A Man

A Man
What does a man look for in a woman/girlfriend?

This is a question that roams the minds of women today and everyday.
Is it being; a model, having the brains, beauty, talent, being religious, being a clean freak, knowing your way around the kitchen or just a woman who can take care of herself and is independent? Who knows? I don’t even think men know what they are looking for? The second question is , how many men realize the importance of their wives or their girlfriends when they do have one. Men today try to be the best during their times of courtship and after it all, they become a totally different person, transforming everything that the women loved about them, making the women ask ; Was it all just fake? Was he pretending just to get me in bed? Was it just a phase to get a woman? What was it? Why can’t we all just be ourselves from the beginning and save ourselves the heartache and pain that comes along with it in the end of a messy relationship…..

frustrated

Frustrated
Hated by all, loved by none. A cliché it seems, but how true it is no one realizes. Being blamed for everything that goes wrong might seem impossible for an outsider to understand, however for me it happens so very often. How can one person be so wrong? And is it ever possible to do anything right? Or is it just the other party, who blames all their mistakes on me in every way possible? Why does this happen to me and will it every change? Will this hurtful feeling ever leave or will it always be there upon times of recalling these specific memories. I just wish it can stop and one day I can speak up for myself and be a stronger individual who fights for the truth and what I believe in.

Narrative poem......The Game

Waking down this grainy road,
The yellow eyed cat makes it way,
Makes his way into my mind,
Slowly collecting the black marbles,
So he can play a game with the mice,
I know he cheats in his game,
He’s always the winner and the mice are his victims to consequence.
Around me I see no leaves on any tree,
Except one, One holds as the breath of the wind attempts to loosen his grip.
It fights and wishes to hold onto it’s tree,
The wind laughs and slashes the leaf,
The cat laughs as well and calls him a fool,
The battle had been won by the wind,
As the corpse fell to the ground with its brothers and sisters.
I reach the willow tree I’ve been searching for.
Yellow it is as the cat’s eyes.
A little boy races around my mind,
Smiles and I watch how his eyes shine as he sees his new toy truck.
I watch him play on the road.
I hear the roaring of the machine,
His eyes shined against the crimson road,
I’m sorry
The cat gnaws at me and asks for his final marble.
I didn’t forget, what I told him as I place the dark stern of a deathly flower in where
my words have escaped.
I’m sorry,
I pull and release.
Thinking of that little boy.
The cat collects his marble and smiles, “I’ve won once
again”.

ghazals

Ghazals

As entwined as the lovers Radha and Krishna,
I long for that which is simply everlasting.

The sound of happiness has been taken away,
Not a smile but a tear instead is here.

Red roses lying across the bed,
Realizing that one day I would also be dead.

I want to remember you, even if it’s the last thing I do,
I want to reunite with you, I know that is true.

A woman

The Woman

If my eyes have gone blind from this news,
Of pantyhose, motel trips and latex switched,
It would be of no surprise.
A harlot’s promise can not be kept.
If I knew the twisted vines that rested in your head,
I would have never taken that step.
Marriage is only a fool’s request,
A harlot’s promise cannot be kept.
Of pantyhose, motel trips and latex switched.
And my blood rushed to skin you alive,
And make you hang like a doll n your back.
A harlot’s a witch in disguise of
Pantyhose, motel trips and latex switched.
My blood would rush,
Break through gates that have been open.
This goddess harlot of pantyhose, motel trips and latex switched.
Choose many and me.

deep image poem

Mirror

Looking into the mirror for a reflection of my life.
A scarred image makes a place in my head.
Everything so perfect, yet so misplaced.
I looked in the mirror for the perfect image,
Only to know that it was only a dream.

The Eye

The Eye

Two smaller version golf balls, lodged in my head.
A perfectly black circle painted on each.
Observing the movements, they sit quietly,
Adding moisture with its tiny crack within the edge.
It closes the shutters once in a while.
And every two seconds its brittle brushes sweep the area,
Ridding it of anything harmful.
In a deep trance it orbits rapidly, under its blanket.
This is my two smaller version golf balls, lodged in my head.

A body poem

My fingers, My children.
They scratch the piano's hands ,
They laugh in high pitch notes,
Cry in low notes
My children run fast,
Across the piano's face,
The piano just laughs.
My children become older everyday,
There have small wrinkles on their face.
And that luster in their eyes that starts to fade away into a dark grey.
Even the piano falls out of tune,
B sounds like a screechy old man,
D sounds like a dying cat,
Screaming in its last second in its life.
So children, you are my world,
You are how I feel alive,
Without you,
I’d be separated surely,
from the world and from expressing my self.

An interesting conversation between a boy and a girl

Boy : Come on ……listen
Girl: What is it?
Boy: Listen carefully then tell me what u think?
Why are women so arrogant, vain and stuck up?
We’re just being nice to you, so why the attitude?
Girl : You listen to me…
Boy: What would you like to say?
Girl : We’re not like that, but even if we were….so what?
Why shouldn’t we be proud or even arrogant?
When we have the world at our feet and our beauty drives you crazy.
Even when we break your hearts, you must admit we do it with a certain charm.
………we hope you got the answer you were looking for
Boy : Listen to me.
Let me tell you the secret of your beauty and your charm.
It is we who behold the magic in your mundane acts and honor your silly tantrums
with attention. It is we who call your smallest virtues sublime…..and
make your ordinary look legendary.
Your beauty remains unmatched only in the eyes of the beholder…..without us, where
would you be?
Girl : If u think that we owe our looks to you then it’s clear that your
beauty has you so intoxicated that you cannot think straight, otherwise why would you
talk such rubbish?
Boy : Obviously you missed the point….. forget it….
If you want to be vain that’s fine but don’t forget….
That the glow on your face only reflects the fire of our passions for the world to see.
Girl : It’s not surprising we’ve cast a spell on you, with our petal-soft
skin, lips like buds and hair so dark and fragrant like the night.
Boy : But we’re the ones who compared your lips to buds and your
skin to blossoms. It is we who respond to your glance as if it’s magical and your words as
if they’re poetry….and it’s we who see the mystery of the night in your hair.
If we were not to look at it, to love it and to worship it…..who would call an idol made of
stone……A GOD
Girl : Please listen to me.
Boy : What is left to say?
I know exactly what you’ll say.
Girl : But at least listen to what I have to say…..
Boy : Maybe later ( checks his time )…. If I get the time..
Girl : But….

Cinderella Snowball

Cinderella.
She wept!
Because of stepmother.
She yelled at her.
She made her do chores.
Then she went to a ball.
She fell in love with a prince.
When the clock stroked midnight she headed home.
The prince then realized Cinderella left her glass slipper.
Cinderella wanted to get it but her stepmother prevented her.

Workshop Dec. 15

I will have copies tomorrow since it is up late. Somethings are harder to convey than others, and in the process you sometimes lose your focus. Feel free to let me know if i lost mine somewhere within this piece. I would love to know what it means to you. Comments, criticisms, and corrections will be much appreciated. Thanks.

Untitled

“Fuck your mudda, fuck your fadda, and shit the pippy”

I walk over to Josephine to give her a warm Friday evening greeting. The woman stands about four foot, six inches tall with thick, shoulder length, pearly white hair. She has warm blue eyes and a half-toothless smile that is so genuine and sweet. I can’t help but reach out for a hug every time I see her. And every time she kindly welcomes me.

“Get off me you crazy bastard or I’ll break your ass!”

I embrace her regardless and laugh as she starts to cry and whine, begging for God to save her. She may be obnoxiously oblivious but as far as I know, nothing is funnier than seeing a short, plump, 85 year old woman ask for Jesus’ mercy, then proceed to curse him and his “mudda” out.

I pulled her down to sit in a chair in front of me. She’s vulgar, but never malicious, never puts up a fight, and always loves some attention. I begin to comb out her hair and braid it, as she sits whistling You Are My Sunshine, swinging her feet, that don’t even touch the floor, back and forth, back and forth.

Josie is probably the cutest woman in the entire facility. Unlike many, she gets family visitors, so it is important for her to always look nice, be groomed and clean. They like to see her taken care of and receiving that extra bit of love, she needs it. Personally, her explicit outbreaks instantly become 100 times more amusing when she has French pigtails on each side and a “World’s Best Grandma” sweater on.

Hands busy, I look around to see if anyone is getting ready to fall or eating inedibles. A room full of wheelchairs, a sea of sadness, everyone lost in their own thoughts. How many memories must be floating amongst us, and how many regrets creeping around? I can’t help but constantly put myself in their shoes and fear the ambiguous paths life takes.

When thinking about security, we automatically thought of money. Every problem imaginable was handcuffed with a dollar sign. Society’s members constantly clash. Ignorance is negated by education, but diplomas aren’t free. Children grow up neglected, engaging in transgression. We should have been home more, and cherished their company, but time is money. Many are slowly dying with rare cases of everything, things uncommon and unknown. Relationships are torn by heartbreak and healthcare, but still, the best doctor means the big bucks. Divorce has painted our world in all colors alike. If only she could have wanted less. If only he could have offered more. If only they weren’t so blind. Monetary love exists. Even our Creator has been robbed of our loyalty. God gives and forgives, man gets and forgets. Only when he makes it big, and is asked how, will he reply “by the will of God.” Fiscal faith is ubiquitous. Those who say money isn’t everything never had enough to realize its power. Those who have it wouldn’t give it up for the world. That was certain.

Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon resonates through the room. I try to line up everyone’s wheelchairs in front of the 52” flat screen that was recently installed. The ones with glasses and cataracts go in the front row, and the hard of hearing right behind them. The almost deaf and blind are in the middle and the relentless in the back. They’re the ones that push and crash their chairs like bumper cars into other’s, crushing already fragile fingers between the wheels. I can’t afford injuries on my watch, so I set them aside.

Movie night begins as all eyes are glued to Audrey Hepburn in My Fair Lady. I grab a seat next to Eulalia Torres. She always sits in the back and just observes. She spends her time learning about everyone and her surroundings, yet there is so little we know about her. She is from Puerto Rico and completely spoke Spanish. There was even a Spanish nurse hired to the floor just so someone could communicate with her. One night Ms. Torres fell out of bed and ended up in the hospital. She came back perfectly fine, with one minor surprise. She now spoke fluent English. Since then Ms. Torres has not gone back to speaking Spanish. Whether she knew English all along and was hiding it for 6 years, or suddenly became an example of a medical miracle, no one knows. With her, no one ever knows.

She looked me up and down about four or five times, staring at my eyes and then my hands. Reaching over she grabbed my right hand while muttering under her breath.

“You play numbers? The lottery?”

I nodded no, as her black beady eyes studied my face. She ran her fingers along my palm, then closed my fist, opened my palm again, tracing the lines. Her wide toothless grin emerged as her eyes reduced to slits, and she laughed

“1,0,9,4,”

There is no security in life. Not with your belongings, not with your loved ones, not even with your sanity. Everything is up for grabs at some point. You never can truly appreciate the simplicities life has to offer until you see what humans turn into when they become deprived. No kind of money can save you. No check can guarantee a strong, loyal family, and no Visa can acquire quality of life. Money can ease troubles and provide comfort to a degree, but will that money always do us good? Will it preserve our dignity as humans, and save us from constantly being at the mercy of others? Will it save an elite spot for us every step along the way? It will do no such thing. At the end, we stand and crumble all the same. This is certain.

How fortunate would I have been to heed the advice given to me? 1,0,9,4 were drawn the following night in the Win4 combination game. Yet I had no regrets because I know money loses its value when you really think about the heinous things people will do for it. I know it can transform compassion and love into greed, just like I know Ms. Torres speaks volumes with her silence. A woman cheated by her own son. Deceived and falsely persuaded to sign all assets and property over to him while ill, in hopes that he would nurse her back to health and look after her belongings. Everything was sold, and poor Eulalia was tossed into a home, with no ties to a family, and not even a greeting card on Christmas. Neither is little Miss Pippy an exception to the wrath of greed. She’s an angry little woman, but what fuels her rage? Josephine inherited much of her parent’s wealth, and now her husband wants a share. State laws being complicated, and inheritance not being considered marital property, he needs to prove he is a devoted and loyal husband to help his case. So devoted he is, as to not even miss a day to come by, and sometimes brings along a woman friend whom he calls his niece. And so loyal of a man, that he pecks Josie’s check, but kisses the neck and lips of this niece. Her mindless condition is to his advantage, and he’s milking it for all it is worth. All she does is smile and cry, and smile again and tells him to go kill himself, “you lousy son of a bitch.”

Your portfolio

Just a final reminder of what should be included in your portfolio.

From the syllabus:
At the end of the semester, you will submit to me a portfolio of 15-30 pages of your best work, which may include poetry, fiction, non-fiction, drama, shopping lists, or anything that you feel is good writing, including your emails or posts for the class. It must include revised versions of the material you workshopped in the class, and a 2-3 page note explaining what work you’ve done with the material in the context of the course. The portfolio is worth 50%.

For the "note" mentioned above, here are further specifics: it should be in two parts. First, a 1-2 page statement about your writing process with regards to the portfolio: which pieces you thought worked best, anything you learned about your own writing during the course, and generally any comments you have about your own work. Second, I also want you to write a 1-2 page appreciation of another writer's work: choose your favorite story, poem, novel, essay, play, script, or whatever by a writer you like and explain why you like that particular piece. You can use George Saunders' essay about "The School" as a model. These notes are not included in the 15-30 page count, by the way.

Your portfolio can be submitted on paper, stapled or bound, in a folder, in a chapbook, or electronically as a pdf or MS Word file. It's up to you, but please do put some effort into presentation.

Corey

Not for Workshop-just a random piece

12/12/2008

Dear Baby,

There are some things that should be mentioned to you on the way to your self discovery. I’m writing this not to scare you or deprive you of any moment that is ending one minute at a time. I want you to be happy but happiness only goes so far. Life, baby, is a sea of great expectations. The way you handle the boat’s oars is the path in which you will travel. You have to push through the currents and the uneasiness of the winds. The trip is bound to hurt you, but it is up to you to achieve your own moral salvage.

Life is not all about sexual maladjustments and erotic desires, baby. Don’t believe all of what Freud says. Remember, be trustworthy but never trust. There would be a lot of fools with lines to preach-be skeptical baby. They are selfish human beings who seek self-gratification at your expense. You have to build a forth wall once you find your significant other. Remember they are your audience and you are the performer. Act but don’t be a Hollywood entertainer. If you allow them to break this wall, learn to attach but do not combine. If worse comes to worse let him break your heart, but not shatter into millions of pieces for you can bind what’s in two but you can’t mend the shattered mirror of self.

In a way baby, Holden is right-life is full of phonies. But don’t ever become one. When asked, these goddam frauds don’t care about how your day is or how you are. Trust me they have much more crap on their plate than to worry about your problems. Remember, nobody genuinely cares about you baby. It’s a troubling concept but it must be dealt with. Those who you think are your friends are only people with secret identities who claim to be your friends. Their true colors are exposed at the end of the rainbow, baby, whose ending is far from a pot of gold.

Money, baby, is the derivation of all immorality. Own, but do not get owned. Possess, but do not become possessed. In the words of Tyler Durden; you are not the money that you will be earning. You are not the car that you will be driving. You are not your house and you are definitely not your job. These “things” are put forth in front of your optical to act as obstacles and deprive you of your true identity. Your name is just a word. But, you baby, is the only one who can set forth its meaning.

The truth is baby, life is a bitch. You give a dog meat, and it satisfied. You give individuals the road to success and they become successful. It’s a Pavlonian experiment in which everything works in patterns. Your task is to break such patterns and live YOUR life. Experience every opportunity, inspire your imagination, and feed your conscience with pleasure. But be sure, baby, to stay within the lines as you glide against the fresh canvas.

Love,
Your mommy

P.S.
Good Luck :)

For Dec 15

As the title suggests, this is for the workshop. Feel free to criticize, comment, ask, correct,..., and discuss whatever you consider important. Be a judge, not a counselor, so feel free to point out what needs to be addressed if need be--this is the only way to make some progress.

Phase Union

In a one-dimensional world, the seemingly black cold Ex stood undisrupted of its daily activities, well, during its "time" as defined by its existence. It isn’t alone though: it lives with all its other peers, acting together in a society where appropriate associations and macro-unions lead to rich atmospheres and link to many possible dimensions as ruled and described by the very same associations.

Ex's job is to denote a certain type action that triggers sound, but often accompanied by some of its peers as to act in unison to make it powerful and lasting, or at least communicative. Ex is also skillful at standing still, waiting for orders of costumes or movements to replace its cold façade into a more amiable one. It is a raw material for mass production so to speak, where it constitutes an essential but often minor role when there’s demand for its service. And yet, with such a rich experience Ex’s application seems limited, or at least hindered in some ways. It would argue “I’m composed of the same bulk as all the others. I can create and compose any an all tasks if applied properly, but I’m still enclosed tight in the same dimension as you stick-pigs!”—Its peers would gag.

Ex’s rebellious attitude isn’t new, nor is precipitate, but simply delayed. Delayed because Ex of itself is always rarely used, and of the honorable mentions of its world, as contained in the Powerful Text of Peer Cooperation (a book where the most used combination of the society of peers is listed and described), Ex is barely mentioned and only has a small section. Of the many other tribes in Ex’s one-dimensional world where different combination of peers can compose one thing but be completely nonsensical in another, Ex is also rarely used, and some don’t even use it at all except when it’s an exotic export from some of the other tribes! It’s this resentment for being ignored, underrepresented and used for a device of mystery that has led for Ex to resign its world and its peers, to leave and never return unless to strike back.

Ex opted for a radical decision for change, a decision that no one in the society takes for the possible chain effects and annihilation of the whole. But Ex and its crossed mind had neither remorse nor concern for a society where cooperation and connections are essential for a meaningful existence; it didn’t care for its peers and transposed unto a parallel phase, alone.

The transposition itself borrows from an exotic but common system of parallels between two seemingly unrelated dimensions. One maps the other although not uniquely, which may takes away the uniqueness of the transformation, but can nevertheless be used to link each of the dimensions. All there really needs to be done is for such mapping to exist is for an element from one dimension to morph into the other willingly, as Ex’s case. Given the simplicity of the task and the determination of the figure, transposition is easily done.

But what effect can such disregarded cross hearted figure actions have on its peers? E9’s seemingl9 unessential and minute task surel9 can’t affect the 9hole bulk of another 25 linking peers, can it? That’s wh9 it left in the first place.

Local legend has it that transposing unto the parallel phase leaves a specificit9 hole 9here those related to that 9hich crossed it are sucked along 9ith it, creating unintended casualties for the 9hole s9stem. But the collapse onl9 comes afterwards, 9here the hole itself collapses unto its constituent holes and these in part into their holes, thus starting a self-annihilating chain effect.
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3rd piece for 12/10 workshop

Ok folks, this is a record for me but I'm making up for lost time. This is my third and final workshop post for tomorrow's class, sorry it's so last minute.

Three Words

He sees her at the bus stop.
Without thinking he makes his way over
to kill time while waiting.
Normally he would've stood in the same spot
and waited for the bus
not saying a word.
Today was different for some reason.
He stops right in front of her.
He knows his window of opportunity will close soon
so he figures he has enough time for three words.
He can't decide on which three words.
Now he wishes he had rehearsed before he started walking.
There are so many possibilities and combinations.
Which one is the right one?
He looks her up and down to get an idea.
Now only one three letter word seems to come to mind.
"Hi, I'm (name here)"? "Naw, too cliche" he thinks to himself.
"Let's go out!" "Too straightforward....and a bit creepy" he thinks.
"What's your sign?" "What is this the 80s?" he asks himself.
He finally regains his composure and focus.
He ultimately decides on his three words.
He opens his mouth...."Nice to meet you", she says
He breathes a sigh of relief.
He would not suffer the fate of the cheesy opening line.
His window shut, but an even better one opened
because he is no longer limited to three words.
He is amazed what can happen in 2.5 seconds,
but quickly disregards the thought and carries on the conversation.

2nd piece for the workshop

Solace

despite his deep complexity
he finds solace in the simplicity of the beat
it is the only thing that understands him at times

December 10th workshop

60 + 1 (keys)

Sixty plus one, that's the magic number.
Those two numerals create something so complex
with so many keys and functions
as it lays there, waiting to be touched.
Each touch differs depending on where my hand is placed;
sometimes it yells, sometimes it's a soft sound due to my touch.
It differs with each key.
I don't know where to start, the top or the bottom
but it all looks the same to me.
Everything is the same two shades, black keys white keys.
Sixty plus one, those numbers mattered to the likes of Micky Mantle and Roger Maris,
to me also, but in a different way 61 equates to my challenge.
Why am I so afraid?
I put forth so much effort, this is my chance.
I shouldn't be afraid should I?
After all it's laying right there,
right in front of me waiting.
That sleek, exquisite frame.
Those keys, those buttons.
How could I resist?
I must be crazy to hesitate.
I read all those books and studied religiously,
I can do this.
If I don't, nobody's going to do it for me.
I guess we'll find out if it all paid off.
By adding 60 to 1
by pressing those keys.

Just Because.

So before this class, I was never much into writing poems, but I have given poetry a shot, let me know what you think of my poems please.

The way you make me feel.

A kiss goodnight,
Then I drift off to sleep.
In the morning I awake,
Open my eyes and
There you are,
Smiling back at me.
Feeling this way-
This is my absolute perfection.

Everyday should start,
just like this one.
You lean over and
Kiss me good morning,
Pull me close and
hold me tight.
Being this way-
This is my fairy tale.

I lay next to you,
felling secure and safe.
Here I am in your arms and
Still you pull me closer,
Whisper in my eye
Then back asleep we fall
Living this way-
This is my dream come true.


New Love.

I know this is wrong,
That's what makes in feel right,
The thrill of it all.
A new romance,
Blossoming under the stars
You look at me,
My heart begins to race.
You hold me close,
My body begins to shake.
You kiss me,
My whole body goes numb.
I wonder to myself,
How something could be,
This perfect.

About a Break Up. Work Shop 12/10

I lie in my bed and close my eyes. A tear runs from my eye warming my face. I lay still and silent, thinking to myself. Maybe I have just realized it’s time to move on. Yet something inside of me is pulling back, making me hold on to you. I just don’t know what it is. I get up and walk across the room. I just need to talk to you. There are some words that I need to say. The voice in my head is an angry one now. I go and take me cell phone off the charger and begin to dial your number. I hang up even before it connects. I look down at my hands and think about what I am doing. I can’t talk to you, I know I can’t. I turn my phone over in my sweaty palm. I don’t know why my hands are sweating this much. What am I so nervous about? I don’t get it. My heart began to beat rapidly and it starts to feel as though it is going to jump right out of my chest. Am I the only one that can hear how loud my heart is beating against my empty chest? I just have to hear your voice; maybe it will change my mind. No, I can’t. Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I care about you so much? I know what I have to do. I dial again, this time letting it go a second longer before I hang up, I can’t do it. I put the phone back down on the bed and walk away. I sit down, and stand up. I can’t sit down, and I can’t stand still. I walk across the room once more and I pick up the pen off of the desk, at least it will give my hands something to do and maybe they will stop shaking so much. The phone begins to ring; bringing me back towards the bed, I look at the screen, it’s you. My knees give out and my body feels weak. I pick up. You can tell that I have been crying, you always know. “I love you, but I can’t be with you anymore it’s just too hard to look you in the face after all the awful things you have put me through” I say, and then I hang up. Motionless I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and cry myself to sleep.

Workshop 12/10

Tried to write something like Lydia Davis, A Mown Lawn:

A man ready to protest war- Protestant, Catholic, Jewish war. If protest is the test of pro-war, what’s the con? Con-war? Sounds like condor, an American vulture, a bird that preys and a man who prays. A man who sees, a man who saw, saw anti-war then Darfur, saw raw-itna then Rwanda. He’s sick with propaganda, sick with mistrust, distrust, distress, the stress- stress the peace, peace of mind, the blind follow the blind. And he hates it. But he wonders if his home is too warm to start a revolution. If his stomach’s too full, if his head’s too polluted. So he pays taxes, pays attention, pays-for-war, pays-it-forward.

Poem that sums up the other poem.

Two paths ahead of me.
I know I must choose one.
Either way, I can't look back.

Haiku Version of Ashmeena's Poem "Paths"

"One step at a time, slowly but without doubt,
I moved forward, into the light, staring up my path.
Should I choose the first or the second road?"

Tell me if you heard this one.....

A priest, a Rabbi and a dog walk into their favorite bar, they would get together two or three times a week for drinks and to talk shop. On this particular afternoon, the dog started his drinking before and is already pretty lose. He climbs onto the stool and asks the bartender “Where can a fella find a decent bitch round here?”
The bartender carefully places the shot glass he was cleaning on to the granite counter. He already knows what kind of night this is going to be. He looks around for the new waitress. Crystal? Amber? Jade? What the hell is that chicks name again? She’s looking around confused. She always has a lost and dazed way about her. She notices him looking at her and makes her way over.
“Um hi…so um I don’t know if table seven is mine but…”
“Listen. It doesn’t matter. If something needs to get done just do it.” He replies sternly
She looks down like a child admonished by a father.
“Just go in the back and get some more nuts and napkins for this here bar. Got that” He yells.
She turns on her heels without a word.
He doesn’t mean to shout. The music is loud. He can hardly hear himself.
She walks quickly through the kitchen to the backroom. She grabs four small bowls and the jumbo Costco brand peanuts. She rips open a can and pours them out into each bowl. She grabs a few handfuls and munches away as she leans against the wall. She searches her pockets for her lighter and pulls it out with her pipe. She tells herself she will stop before it starts affecting her looks and judgment. She doesn’t realize that it already has. Light. Inhale. She hates this job. It’s only temporary just until she nails the audition on Thursday. She turns and faces the wall. Exhale. The tunnel of smoke explodes when it hits the wall. The graffiti is written in all the languages of past, present and future assholes. The art needs no translation. Inhale. Her mind wonders to her new roommate. She isn’t sure if she should even call him that. Exhale. They met two weeks ago when she went out to get her mine off …things. They had a great time. Inhale. He said he lived far away and needed a place to crash for the night. She invited him over. Exhale. She isn’t sure when he will make his way home. She doesn’t light up again. She places the contraband back in her pocket. He spends his days on her couch watching television. At least he cleans. Her apartment never smelled so good. She fans away the smoke with her hands. She pulls out the Victoria Secrets vanilla body splash. At night after work, she brings leftovers for dinner. They eat and discuss life, love, politics, and the episodes of Law and Order he watched that day. She thinks this is what it feels like to be in love with someone after you’re no longer in love with them. It’s nice.
She takes a deep breathe, turns and walks out of the closet leaving the bowls of nuts

Evaluations!

I'll be reminding you of this in class, because it's very important, to me and to all the students who will come after you: please complete a course evaluation of this course. In the past we used to do this in class, on paper, but from now on it will be done online. You can find the instructions here. The deadline is Thursday, so please do it ASAP. There are no hard questions, and your answers are anonymous.

Corey

Workshop 12/8

The Tale of Evindayle

The road to Evindayle Castle is a long and winding one. It begins as a dirt road on the outskirts of Aurelia (causing a considerable amount of trouble for the merchants who make their way into town every so often) and goes on like that for a few miles until you reach the heart of the town itself. Pass the closed up shops and the humble cottages occupied by men, women, and children deep in slumber, and even pass a little girl who has dozed off for the night in the stable to the sound of the rain pounding furiously against the thankfully stable roof that her papa had repaired early this past summer, and the road moves into the forest that surrounds the castle.
Evergreen leaves almost seem to point straight to the ground as the rain starts to fall harder, and a flash of lightning illuminates the town to reveal dust from the road flying up when disturbed by the downpour. Further down the path, the forest clears to reveal Evindayle in its entire stunning silver splendor, its high turrets stretching to the dark clouds above it. Inside, a dark figure restlessly roams the halls, gazing ever so often at the paintings that stare down at him. A nightly ritual, he walks slowly, deliberately, his bare feet meeting the cold marble of the castle, causing him to shudder with delight that he could feel something.
All is well, he thinks to himself, a detached smile playing on his lips as he reaches the unlit foyer. The walls of the hallway open up to the entrance hall of the castle, a large circular room – at one end, the doors to Aurelia; at the other, two blue and silver thrones under a large painting of a family.
Two eyes, the color of the sky on a rainy day, turn up to gaze at the grand painting above the thrones, and the figure stops, facing it, his last stop for the night, as it is every night, before he turns and heads to his bedroom. Four figures rest within the golden frames; one, a woman with gentle features, dark, soulful eyes, and a soft smile; another, a man beside her, turned slightly to the side and gazing sternly at his viewer; yet another, a child standing proudly to the right of the man, whose right hand rests gently on the child’s shoulder; and lastly, a younger child to the left of the woman, gently tugging at her skirt.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, a wave of emotions washes over him, and he closes his eyes, the smile fading from the corners of his lips as incomprehensible thoughts fill his mind.
And yet something is different; another dark shape moves in Aurelia tonight. Deep in Elyria Forest, the mud on the road muffles the footsteps of a cloaked creature approaching Evindayle. The rain is falling faster now, and harder, but the being does not seem disturbed. It is small and thin, its robes cloaking everything but two hands. Suddenly, a gust of wind howls through the trees and haunting cry emanates from the heart of the forest, and the figure silently reaches up with one hand to draw its robes closer while clutching in its other hand an object that almost seems to emit its own light –
A single, red rose.
The young prince suddenly turns his head, almost convinced that he had seen a quick movement by the great windows, and lightning once again casts a brief flash of light on the land. To the west, the shadow of another castle stands black against the horizon, its black stone glistening in the darkness.
Tap, tap, tap.
The prince whips around to face the closed doors to Aurelia, startled. ‘They’re not supposed to be home for another two hours,’ he thinks to himself.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
“Christoff?” he calls out.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
He starts for the door, his feet moving across the cold, marble floor until his hands press against the door handles and pull them open to reveal a hunched over, hooded woman. Upon seeing her, the prince’s eyes narrow in suspicion.
“Can I help you?” he asks coolly, his voice barely above a growl.
The woman peers at him from beneath her hood, a toothless grin spreading across her face, causing the prince to frown in disgust.
“Your Highness,” she says, “it is raining terribly hard outside, and I seem to have lost my way.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” he asks coldly.
“Please, sir, I have nothing to offer but a rose for room and board,” she whimpers softly.
“My apologies, but the castle will not be used as a shelter for peasants,” the prince replies dismissively, looking the old woman square in the eyes, the corners of his lips spreading into a dark grin as he moved to shut the door.
BANG!
The prince was thrown back into the lobby as the door flew open on him. Startled by the force and hurt by the fall, he cried out, and suddenly realized that the old woman was gone. In her place was a dark-haired maiden with bright green eyes that were overcome with disappointment.
“They were right about you,” she said softly, taking a step towards him.
“Who do you speak of?” he demanded, and yet his usually strong voice was shaky.
“I have great plans for you,” the lady replied, not answering his question. She began to glide to him, and he realized that she was floating; her toes were barely grazing the marble.
“Stop!” he commanded as he held up his hand, still sounding afraid.
“You will be great if you allow yourself to be,” she told him.
“I said stop!”
She pointed a slim finger at him, a mysterious smile playing upon her lips, and in a single moment a huge flash brought the dark prince to his feet as he tried to run, but to no avail.
A cry went up in Evindayle that night. And its echo continues to this day.

Chapter One

The clap of sixteen-year-old Annabelle Durand’s book as she closed it echoed through the stable, and a tiny brown dog covered in short curls let out a sharp yelp as he was startled out of his sleep.
“That ending was perfect,” she said with a smile, reaching out a hand to ruffle his coat. “It’s a shame you didn’t read it with me, Faris.”

(work in progress...)

WORKSHOP FOR 12/8

An image of a mother and child wrapped in each other’s arms passes my sight as I sit still in the coffee shop. Winter has hit hard this year approaching below the 40’s. I had made my way straight to the coffee shop after school to soak in the warmth before I journeyed back out to my house. I look over at my cup of coffee and wonder why I bought it. I brought my eyes up to the mother again to see the child wiggling slightly as she tried to catch a breath from her mother’s garment covering her face from the bitter weather. The mother was beautiful, and with a soothing glance her eyes met mine. Her glance quickly turned sharp and caustic as though she was a lioness looking onto vultures ready to feast on her cub. When she realized it was only me, her eyes relaxed returning a warm smile. She was out in the cold waiting for her bus with her child, and I couldn’t resist but think why she didn’t just come into the warmth. I drank my coffee with grimace; it had already turned cold due to my refrain from drinking it down immediately. I looked back out at her and smirked to myself about the thought of being out in the cold rather than coming inside the coffee shop. However, I couldn’t find myself to judge her more coarsely. She was captivating in every way. She was petite, with long straight jet black hair, large light blue eyes that could be made out from where I was sitting, and fine features. “Hopefully the child takes after the mother”, I thought to myself. I couldn’t stop but think why she didn’t do something better with her life, than standing out there waiting for the bus. “What a regular life for someone so beautiful” was the next thought that passed my mind as I subjected her to my derision. I didn’t realize that at this point her back was turned from me. I wondered if she knew I was talking about her or at least questioning her actions.
After a couple of minutes passed I forgot about her and went back to my unsatisfying coffee. I looked out the window again trying to avoid her gaze and find new people to subject to my harsh reprimands. I couldn’t find anyone more interesting than the mother; she stood out too much amongst the ordinary people passing life dully. With much regret I glanced over at her again but she was somewhere else in her mind. Her glance had parted from the rest of the world, from the reality of the cold, the long wait for the bus, even from by-passers that held her in esteem as I did. She was concentrated in the only thing that really mattered to her, the only thing that my derision could not tear away at. The way she looked at her child was so touching; as she was amazed at the life she held in her arms. I felt as though I was intruding in their moment, like a real outsider than I was originally. The child outreached her hand to touch her mother’s chin and stroked her long playful hair that hanged onto the mothers shoulders. The mother bestowed a comforting smile only a mother could give to her child, as though to say that “nothing in this life can tear me away from you. We will always have each other and nothing can take that away from us.” I wanted them to share their moment together without any of my thoughts invading their intimate bond. I walked out of the warm coffee shop, into the bitter cold winter, understanding why the mother didn’t mind the cold outside.

Assignment for this week.

I used Ashmeena's poem to rewrite into three lines. here it is.



I feel as if I am one person in many places.
Between the emptiness in my soul and the emptiness in my heart,
I am incomplete.

This is for You.

This is just a poem that I have been working on, let me know what you think please.

You are what my heart longs for.
I feel your eyes on my as I talk to you,
And without even saying a word, I know you understand.
You have this way of calming me down, and bringing me
Back to reality when I have lost my way.
I don't understand how you have this power over me.
Maybe its because you get me.
Maybe its because you make me feel important.

You are what my body longs for.
When I am close to you, I breathe you in.
I just close my eyes and take a deep breathe-
capturing your scent.
At night when I am in bed, I imagine you next me,
laying here holding me in your arms.
I don't understand how why I feel this way
Maybe its because you are caring.
Maybe its because you make me feel wanted.

You are what my mind longs for.
You always know what to say and how to say it.
Somehow you always get my mind going.
You bring out the best of me as well as the worst.
You make me think about things in every aspect.
I don't understand how you get me to do these things.
Maybe its because you intrigue me
Maybe its because you challenge me.

Name poem

Always Justifying actions to myself
Always Unifying myself as unique.
Always Solving some sort of problem.
Always Taking on more responsibility than I should.
Always Introducing new ideas into my life.
Always Negotiating something between my family.
Always Entertaining myself some how.

Sometimes Keeping to myself.
Sometimes Arguing with others.
Sometimes Reacting hard to certain situations.
Sometimes Enjoying the little things in life.
Sometimes Everything makes no sense.

Never Shut my mouth when I should.
Never Insist right away that I am wrong.
Never Exaggerate the truth.
Never Bother with those who don't want to bother with me.
Never Under estimate myself.
Never Happy with giving up.
Never Refer to myself as something I am not.

Not The Same (Thanksgiving)

Things were different then,
More laughter and memorable times.
Now I have to use a pen,
And jot them down in lines.

Them being the moments we shared,
Every year during Thanksgiving.
How much she really cared
For me. But she's no longer living,

In the physical. For what it's worth,
I still feel her everyday.
All though gone from Earth,
In my heart she'll always stay.

I wish I could hear her voice,
Or just encounter her grace.
But I know it's God's choice
She's in a better place.

I wish she lived to see my baby
and the new Commander and Chief.
But in heaven I know this lady
gives angels the sense of relief.

They do not have to work as hard,
Cause her warmth picks up their slack.
Her new job I don't disregard,
But I wish I had her back.

Things were different then,
More laughter and memorable times.
Now I have to use a pen,
And jot them down in lines.

Empty

All emotions, gone!
Nothing gets my attention anymore,
Wondering around in a dark, mysterious, forest.
Everything is strange , yet with a familiar sense of belonging.
Lost is what I am,
Troubled is what I've been,
Happy is what I'll never be.

A hole in my heart,
A missing puzzle piece within my soul.
What is it that I seek, that cannot be mine?
For I know that nothing can ever be mine. Nothing!
Eventually I will leave it all, as I say "goodbye" this world of ours.
Yet why?, why am I so attached?
Knowing that attachment is the main cause for pain and sorrow.
Those two words follow me like a dark cloud,
Reluctant to ever leave my side.

I Feel like a broken instrument,
A scratched Cd that just can't play,
I am like a mirror that falls and breaks into hundreds of pieces,
however if you look into each piece you can definitely see a part of me,
Separted yet so whole.

miniature play

Curtain rises. Girl is sitting at her desk typing. As she is typing, the door opens and a man in a ski mask walks in and ominous music plays in the background as he closes the door and stands behind her, looking at the screen over her shoulder. Girl does not notice. The door opens again and a woman wearing a white dress with red polka dots walks in, carrying a Maltipoo with a half eaten treat in its mouth. She puts it down and sits on the bed, looking at her nails with a bored expression on her face as the dog proceeds to lie down and finish its treat. Girl continues typing.
Curtain falls.

Workshop for Dec 3

Hey guys. im still working on the ending of this piece. I finished it but i feel like the ending does not correspond with the rest of the story and to what i was getting at. If you have any suggestions or comments feel free to tell me.

The Art of Manipulation;
A Cinderella Story

Cinderella: Godmother, Godmother
How do I go from here?
You’ve dressed me in this beautiful gown
And whipped up such a carriage
But after all these years of being locked up
I’m just not ready for marriage

Godmother: Calm down my dear
And pull yourself together
Before we talk about marriage
You actually have to meet Prince Charming
You have to fall in love with him
And he fall in love with you

Cinderella: Love?
How will I do that?
Oh Godmother
Please help
And tell me what to do
How do I approach him?
And what do I say…

Godmother: Now, now
There are just a few simple rules
You have to observe
If you play your game right
His heart will be yours
The very first thing you have to do
Is make the right first impression
And he will come to you

Cinderella: But how will I do that
What if I make the wrong one?
Then what will I do?

Godmother: My dear Cinderella,
Just relax and listen:
What you have to do
Is arrive late to the ball
You want to make a grand entrance
But make sure you don’t fall
Keep a confident posture
And always stand tall

Cinderella: (Cinderella repeats these steps to herself)
Do not fall
Keep a confident posture
Make sure to stand tall

Godmother: If you commit to your share
His eyes will surely drift to yours
Glance but then look else where
A few minutes later
Look back at him
And this time do not turn away
This game is known as foreplay,
A staring contest between you two
If all goes well
You are ready for the next step

The following step
Of falling in love with
This complete stranger
Is one gentle smile
Nothing too strong
As to provoke any repulsion
Even half a smile will do
This act is not intended to
Intimidate you two
Rather it acts as a signal
To stimulate the both of you

(Cinderella looks to the mirror practicing her smile.)

The way to proceed
This everlasting smile
Is not with nervousness
Or paranoia
Or a collaboration of the two
What you have to realize
Is that subconsciously he
Already has fallen for you

Cinderella: But how will I approach him?
What will I say?
I don’t want to seem silly
Or foolish in anyway

Godmother: It’s the art of manipulation
To make him come to you
With your intriguing smile
And your fairy tale eyes too
He will be foolish
To miss this chance
Once he’ll approach you
Let him do the talking,
As a proper lady
Only does the walking

When the time will come
And trust me you’ll know-

Cinderella: But Godmother
How would I know?

Godmother: Your heart will double in rhythm
And then skip a beat
At that point both of your chemistries
Has sprang to its feet

You will freely engage
In a conversation or two
But make sure that time is a factor for you
Your curfew is twelve
Not a minute past due
But before the time swallows you
Back to your past
Make sure you leave him
With something to last
A kiss or an object
That would lead him back to you

Cinderella: After the ball
Forever we’ll part
There would be no other chance
To link his and my heart

(At this moment, Cinderella begins to weep)

Godmother: Cinderella,
You silly girl
You’re still not understanding
That love works in miracles
If Prince Charming truly has a spark for you
He will go out of his way
Just to get a hold of you
And once he comes back
That is when you’ll see
That everything in life
Will work out perfectly

Workshop 12/03/08

This was posted a while ago and I made a few updates plus a manlier version. Please read both and tell me what you think

Part I

You’re in the car with a beautiful man and he doesn’t tell you he loves you. You know he does. He helped you make cupcakes this afternoon. He let you pick out the flavor (chocolate your favorite). He let you break the eggs, pour the water and oil. He even let you lick the bowl. “Rachel’s birthday slumber party will great.” He says. It’s your first night away from home. Things are starting to change.

You’re in a car with a beautiful man and he won’t tell you he loves you. You know he always has. He is only a few years older then you, and yet he acts like an old man. He’s driving you to the mall to meet your best friend that he can’t stand. He thinks she is bad influence. She has a bad attitude. He thinks she's hot. He doesn’t understand why you want things pierced and parts of your body permanently marked. He doesn’t like the way boys look at you now. "The changes of life" is what your P.E. teacher called it. No one likes these changes.

You’re in a car with a beautiful boy and he tells you he loves you. You think he does, at least you use to. Rachel said she saw him the other night leaving the bowling alley with Jackie looking really cozy. Everyone knows what that girl is about. This couldn’t be true. He told you he was out with his boys. Besides he said he understands that you’re not ready. He told you he respects your decision. He told you that it wasn’t that important to him. He tells you he loves you all of the time. When did things change?

You’re in a car with a beautiful man who loves you. Today he stood before your god, your friends and your family and announced it. You must acknowledge this testimony. You’ve searched for this beauty for so long. “Kissed a lot of frogs” they say. You want to start a life with this man. You will have all kinds of new experiences. Thing will be exciting and new. This changes how you felt about love before.

You’re driving in a car with a beautiful little man. He’s in the car seat playing with his favorite toy. You love this boy so much it. You can’t even believe how much you love him. You are so excited about everything about him. You mention him in every conversation. He is all over your desk at work. He’s in your wallet, on your cell, even around your neck. This little man has changed you in a way that all of the other men seem a bit envious.

Part II

Left hand raises the fork to the mouth that’s feeding you. She made this for you. It’s your favorite. She shouldn’t have. You are the worst kid on the team. You know this and so does everyone else. The only time you ever even hit the field is at the beginning, when no points have been made and there is nothing to lose. When you are on the field everyone makes a point to keep the ball far from you. She knows this. She sees it. She pretends that she doesn’t. At the end of each game she gives you a hero’s welcome. She makes you strong. You have her respect.

Left hand raises the ice to the face to soothe you. You’re hurt real bad, you want to cry, and you know you can’t. It wasn’t your fault. He started it. He deserved it. You had to. He can shit talk to you all he wants but not in front of her. Why did he have to say that about her? What kind of man would you be if you let that slide? Shit does she always have to wear those fucking short skirts damn it. Now you’re in all this just because of her. You hope they called your father and not your mother. He will know what to do. He will let you cry. He taught you respect.

Left hand glides up towards her breast. You can do this. You tell yourself you can do this. You’re nervous. You know what to do…well sort of. Hope she tells you what to do. You have no idea what you’re doing. You have no idea what you’re even looking at. This isn’t like the dvds. She’s making noises. Is that good? What the hell am I suppose to do down here? Fuck If I don’t get this right how can she respect me?

Left hand raises the glass to your mouth as the liquid warms you. You stare at her. She’s speaking to you. Does this mean she’s interested? How do I know? She’s must know you’re interested. You’re talking to her, well listening rather. You’re paying really close attention too. She is wearing a low cut shirt. She smells so good. You ask a follow up questions. You know she likes that. She has beautiful skin the kind that just looks so soft. You want to touch her. You are smiling and nodding. You are afraid of her. You have to move slowly and carefully. Insert laugh. You know if you move to quickly she will get scared and run away. You say something funny. She laughs. Should I put my hand on hers? She says something funny that isn’t funny at all. You laugh and laugh. Let’s get another drink. It will make you stronger.

Left hand raises the fork that is an airplane to feed her. Every thing had changed. You love her so much. You can’t even believe how much you love her. She is so excited about you and you are about her. You mention her to everyone. You carry her everywhere. You always want to be there to protect her. You always want to be her strength. You will never see women the same.

Thank You

Wednesday's class

Hi everyone. I haven't heard from Ashmeena, but I think I'll go ahead and cancel class tomorrow. I'm not sure we would have a very productive workshop tomorrow, because I think some people will not be there anyway, and I want to give you more time to look at the work posted by Jody-Ann, Angie, and Ashmeena, which we will workshop when we meet again on Monday (Dec. 1). Tyrike, you should still prepare to talk about Ntozake Shange, and we'll either do it Monday or Wednesday. If you signed up to workshop on Wednesday (Dec. 3), we will be sticking to the schedule, so you should still post your work by tomorrow. Have a good Thanksgiving weekend and I'll see you on Monday.

When To say Good- Bye

Say Good-bye to the flowers when they have lost their tantalizing aromas and radiant colors.
Say Good-bye when the day is gone as the clock struck 12 midnight. Then tell yourself a new day has now begun and you now have a fresh start at life again.
Say Good-bye to missed opportunities, whether it was a chance to retaliate against an injustice; or failure to participate in new a activity that could have provided immense gratification.
Say Good-bye to it and put it to rest, for why bother torment yourself with agonizing regrets? Say it to loved ones that had died and tell yourself one day you will get to see them again.
Say Good-bye to lost love, to some one that has deserted you in your time of need.
Say Good- bye When the one you had made a conscious decision to love, share your mind, body and soul with doesn't want to be with you anymore.

It would be an premature thing to say that one can easily get over these are things, for i beg to differ. But, why stress yourself over the what ifs' and what should haves'? take a minute or two and ponder... don't get caught up in this cyclical psychological torture. Instead cease the moment for what it was, analyze it so you know how to deal with a similar situations in the future. Then pull yourself together and say Good-bye to it, maybe not forever reflection is imminent. However, you should always remember not to get stuck there because it's just going to lead to mental drama.

Saying Good-bye is the first sign of letting go and allowing yourself to return to a state of equilibrium. At this point you can be happy, enjoy life and look more optimistically towards the future ... perhaps go out and buy new flowers or allow yourself to find a new love.

Miniature play : Scene

A daughter and father duo are performers at a circus. The daughter is trying to express some restraint to the performance believing that they have to practice more.
No words are exchanged between the daughter and father.
They are approaching the ladder to take her up to the top.
When they reach the top, the acrobats fling themselves around beautifully.
Alas the climax of the movie comes; there is worry in her eyes as she approaches the swing. She is to let go of the rim and let her father catch her.
She lets go of the rim, but her father misses her, letting her fall to her death.

(THE SCREEN GOES BLACK)

She wakes up in a meadow. Unlike the opening scene there are only 3 distinct colors. Green, Blue and white.
She awakens as a little girl.
There is beauty and peace here.
A hand comes to hold her.
The camera zooms out so the audience can see that it is the father.
He is holding out his hand for her.
She draws back.
He whispers a secret in her ear only for her to know
Satisfied with the answer she eagerly gives him her hand to hold.

WORKSHOP FOR 11/26

I posted this poem before but I added something to it. I'm not sure how well it flows but I wanted to try to expand on it. Here it is

"The Cycle of Love"
You say one thing
But do you mean another?
Sometimes I believe you
But sometimes I don’t.
There’s so much confusion
Is this normal?
One day I’m happy
But other days I’m not.
I’m emotionally unstable
Is that your fault?
You do everything right
But you do a lot of things wrong.
You know exactly how to make me smile
But you know exactly how to make me frown.
Is this normal?
Everyone must feel this way at a point in time
I should just deal with it right?
Maybe this feeling will go away soon.
When I’m with you it feels perfect
When I’m not with you it feels perfect.
What am I supposed to feel?
There’s so much confusion
Is this normal?
When we're in the presence of love it's these emotions that flow through our body and minds, this sense of instability.
Is the never ending cycle of love normal?
We hear those fairytale stories everyday where it was love at first sight.
When you don't even know this person and you say you are already in love with them.
Then if we don't have this fairytale story about both people being completely in love with eachother and they're number one in eachothers lives, does that mean we have failed at love? Is there a chance maybe that there's still genuine love out there that even though you have to work at it at times?
The one you have to work at because you want so bad not to let go.
But then are you forcing eachother to be together and you should just stop forcing it and move on?
No one wants to work at anything anymore, it's so much easier to just wait for that fairytale.

For next Monday

Heads up: we have two classes left in which we will discuss texts by other writers (after that, we'll just do workshopping and such). For Monday, I'd like you to read the Spalding Gray monologue "Monster in a Box", which is in pdf form to the right, and the excerpt from Miranda July's script for "You and Me and Everyone We Know," which is also to the right, and finally Cat Kidd's two performance pieces "Bipolar Bear" and "Flying Lizard," which are in one pdf, to the right.

In addition to checking out the text, you can watch Catherine Kidd perform these two pieces on Youtube, or right here (in four parts):

Remake of Saw 1

Curtain rises. A bathtub filled with water is at the left side of the stage. A chain is tied to a pole next to a toilet, leading into the bathtub. In the middle, a man is laying flat on the floor, with thick red solution surrounding him. The spotlight of this seen soon fades, and all you see is darkness. The theater becomes silent except for a few confused and frightened guests. Suddenly, the silence is broken with a violent noise coming from the bathtub. As the lights are turned back on, a man struggles for air as he springs from the tub and onto the black cement. Drenched in water, he screams for help as he tries to free himself from the metal chain. In return, his screams are heard echoing within the theater.

a poem im still working on

Paths

Walking down a lonely path, surrounding by
giant green trees filled with singing birds.
I listen to the rustling leaves being carried by the soft wind.
One step at a time, slowly but without doubt,
I moved forward, into the light, staring up my path.
Should I choose the first or the second road?
Which one would be better? which one would be easier than the other?
The road I walked, now a broken fork and it made me wonder where they lead too.
As I did, the wind grew stronger and the dark clouds surrounded me.
Closing my watery eyes, I took a deep breathe and
stepped away from the first path and into the second.
After I did, I looked back and wondered if I made a mistake.
Then I remembered her words- “never look back in life, only forward,
and always aim for the best in every decision you make…
Do Not Lament over a decision already made”.
My mom told me this and I had always fumbled as to what she meant.
Now I realized the meaning of this simple statement she once told me.
I looked ahead and began to walk once again,
and I realized that this was not the end.
This was one of many difficult decisions I would have to face again.
I remember her words and tried my best to never look back….
Into a world that I left behind.

Just something I wrote.

I lie in my bed and close my eyes. A tear runs from my eye warming my face. I lay still and silent, thinking to myself. Maybe I have just realized it’s time to move on. Yet something inside of me is pulling back, making me hold on to you. I just don’t know what it is. I get up and walk across the room. I just need to talk to you. There are some words that I need to say. I go and take me cell phone off the charger and begin to dial your number. I hang up even before it connects. I look down at my hands. I turn my phone over in my sweaty palm. My heart began to beat rapidly. I just have to hear your voice; maybe it will change my mind. No, I can’t. I know what I have to do. I dial again, this time letting it go a second longer before I hang up, I can’t do it. I put the phone back down on the bed and walk away. The phone begins to ring; bringing me back towards the bed, I look at the screen, it’s you. I pick up. You can tell that I have been crying, you always know. “I love you, but I can’t be with you anymore it’s just too hard to look you in the face after all the awful things you have put me through” I say, and then I hang up. Motionless I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and cry myself to sleep.

Scene

The curtian goes up. Four women are sitting at a table in a resturant. They are drinking wine, and all of a sudden one of the women spills it all over herself.

Inspiration for the Uninspired

This is something that I was working on, its just a list of ways to get inspired, for me at least. I always have trouble deciding what to write and how to get an idea. Let me know what you think.

Inspiration for the Uninspired

Take a look out the window and write about what you see
a bird, a tree, a car, a person.

Go to the beach and lay in the sand,
stair at the waves and clear your mind.

Look in the mirror,
reflect, and take yourself out of yourself.

Fall in love with someone completely different than yourself,
evoke that emotion.

Take a blank canvas and pour some paint on it,
close your eyes and use your fingers as a brush.

Get on the bus and go,
it doesn’t matter where it takes you.

Go to the bar and have some drinks
lose your mind, just for a little while
you never know what it may find

Take a drive to the country
put the windows down and enjoy the breeze on your face
feel free.

Make a song and sing it in the shower,
let it come from your heart.

Look at life from someone else perception.

snowball poem on Cinderella.

Lost.
Glass slipper.
Gone like night.
Vanishing music and laughter.
Prince finds slipper to return.
Then surprisingly, owner and slipper reunite.
It is love at first sight again.
They get married and live happily ever after.

story based on the lines the class wrote.

It was hot and sunny, so I decided to go to the beach and fly kites with some of my closet friends. Then all of a sudden the clouds became dark and it began to thunder and lighting. To be honest, I’m not impressed with it like some people are. As a child I was more amused with these like clowns and my dreams. There was one dream that I had when a clown took off all his clothes and went streaking through my neighborhood. The whole time he was running, he had the biggest smile on his face. The worst dream that I ever had was when I was thirteen. I opened up my front door and Santa was there, standing in the door way with a very large gun. For some reason he came in and kissed mommy. The joke was on him, because little did he know, but mommy was in a coma. He just sat back and thought about what he did, and had no idea at the time that she was sick. He wanted to thank her for the experience somehow, so he sent a bouquet of roses with a card that said “for the best kite runner ever”. The roses must have been magical because she woke up and the next day invited him back to the house. When asked if anything happened, she responded you know guys, they always need something.

Irony

The stage dims. A cast member comes out, dressed all in black. He smiles a devlish grin. The lights go off and people start screaming.

Don't Get Wet

The air conditioner is not turned on. The curtain rises. 24 Performers enter stage each holding a bucket. Performers grab water balloon from bucket and throw at audience.

Retailer Product Diversification

In New York, Barney called his good friend Mr. Fred Segal in Los Angeles. He wanted to discuss the new man about town Odin. Odin just moved to the east village and was creating a little stir. Mr. B. Goodman overheard the conversation while his head was pressed up against the wall decided to telephone his former paramour Mr. Ron Herman. Mr. Herman concluded that it was much to-do about nothing and that he had seen better American Rag. The real Scoop was that he saw Jeffrey the former golden boy at Mario’s trying to play the part of respectability while he was leaving Atruim with Riccardi. Mr. Goodman let out a squeal of delight
“If only I were a BlackBird on the wall”
“No no my dear you resemble more of the mighty Oak variety”
“Well you certainly insist on being cross”
“My apologies dear I am a bit beastly today after hearing of Mitchells departure.”
“The Mitchalls from Westport”
“Oh no you confuse them for the Richards of Greenwich”
“Well they certainly are one in the same now aren’t they? They always work paired up”
“It doesn’t matter they’re off to Louis Boston and they took Jake along” Mr. Herman spat
“I thought the harlots name was Maxfield”
“What ever they call the bitch does not matter. What’s done is done. I’m off for a liquid lunch and it is time I bid you farewell.”
“Lunch? With whom?”
“Lisa Kline. I don’t care for her much she is a bit of a bore but when you’re out with Lisa Kline Men just flock and lets face it we all got to eat.”
“Well isn’t that just fabulous. I shall let you go then dear au revoir”
As Mr. B. Goodman hung up the receiver Mr. Neiman Marcus, Mr. Stanley Korshak, and Mr. Steven Alan stepped into his office.
The three Villians hardly ever step out of the Villians Vault. This must be of some very important. Even Barney quickly stopped and assumed the position for eavesdropping.
“How’s it going there Scout?” Mr. Korshak asked
“I Wish you use my name Mr. Korshak and I am well thank you and yourself?”
“Don’t take it out of Context now LuLu, the fellows and I came down here to see how our newest account is doing”
“I’m doing very well sir. I am on my way out to make a sales call.”
“Good. We need this Union to be a BBlessing. Everything must run smoothly”
“I understand that sir”
“Do you?”
“Yes sir”
“Now I know that when you first stared the three of us gave you a time on the… Active Ride Shop, but we just want you to be prepared for what may await you out there.” Mr. Alan encouraged
“Yes sir I understand. Like I said I’m on my way out to a call”
“Just make sure you always bring your own Saks. Fifth Avenue is no where to get caught unprepared. If you come back with something you’re not suppose to we will let you go.”
“This is a small order; Jack’s Surfboards need to get waxed.”
They were very pleased with this and made there way towards the door. Before leaving Mr. Marcus turned and said “Very well then but do change your attire we don’t want you meeting clients looking like a common working girl. Always remember, when you step out of The Closet you represent us.”

My Event

curtain raises on set with a tree stump with an ax in it. Group of 5 children carrying raw meat walk onto stage. Each with with a different kind of meat, beef, lamb, pork, bison, and venison. Each child then proceeds to take up the ax and one by one chop their meat to smithereens while singing old macdonald had a farm.

From Shane for Nov. 19

Shane Hanlon

For Nov. 19 Workshop

Fallacy/Our City 2008 A.D.

1.

“Father, forgive them for they know not what they do”

Will sat on the bus busy, no time for considering the diversity of bird chirps. From a hard seat reserved for the handicapped, books on lap, he lifted his chin from his chest. Than wondered how his face looked, and if its bone structure was causing it to cast any dark shadows on itself. This thought sat as he made a line in his head, ‘I love this city, but its time’s like this I wish I had it to myself.’ An impossible thought.

“Woman, behold your son”

Will noticed the Chinese girl sitting across the aisle, cross-legged, listening to music. He assumed the music was empty and thought she was thinking nothing. After a short inspection, leaned back, and didn’t let her nothingness bother him with the reasoning, ‘this oriental bird that has appeared will soon dissolve into her destined migration. Content little swallow.’ This lean back had been with the desire that the shadows would darken on his face, while staring directly at the young women, wanting her to recognize gloom. She averted all attempts to hold her in his glance.

“I Thirst”

Will looked to his exit. The doors were loose and slightly wobbling. The bottom of the door had become separated from the steps which brought passengers down from the bus. It seemed so un-miraculous to see the street moving by, simply cement passing at a pace faster than it does while walking. The machine seemed just a container with wheels, as the road was just rocks, melted and binded; empty. While this anger bubbled inside, he threw-up slightly in his mouth and automatically gathered saliva to dilute the acid. Than, looked fiercely at the young woman, and decided to get off a stop early; also, for the first time ever to discharge his vomit spittle onto the black rubber flooring right before leaving. As Will rose from the bench in anticipation, his cell-phone which he had placed on his lap, fell and hit the floor. The girl quickly moved to pick-it-up and her CD-Player dropped to hit the floor with a hard crash which broke the cover off. Nevertheless, she reached for the phone first. While beginning to lean and take it from her, he noticed the now exposed CD from her broken player was one of the artist Bjork’s, a much loved musician of his. This brought rage and it showed when their eyes met. In an attempt to deny the phone was his, the vomit-spit fell from his mouth. The bus doors opened as the girl on her knees moved to hand it to him while a thick stream of saliva hung from his chin. Without accepting her offering, he turned instantly and jumped down from the public bus to the dark concrete.

“My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me!”

2. (This morning, three days later.)

“This day you will be with me in paradise”

Will stood, unable to move on the filled bus as it rolled slowly through traffic, blank-minded and incapable of directing a specific thought. He was facing towards a window, not by choice, as they all moved down a main road. The sidewalks flowed with people and the stores seemed endless, the words, ‘true metropolis’ shot through his mind. Unable to focus on a single store, they seemed to hold anything and everything. The throngs streamed down the boulevard; each face seemed unique and irreplaceable to the young man, all wrapped in coats just as he was. Watching this famous city made by its inhabitants his head felt warm and clear. He imagined each person carrying a brick and dropping it at the entrance of the high buildings.

“Father into your hands I commend my spirit”

While Will smiled at this vision, he felt a kick to his shin. On looking down, he met a pair of shiny, black, slanted eyes belonging to a girl who had been progressively leaned heavier onto during the admiration. He Moved back without removing the smile or glance from her face, although she had immediately broken eye contact. She appeared very young, with dark pony tails that had red highlights, her white skin soft-looking, and his smile reached wider at the sight of her small nose and ears. Amidst these still developing observations, and that still stretching smile, she was pulling her hand from her purse and a cell-phone came out along with her hand, but not in it. Her phone crashed to the floor and the battery separated from the rest. Not realizing she was picking it up he genuflected onto knees reaching to retrieve it for her. Focused on the task, he was unaware they were both placing the phone together simultaneously. She snatched the two pieces away from his palms, stood up, and quickly squeezed through the crowd out of his sight. He rose; grinning and unaware of his neighbor’s stares. The doors opened to the discovery that his stop had been passed twenty blocks prior. Instinctively jerking in the direction of the door, he stopped suddenly at sight of the passengers on the bus. Will stood transfixed, he gazed at each face one-by-one without a specific thought, smiling, and continued forward on the public city bus far beyond his stop.

“It is finished”

Experiment for this week

After our discussion of Artaud’s Theatre of Cruelty, I thought we might try something a little gentler. The event score is something invented by a group of artists in the 60s and 70s who called themselves Fluxus. It is essentially a very miniature play, which may or may not be performed. Some examples are below. Try writing a few of your own and post them this week.

From Wikipedia: “Event scores, such as George Brecht's "Drip Music", are essentially performance art scripts that are usually only a few lines long and consist of descriptions of actions to be performed rather than dialogue. […] Fluxus performances were usually brief and simple. The Event performances sought to elevate the banal, to be mindful of the mundane, and to frustrate the high culture of academic and market-driven music and art.”

Supper
The curtain is raised. A large table set with food, drink, flowers, candles is displayed on stage. 10 well-dressed performers carrying instruments enter, bow, and seat themselves behind the table. They lay down their instruments. 2 waiters begin to serve food and wine. Performers begin to eat, drink, and talk. After a few minutes, the audience can also be offered food and drink. (Emmett Williams, 1965)

Sanitas No. 2
Auditorium or theatre should be dark. Performers throw small objects, coins, toys, etc., into the audience and then try to find these objects using flashlights. (Tomas Schmit)

Theft
A theft is announced and the audience is searched. (Ben Vautier, 1961)

Audience Piece No. 10
An announcer hidden from view of the audience observes all who enter the theatre with binoculars and describes each in detail over a public address system. (Ben Vautier, 1965)

Child Art Piece
The performer is a single child, two or three years old. One or both parents may be present to help him with a pail of water, a banana, etc. When the child leaves the stage, the performance is over. (Alison Knowles, 1962)

Drip Music
For single or multiple performance. A source of dripping water and an empty vessel are arranged so that the water falls into the vessel. (George Brecht, 1959)

More examples can be found here.

Patricia: Workshop for 11/19

Always Praying for a resolution
Always Aiming for forever
Always Trying to succeed
Always Requiring love
Always Insisting on happiness
Always Crying for opportunities
Always Intertwined within herself
Always Accepting what cannot be changed

Sometimes Lies to herself
Sometimes Undermindes others
Sometimes Prefers solitude
Sometimes Enjoys everything

Never Wasting a moment
Never Understanding her life

Broken Glass: Workshop for 11/19

Broken Glass. That was all she could think about.

I draw on my notebook often
They are very random pictures;
From a flower to a glistening eye
Not artist worthy though
Have I let it discourage me?
Yes, because I care too much about what others think
I wish I could be more carefree
I wish more people understood me.

My best friend is the sweetest person ever
All the men admire her
I try to stand out, and I cannot
No one glances my way
Have I let it discourage me?
Yes, because I care too much about what others think
I wish I could be more carefree
I wish more people understood me.

There was one man who seemed like everything
Intelligent and attractive
Couldn’t stop thinking about him
Didn’t even want my friendship
Have I let it discourage me?
Yes, because I care too much about what others think
I wish I could be more carefree
I wish more people understood me.

There is a drive within me
Excellent GPA and a honors student
Want to make my parents proud
Always worrying about it
Have I let it discourage me?
Yes, because I care too much about what others think
I wish I could be more carefree
I wish more people understood me.

There is something to be said about telling the truth
It is hard, but the aftermath is so refreshing
You decide to take a risk. Sometimes it works or does not.
I took a risk, and as usual, I was let down
Have I let it discourage me?
Yes, because I care too much about what others think
I wish I could be more carefree
I wish more people understood me.

Glass breaks. Blood. Tears. Why didn’t they understand her?!?!

Reading for Nov. 17

I've just posted, to the right, the reading by Bertolt Brecht for Monday: it's his play "Mother Courage and her Children." However, the file is a bit messed up and I don't have the time to fix it right now. It's okay, though, because I only want you to read the first scene (which means the first seven pages of the pdf, or up to page 33 in the pagination of the book). The text by Antonin Artaud is also there. The Artaud is theory, and although the Brecht text is a play, we'll be talking about it in rather theoretical terms: essentially, we'll be talking about whether a play should value realism or something else. When you watch a play, do you expect to see a portrayal of real people experiencing real emotions in real situations, or do you expect to see a group of actors and entertainers doing interesting things and perhaps conveying a message? Which do you think Brecht is trying to create?

No "I" In The Red Lady

I ended up remaking this from my first verison.
___

Had the Red Lady known what would occur, she'd never stop foot through the Wolf's realm. The day started slowly; the Red Lady had wanted to see her Grandma. She prepared snacks and was very content as she worked. After that, she put on her red cape and headed out the door, happy.

She had not known though that the mean Wolf had gone to see Grandma before her. He was always hungry. He had observed her and knew she would make a great meal. When a wolf starves, not one word stops the beast. He knocked on Grandma's door. "Who lurks at my door?, called Grandma. "The Wolf, Madame. The Red Lady sent me to tell you a message", he answered. "So long an eon!” yelled Grandma. "Come through the door, my poor one! Let me get you..." As soon as Grandma had turned around, the Wolf grabbed her by the throat and swallowed her whole. "She has to learn to not be so open to strangers", muttered the Wolf.

The Red Lady had met Wolf before. She would walk by and he would always howl at her. She knew that he had a penchant for large meals, but the thought was not a bother. There were more tasty people than her. Grandma and her had spoken about the Wolf, but never saw the creature as a threat. However, she felt puzzled when she passed by the Wolf's house (near Grandma's) and had not see the beast. "That seems very odd", the Red Lady thought.

She knocked on Grandma's door, now very alarmed. "Grandma?" "Come through the door, dear" The Wolf knew the Red Lady was ajar. He was very hungry, and even though the Red Lady wasn't much of a meal, he was hungry for a second cycle. "Grandma, you look bloated! You also are very rugged" One always assumes Grandma wouldn’t age so badly!" "Oh sweetheart, you cause me tears!" The Wolf grabbed the Red Lady and prepared to eat her. "Oh my!” yelled the Red Lady!

As the Wolf was ready to pounce, he suddenly began to feel strange. "My stomach!" Suddenly, Grandma, leaped out of the Wolf's mouth. "You never thought Grandma would make you feel awful!" The Wolf lay on the floor, no longer hungry but very sad.

"Oh Grandma", the Red Lady answered, "From now on you shall be known as the Wolf attacker!"