smiled at me across an old wooden desk. She smelled like hemp and mandarin orange tea with a hint of cinnamon and yesterday.
Red lips, cherry-berry current to be exact in the shape of a kiss. Pooched out and poking at me.
He ran his dirty finger along the bridge of his slender pinkish peach nose.
He smiled; the bushy hairs in his muddy brown mustache hid his swollen pink lips. They were swollen from the passionate kiss his boyfriend laid on him, the kiss that he thought no one noticed, but I noticed.
Green plastic earrings dangling from pink ears. They slap her face when she turns her head too quickly, almost as if they are telling her to be still.
He zipped his oversized hoodie around both them, and held her. He was standing there looking like a dark brown mama kangaroo holding his mismatched baby.
They bounce across the wide street in neon purple, pink, and green outfits. It is funny to see them try and chat through short breaths and long strides.
He was shimmery, running in the sun. A white tank top folded and tucked neatly in the waist band of his bright blue shorts.
There was glitter on his arms like he’d just hugged a bucket of sparkles. He picked at one spec until he pinched his skin, he flinched and looked around. No one saw…but me.
Photobiography in 4 Parts
These are all projects from the Dove Learning to Love You More website! You should try some!
#52.
Me: Hi Mom!
Mom: Hey Ash! What’s up?
Me: I have something to tell you.
Mom: Ok what’s up?
Me: I hate that you drink so much. The way you act when you drink really makes me feel uncomfortable.
Mom: What do you mean?
Me: You say things that hurt my feelings sometimes. You act really crazy when you are drunk. You stumble around, and sometimes you cry, and you react really harshly to things people say. I really hate when I come home to visit for the weekend and you drag Daddy out to all of those bars. I know he hates it, and I know that’s not where he really needs to be after his stroke. I have the feeling he only goes with you to watch out for you. You drink more than me, and I’m a college student.
Mom: I didn’t know you felt that way…
Me: I love you a lot, I’m just worried. You drive drunk and you leave candles burning in the house and you act out. I just want you to be safe.
Mom: I really never meant to hurt you.
Me: I know you didn’t. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.
# 70.
Goodbye loving those who don’t love me the way I need to be loved.
Goodbye lying about how I really feel.
Goodbye being too shy to speak up.
Goodbye procrastination.
Goodbye sitting in the back and hoping I’m not noticed.
Goodbye eating out of boredom.
Goodbye not asking for help when I feel overwhelmed and really need it.
Goodbye thinking I’m not good enough for people who really aren’t good enough for me.
Goodbye wishing my life away.
Goodbye hoping things will happen instead of putting forth an effort to making them happen.
Goodbye Terrance.
Goodbye Jennifer.
Goodbye wishing I looked like everyone else.
#55.
This is what I was wearing on my 23rd birthday. There were times when I didn’t think I would make it to 23. I took my shoes off and danced in the street.
The Golden Shadow
I’m sure of myself. I walk with my head held high; I strut. I’m never nervous of what people will think of me. I know just what to say; I say what I feel. I don't sit in any corners, and I never hope that no one notices me. I'm proud of myself and all of my choices. I have imperfections and I own them, never dwell on them. I'm near myself and far from wishing I was you.
#52.
Me: Hi Mom!
Mom: Hey Ash! What’s up?
Me: I have something to tell you.
Mom: Ok what’s up?
Me: I hate that you drink so much. The way you act when you drink really makes me feel uncomfortable.
Mom: What do you mean?
Me: You say things that hurt my feelings sometimes. You act really crazy when you are drunk. You stumble around, and sometimes you cry, and you react really harshly to things people say. I really hate when I come home to visit for the weekend and you drag Daddy out to all of those bars. I know he hates it, and I know that’s not where he really needs to be after his stroke. I have the feeling he only goes with you to watch out for you. You drink more than me, and I’m a college student.
Mom: I didn’t know you felt that way…
Me: I love you a lot, I’m just worried. You drive drunk and you leave candles burning in the house and you act out. I just want you to be safe.
Mom: I really never meant to hurt you.
Me: I know you didn’t. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings.
# 70.
Goodbye loving those who don’t love me the way I need to be loved.
Goodbye lying about how I really feel.
Goodbye being too shy to speak up.
Goodbye procrastination.
Goodbye sitting in the back and hoping I’m not noticed.
Goodbye eating out of boredom.
Goodbye not asking for help when I feel overwhelmed and really need it.
Goodbye thinking I’m not good enough for people who really aren’t good enough for me.
Goodbye wishing my life away.
Goodbye hoping things will happen instead of putting forth an effort to making them happen.
Goodbye Terrance.
Goodbye Jennifer.
Goodbye wishing I looked like everyone else.
#55.
This is what I was wearing on my 23rd birthday. There were times when I didn’t think I would make it to 23. I took my shoes off and danced in the street.
The Golden Shadow
I’m sure of myself. I walk with my head held high; I strut. I’m never nervous of what people will think of me. I know just what to say; I say what I feel. I don't sit in any corners, and I never hope that no one notices me. I'm proud of myself and all of my choices. I have imperfections and I own them, never dwell on them. I'm near myself and far from wishing I was you.
Verbal Photographs
She tapped the fresh pink eraser of her yellowish pencil against the worn desk. Tapping mindlessly; manic.
His steps were heavy, dragging his bright red sneakers across dirty beige linoleum. The sounds of early morning classes and coffee filled the hallway around him.
He hung his head and tilted it sideways, staring into the televisions soft glow. Quizzical yet arrogant, he argued with the news anchor.
His light brown body was speckled with dark marks. They made him look dirty and old. But he still walked around shirtless like I was supposed to be attracted.
She sipped thick chocolate milk through a thin straw, running her tongue across her teeth after each sip.
He spoke incessantly, every word made my skin crawl. Thoughts of duct taping his mouth shut washed over me as continued.
His steps were heavy, dragging his bright red sneakers across dirty beige linoleum. The sounds of early morning classes and coffee filled the hallway around him.
He hung his head and tilted it sideways, staring into the televisions soft glow. Quizzical yet arrogant, he argued with the news anchor.
His light brown body was speckled with dark marks. They made him look dirty and old. But he still walked around shirtless like I was supposed to be attracted.
She sipped thick chocolate milk through a thin straw, running her tongue across her teeth after each sip.
He spoke incessantly, every word made my skin crawl. Thoughts of duct taping his mouth shut washed over me as continued.
Place Narrative: The Belle Isle Playscape Detroit, MI
When I was younger I spent every weekend I could at my grandparent’s house in Detroit. I had fun getting away and playing with the neighborhood kids. I especially loved visiting with my cousins and doing things that I couldn’t do back at home in Saginaw. I remember when my grandfather used to take my cousins and me to Belle Isle Park in downtown Detroit. Belle Isle was like an entirely different planet; right on the edge of downtown Detroit there was (still is) this huge park surrounded by water. Back in the day there was a casino, a yacht club, a nature walk and zoo, super slide pavilions where people had family reunions and picnics even a museum on the island. All of those things were wonderful but I was really interested in the giant wooden playscape.
On the way to Belle Isle my grandfather would stop at a liquor store and give my cousin and I two dollars each to get some snacks and candy; he’d grab a tall can of Miller High Life. Everything was fantastic on those rides to Belle Isle. The sun would shine through the windows of my Grandaddy’s old Mercury Dynasty. We would ride down Woodward and then onto Jefferson Ave., passing through the shadows of skyscrapers that were full of business people back then. The sounds of smooth jazz v98.7 drifting from the radio, I was usually devouring a watermelon Big Slice lollipop and my cousin munching on Better Made chips; we’d share a bottle of peach Faygo. My grandfather would pull into the diagonal parking spots across in front of the playscape and say, “Alright, go have fun but when the sun starts to go down come and find me.” Then he’d walk down to one of the fishing docks and set up a lawn chair and sip his beer while looking across the Detroit River at Canada.
The playscape was like a wooden paradise for kids; there were all sorts of bridges, tunnels, places to hide and things to climb. It was the early 90’s and kids could play in peace without worrying about people shooting up the play ground or starting too much trouble. That playscape was anything we wanted it to be back then. Most times, we imagined that it was a castle and there was some foreign country trying to take over our kingdom. We ran full speed for hours, laughing and giggling, enjoying the sun on our bare brown arms and kicking up dirt and sand.
A few years ago, someone decided to tear down the wooden playscape and replace it with one of those cookie cutter plastic/rubber red, green, yellow, and blue things. None of the things that made Belle Isle a fun and family friendly place to be are still there. The Super slide stands in an abandoned corner of the park looking like a rusted dinosaur. The new plastic jungle gym is spray painted and unsightly. Kids still play here, but their parents watch them closely and never let them run too far. Belle Isle isn’t a safe place anymore. The police patrol it heavily on the weekends, especially when it is sunny outside. You don’t see families there anymore. No grandfathers on the fishing docks. People come to Belle Isle to ride in circles around the island showing off their cars, playing loud music and hanging out the windows. Over-sexed teens parade themselves around, drinking and smoking.
People have changed the wooden playscape that made such unique and interesting memories for lots of kids in Detroit into a manufactured playground. Empty or broken liquor bottles and torn condom rappers are mixed in with the dirty sand that I once sat and played in. There are stories on the news about young girls getting raped and fights breaking out on the basketball court the end up in shoot outs. I’ll admit I’ve been one of those over-sexed teens riding around blasting the latest rap song, drinking and laughing with my friends riding around Belle Isle like it doesn’t have any history. I miss the days where I could walk around with colorful barrettes in my hair and pretend I wasn’t right outside of downtown Detroit.
On the way to Belle Isle my grandfather would stop at a liquor store and give my cousin and I two dollars each to get some snacks and candy; he’d grab a tall can of Miller High Life. Everything was fantastic on those rides to Belle Isle. The sun would shine through the windows of my Grandaddy’s old Mercury Dynasty. We would ride down Woodward and then onto Jefferson Ave., passing through the shadows of skyscrapers that were full of business people back then. The sounds of smooth jazz v98.7 drifting from the radio, I was usually devouring a watermelon Big Slice lollipop and my cousin munching on Better Made chips; we’d share a bottle of peach Faygo. My grandfather would pull into the diagonal parking spots across in front of the playscape and say, “Alright, go have fun but when the sun starts to go down come and find me.” Then he’d walk down to one of the fishing docks and set up a lawn chair and sip his beer while looking across the Detroit River at Canada.
The playscape was like a wooden paradise for kids; there were all sorts of bridges, tunnels, places to hide and things to climb. It was the early 90’s and kids could play in peace without worrying about people shooting up the play ground or starting too much trouble. That playscape was anything we wanted it to be back then. Most times, we imagined that it was a castle and there was some foreign country trying to take over our kingdom. We ran full speed for hours, laughing and giggling, enjoying the sun on our bare brown arms and kicking up dirt and sand.
A few years ago, someone decided to tear down the wooden playscape and replace it with one of those cookie cutter plastic/rubber red, green, yellow, and blue things. None of the things that made Belle Isle a fun and family friendly place to be are still there. The Super slide stands in an abandoned corner of the park looking like a rusted dinosaur. The new plastic jungle gym is spray painted and unsightly. Kids still play here, but their parents watch them closely and never let them run too far. Belle Isle isn’t a safe place anymore. The police patrol it heavily on the weekends, especially when it is sunny outside. You don’t see families there anymore. No grandfathers on the fishing docks. People come to Belle Isle to ride in circles around the island showing off their cars, playing loud music and hanging out the windows. Over-sexed teens parade themselves around, drinking and smoking.
People have changed the wooden playscape that made such unique and interesting memories for lots of kids in Detroit into a manufactured playground. Empty or broken liquor bottles and torn condom rappers are mixed in with the dirty sand that I once sat and played in. There are stories on the news about young girls getting raped and fights breaking out on the basketball court the end up in shoot outs. I’ll admit I’ve been one of those over-sexed teens riding around blasting the latest rap song, drinking and laughing with my friends riding around Belle Isle like it doesn’t have any history. I miss the days where I could walk around with colorful barrettes in my hair and pretend I wasn’t right outside of downtown Detroit.
Sappho Collaboration!
he seems to me equal to gods that man
Something so significant
whoever he is who opposite you
Breathing slowly
sits and listens close
Anticipation boils over in each breath
and lovely laughing—oh it
Eases my heart into sleep
puts the heart in my chest on wings
And sends her away
For when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
Hushes me into a dense nothing
is left in me
no: Tongue breaks and thin
Soft Kisses
fire is racing under skin
Where everything hides in fear
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears.
Something so significant
whoever he is who opposite you
Breathing slowly
sits and listens close
Anticipation boils over in each breath
and lovely laughing—oh it
Eases my heart into sleep
puts the heart in my chest on wings
And sends her away
For when I look at you, even a moment, no speaking
Hushes me into a dense nothing
is left in me
no: Tongue breaks and thin
Soft Kisses
fire is racing under skin
Where everything hides in fear
and in eyes no sight and drumming
fills ears.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Picture Story (click image to see full version)
There are things in life that you say and immediately wish you could take away. Things that you'd swallow half you're face to take back. Stanley did just that after telling his wife, Virginia, that her new dress made her look...a little thick. He cupped his wrinkled bottom lip over his jaw and nearly folded his face in two. He hunched over in his ragged navy blue robe as he sat on the edge of their squeaky old bed.
Virginia thought about when she first met Stanley. 60 years ago things were much different. His hair was neatly slicked back, and his mustache was neatly combed. He was in the middle of a market trying to sell people wardrobes for small spaces. He was what her mother and father referred to as a "city slicker" and she was a slender farm girl aching for change.
Virginia dazed off into a world filled with her past and leaned against the door of her messy closet. The shrill screech of her pet monkey, Langston. It was 5pm, time for Langston to eat. He was bouncing around the kitchen in his tiny bow tie and matching shorts. She poured a banana smoothie into his dish and gave him a squiggly straw. He sat at the table and sucked it down, looking up at her and smiling adoringly from time to time.
The kitchen phone rang and Virginia and Stanley's granddaughter Gail was whaling into the phone about a nightmare she'd had during her nap where skeletons of dinosaurs and dead animals chased her around. Virginia calmed her as much as she could while washing the dishes and pouring the rest of Langston's smoothie into his cup. Virginia settled into her evening, feeling dissatisfied and lumpy. She just wanted to take a hot bubble bath and start all over.
(I hated this story)
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Color Association Stories (click image to see full version)
I remember when my mother decided to paint our living and dining room teal. She came home one evening with three large buckets of paint from Home Depot. I was 10; too cool to help but bored enough to watch. She slathered the teal mess all over the walls. She even put on a pair of old overalls and a bandanna. My father came home from a weekend trip and hated it. He said she'd traded in butter-cream lovely for true teal (truly disappointing teal). She painted over the molding and got spatters on the ceiling. Our family dog had teal speckles on her floppy black ears for at least a month. After a few month she was holding up paint samples again, now its a mauve-ish pink color.
One of my best friends has a friend who I don't particularly like. That friend is getting married soon. She's one of those wedding-on-a-budget types. She'll be at Michael's and Frank's almost every day sifting through isles of decorative nonsense looking for things to make her bridesmaids make the week of her wedding. I'm glad I don't know her that well. The first time I met her, she pulled out a scrapbook that was overflowing with swatches, magazine cut-outs, scraps of paper with notes, and paint samples. She pointed to two of the samples and gingerly put them together. She said, "These are my colors. What do you think?" I wanted to say, "Your wedding is going to look like you and your man are huge Tiger fans, and you aren't even from Detroit. Burnt orange and Navy blue are NOT wedding colors, pick something else." But I simply nodded and said, "Well that's unique."
Found Poetry
Buried Cites
living in covered eruption
quiet and thundered
move into dust
thick and wild
ordinarily trouble
crushed wind bellowing sick
Out of the Fog
The fourth fog sprang had,
shouting to be rescued.
Fainter soon,
bitter shelter,
unconscious thought wondered.
We cry out.
living in covered eruption
quiet and thundered
move into dust
thick and wild
ordinarily trouble
crushed wind bellowing sick
Out of the Fog
The fourth fog sprang had,
shouting to be rescued.
Fainter soon,
bitter shelter,
unconscious thought wondered.
We cry out.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Thursday, February 18, 2010
And What About Life? (Cento Poem)
And What About Life?
Can I have this dance, and tell everyone you were a good wife, a fragmentary lapse of reason caught in the alcove you call your mind, above the drumming Jamaican tongues, all winter long?
Honey on my right eye.
Writing is dangerous, the beauty of the cycle never stopped knot.
Stomping like a child, weathered signs of danger speak.
Be respectful when you confess to him, as you’ve discovered certain pleasures.
You were like an angel, until you took a sip of death. You began to redefine heaven.
We are scalding and beautiful, like stone.
Ignored.
Out where the crows dip to their kill.
Possession, I’m just a little preoccupied and I hope you die, and I hope you blink before I do.
The magic has faded, tasting each fingertip and remembering. Love is not inspired by obedience.
A survivor of death and time, down the storm drain, there is no slight of alabaster-hand.
I’ve known her, from ample nation. We are scalding and beautiful, we come from a place made of purple and rugburn brown.
This is for dim lighting and whispering…
Can I have this dance, and tell everyone you were a good wife, a fragmentary lapse of reason caught in the alcove you call your mind, above the drumming Jamaican tongues, all winter long?
Honey on my right eye.
Writing is dangerous, the beauty of the cycle never stopped knot.
Stomping like a child, weathered signs of danger speak.
Be respectful when you confess to him, as you’ve discovered certain pleasures.
You were like an angel, until you took a sip of death. You began to redefine heaven.
We are scalding and beautiful, like stone.
Ignored.
Out where the crows dip to their kill.
Possession, I’m just a little preoccupied and I hope you die, and I hope you blink before I do.
The magic has faded, tasting each fingertip and remembering. Love is not inspired by obedience.
A survivor of death and time, down the storm drain, there is no slight of alabaster-hand.
I’ve known her, from ample nation. We are scalding and beautiful, we come from a place made of purple and rugburn brown.
This is for dim lighting and whispering…
10 Treasures 3
If the symbolic nature of Cornell’s objects spurs the interpretive process, then the juxtaposition of those objects compounds it. Juxtaposition here is simply the placement of one object against another to create certain effects such as tension and release, interruption and flow. –Illustration 2: “Hotel Eden”
This could be an interesting way to look at editing writing; to look delicately into the exact placement of words against one another.
"Consider the images: Humming heat. Unraveling. Children playing. Parents drawing drapes. Sparks flaring and dying. Eyes reflecting. Static crackling. Severed end. Common past. Amniotic fluid. Echoes. Silence. As these sensory cues accumulate, my interpretation of them expands."
I almost always like writing starts with “consider this:…”, images are extremely fun and interesting to play with and throw at people.
"To establish a sense of unity in works composed of pieces, collagists use a number of devises. Among them, repetition—repetition of image, color, pattern, and texture. The recurring use of one or more of these elements gives the eye something to track as it sweeps the surface, something to recognize, process, and link." – Four: Balls of Fire
This reminded me of when I first started writing poetry, I would always come back to what I started with in the beginning; I think that’s called reprise or something. I just thought it gave my poetry a more finished sound or flow, but sometimes it was just plain redundant.
Bodybuilding is about failure because bodybuilding, body growth and shaping, occurs in the face of the material, of the body’s inexorable movement towards its final failure, toward death.
I feel this way about dieting.
“In complete darkness we are all the same, it is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us, don't let your eyes deceive you.”- Janet Jackson
I read about a teacher in Detroit getting in trouble for quoting Janet Jackson in the classroom; she was trying to teach the female students in her gym class something about body image.
“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do.”- Bob Dylan
I made a New Year’s resolution to do what I really want to do; I wish I would have read this quote while thinking of that resolution.
“All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland.”- Jimi Hendrix
This made me start thinking about how writing can sometimes seem like you are dressing the words for their day. Making sure each word has it’s hair combed the way you want it to be and looks exactly perfect against the other words. You don’t want your word to stick out like a sore thumb so you dress it like all of the others instead of letting it stand their naked. We dress our words with their own meanings as their outfits.
“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”- Charles R. Swindoll
My Dad used to say to me “You are in charge of your own attitude, but I suggest you change it.” I guess this is just an elaboration on what that actually means. But sometimes the day strikes you and it seems hard to control the way you feel about it until the end when you are all flustered.
“Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes.”-Oscar Wilde
People “dress” or pad their stories with terms like “learning experience” instead of coming out and saying, “Hey! I made a mistake!”
“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”- Oscar Wilde
Sometimes the things I write seem so far away from me.
This could be an interesting way to look at editing writing; to look delicately into the exact placement of words against one another.
"Consider the images: Humming heat. Unraveling. Children playing. Parents drawing drapes. Sparks flaring and dying. Eyes reflecting. Static crackling. Severed end. Common past. Amniotic fluid. Echoes. Silence. As these sensory cues accumulate, my interpretation of them expands."
I almost always like writing starts with “consider this:…”, images are extremely fun and interesting to play with and throw at people.
"To establish a sense of unity in works composed of pieces, collagists use a number of devises. Among them, repetition—repetition of image, color, pattern, and texture. The recurring use of one or more of these elements gives the eye something to track as it sweeps the surface, something to recognize, process, and link." – Four: Balls of Fire
This reminded me of when I first started writing poetry, I would always come back to what I started with in the beginning; I think that’s called reprise or something. I just thought it gave my poetry a more finished sound or flow, but sometimes it was just plain redundant.
Bodybuilding is about failure because bodybuilding, body growth and shaping, occurs in the face of the material, of the body’s inexorable movement towards its final failure, toward death.
I feel this way about dieting.
“In complete darkness we are all the same, it is only our knowledge and wisdom that separates us, don't let your eyes deceive you.”- Janet Jackson
I read about a teacher in Detroit getting in trouble for quoting Janet Jackson in the classroom; she was trying to teach the female students in her gym class something about body image.
“A man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between he does what he wants to do.”- Bob Dylan
I made a New Year’s resolution to do what I really want to do; I wish I would have read this quote while thinking of that resolution.
“All I'm writing is just what I feel, that's all. I just keep it almost naked. And probably the words are so bland.”- Jimi Hendrix
This made me start thinking about how writing can sometimes seem like you are dressing the words for their day. Making sure each word has it’s hair combed the way you want it to be and looks exactly perfect against the other words. You don’t want your word to stick out like a sore thumb so you dress it like all of the others instead of letting it stand their naked. We dress our words with their own meanings as their outfits.
“The longer I live, the more I realize the impact of attitude on life. Attitude, to me, is more important than facts. It is more important than the past, the education, the money, than circumstances, than failure, than successes, than what other people think or say or do. It is more important than appearance, giftedness or skill. It will make or break a company... a church... a home. The remarkable thing is we have a choice everyday regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We cannot change the inevitable. The only thing we can do is play on the one string we have, and that is our attitude. I am convinced that life is 10% what happens to me and 90% of how I react to it. And so it is with you... we are in charge of our Attitudes.”- Charles R. Swindoll
My Dad used to say to me “You are in charge of your own attitude, but I suggest you change it.” I guess this is just an elaboration on what that actually means. But sometimes the day strikes you and it seems hard to control the way you feel about it until the end when you are all flustered.
“Experience is the name every one gives to their mistakes.”-Oscar Wilde
People “dress” or pad their stories with terms like “learning experience” instead of coming out and saying, “Hey! I made a mistake!”
“He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”- Oscar Wilde
Sometimes the things I write seem so far away from me.
10 Treasures 1
“Collage is really the practice of a theory of knowledge.”
-I used to make collages when I was younger. The type of picture collage with all types of things that I’d cut out from magazines and old books. Sometimes they had words but only a few. It was usually the pictures that meant the most to me. This was my first attempt at conveying meaning through images instead of words.
“Romantic poetry wants to and should combine and fuse poetry and prose, genius and criticism, art poetry and nature poetry. It should make poetry lively and sociable, and make life and society poetic.”
-When I think of romance I can’t help but think of love. But to think of it in more of an outwardly social way leads me to the thought that most of my poetry romanticizes the negative ideas I have.
“Fragments speak to me of hope. They reach out to completion but never reach it.”
-Almost everything I write is a fragment. I never know where it comes from or how it is going to end. So many times I feel like when I write I’m starting in the middle of a thought. I find it hard to reach the true beginning of most things I write; I always feel like I’m chasing an idea and I can only see it’s backside.
“When I was younger, I wanted to write long poems that would hang together, that could be admired for the deftness with which their heterogeneous materials were woven into single fabrics.”
-One day I’d really like to write a long poem. It seems like I exhaust myself at about one and a half pages.
“At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice. “
Maya Angelou
-It is ok to give up on something, sometimes giving up is actually better then dragging it through the mud with you because of pride.
“And then it was day again, all morning
at the office machines, their clack and chatter
another journey -- rougher,
that would go on forever
until she could break a hundred words
with no errors -- ah, and then
no more postponed groceries,
and that blue pair of shoes!”
Rita Dove
-This just makes me think of the daily grind. Waking up, working/going to school, going to bed. Sometimes it is hard for me to find beauty in the things that are looked at as normal or mundane.
“Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a serious, rigorous art form.” – Toni Morrison
-This is so true to me. Even when my most open minded teachers talk about black literature they separate it into a compartment of difference. I hate it that we live in a world where it is still important to say, “Such and such is a BLACK author who does amazing work.” As if that’s surprising.
“Form is never more than an extension of content.”- Charles Olson
-The way things are written on a page is an extension of what is actually written. The way you see and experience a piece of writing is often just as important as the piece itself.
“How can it mean anything? The stop & spout, the wind’s dumb shift. Creak of the house & wet smells coming in. Night forms on my left. The blind still up to admit a sun that no longer exists. Sea move.”- Amiri Baraka (from Turncoat)
-I’ve never seen anyone describe the wind as dumb. Reading his work made me get out a thesaurus while writing. Finding new and different ways to describe the things I write about is becoming more and more important to me. People always say that nothing under the sun is new but I’d like to strive to prove them wrong.
“During aerobic and circuit training, the heart and lungs are exercised. But muscles will grow only if they are not exercised or moved, but actually broken down. The general law behind body building is that muscle, if broken down in a controlled fashion and then provided with the proper growth factors such as nutrients and rest, will grow back larger than before.” – Kathy Acker (Bodies of Work)
-I have absolutely no interest in body building but while reading her essays I thought about how clear and detailed each sentence was. I’ve secretly always wanted to write for a newspaper, but I need to work on being more concise and to the point.
-I used to make collages when I was younger. The type of picture collage with all types of things that I’d cut out from magazines and old books. Sometimes they had words but only a few. It was usually the pictures that meant the most to me. This was my first attempt at conveying meaning through images instead of words.
“Romantic poetry wants to and should combine and fuse poetry and prose, genius and criticism, art poetry and nature poetry. It should make poetry lively and sociable, and make life and society poetic.”
-When I think of romance I can’t help but think of love. But to think of it in more of an outwardly social way leads me to the thought that most of my poetry romanticizes the negative ideas I have.
“Fragments speak to me of hope. They reach out to completion but never reach it.”
-Almost everything I write is a fragment. I never know where it comes from or how it is going to end. So many times I feel like when I write I’m starting in the middle of a thought. I find it hard to reach the true beginning of most things I write; I always feel like I’m chasing an idea and I can only see it’s backside.
“When I was younger, I wanted to write long poems that would hang together, that could be admired for the deftness with which their heterogeneous materials were woven into single fabrics.”
-One day I’d really like to write a long poem. It seems like I exhaust myself at about one and a half pages.
“At fifteen life had taught me undeniably that surrender, in its place, was as honorable as resistance, especially if one had no choice. “
Maya Angelou
-It is ok to give up on something, sometimes giving up is actually better then dragging it through the mud with you because of pride.
“And then it was day again, all morning
at the office machines, their clack and chatter
another journey -- rougher,
that would go on forever
until she could break a hundred words
with no errors -- ah, and then
no more postponed groceries,
and that blue pair of shoes!”
Rita Dove
-This just makes me think of the daily grind. Waking up, working/going to school, going to bed. Sometimes it is hard for me to find beauty in the things that are looked at as normal or mundane.
“Black literature is taught as sociology, as tolerance, not as a serious, rigorous art form.” – Toni Morrison
-This is so true to me. Even when my most open minded teachers talk about black literature they separate it into a compartment of difference. I hate it that we live in a world where it is still important to say, “Such and such is a BLACK author who does amazing work.” As if that’s surprising.
“Form is never more than an extension of content.”- Charles Olson
-The way things are written on a page is an extension of what is actually written. The way you see and experience a piece of writing is often just as important as the piece itself.
“How can it mean anything? The stop & spout, the wind’s dumb shift. Creak of the house & wet smells coming in. Night forms on my left. The blind still up to admit a sun that no longer exists. Sea move.”- Amiri Baraka (from Turncoat)
-I’ve never seen anyone describe the wind as dumb. Reading his work made me get out a thesaurus while writing. Finding new and different ways to describe the things I write about is becoming more and more important to me. People always say that nothing under the sun is new but I’d like to strive to prove them wrong.
“During aerobic and circuit training, the heart and lungs are exercised. But muscles will grow only if they are not exercised or moved, but actually broken down. The general law behind body building is that muscle, if broken down in a controlled fashion and then provided with the proper growth factors such as nutrients and rest, will grow back larger than before.” – Kathy Acker (Bodies of Work)
-I have absolutely no interest in body building but while reading her essays I thought about how clear and detailed each sentence was. I’ve secretly always wanted to write for a newspaper, but I need to work on being more concise and to the point.
10 Treasures 2
“I am not interested in money. I just want to be wonderful.” –Marilyn Monroe
“If you are my student reading this and, it being the end of the drop/add period, completely unable to prevent the fact that we will be discussing various lyric/warped subjects until the first week of May, then: hi. You might be awake. If you go to see this play, and write a letter to the playwright, or the director, or one of the actors, or the stage manager, or the sound/projection genius, then...I don't know. How can you give extra credit in advance? That's wrong. I can't figure this out right now, but basically, go on the bus to Denver and see this play. I command you. Well, obviously, I don't. That would be wrong too. I'll shut up now.” –Banu Kapil (from her blog)
“The Adam’s apple is no apple
But a little man, an artistic type,
An unpublished poet half swallowed,
Squatting in front of the voice box.” –Linh Dinh (“Ductless Gland” from Borderless Bodies)
“A dictionary with positive adjectives only.
A dictionary with no wet verbs.
A dictionary with negotiable definitions.
A dictionary that defines words by their antonyms.” –Linh Dinh (excerpt from “Brand New Products”)
“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.”- Richard Dawkins
“In the centre of this singular chamber was a square table, littered with papers, bottles, and the dried leaves of some graceful, palm-like plant. These varied objects had all been heaped together in order to make room for a mummy case, which had been conveyed from the wall, as was evident from the gap there, and laid across the front of the table. The mummy itself, a horrid, black, withered thing, like a charred head on a gnarled bush, was lying half out of the case, with its claw-like hand and bony forearm resting upon the table.”- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."- Jane Austen (Sense and Sensibility)
“There were a lot of situations were men were being evil to women—dominating them and eating their food.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This just stuck out to me, it could be because of the picture on the page, but it was probably just because of how it relates to my everyday life.
“I put my father in show, with his cold eyes. His segment was called My Father Concerned about his Liver.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This was interesting to me mainly because of the picture. I had to stare at the picture above this quote for at least ten minutes before I could tell what it actually was. It just made me think of the literal show I create in my head while writing and how dysfunctional some of the images are.
“The new volcano we have placed under contract seems very promising.”- Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
A reflection on how we see things as conveniences and expect most things in life to occur according to our own personal agenda.
“If you are my student reading this and, it being the end of the drop/add period, completely unable to prevent the fact that we will be discussing various lyric/warped subjects until the first week of May, then: hi. You might be awake. If you go to see this play, and write a letter to the playwright, or the director, or one of the actors, or the stage manager, or the sound/projection genius, then...I don't know. How can you give extra credit in advance? That's wrong. I can't figure this out right now, but basically, go on the bus to Denver and see this play. I command you. Well, obviously, I don't. That would be wrong too. I'll shut up now.” –Banu Kapil (from her blog)
“The Adam’s apple is no apple
But a little man, an artistic type,
An unpublished poet half swallowed,
Squatting in front of the voice box.” –Linh Dinh (“Ductless Gland” from Borderless Bodies)
“A dictionary with positive adjectives only.
A dictionary with no wet verbs.
A dictionary with negotiable definitions.
A dictionary that defines words by their antonyms.” –Linh Dinh (excerpt from “Brand New Products”)
“After sleeping through a hundred million centuries we have finally opened our eyes on a sumptuous planet, sparkling with color, bountiful with life. Within decades we must close our eyes again. Isn’t it a noble, an enlightened way of spending our brief time in the sun, to work at understanding the universe and how we have come to wake up in it? This is how I answer when I am asked—as I am surprisingly often—why I bother to get up in the mornings.”- Richard Dawkins
“In the centre of this singular chamber was a square table, littered with papers, bottles, and the dried leaves of some graceful, palm-like plant. These varied objects had all been heaped together in order to make room for a mummy case, which had been conveyed from the wall, as was evident from the gap there, and laid across the front of the table. The mummy itself, a horrid, black, withered thing, like a charred head on a gnarled bush, was lying half out of the case, with its claw-like hand and bony forearm resting upon the table.”- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
"His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."- Jane Austen (Sense and Sensibility)
“There were a lot of situations were men were being evil to women—dominating them and eating their food.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This just stuck out to me, it could be because of the picture on the page, but it was probably just because of how it relates to my everyday life.
“I put my father in show, with his cold eyes. His segment was called My Father Concerned about his Liver.” – Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
This was interesting to me mainly because of the picture. I had to stare at the picture above this quote for at least ten minutes before I could tell what it actually was. It just made me think of the literal show I create in my head while writing and how dysfunctional some of the images are.
“The new volcano we have placed under contract seems very promising.”- Flight of the Pigeons from the Palace
A reflection on how we see things as conveniences and expect most things in life to occur according to our own personal agenda.
Verbal Photographs 4..
Her arms were bare and pale, she crossed them. Rushing to her car, fiddling with her keys her face was red.
They kissed quickly, she smiled and he looked away. He got back into the waiting car and fiddled with the radio, not noticing her glance back at him and smile even wider.
They giggled and spoke to one another in their own language; abbreviations and jokes they’d heard a thousand times.
I saw a cream colored rose pedal fall from her bouquet. It danced lightly against the dingy gray snow. Resting in the cool evening air, it was forgotten.
She ate gingerly, tearing pieces of her sandwich with her index finger and thumb. She placed each piece gently on her tongue and chewed slowly. Leaning against the chair, she took a sip out of a purple juice box, careful not to take too much she squinted at the nutrition facts.
A tiny pastel-pink balloon tangled in the dark branches of a tall tree.
She seemed angry, pursing her lips and shoving her hands in her shallow pockets. Flouncing out into the cold morning, dipping in and out of the crowd she disappeared into her day.
He had sleepy eyes, nodding off in the undersized desk. He slumped over to the left resting his chin on his chest, the muscles in his face were relaxed, and the skin over them was smooth and dark. His fingers were resting on his lap; they twitched as he started to dream.
The speckled linoleum was damp with puddles of dirty snow and slush. Each puddle was a piece of someone’s day, growing only to disappear.
He held his head in his hands stared into his lap he seemed sad. All alone at the end of a table, he is breathless, motionless, awake and confused.
They kissed quickly, she smiled and he looked away. He got back into the waiting car and fiddled with the radio, not noticing her glance back at him and smile even wider.
They giggled and spoke to one another in their own language; abbreviations and jokes they’d heard a thousand times.
I saw a cream colored rose pedal fall from her bouquet. It danced lightly against the dingy gray snow. Resting in the cool evening air, it was forgotten.
She ate gingerly, tearing pieces of her sandwich with her index finger and thumb. She placed each piece gently on her tongue and chewed slowly. Leaning against the chair, she took a sip out of a purple juice box, careful not to take too much she squinted at the nutrition facts.
A tiny pastel-pink balloon tangled in the dark branches of a tall tree.
She seemed angry, pursing her lips and shoving her hands in her shallow pockets. Flouncing out into the cold morning, dipping in and out of the crowd she disappeared into her day.
He had sleepy eyes, nodding off in the undersized desk. He slumped over to the left resting his chin on his chest, the muscles in his face were relaxed, and the skin over them was smooth and dark. His fingers were resting on his lap; they twitched as he started to dream.
The speckled linoleum was damp with puddles of dirty snow and slush. Each puddle was a piece of someone’s day, growing only to disappear.
He held his head in his hands stared into his lap he seemed sad. All alone at the end of a table, he is breathless, motionless, awake and confused.
Verbal Photographs 3
A smudge of crimson lipstick on almost white teeth. Careless primping shattered her first impression. She shrugs in embarrassment feverishly rubbing her teeth with her index finger.
He brushes an eye lash from her cheek and she smiles shyly. She avoids his loving gaze, touching his arm with hers.
She stumbles over each word, tripping over commas and periods.
Baby blue, stone washed denim leggings perch on his thin hips. Over-sized aviator sunglasses tip toe to the end of his narrow nose. He takes a meaningful drag of his barely there cigarette and flicks it into the air, ignoring its landing spot.
She trips out of the doorway and into the overcast day. She looks around, seemingly hoping that no one saw her mistake.
He dips into his mother’s deep purse. He pulls out a pen, a soft brown wallet, a cough drop, two tampons, and an agenda. She glances at him and smacks her lips. He pulls out a worn bag bursting with cosmetics. She starts to toss the things back in the purse, fanning him away.
She cups her hands over her mouth and sneezes. The person sitting next to her looks on in disgust.
He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leans towards him, resting her head on his chest and sighing. They both look toward the approaching bus, he fiddles with the wool collar on her grey pea coat, and she pats her hair down when he’s done.
He barrels into the classroom with his tattered book bag strapped on upside down and half-zipped. His dark brown hair is greasy, the curls are limp. He picks at his scalp and flakes of dandruff fall on his face. He wears the same clothes every day, and they smell like every spice his mother uses to cook dinner.
The bark on each tree looks smooth as we drive by, they are eternally dark against the unforgiving gray of the winter sky.
He brushes an eye lash from her cheek and she smiles shyly. She avoids his loving gaze, touching his arm with hers.
She stumbles over each word, tripping over commas and periods.
Baby blue, stone washed denim leggings perch on his thin hips. Over-sized aviator sunglasses tip toe to the end of his narrow nose. He takes a meaningful drag of his barely there cigarette and flicks it into the air, ignoring its landing spot.
She trips out of the doorway and into the overcast day. She looks around, seemingly hoping that no one saw her mistake.
He dips into his mother’s deep purse. He pulls out a pen, a soft brown wallet, a cough drop, two tampons, and an agenda. She glances at him and smacks her lips. He pulls out a worn bag bursting with cosmetics. She starts to toss the things back in the purse, fanning him away.
She cups her hands over her mouth and sneezes. The person sitting next to her looks on in disgust.
He slips his arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She leans towards him, resting her head on his chest and sighing. They both look toward the approaching bus, he fiddles with the wool collar on her grey pea coat, and she pats her hair down when he’s done.
He barrels into the classroom with his tattered book bag strapped on upside down and half-zipped. His dark brown hair is greasy, the curls are limp. He picks at his scalp and flakes of dandruff fall on his face. He wears the same clothes every day, and they smell like every spice his mother uses to cook dinner.
The bark on each tree looks smooth as we drive by, they are eternally dark against the unforgiving gray of the winter sky.
Verbal Photographs 2
The corners of her eyes dissolve into a sea of crevices. Her smile slips through the cracks.
The smell of fresh pineapple seeps through the confines of a cheap sandwich baggie. The tropical sent flirts with my nose as she sits next to me, I eye the baggie. Slices of pineapple slither in their own sweet nectar.
She sinks into a seat, propping her book bag on the legs of a chair. She seems hollow. She smells like at least twenty fresh cigarettes and floral perfume. Trashy and fascinating.
He tugs at a fray near the hem of my jeans. Twisting the soft thread between his thumb and index finger, focusing on working the tiny piece of denim out of its hole.
Never been brushed, frizzy, fuzzy, fluffy, reddish yellow hair.
Stiff yellow ribbon caught up in smooth blonde hair. Bent into a bow, she tugs at it leaving it lopsided, sad.
Neatly stacked rows of purple sweaters disrupted by a rogue sleeve hanging over the edge of a table.
He says he feels that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He folds his long brown arms into knots, cringing, bending almost all the way over.
Sometimes my Chihuahua looks like a baby seal. His perky ears lay neatly against his neck when he sleeps. He curls into a ball near my hip, and hides his nose with his paws.
Strands of hair in the sink, wrapped around the stopper. Slick strands slipping in and out of the drain teasing the faucet.
The smell of fresh pineapple seeps through the confines of a cheap sandwich baggie. The tropical sent flirts with my nose as she sits next to me, I eye the baggie. Slices of pineapple slither in their own sweet nectar.
She sinks into a seat, propping her book bag on the legs of a chair. She seems hollow. She smells like at least twenty fresh cigarettes and floral perfume. Trashy and fascinating.
He tugs at a fray near the hem of my jeans. Twisting the soft thread between his thumb and index finger, focusing on working the tiny piece of denim out of its hole.
Never been brushed, frizzy, fuzzy, fluffy, reddish yellow hair.
Stiff yellow ribbon caught up in smooth blonde hair. Bent into a bow, she tugs at it leaving it lopsided, sad.
Neatly stacked rows of purple sweaters disrupted by a rogue sleeve hanging over the edge of a table.
He says he feels that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He folds his long brown arms into knots, cringing, bending almost all the way over.
Sometimes my Chihuahua looks like a baby seal. His perky ears lay neatly against his neck when he sleeps. He curls into a ball near my hip, and hides his nose with his paws.
Strands of hair in the sink, wrapped around the stopper. Slick strands slipping in and out of the drain teasing the faucet.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Verbal Photographs 1
Black boots, shuffling across a clean tiled floor. They swish and slide across the speckled beige sea. Those boots can’t be that heavy, jeans stuffed carelessly into them the narrow feet inside them are probably sockless and sweaty. The shaft of the boot leans off of its sole. Obviously walked in, the suede is supple.
A red bottle cap peaks out of the top of a faux Chanel bag shaped like a bucket. The bag’s tarnished chain link straps and buckles make it seem sad, neglected. The mysterious red cap bobs up against a sharp elbow and his quickly stuffed back into secrecy. She hugs the bag to her and enters a crowd, the overly round curve of a “C” leads.
The worn tip of her red stiletto restlessly on the worn lifelessly blue carpet. Manic tap, tap, tap tap tap tap tap, tap….tap. The patent leather is nearly extinct at the tip as if its owner lives in a place where climbing stone walls is mandatory. She crosses her leg and suddenly a callused heal slips out of the shoe. The show wobbles, balancing on the ball of her nervous foot.
Grass peeps through a dingy patch of snow. Limp blades peer into the overcast sky; they seem to be searching for the sun. Uncovered, wet, and vulnerable. Each blade is dark and stringy. The soil around them is pitiful and slimy, ridden with salty winter mud.
Bright blue jeans hug thick calves, wrinkling near crisp white high top Nike’s. Each wrinkle is like the corners of a grandmother’s eyes when she smiles. The thread in the seams near the calf is struggling to old itself together; one false move away from ripping all the way up her leg.
The black velvet designs on my crimson comforter are dusty.They are supposed to be a deep, rich looking black. Instead they are speckled with grey dust, tiny white hairs and hot pink lint from my bath towels. I thought lint traps in the dryer were supposed to take care of that. Each velvet flower seems to look back at me. Each tiny strand in the floral design seems to hold on to something next to it.
Rich cream swims in my morning coffee. A heavenly brown, deep like my mother’s eyes. The cream swirls into itself creating a kaleidoscope. Hints of winter white dissolve into sunny beige, creating caramel tan.
Stiff leather jacket with pastel stitching. I can’t tell if the jacket is holding her up or vice versa. She perches on the edge of her chair leaning into a bright computer screen. The jacket creases and squeaks, struggling to keep it’s shape. The zipper is even stiff, she fiddles with it with one hand first, and then the other. She sits up straight and looks down at the stubborn zipper, she pulls forcefully. She gives up.
A tattered leather band wraps itself tightly around an alabaster wrist. The leather is a dull; I’m almost sure it used to be a glossy black. I imagine when the watch was brand new; it was probably stiff and uncomfortable to wear. He pulls the watch off and sits it on the desk in front of him, glancing at the brass rim around the face. He lays the watch on the table face down; he must not want the time to watch him.
The sun peaks through naked branches. Scattering dry yellow light over haggard asphalt. Each branch is bare and jagged. Strong willed leaves hang on to tiny twigs, both flap helplessly into the wind during each gust. Shadows of the unarmed tree sweep the ground, leaning and swaying with an inclination to the wind.
A red bottle cap peaks out of the top of a faux Chanel bag shaped like a bucket. The bag’s tarnished chain link straps and buckles make it seem sad, neglected. The mysterious red cap bobs up against a sharp elbow and his quickly stuffed back into secrecy. She hugs the bag to her and enters a crowd, the overly round curve of a “C” leads.
The worn tip of her red stiletto restlessly on the worn lifelessly blue carpet. Manic tap, tap, tap tap tap tap tap, tap….tap. The patent leather is nearly extinct at the tip as if its owner lives in a place where climbing stone walls is mandatory. She crosses her leg and suddenly a callused heal slips out of the shoe. The show wobbles, balancing on the ball of her nervous foot.
Grass peeps through a dingy patch of snow. Limp blades peer into the overcast sky; they seem to be searching for the sun. Uncovered, wet, and vulnerable. Each blade is dark and stringy. The soil around them is pitiful and slimy, ridden with salty winter mud.
Bright blue jeans hug thick calves, wrinkling near crisp white high top Nike’s. Each wrinkle is like the corners of a grandmother’s eyes when she smiles. The thread in the seams near the calf is struggling to old itself together; one false move away from ripping all the way up her leg.
The black velvet designs on my crimson comforter are dusty.They are supposed to be a deep, rich looking black. Instead they are speckled with grey dust, tiny white hairs and hot pink lint from my bath towels. I thought lint traps in the dryer were supposed to take care of that. Each velvet flower seems to look back at me. Each tiny strand in the floral design seems to hold on to something next to it.
Rich cream swims in my morning coffee. A heavenly brown, deep like my mother’s eyes. The cream swirls into itself creating a kaleidoscope. Hints of winter white dissolve into sunny beige, creating caramel tan.
Stiff leather jacket with pastel stitching. I can’t tell if the jacket is holding her up or vice versa. She perches on the edge of her chair leaning into a bright computer screen. The jacket creases and squeaks, struggling to keep it’s shape. The zipper is even stiff, she fiddles with it with one hand first, and then the other. She sits up straight and looks down at the stubborn zipper, she pulls forcefully. She gives up.
A tattered leather band wraps itself tightly around an alabaster wrist. The leather is a dull; I’m almost sure it used to be a glossy black. I imagine when the watch was brand new; it was probably stiff and uncomfortable to wear. He pulls the watch off and sits it on the desk in front of him, glancing at the brass rim around the face. He lays the watch on the table face down; he must not want the time to watch him.
The sun peaks through naked branches. Scattering dry yellow light over haggard asphalt. Each branch is bare and jagged. Strong willed leaves hang on to tiny twigs, both flap helplessly into the wind during each gust. Shadows of the unarmed tree sweep the ground, leaning and swaying with an inclination to the wind.
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