This is a translation of a German poem that I found online. I was originally going to use a Spanish poem, but since I know the language I kept translating the words with realizing it (Italian has similar words so I was doing the same thing). I needed a language that was not a romance language. I don't think my poem makes sense, but I'd love to know what everyone thinks!
[edit]
Here's the link to the original Professor!
[/edit]
***
Summer's Gang
Get us, my heart and such finds
In these leaving solstices
And divine Gates of Heaven
Show and hear shouting parting here
And sigh, we see here and under
Such how guests much inhabit
The bomb descends hollow land
That burn’s reach bedecked seen in stars
My I agree inside
Narcissism and the tale inside
The heathen such feel sooner and
Then sold all sides
The hurt swings such in the puff
That thrown in flew us seeing close-up
And match such in the water
The hobbling hate night enthralled
He’s got a full spite in here, shout!
Burn, who else tells and falters!
The luck hurts here failing us
Her torch is taut, and seems haunted by us
That stalking spites the jungle
Her spell hurts, that leeches right
It’s from a comet and seems hot
In hindsight, that’s repugnant
The underscene’s been in charge
Switch him and her, such here and there
In idle onyx’s peace
This sullen swine stops, stalks fast
Giving lavish new laughs
In seeing this bawling life
Their reason watched my guilt
Drown in jousting in hung and fault
And run the globe up
That, their so over fussy but
It means no meddling truly began
That means a chilling good night
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Class assignment (not workshop)
Samuel Iam
My name is Sam. I recently discovered a delicious dish. I knew I had to share it with my good friend. I arrived at Goldman Sachs eager to tell my cube mate all about this amazing dish. We work in investment banking and he always seems to be a bit overwhelmed. I know this dish would put him in higher spirits. I walked in and asked “Do you like green eggs and ham?”
With that suggestion my good friend decided to give green eggs and ham a try
He continued “And I would eat them on my boat. And I would eat them with some goat.
And I will eat them in the rain. And in the dark. And on a train. And in a car. And in a tree. They are so good, so good, you see! So I will eat them in a box. And I will eat them with a fox. And I will eat them in a house. And I will eat them with a mouse. And I will eat them here and there. Say! I will eat them ANYWHERE! I do so like green eggs and ham! Thank you! Thank you Sam-I-am!”
Monday, September 29, 2008
This is My Babel Fish Assignment.
I wrote a very short piece about the time every year where you can first "feel" it is spring. This is the translated one.
It is the smell. Incurious what the recognized first day of spring is, it is really that beginning of new season until [otoy] you can smell him. When you enter in your house or your car and strikes to you, the smell. It cannot be described, but you I guarantee if you walk always on a accidental news Yawker and them you ask who smells spring as the inevitable answer it is always “the spring smells as in spring shake”. You satisfy in order to you say that in a foreigner this answer would perhaps even appear rude, unpleasant, but in one New Yorker specifically one from this Brooklyn is not a astonishing answer. He is comfortable, you it makes you feel as the house. It makes you the sense [san] you are a part of exclusive club that only you and 10 million or thus other persons you are also member. I lose those days I emanate [kat]'? house from the school in the dues his April or in the beginnings May and the explosion in my house and the reception of big breathing. That smell activated and relaxes in the precise same time. I would not observe him never anyone [allosdipote] time of day. Now he is different, him I observe continuously via outside my day when I am [kat]'? house. Be the centennial timber or the rust in the screws, thousands screws and nails that [oxydonoyn] behind the leaf [liknisan] the walls in my room. Some file of smells you. It is a smell that no one in the ground could not always hate.
And this is the Original one. I wrote this in ninth grade I think so bear with it.
It’s the smell. Regardless what the recognized first day of spring is, it isn’t really that beginning of the new season until you can smell it. When you walk into your house or your car and it hits you, the smell. It can’t be described, but I guarantee you if you ever walk up to a random New Yawker and ask them what spring smells like the inevitable answer is always; “spring smells like spring jerk-off”. Suffice it to say that to an outsider this answer would seem rude, maybe even offensive, but to a New Yorker especially one from Brooklyn this is not a surprising answer. It is a comfortable one, makes you feel like home. Makes you feel as if you’re a part of an exclusive club that only you and 10 million or so other people are also a member of.
I miss those days of coming home from school in late April or early May and bursting into my house and taking a big breath. That smell was energizing and relaxing at the exact same time. I would never notice it any other time of the day. Now it’s different, I notice it constantly through out my day when I’m home. It might be the century old wood or the rust on the screws, the thousands of screws and nails rusting behind the sheet rocked walls in my room. Some smells envelope you. It’s a smell no one on earth could ever hate.
It is the smell. Incurious what the recognized first day of spring is, it is really that beginning of new season until [otoy] you can smell him. When you enter in your house or your car and strikes to you, the smell. It cannot be described, but you I guarantee if you walk always on a accidental news Yawker and them you ask who smells spring as the inevitable answer it is always “the spring smells as in spring shake”. You satisfy in order to you say that in a foreigner this answer would perhaps even appear rude, unpleasant, but in one New Yorker specifically one from this Brooklyn is not a astonishing answer. He is comfortable, you it makes you feel as the house. It makes you the sense [san] you are a part of exclusive club that only you and 10 million or thus other persons you are also member. I lose those days I emanate [kat]'? house from the school in the dues his April or in the beginnings May and the explosion in my house and the reception of big breathing. That smell activated and relaxes in the precise same time. I would not observe him never anyone [allosdipote] time of day. Now he is different, him I observe continuously via outside my day when I am [kat]'? house. Be the centennial timber or the rust in the screws, thousands screws and nails that [oxydonoyn] behind the leaf [liknisan] the walls in my room. Some file of smells you. It is a smell that no one in the ground could not always hate.
And this is the Original one. I wrote this in ninth grade I think so bear with it.
It’s the smell. Regardless what the recognized first day of spring is, it isn’t really that beginning of the new season until you can smell it. When you walk into your house or your car and it hits you, the smell. It can’t be described, but I guarantee you if you ever walk up to a random New Yawker and ask them what spring smells like the inevitable answer is always; “spring smells like spring jerk-off”. Suffice it to say that to an outsider this answer would seem rude, maybe even offensive, but to a New Yorker especially one from Brooklyn this is not a surprising answer. It is a comfortable one, makes you feel like home. Makes you feel as if you’re a part of an exclusive club that only you and 10 million or so other people are also a member of.
I miss those days of coming home from school in late April or early May and bursting into my house and taking a big breath. That smell was energizing and relaxing at the exact same time. I would never notice it any other time of the day. Now it’s different, I notice it constantly through out my day when I’m home. It might be the century old wood or the rust on the screws, the thousands of screws and nails rusting behind the sheet rocked walls in my room. Some smells envelope you. It’s a smell no one on earth could ever hate.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
A Broken Love Story by Nadia for Oct. 6
With every piece of work comes inspiration. Here is one of my works with a few “good” people who inspired me to write this. If there are any grammatical errors here and there that I may not be aware of feel free and let me know. Hope you like it.
Let me tell you a story
Of a guy I once knew,
A “typical” fellow
Like all, who knew?
He tricked me in love
Got my heart in a loop,
Here is a summary
Of how low he did stoop;
His actions were ruthless,
His words ran in vain,
His personality lacked character,
His eyes wandered without shame.
He washed away my spirits,
He left my brain to wonder,
He rid me of my pride,
He caused my heart to thunder.
The word is insomnia,
Sleepless nights as defined.
He left me in a restless state
With a heavy load of questions in my mind.
Did he not have a conscience?
Did he not care?
Did his ego overpower his morals?
Did his heart consider it fair?
I know what you’re thinking
How foolish am I
Got caught up in love
Could not say goodbye.
Was I really that blind?
Was my naitivity really that high?
Did I actually believe
His every lie?
The answer to these questions
I sadly say is yes,
Yet time was my leading factor
That helped me escape this mess.
Now what was once
A stupid little girl,
Grew to learn the truth
Of this truly devastating world;
Crushes and infatuations
Are emotions on the loose
They are nothing but
A few playful tales of Dr. Suess
However, Love is abstract
Its meaning is unknown
What you may think of love
Is probably not relative at all.
Let me tell you a story
Of a guy I once knew,
A “typical” fellow
Like all, who knew?
He tricked me in love
Got my heart in a loop,
Here is a summary
Of how low he did stoop;
His actions were ruthless,
His words ran in vain,
His personality lacked character,
His eyes wandered without shame.
He washed away my spirits,
He left my brain to wonder,
He rid me of my pride,
He caused my heart to thunder.
The word is insomnia,
Sleepless nights as defined.
He left me in a restless state
With a heavy load of questions in my mind.
Did he not have a conscience?
Did he not care?
Did his ego overpower his morals?
Did his heart consider it fair?
I know what you’re thinking
How foolish am I
Got caught up in love
Could not say goodbye.
Was I really that blind?
Was my naitivity really that high?
Did I actually believe
His every lie?
The answer to these questions
I sadly say is yes,
Yet time was my leading factor
That helped me escape this mess.
Now what was once
A stupid little girl,
Grew to learn the truth
Of this truly devastating world;
Crushes and infatuations
Are emotions on the loose
They are nothing but
A few playful tales of Dr. Suess
However, Love is abstract
Its meaning is unknown
What you may think of love
Is probably not relative at all.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Not Quite Love by Tyrike for October 6
"Just imagine if you would've applied yourself", says my father after scanning my report card which reads an average of 85%. So in response, I didn't respond. I just sailed through with no legitimate plans. Always looked forward to my gym period. Sometimes not just my gym period-Wow!! With another home run A-Rod just made history!!!! I apologize for going off track. I believe that's one of my problems, but we'll get to that later. But back to where we were. Graduation for me came earlier then for other students. Didn't attend my prom nor the senior trip. In fact, no parties were ever blessed with my presence. Peers accused me of being anti-social. Was it shyness? Was it a result of my childhood? Hold on, it's time to pump my own breaks. I don't want to turn this into a long trip down memory lane. That was High School and now I'm in College. Things should be different now, right?
Now I can choose a major, graduate with at least a bachelor's degree, and then get a job. Sounds easy, but not quite. Stop!!! This is turning into a autobiography. This is exactly what I didn't want to do. Okay let's speed this up a little and really get to it.
The professor says, "read Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Donne." I don't really care at all about their emotions. Id rather listen to Jay-Z's CD. "What is your favorite book?" Don't have one but my favorite album is Off The Wall by Michael Jackson. "Who is your favorite author?" Don't have one, but my favorite basketball player is Kobe Bryant. Am I wasting my time in school? I should drop this class. No, this very pretty girl sits next to me. Wow this whole college is full of pretty girls. She seems to like me. Hey, what's good!! We should chill one day. That day comes with me sitting across from her at the restaurant, sitting next to her at the movies and pretending we have a future together. Why cant my actions be genuine? That doesn't matter at that moment. All that matters is if I have a chance to go all the way. However. that chance is not granted at least for today. A week, 2 weeks, 3 weeks pass and my phone doesn't dial their number. Persistence is a quality that I have but it does not concern this. I know for a fact that by the third date my access will be granted, but I don't want to be that guy. Don't want to be like the guys in school who claim they do it all time and feel that nothings wrong with it. Hey, that reminds me. I am supposed to be talking about school. You see, the subject always leads to girls. Why does thinking of them take up so much of my time? Of course I think of some girls more than others. All the ones I think of are already taken. Is that just bad luck or do I cause it? Some would use that line, "You only want me because you know you can't have me." Don't really believe that line. In fact I don't believe any lines. When you start believing these lines, you tend to live your life by lines, instead of letting your life run its course. Well then again, who i am to suggest this, when I often over-value other people's opinions. By worrying and concerning myself about what other people may think or say, is the same thing as living your life by lines and cliches. I have to "practice what I preach". See, there I go again.
Now I can choose a major, graduate with at least a bachelor's degree, and then get a job. Sounds easy, but not quite. Stop!!! This is turning into a autobiography. This is exactly what I didn't want to do. Okay let's speed this up a little and really get to it.
The professor says, "read Shakespeare, Wordsworth and Donne." I don't really care at all about their emotions. Id rather listen to Jay-Z's CD. "What is your favorite book?" Don't have one but my favorite album is Off The Wall by Michael Jackson. "Who is your favorite author?" Don't have one, but my favorite basketball player is Kobe Bryant. Am I wasting my time in school? I should drop this class. No, this very pretty girl sits next to me. Wow this whole college is full of pretty girls. She seems to like me. Hey, what's good!! We should chill one day. That day comes with me sitting across from her at the restaurant, sitting next to her at the movies and pretending we have a future together. Why cant my actions be genuine? That doesn't matter at that moment. All that matters is if I have a chance to go all the way. However. that chance is not granted at least for today. A week, 2 weeks, 3 weeks pass and my phone doesn't dial their number. Persistence is a quality that I have but it does not concern this. I know for a fact that by the third date my access will be granted, but I don't want to be that guy. Don't want to be like the guys in school who claim they do it all time and feel that nothings wrong with it. Hey, that reminds me. I am supposed to be talking about school. You see, the subject always leads to girls. Why does thinking of them take up so much of my time? Of course I think of some girls more than others. All the ones I think of are already taken. Is that just bad luck or do I cause it? Some would use that line, "You only want me because you know you can't have me." Don't really believe that line. In fact I don't believe any lines. When you start believing these lines, you tend to live your life by lines, instead of letting your life run its course. Well then again, who i am to suggest this, when I often over-value other people's opinions. By worrying and concerning myself about what other people may think or say, is the same thing as living your life by lines and cliches. I have to "practice what I preach". See, there I go again.
But there are exceptions to rules. Here's a big one: "Be an individual!!!!!"
As a musician I have admiration to those who are currently working on their craft. Also I admire those who are always working on something new. Those who always carry around their guitar wherever they go. The ones who always are practicing on their keyboard. Musicians who love to be heard and don't fear playing the wrong notes. As an athlete, I have a huge admiration for those who go to the park or to the gyms to play pick-up games. Even when nobody else is outside, the ball players who are out there by themselves working on their jump shot. Those ballplayers who try out for their High School and College basketball teams without having any fear of not making it. My admiration also goes out to writers who constantly write. Those who are excited to write. The writers who share their work without having any fear of people not liking it.
"If you love something, why don't you work hard at it." That's just it. I like it, but don't quite love it.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Another Piece that I wrote a While ago.
This is another music related piece. At one point i was going to compose this whole rock/metal story with a few very talented musicians i knew. I wrote a bunch of lyrics to try to tell a story but they didn't really work well as songs, its easy to write lyrics to music but not vice versa and i had written these lyrics before we had written one note but i think they are kind of cool as poetry. A strange version of poetry anyway. Anyway here it is.
Attributes and Sins 1: Greed, Lust and Moral Dementia
What is this? The wretched Child of my youth
Put up against vicious talk. Silent. Untrue.
Julius, past his prime into unknown spaces
Bloody, cut from life. Awaiting fathers retribution
Untold of the experiences past
No food in this expected fast
Three rules is how we last
Upon his body we shall cast
The ashes, gray and white
Hold memories of all others. Quite
Interesting to know, I can’t remember,
but these wounds never forget!
The day I was hit, I was visited by
An apparition of gargantuan proportions
Known to all as “Agnor” Feared for his eye
Of evil it can show
And evil it can lay seed
I know that I can fight it but
Is that what I really need?
The lashes, I Bite
My tongue, my burden, Light
Shining through. I can’t remember,
But my wounds never forget
The greed, lust, and moral dementia.
Sweating Through my second skin.
Blown to bits, I start to mend
My attributes and sins.
Attributes and Sins 2: So You’re….I’m….
Greeted in the hall as my father
Comes slowly out of the Shadows
He scolds me, asking about my Indiscretions
Among them greed, lust and moral dementia
As I am pulled into the story of my past
I remember people and places and things
Required thoughts of childhood and love
But certain memories I cannot ignore
Violent, dreams of warring among, more
Then one or two people. Whole Families slaughtered
For their thoughts
They only have 2 Choices
Jump or be caught
True you will die but it shall be taught
That your legend will live on as the cowardly of all
I am your commander witness your fall
Quick, let us tell you, how we need to enslave you
Put you in chains and whip your backs into shape
Push you to the breaking line, Dark and Light the forces intertwine
As my face transforms, so does my life
Two clans, each with their own talents
Unopposed to everyone but each other
The Gatekeepers and The Shadows
Walk don’t run, or I will have you shot
Once you join our club, you’re in deeper then you thought
Aphrodisia
I know my cons outnumber
My pros, but the ghosts try to get under
My skin, keep me from seeing the visions
Of you, bends me towards these decisions
With you I can sleep and dream
Of times and places that I have been
Of Abby and Sarah, My loves I have lost
I will search for them
Until my body is dust
I was visited in my home by
Rufus, God of the unknown thoughts, why
Do you come here I ask of him, try
To listen I will say this only once
“Your loves are trapped in the house of sins,
For so long you have searched and there have they been
Oh Abby and Sarah awful is the cost
Give up your soul, do this you must”
I wish I could tell you, but the master of dreams
Is controlling the part of that may only seem
Superficial and mean
But underneath I am bare
Consumed by your heart and lost in your hair
Put into effect, this transference of lives
I have no choice, without this you die
The Plot Thickens
(Julius)
“What did I do to deserve
This weight that has been placed upon my shoulders?”
To decide which of my children should die
Makes my heart black and turn colder
(Agnor)
This mission has been given
To test your commitment
Death threats and torture
This only will set it
Into motion I will see the
Fortunate sons with no choices to make,
My children or a city,
Evil of this size Light cannot break
(Beth)
How can you consider this?
Your children, your daughters
Just following your orders
Give me a break Julius
I know that there are other options
(Julius)
Beth, what can I do?
Death, it seems to fall upon you
Breath, of life I cannot give
Seth, the only way they can live
Old Friends
Hidden in the darkness, I follow my prey
Through allies and streets, how should I do it, let me count the ways
By gunshot or knife or let him swing from a tree
His last words cut off, the reaper I shall be
The hunt will end soon; I have decided how to do it
I have decided on gunshot, can’t wait to execute it
I catch him whilst walking; his teeth shine of the moon
One less Gatekeeper, One step back from doom
Footsteps heard, a knock at my door
Fear of the dark in me no more
I grip my gun so that I am ready
Tears in my eyes and my hand grows heavy
My ties that bind, flushed with sights
My brothers’ allegiance comes back to the light
Separating dreams from what’s real
The note from above with my fathers seal
Kicking and screaming, separated by guilt
Weaving through the threads of my families quilt
Tension melts as we reminisce
I tell my brother my strengths are his
To use in this fight, to battle with
The key to it all lies with Rufus.
Lost in this World, Found in the Next.
I turn my heart away from all worldly matters
My soul in solitude, completely within the frame
Saved from any transgressions between man and man
Spared all temptation and distraction, without a name
A crown for a king empowered by love
A clean white cloth tied around her throat
The willows continue to wither. Leaf after leaf is shed into the web
My time as a scribe spelled out the name my angel brought
Good fortune is not forever
Goodbye for the last time
Our hearts consumed by fire
The closure is now mine
They sing your song at the window of your mourning
Time has colored you gray and white
Flocks of doves on the roof of our home
Your time has come with the turning of the tide
In the flood, sadness is quite true
As I now know
The fabric is woven into a burial shroud
I have heard this melody before, but never so loud
Never again shall I see you
Only in a picture frame
Ancient sand placed beneath your head
Brimming with pride for the life you led
The Storm
Waiting For the sun to set
Dead man on my Bayonet
This choice I shall not regret
I am lightning in this storm
First men out meet their death
The sea sucking out their dying breath
Wives got on their wedding dress
This isn't how it's supposed to be
Fire!!
Dearly Beloved
We gave our lives
Fire!!
t-minus 10
Bloody cries
Medic!!
Scramble out
Patch me up
Medic!!
Rush of heat
I’ve had enough
Moving forward as we speak
Last thing in our books, retreat
Full of holes I start to leak
Oh my god!! Is this how it ends
Scared down to the bone
Never thought I’d die alone
Cry out loud for my home
No body can save me now
Green and red fill the blue sea
Shells sink to the floor
Quiet, deafening silence can be
No more, please no MORE!!!
My Mind Revisited
For all time I have seen men come and go
Falling away from war and hunger
My plan to put forth this brilliant scheme
My right hand for arms my left is for thunder
The taking of the spawn has turned out to be
My becoming as a ruler of all that I see
Deceiving Julius with this impossible choice
I have made the whole world hear my voice
It will surely bring them down
What awaits them in my world
I watch from the Shadows
As my plan unfurls
Dark shall consume Light as my brother has seen
With Julius broken I will take Beth as my queen
Agnor shall be banished to the depths of hell
For his attempting to help Julius do well
I see my opposition as threefold
The brothers, the Gatekeepers and the last shall be told
To lay aside his arms and hide himself away
Or else Quintus, My brother, shall die today
Attributes and Sins 3: The Dead King
I have severed my ties to this Dark family tree
Seeing now my true path
Trekking through the world as an outcast
The Light shone through my grandfathers grave as I now
Ascend away from the dead king
Julius my nephew, my help I bring
I gave up my soul to my evil little brother
As I dried the tears from the cheeks of my mother
Finally coming out from underneath the frame
To ask for forgiveness and reclaim my name
The Frame
There are places where all ends are beginnings
Trying to rearrange times present and past
But to all things great there are faults
This being time moving too fast
My baby girls
Big brown eyes and candy curls
With your mothers face
The mark I can’t erase
To have to think that you will only exist in the frame
Is too much for my heart to take
Filled with rage and murderous intent
Epic decisions I have to make
We shall rescue your loves
Brother, worry not
Ready your arms and hone your aim
Fore the shadows shall fall by the sound of our gunshots
Fear is no longer an option for Seth
He has nothing more to lose, this maybe his last stand
Rufus the bastard shall be taken down
By the will of my heart and the gun in my hand
My stepbrother is risking life and limb
For him it is too late to worry about family
His seed and his love taken by the shadows
James, Diana, and his life, Jamie
Pulled into the Dark world against their will
Forced to drink from the cup
Of ungodly elixir, crimson in color
Now we venture to the dark world, his fucking time is up
Autumn Is My Favorite Season
This nightmarish world I have been born out of
Makes me want to turn to the frame
As I watch
Stolid
Stone
Silent
Eyeing my end as a brilliant look into my future
Will it hurt? I hope not
I dream
To become
To exist
To be
But what of the frame, no has a clue
Only assumptions told to us by our forefathers
Believing that Dark and Light are true
I see the door in the distance, as I gather
Bits and pieces
Of love and sorrow
Can’t reach me today
Just try to tomorrow
Did you ever even care enough, brother too
Push me away from this final decision?
Lack of feeling
Numb
Frozen
Dead
Now I am alone in my room pondering my end
Tears falling down my face
A revelation
Revenge
Power
Control
I will remove myself from your all holy being
Get off your fucking high horse
And I will relish in your demise
You will be alone
To all it will be known
I will take the throne!
The Isle of Dreams
How real things may seem
When we walk around in our dreams
Stretching from the comical
To the vulgar and obscene
But once we pass into that other realm
We may venture into our own personal hell
Where loved ones are taken
Trapped in a damp, Dark cell
Attributes and Sins 1: Greed, Lust and Moral Dementia
What is this? The wretched Child of my youth
Put up against vicious talk. Silent. Untrue.
Julius, past his prime into unknown spaces
Bloody, cut from life. Awaiting fathers retribution
Untold of the experiences past
No food in this expected fast
Three rules is how we last
Upon his body we shall cast
The ashes, gray and white
Hold memories of all others. Quite
Interesting to know, I can’t remember,
but these wounds never forget!
The day I was hit, I was visited by
An apparition of gargantuan proportions
Known to all as “Agnor” Feared for his eye
Of evil it can show
And evil it can lay seed
I know that I can fight it but
Is that what I really need?
The lashes, I Bite
My tongue, my burden, Light
Shining through. I can’t remember,
But my wounds never forget
The greed, lust, and moral dementia.
Sweating Through my second skin.
Blown to bits, I start to mend
My attributes and sins.
Attributes and Sins 2: So You’re….I’m….
Greeted in the hall as my father
Comes slowly out of the Shadows
He scolds me, asking about my Indiscretions
Among them greed, lust and moral dementia
As I am pulled into the story of my past
I remember people and places and things
Required thoughts of childhood and love
But certain memories I cannot ignore
Violent, dreams of warring among, more
Then one or two people. Whole Families slaughtered
For their thoughts
They only have 2 Choices
Jump or be caught
True you will die but it shall be taught
That your legend will live on as the cowardly of all
I am your commander witness your fall
Quick, let us tell you, how we need to enslave you
Put you in chains and whip your backs into shape
Push you to the breaking line, Dark and Light the forces intertwine
As my face transforms, so does my life
Two clans, each with their own talents
Unopposed to everyone but each other
The Gatekeepers and The Shadows
Walk don’t run, or I will have you shot
Once you join our club, you’re in deeper then you thought
Aphrodisia
I know my cons outnumber
My pros, but the ghosts try to get under
My skin, keep me from seeing the visions
Of you, bends me towards these decisions
With you I can sleep and dream
Of times and places that I have been
Of Abby and Sarah, My loves I have lost
I will search for them
Until my body is dust
I was visited in my home by
Rufus, God of the unknown thoughts, why
Do you come here I ask of him, try
To listen I will say this only once
“Your loves are trapped in the house of sins,
For so long you have searched and there have they been
Oh Abby and Sarah awful is the cost
Give up your soul, do this you must”
I wish I could tell you, but the master of dreams
Is controlling the part of that may only seem
Superficial and mean
But underneath I am bare
Consumed by your heart and lost in your hair
Put into effect, this transference of lives
I have no choice, without this you die
The Plot Thickens
(Julius)
“What did I do to deserve
This weight that has been placed upon my shoulders?”
To decide which of my children should die
Makes my heart black and turn colder
(Agnor)
This mission has been given
To test your commitment
Death threats and torture
This only will set it
Into motion I will see the
Fortunate sons with no choices to make,
My children or a city,
Evil of this size Light cannot break
(Beth)
How can you consider this?
Your children, your daughters
Just following your orders
Give me a break Julius
I know that there are other options
(Julius)
Beth, what can I do?
Death, it seems to fall upon you
Breath, of life I cannot give
Seth, the only way they can live
Old Friends
Hidden in the darkness, I follow my prey
Through allies and streets, how should I do it, let me count the ways
By gunshot or knife or let him swing from a tree
His last words cut off, the reaper I shall be
The hunt will end soon; I have decided how to do it
I have decided on gunshot, can’t wait to execute it
I catch him whilst walking; his teeth shine of the moon
One less Gatekeeper, One step back from doom
Footsteps heard, a knock at my door
Fear of the dark in me no more
I grip my gun so that I am ready
Tears in my eyes and my hand grows heavy
My ties that bind, flushed with sights
My brothers’ allegiance comes back to the light
Separating dreams from what’s real
The note from above with my fathers seal
Kicking and screaming, separated by guilt
Weaving through the threads of my families quilt
Tension melts as we reminisce
I tell my brother my strengths are his
To use in this fight, to battle with
The key to it all lies with Rufus.
Lost in this World, Found in the Next.
I turn my heart away from all worldly matters
My soul in solitude, completely within the frame
Saved from any transgressions between man and man
Spared all temptation and distraction, without a name
A crown for a king empowered by love
A clean white cloth tied around her throat
The willows continue to wither. Leaf after leaf is shed into the web
My time as a scribe spelled out the name my angel brought
Good fortune is not forever
Goodbye for the last time
Our hearts consumed by fire
The closure is now mine
They sing your song at the window of your mourning
Time has colored you gray and white
Flocks of doves on the roof of our home
Your time has come with the turning of the tide
In the flood, sadness is quite true
As I now know
The fabric is woven into a burial shroud
I have heard this melody before, but never so loud
Never again shall I see you
Only in a picture frame
Ancient sand placed beneath your head
Brimming with pride for the life you led
The Storm
Waiting For the sun to set
Dead man on my Bayonet
This choice I shall not regret
I am lightning in this storm
First men out meet their death
The sea sucking out their dying breath
Wives got on their wedding dress
This isn't how it's supposed to be
Fire!!
Dearly Beloved
We gave our lives
Fire!!
t-minus 10
Bloody cries
Medic!!
Scramble out
Patch me up
Medic!!
Rush of heat
I’ve had enough
Moving forward as we speak
Last thing in our books, retreat
Full of holes I start to leak
Oh my god!! Is this how it ends
Scared down to the bone
Never thought I’d die alone
Cry out loud for my home
No body can save me now
Green and red fill the blue sea
Shells sink to the floor
Quiet, deafening silence can be
No more, please no MORE!!!
My Mind Revisited
For all time I have seen men come and go
Falling away from war and hunger
My plan to put forth this brilliant scheme
My right hand for arms my left is for thunder
The taking of the spawn has turned out to be
My becoming as a ruler of all that I see
Deceiving Julius with this impossible choice
I have made the whole world hear my voice
It will surely bring them down
What awaits them in my world
I watch from the Shadows
As my plan unfurls
Dark shall consume Light as my brother has seen
With Julius broken I will take Beth as my queen
Agnor shall be banished to the depths of hell
For his attempting to help Julius do well
I see my opposition as threefold
The brothers, the Gatekeepers and the last shall be told
To lay aside his arms and hide himself away
Or else Quintus, My brother, shall die today
Attributes and Sins 3: The Dead King
I have severed my ties to this Dark family tree
Seeing now my true path
Trekking through the world as an outcast
The Light shone through my grandfathers grave as I now
Ascend away from the dead king
Julius my nephew, my help I bring
I gave up my soul to my evil little brother
As I dried the tears from the cheeks of my mother
Finally coming out from underneath the frame
To ask for forgiveness and reclaim my name
The Frame
There are places where all ends are beginnings
Trying to rearrange times present and past
But to all things great there are faults
This being time moving too fast
My baby girls
Big brown eyes and candy curls
With your mothers face
The mark I can’t erase
To have to think that you will only exist in the frame
Is too much for my heart to take
Filled with rage and murderous intent
Epic decisions I have to make
We shall rescue your loves
Brother, worry not
Ready your arms and hone your aim
Fore the shadows shall fall by the sound of our gunshots
Fear is no longer an option for Seth
He has nothing more to lose, this maybe his last stand
Rufus the bastard shall be taken down
By the will of my heart and the gun in my hand
My stepbrother is risking life and limb
For him it is too late to worry about family
His seed and his love taken by the shadows
James, Diana, and his life, Jamie
Pulled into the Dark world against their will
Forced to drink from the cup
Of ungodly elixir, crimson in color
Now we venture to the dark world, his fucking time is up
Autumn Is My Favorite Season
This nightmarish world I have been born out of
Makes me want to turn to the frame
As I watch
Stolid
Stone
Silent
Eyeing my end as a brilliant look into my future
Will it hurt? I hope not
I dream
To become
To exist
To be
But what of the frame, no has a clue
Only assumptions told to us by our forefathers
Believing that Dark and Light are true
I see the door in the distance, as I gather
Bits and pieces
Of love and sorrow
Can’t reach me today
Just try to tomorrow
Did you ever even care enough, brother too
Push me away from this final decision?
Lack of feeling
Numb
Frozen
Dead
Now I am alone in my room pondering my end
Tears falling down my face
A revelation
Revenge
Power
Control
I will remove myself from your all holy being
Get off your fucking high horse
And I will relish in your demise
You will be alone
To all it will be known
I will take the throne!
The Isle of Dreams
How real things may seem
When we walk around in our dreams
Stretching from the comical
To the vulgar and obscene
But once we pass into that other realm
We may venture into our own personal hell
Where loved ones are taken
Trapped in a damp, Dark cell
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Loose-leaf
As my pen glides upon this fresh piece of paper, my focus is stationed on the loose-leaf while the rest of the world is nothing but a giant blur. From my head, the words tumble out onto a surface whose color is unknown. They say it’s white. And when I say they, I refer to the company who produced it. White. The loose-leaf is not just a shade of white. It is deeper than that. It could be a pure white, for pure thoughts. It could be a cloud white, for the mind to wander. It could be a serene white to calm the writer. It could even be a shade of white chocolate to stir an appetite as the imagination performs its magic. The possibilities are endless, but who is to judge. Only the writer, the critic, and the poet have a say in this long, disputed matter. But why white? I wondered, why it could it not be orange, or green, or even brown. Why white? This unique hue has potentials like no other color. It creates miracles. It transforms an over-cluttered mind into a peaceful sanctuary. It can bring luminosity to the darkest thoughts and maximize the brightness to any wandering shadow. As I continue transforming my thoughts onto this piece of paper, I can not help but be grateful for these lines that separate each individual sentence and create order and structure to any type of writing that takes place. Not only is this idea suitable to any writer but it is genius! Picture a world whose loose-leafs lacked lines. Words would just fall of the page unnoticed. A poem would not have structure, for it would look lopsided. How asymmetrical life would be. Thankfully that world does not exist. We have lines. I can even go far as to say that these streaks of symmetry are college ruled. How convenient! I can write twice as much on this paper than on a regular sheet. That means I can use less loose-leafs for any types of writings, and kill less trees in the process. The last thought that pierced through my head before my pen untangled from my fingers is; does writing on this white college ruled loose-leaf make me an environmentalist?
Repressed Motion
This Bic is full of love once grabbed. The blank page is just a plate. But kiss it’s egg shell white for we cannot eat off the air. Together, they are a morning of endless possibility. A vein runs thick through the pen, to the thicker and fuller veins of the pointer, middle, index and thumb, then on through to the big game, and eventually to the brain. Open a vein on this page.
Relax the wrist mid-word. It creates a swirl across the page, a stream of consciousness as pure as one could show it. No. Our world of rights and wrongs must be respected and a word is forced; even if it will inevitably fall short. The hand tightens up to form each thick relatively straight letter. Precise focus coerced from the living of stream of this mind. I challenge my nature and tangle with my emotions through organization. The swirl forms letter and then word; the page holds thought within thought within thought within thought…
The pen re-creates itself- the same process of inventiveness which made it is now carving new impressions. The entire fingers burn but the unsettled mind pushes on in its unmatched desire to surpass the Bic.
Writing on paper execise
My sweaty palm placed on top of the paper leaves residue behind due to being trapped in an exhausted room all day. Then again I am always boiling, my body temperature being higher than normal most of the time. I hover over like an insecure teacher who constantly paces back and forth from desk to desk to assure herself that her students have done what she has asked. My paper overflows with small water bubbles that merge to create larger droplets on my clean slate. Paper always reminds of an impeccable beginning, something that can’t be smeared. Looking at the paper I see so many possibilities, because any story can be made up. My dreams and hopes can be imprinted for future reference, or just for proof that I existed. All this throbs in my mind until, of course, my hand reaches the paper, smearing the immaculate by pure accident. I hold my writing utensil with much force that it leaves an imprint on my right middle finger. Years of stiff writing have left my fingers looking sore and unfeminine. The creases imprinted on my middle finger support the soft rubber of the ballpoint pen. As I try to write down my thoughts, I repeat the cycle with authentic precision over the first impression left behind by the unmarked page. I repeat four times and see traces of ink slowly forming vanishing dashes before flowing into a smooth straight line. My hand manages to twist in rhythmic waves to transcend my thoughts into words.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Retrospective - Writing on Paper
The pen has a suffocating feel between my fingers. I'm writing quickly but my hand resembles a fist. My black nails look ready to attack the white sheet. As my nails pass, the black ink shimmers darkly, a dark invasion in the magical colorful field of whites, blues, and pinks. The words leave a tattoo like imprint on the paper that can never be erased. The bright as a light pink margins trap the dark words in a pretty package waiting to be opened and let its contents fly. As the black ink turned into words multiply within the page there is a leaf rustling sound as my hand slides on the paper. The notebook begins to give a slightly mouse like squeak as the writing becomes more intense. Ink has also gotten on my arm. The small black jagged lines resemble scars pulsating with pungent black blood instead of the natural red. A scene from a horror movie is taking place within this formerly pure sanctuary. The lines within the paper become less and less; the words are beginning to feel suffocated. It's almost the end. The most beautiful crime has been committed.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Descriptive Excercise
I put pen to paper. The Uni-ball glides effortlessly as I manipulate it on the blank page. Its ink is as black as tar. It is also viscous so it creates little mounds of ink on the page like a miniature mountain range made out of some dark, oblique stone. As my pen moves, I feel the tip moving across the surface of sheet, I feel the imperfections of the paper. It reminds me of a hand moving across some portion of skin, feeling the little bumps or crevices it may have. After completing one singular sentence I think to myself, “god I have a whole bunch of empty paper left to write on”. I look at the blank portion of my paper, sitting there like a headstone waiting to be engraved upon. I ready myself and finish writing the paper.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
New assignment for next Monday
Hi everyone. This is just a reminder of what I asked you to do in class last Monday, and an update for those of you who weren't there. We talked about how both Lori Moore and Nicholson Baker are good at observing small details and describing them in fresh and original language. Baker especially has a talent for making you consider tiny everyday things in ways you haven't considered them before. How does he do this? By observation and imaginative language (especially using metaphor). For example, he describes an empty matchbook, saying that the row of stumps where the matches were feels like "a row of children's teeth just coming in." Or when he talks about eating an apple, he gives a very detailed description of biting into it and worrying that his mouth will get stuck, and then wiggling the apple from side to side so that the piece breaks off. Your assignment is to write a short (one page) piece about a simple, everyday activity: writing on a piece of paper. Describe everything you notice about the process: the colour and size of the paper, the weight of the pen, the way the ink flows, how your hand feels, etc. Try to use original language to make your description more vivid. For example, don't just say, "the ink is blue"; try to think of a metaphor or simile or other way to convey the colour of the ink: "the ink is the colour of brand new Levi's." Also, this is not an exercise in writing whatever comes into your head. (Don't write, "Now I'm trying to think of what to say. How am I supposed to write a page about writing on a page?") It is an exercise in careful observation and description.
We got some really good examples of dream-writing (or dream-like writing) last week - if you still want to give that a try, please do. But I'd like everyone to try this exercise over the weekend, and post to the blog.
Corey
We got some really good examples of dream-writing (or dream-like writing) last week - if you still want to give that a try, please do. But I'd like everyone to try this exercise over the weekend, and post to the blog.
Corey
Emulating Baker
It's 3:00 AM and I'm putting on my shoes. My name is Tyrike and I'm on my way to school. I take my left sneaker and place it next to my left foot. While placing my left foot in my left sneaker, my toes interact with a bunch of paper. I remove my toes from the sneaker and take the paper out. I then proceed to try this adventure again. My toes then re-enter my sneaker as destiny is put on hold once more. It seems my toes have again interacted with more paper....
Similar Style to "The Goodbye Tapes"
I tried to write a short story similar to the style in "The Goodbye Tapes" but a little different. I've never been great at writing stories but I give it a try. Hope you guys enjoy!
"All the thousands of cold friends and family are waiting anxiously wrapped in their warm coats and hats under the night sky waiting for 2007. It's amazing the amount of people that gather and unite together to watch the minute change from 11:59pm to 12:00am. I don't know maybe it's just me? The ball is waiting anxiously as well to finally drop. A new year. Does that mean a new beginning? I think to myself and wonder if that means I'll have to make changes. I hate change. I’m excited with 10 of my friends and we’re all yelling and screaming for the ball to finally drop. What if the ball doesn't drop? Can it stay 2006? I’m not ready for a new year. “Aren’t you excited?”my friend turns to me with excitement. I reply with my hands in the air “Of course! I’ve been waiting for this since January 1st , 2006!” No I haven't. I've been dreading this since January 1st, 2006, another year, more changes. The months, the hours, the minutes, and the seconds that we all wait for to start a new year in the biggest city, New York City. Wow, it’s 2007 I can’t wait to start fresh and go on to college and meet new people. I don’t want to meet new people I have my friends right here. Now it’s 11:59 and 50 seconds, time to countdown to change. 10, my ten best friends. 9, the months left to start a new school year. 8, the hours I used to spend in High School these past four years. 7, how old I was when I these friends. 6 seconds closer to change. 5 seconds closer to change. 4 seconds closer to change. 3 seconds closer to change. 2 seconds closer to change. 1 second closer to starting a brand new year of the same thing over and over. It’s 12:00 midnight and we’re all hugging and kissing each other just like we’ll be doing in 2008, happy waiting for change."
Change
"All the thousands of cold friends and family are waiting anxiously wrapped in their warm coats and hats under the night sky waiting for 2007. It's amazing the amount of people that gather and unite together to watch the minute change from 11:59pm to 12:00am. I don't know maybe it's just me? The ball is waiting anxiously as well to finally drop. A new year. Does that mean a new beginning? I think to myself and wonder if that means I'll have to make changes. I hate change. I’m excited with 10 of my friends and we’re all yelling and screaming for the ball to finally drop. What if the ball doesn't drop? Can it stay 2006? I’m not ready for a new year. “Aren’t you excited?”my friend turns to me with excitement. I reply with my hands in the air “Of course! I’ve been waiting for this since January 1st , 2006!” No I haven't. I've been dreading this since January 1st, 2006, another year, more changes. The months, the hours, the minutes, and the seconds that we all wait for to start a new year in the biggest city, New York City. Wow, it’s 2007 I can’t wait to start fresh and go on to college and meet new people. I don’t want to meet new people I have my friends right here. Now it’s 11:59 and 50 seconds, time to countdown to change. 10, my ten best friends. 9, the months left to start a new school year. 8, the hours I used to spend in High School these past four years. 7, how old I was when I these friends. 6 seconds closer to change. 5 seconds closer to change. 4 seconds closer to change. 3 seconds closer to change. 2 seconds closer to change. 1 second closer to starting a brand new year of the same thing over and over. It’s 12:00 midnight and we’re all hugging and kissing each other just like we’ll be doing in 2008, happy waiting for change."
Monday's Assignment
I've always been writing. I feel that it calms me to commit my thoughts on paper, sorting them out and looking back at them later, kind of like my own sort of meditation. It reminds of that scene in Harry Potter where Professor Dumbledore is looking into the Pensieve and tells Harry that taking his thoughts and putting them into that bowl-like structure helps him to think straight. I've been keeping a journal since seventh grade, and I wouldn't be surprised if this assignment turned out like one of those entries. It's almost like there's so much going on in my head that my brain is pushing against my skull, bursting with ideas and thoughts that I just don't think it can handle it.
I don't know why I write. I clutch my pen hard between my thumb and my middle finger with my pointer finger directing it; I hold it so hard that a callus has developed on my middle finger where the pen rests. If I want to be dramatic, I'd say that it's almost like I'm holding onto my pen for dear life - it sorts out my thoughts, my words, and the essence of my being. I love the sound of my pen scraping across the paper, and the way that my letters loop around each other (I can only function when I'm writing in script - in Catholic school they didn't allow us to write in print, so when I got to middle school everyone stared at me like I was a freak when I handed my first assignment in and it was in completely neat cursive, drilled into me from third grade).
I'm glad to say that I'm not one of those people who gnaws on her pen. It might be because I'm a neat freak when it comes to my pen and paper. I freak out whenever I make a mistake and if I'm spazzing out enough, I'll completely rip up the paper and start new. I hate mistakes; I hate making them, I hate correcting them.
I don't know why I write. I clutch my pen hard between my thumb and my middle finger with my pointer finger directing it; I hold it so hard that a callus has developed on my middle finger where the pen rests. If I want to be dramatic, I'd say that it's almost like I'm holding onto my pen for dear life - it sorts out my thoughts, my words, and the essence of my being. I love the sound of my pen scraping across the paper, and the way that my letters loop around each other (I can only function when I'm writing in script - in Catholic school they didn't allow us to write in print, so when I got to middle school everyone stared at me like I was a freak when I handed my first assignment in and it was in completely neat cursive, drilled into me from third grade).
I'm glad to say that I'm not one of those people who gnaws on her pen. It might be because I'm a neat freak when it comes to my pen and paper. I freak out whenever I make a mistake and if I'm spazzing out enough, I'll completely rip up the paper and start new. I hate mistakes; I hate making them, I hate correcting them.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
first page
This was something that I started working on before we got the assignment on Monday. This is a work in progress so just check it out and let me know what you think. I am planning on writing something with these ideas that are written down here. And I don't know why it is upside down, because when I scaned it and opened it, the picture was the right way. Sorry about that.
*I fixed it for you. - Corey
Subconscious dreaming?
While still hazy from waking up from my dream, I realized that I had walked a short distance in my room, from my bed to the bedroom door. I remembered my dream only lightly. I was sitting by a water fountain awaiting someone or something, but I was pacing back and forth, as though I knew what was coming. From a distance I saw someone walking towards me, and my anxiety grew, my heart hit beats so profusely that my limbs became numb. I could not move them, yet I knew that I didn’t want to be there. I could not stand and await the news, although my real self wanted to stand there and see what would happen next. But my dream self could not stand the stress of it. She ran. As soon as her foot hit the pavement, one, two, three steps, I opened my eyes and found myself near the door. Although while I was sleeping, I thought I wanted to see the dream unfold, my subconscious overwhelmed me, and I reacted the way I did in my dream. It makes me wonder how many times I have reacted to my subconscious without realizing it.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Dream?
Here's my take on last weeks assignment. Last week it was mentioned that one of out two things were permissible, so I've done one of those. Any constructive criticism (no matter how harsh) is welcomed.
-----------------------------
I was lying down, I had just woken up. My eyelids felt like two leaded sheets pressing on my eyeballs. I wanted to close them but I needed them to open. I fought myself with threatening nods for a while and finally reconciled: I’ll keep them halfway open. I get up; the discomfort on my lower abdomen—like a fullness of some sort—reminds me why I need to get up. I zombie myself out of the bed towards the sacrifice room to offer my morning tribute, but my will is weak and soon collapse on a nearby chair.
I move my head sideways and see my dog. It’s just lying there, peacefully—I’m jealous, I need to that. At least its lower abdomen isn’t the one opposing to the resolution as it isn’t even moving, nothing in its body is moving, not a twitch, …just lying there…hmm. Wait, that’s odd, why isn’t his abdomen even moving? I go quickly and prostrate onto it, grab it firmly, and shake it “Wake up, you!” I say loudly. It’s no use, there’s no response; it’s like holding a pile of furry bricks. I shake it once more—nothing. I was getting very nervous, why isn’t it moving? Why!? I shake again it in reluctance: Wake up, damn you! I shake it with overflowing desperation as if playing some giant maraca. I shake it once more, my arms already exhausted from all that vigorous shaking. I must simply keep on shaking it…I must have been shaking it too hard or something because I started seeing brown snow that looked like hair gently falling in front of my eyes. Funny thing, it was hair! That’s odd, I thought, I don’t have hair, so I did a little test of assurance and touched my usual bald spot hoping to feel my scaly palm rub against it. But no, I felt no palm-rub, instead, I felt a puffy mesh thing that reminded me of curly hair. I touched it again in disbelief. It was there, it was real: I’ve grown hair in my bald spot! Yes! I could already imagine all the great looks with funky hairstyles, all the fun at parties, all the foaming shampoos, the conditioners…
Then suddenly, *RIIIIIIIIIIIIING* It was the phone. I bet it was one of those lousy solicitors offering some sort of fancy vacation in theCaribbean for low monthly fees at a “generous” rate—TRASH. I’ll let them know this time. I picked up and greeted nicely:
-----------------------------
I was lying down, I had just woken up. My eyelids felt like two leaded sheets pressing on my eyeballs. I wanted to close them but I needed them to open. I fought myself with threatening nods for a while and finally reconciled: I’ll keep them halfway open. I get up; the discomfort on my lower abdomen—like a fullness of some sort—reminds me why I need to get up. I zombie myself out of the bed towards the sacrifice room to offer my morning tribute, but my will is weak and soon collapse on a nearby chair.
I move my head sideways and see my dog. It’s just lying there, peacefully—I’m jealous, I need to that. At least its lower abdomen isn’t the one opposing to the resolution as it isn’t even moving, nothing in its body is moving, not a twitch, …just lying there…hmm. Wait, that’s odd, why isn’t his abdomen even moving? I go quickly and prostrate onto it, grab it firmly, and shake it “Wake up, you!” I say loudly. It’s no use, there’s no response; it’s like holding a pile of furry bricks. I shake it once more—nothing. I was getting very nervous, why isn’t it moving? Why!? I shake again it in reluctance: Wake up, damn you! I shake it with overflowing desperation as if playing some giant maraca. I shake it once more, my arms already exhausted from all that vigorous shaking. I must simply keep on shaking it…I must have been shaking it too hard or something because I started seeing brown snow that looked like hair gently falling in front of my eyes. Funny thing, it was hair! That’s odd, I thought, I don’t have hair, so I did a little test of assurance and touched my usual bald spot hoping to feel my scaly palm rub against it. But no, I felt no palm-rub, instead, I felt a puffy mesh thing that reminded me of curly hair. I touched it again in disbelief. It was there, it was real: I’ve grown hair in my bald spot! Yes! I could already imagine all the great looks with funky hairstyles, all the fun at parties, all the foaming shampoos, the conditioners…
Then suddenly, *RIIIIIIIIIIIIING* It was the phone. I bet it was one of those lousy solicitors offering some sort of fancy vacation in the
“WHAT?!”
It was a woman. I don’t know how but I was looking straight at her and by the smell of the place, I was in some sort of Hospital. This middle aged woman in her white uniform had a nervous look on her face and kept touching her hair as if attracted to it by some invisible magnet. She started speaking quickly and with an anxious voice,
“It’s hard for us to tell you this, but...there was nothing we could do, we tried really hard, we did everything we knew…We’re terribly sorry to inform you that your dog…I mean, we tried hard, we did, there was nothing…it’s passed away. A better life though, we know this, we always do. We know from experience, you know, so many cases a day…it’s in a better life, just trust us on this.”
I was in shock, they knew, they confirmed it! I know there’s always that time in a thing’s life and I knew it was getting old but I mean, how…—I should have known better. I looked at her, and with a saddened smile said:
“Thank you. I understand, it really pains me down inside to know this, it really does. I know things are for the best though and I…You know, It does sort of pains me down, I mean, well, more like a sort of a discomfort in my lower abdominen, some kind of fullness, sort of odd—do you know where the restrooms are?”
She looked at me doubtfully, and as if by some sort of lag in communication, she answered precipitately a couple of seconds later,
—No, I mean…yes, yes, right around the corner.
I didn’t even say thanks, but simply opened the door. Oh, the beautiful scenery! White big mouthed pearls staring me down insatiably asking for me, for ME! I didn’t keep them waiting much longer and poured down a whole
Proud, I valiantly walked towards the door born a new person. I opened it; the sun was out in its brightest. I stepped out and realized the guys down in the weather station were right: it was like 120% humidity or something because my legs were wet and warm; my pants were sticking to my legs as if spread with syrup. Suddenly, a faint heavenly voice called and said “Hey, what are you doing on that chair?”
Friday, September 12, 2008
I just woke up
I just woke up and remembered my dream so I came here to post it!
***
It was a regular day in my English class. I was doing my work and was waiting for my next class to start when all of a sudden my dad came in. "Guess what?" "What?" "I've just been hired to teach your senior seminar!" I was horrified. My dad was going to teach a class? My dad isn't a teacher at all! I got my books ready to go to the next class. I still had all the work from my other professor for the seminar. I asked my dad numerous times if he was sure he'd been hired. He insisted that he had been. I went to the classroom. My dad was there with an older lady. I guess she was a translator? I sat down in the front of the class. My dad sat at the desk next to me with a notebook out as if he was going to take notes. "Introduction to Art" was written on the page. My dad dug into his backpack. "Do you need a pen? Here's one." "Dad, you know you have to stand in front of the class." My dad got up and suddenly started giving out syllabi. I knew something was up. The syllabi had a map of China with Chinese lettering and information about Peru. It actually looked like a real syllabus. He started to speak and lecture. His voice didn't sound like his at all. The students started slowly coming into the classroom.
***
After that I woke up. Pretty strange dream!
***
It was a regular day in my English class. I was doing my work and was waiting for my next class to start when all of a sudden my dad came in. "Guess what?" "What?" "I've just been hired to teach your senior seminar!" I was horrified. My dad was going to teach a class? My dad isn't a teacher at all! I got my books ready to go to the next class. I still had all the work from my other professor for the seminar. I asked my dad numerous times if he was sure he'd been hired. He insisted that he had been. I went to the classroom. My dad was there with an older lady. I guess she was a translator? I sat down in the front of the class. My dad sat at the desk next to me with a notebook out as if he was going to take notes. "Introduction to Art" was written on the page. My dad dug into his backpack. "Do you need a pen? Here's one." "Dad, you know you have to stand in front of the class." My dad got up and suddenly started giving out syllabi. I knew something was up. The syllabi had a map of China with Chinese lettering and information about Peru. It actually looked like a real syllabus. He started to speak and lecture. His voice didn't sound like his at all. The students started slowly coming into the classroom.
***
After that I woke up. Pretty strange dream!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Story... by Patricia for Sept. 17
Unexpected
There are few who are like him. I’m sure he knows it as well. When people have told you you’re the epitome of success you are to believe it. I’d give anything to inhabit their lives just to know how it feels to be them. One feels pedestrian trying to measure up to this ideal. Yeah, everyone has a different path, and all that. What was it? It was admiration and respect, followed by finding him very attractive…or not? It is a bad combination for any female.
He grew on me. When I first saw him, I didn’t expect him to be what he was. He was very sure of himself; an arrogance that is appealing. He was also young and good looking. It was a different kind of good looking though. A rugged type of attractiveness which was even more appealing because it wasn’t the over glossed look. There’s nothing wrong there. I’ve learned though that appearance isn’t always what it seems. Cue in another cliché.
Certain feelings for people cannot be described in a dictionary type fashion. One type of feeling is respect, while another one is infatuation. However, infatuation must grow from one element before it becomes the confusing jumble. Language is more powerful than looks. I remember watching him speak. His words and views were so eloquent. It was a type of language that is rarely heard spoken by everyday people. I guess he wasn’t a regular person. It was the rhetoric of a man who knows what he believes in.
I remember the first time I really noticed him. I was walking by and saw him standing to the side talking with friends. A cigarette was in his hand. He smiled, taking in my expression. His smile was only for me at that point. After seeing that, I knew that this man was making an impact on my life.
One thing is looks and intelligence, but the personality of a person prevails above all. When he spoke to me, he made me feel that I only mattered at that moment. My opinions were intriguing. I wasn’t a bother; I was one worthy of being heard. Receiving praise from him was a compliment. This intelligent and confident man tells you that you deserve recognition. The actions of one speak very clearly. I believed him completely.
The days came and went. It was time for his leave. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him how he’d made such a difference. He really wasn’t like anyone else. I didn’t want him to be. I could never confess my feelings, but I wanted to. My heart beating like a drum, I went to see him one final time. “Hey”. His blue eyes stared up at me. “Hey, how are you?” “I just wanted to thank you for everything.” I wondered if he could sense the tremble in my voice and the redness in my cheeks. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you.” I smiled, but if he only knew how much he’d done for me. “Bye”. The words amazedly didn’t get caught in my throat. I turned around, and didn’t look back.
He’s only reached the tip of what he’s capable of. He has everything in his ability to succeed. He can’t fail. It is because I believe so much in him that I could never tell him my feelings. It’d hurt too much to be dismissed and it would be even worse if I ever did anything to impair his life. Unfortunate circumstances….
....
“Thank you for everything, even though I’ve told you so many times. The people who have you in their lives are so blessed. Never forget me, because my admiration for you is immense."
I close my eyes and send the message.
There are few who are like him. I’m sure he knows it as well. When people have told you you’re the epitome of success you are to believe it. I’d give anything to inhabit their lives just to know how it feels to be them. One feels pedestrian trying to measure up to this ideal. Yeah, everyone has a different path, and all that. What was it? It was admiration and respect, followed by finding him very attractive…or not? It is a bad combination for any female.
He grew on me. When I first saw him, I didn’t expect him to be what he was. He was very sure of himself; an arrogance that is appealing. He was also young and good looking. It was a different kind of good looking though. A rugged type of attractiveness which was even more appealing because it wasn’t the over glossed look. There’s nothing wrong there. I’ve learned though that appearance isn’t always what it seems. Cue in another cliché.
Certain feelings for people cannot be described in a dictionary type fashion. One type of feeling is respect, while another one is infatuation. However, infatuation must grow from one element before it becomes the confusing jumble. Language is more powerful than looks. I remember watching him speak. His words and views were so eloquent. It was a type of language that is rarely heard spoken by everyday people. I guess he wasn’t a regular person. It was the rhetoric of a man who knows what he believes in.
I remember the first time I really noticed him. I was walking by and saw him standing to the side talking with friends. A cigarette was in his hand. He smiled, taking in my expression. His smile was only for me at that point. After seeing that, I knew that this man was making an impact on my life.
One thing is looks and intelligence, but the personality of a person prevails above all. When he spoke to me, he made me feel that I only mattered at that moment. My opinions were intriguing. I wasn’t a bother; I was one worthy of being heard. Receiving praise from him was a compliment. This intelligent and confident man tells you that you deserve recognition. The actions of one speak very clearly. I believed him completely.
The days came and went. It was time for his leave. I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell him how he’d made such a difference. He really wasn’t like anyone else. I didn’t want him to be. I could never confess my feelings, but I wanted to. My heart beating like a drum, I went to see him one final time. “Hey”. His blue eyes stared up at me. “Hey, how are you?” “I just wanted to thank you for everything.” I wondered if he could sense the tremble in my voice and the redness in my cheeks. “Thank you, that’s really sweet of you.” I smiled, but if he only knew how much he’d done for me. “Bye”. The words amazedly didn’t get caught in my throat. I turned around, and didn’t look back.
He’s only reached the tip of what he’s capable of. He has everything in his ability to succeed. He can’t fail. It is because I believe so much in him that I could never tell him my feelings. It’d hurt too much to be dismissed and it would be even worse if I ever did anything to impair his life. Unfortunate circumstances….
....
“Thank you for everything, even though I’ve told you so many times. The people who have you in their lives are so blessed. Never forget me, because my admiration for you is immense."
I close my eyes and send the message.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
How My Dream Almost Killed Me
- I didn't plan on writing this story at this present time. This story is autobiographical. I may be cheating a little bit because the majority of the story takes place while I was dreaming. Also I've awaken from my nap approximately six hours ago. But I believe this still count because I can remember everything vividly.
In my dream I'm arguing with my mother in her room. Contrary to what takes place in reality, my voice is over-powering hers and I'm actually winning this argument. I soon grow very, very angry. In my furious anger, I begin breaking things in her room such as lamps, mirrors and everything else I could get my hands on. Let me remind you that this is my parents' room!!!! I then remember throwing something at the T.V. and breaking it with a huge smile on my face. Then my father walks in and my smile gets even wider. I purposely show him what I did as he calls my name. My dream was now over as my father wakes me up by continually calling my name. I wake up very angry as I see my father's face. For a split second I thought I was still dreaming and was preparing to say something real nasty to him. Perhaps an act of God placed me back in my right mind as I realized I was no longer dreaming. By realizing that this was now reality, I avoided experiencing the "long sleep".
In my dream I'm arguing with my mother in her room. Contrary to what takes place in reality, my voice is over-powering hers and I'm actually winning this argument. I soon grow very, very angry. In my furious anger, I begin breaking things in her room such as lamps, mirrors and everything else I could get my hands on. Let me remind you that this is my parents' room!!!! I then remember throwing something at the T.V. and breaking it with a huge smile on my face. Then my father walks in and my smile gets even wider. I purposely show him what I did as he calls my name. My dream was now over as my father wakes me up by continually calling my name. I wake up very angry as I see my father's face. For a split second I thought I was still dreaming and was preparing to say something real nasty to him. Perhaps an act of God placed me back in my right mind as I realized I was no longer dreaming. By realizing that this was now reality, I avoided experiencing the "long sleep".
Poems! by Patricia for Sept. 17
I have these two poems I wrote and I decided I wanted to workshop them. Hopefully I'll post my short story by tomorrow or Thursday by the latest! Constructive criticism welcomed!
Secrets (Why?)
I have things to tell you
but I'd rather tell you here
the reason I don't tell you face to face
because of fear
When you look at me
I feel tons of insecurities
When you hold my hand
I don't think of you as my man
When you give me a compliment
I feel you are judging me like Parliament
When you tell me you love me
It feels like you're hovering me
See the reasons I cannot tell you?
For fear that you have secrets too
I Saw
As we walked down the river
We saw the snakes slither
I saw a monarch butterfly
It flew through the sun filled sky
He saw a crow in a tree
I told him to let it be
I saw a blue fish
He told me to make a wish
He saw a unicorn
Its glowing rainbow horn
I saw a shining star
I could see it very far
He saw a full moon
It was time to go soon
He said, "I saw an angel"
I gasped! "Who was it?
He replied, "You"
3 Short Stories
I used to in a band called A Separate Peace and one day my singer asked me too write up some short stories based on some of the songs we had written. The idea was to give our fans some back story to what we were trying to say with our songs. I ended up quitting the band and they broke up so we they never got to use them. I thought I might share them with you to hear your thoughts. I can also give any of you cds of the songs that go along with each story if you like. Also, I just want to say this is not my workshop writing. My Workshop one is called The Cellar and it is further on down this page. I just wanted to clarify so no one misunderstands. Enjoy.
The Darkest Truth
By Jacob Kutnicki
I hear a scream in the dark, loud enough to shake the flames from their wicks. I fear our nightmare will in fact manifest itself into tangible terror. I thought we would have more time before the Grays break down our door and begin to take us away.
In the train I stood next to a boy from my school. He was greatly fatigued and fell in his spot. Due to lack of space, his had twisted into an unnatural angle and I could have sworn I heard bones cracking but the sound was blanketed by the high pitched wail of the train whistle. I glanced out the little window of the train and I saw the camps.
I know in my heart that some better fit and healthier group than ours are fighting back. They must be….They must.
Time is strange in the camps. All the days seem to be getting longer yet nighttime and meals seem to be happening less and less as each day passes.
I heard the guards talking of my father with a morbid enthusiasm. His death had been cruel and undeserved for a man of his stature. My sister too is dead.
I was told once that our souls leave our bodies before the pain can reach us. Lack of sleep and food has made my body weak. I feel I have become diseased and there is blood when I cough. I feel warmth in my chest, like a foreign fire burning next to my heart. I fall, hoping they will let me sleep. As I glaze up at them I feel as if I am dreaming. The ground is wet and red. I know I am awake because I start to shiver. A figure steps over me and says something, then there is a bright light and then…warmth. They were right, there was no pain.
A Stalkers P.O.V.
By Jacob Kutnicki
I think she looked at me yesterday. I was across the street from her and she looked out the store window and I think she was looking at me. That is the fourth time this month.
Some of my favorite times we have spent together have been when I watch her listening to music. Sometimes, her curtains are closed so I can only see her silhouette, but most of the times she leaves them open for me. I love the way she moves, silently gliding as she mouths along with the words. I wonder what she listens to. We have so much in common already I think I can assume we have the same taste in music, after all our relationship is built on assumptions.
Her left tire in the front of her car needs air. Maybe I should tell her. No, she hates when I don’t mind my business. I am sure it will be fine.
It’s a good thing I took her cell phone bill because otherwise I wouldn’t know her new number. She is so funny. I could never get that number out of her.
The first day I saw her, she walked into my store. She was just looking around so I didn’t approach her. And now look at us, our two year anniversary is right around the corner and I’m getting happier every day.
I know she doesn’t cheat on me. I remember she was interested in the guy who owned the store across the street from mine. I took care of him so that even if she wanted to cheat on me with him, it would already be two years to late.
I wonder what it will be like to grow old with her. I wonder what our kids would look like if we had any. I wonder what its like to hold her. I wonder what its like to kiss her.
Among the Ashes of Millionares
By Jacob Kutnicki
You know how sometimes you see a woman and you can tell that you will do just about anything to be with her. That’s what she was like. Tall, great body, eyes like the sky, and hair that you could get lost in.
Our time together wasn’t all that bad. It was the end that was the problem. I had heard all the rumors about her but I disposed of them as jealousy. Even the trail of corpses she left in her wake could not persuade me to leave.
I was blind to what she was doing. A month ago at the restaurant, they told me my credit card had been declined and subsequent attempts with the same card and others had proven futile as well. I wrote a check instead which bounced due to insufficient funds.
In hindsight I clearly see how she worked me. I was just one of the many pawns that this queen had taken. My wealth has been burned down to nothing, fallen away like the ash on the tip of a cigarette. Everything ends, so I must put it out.
The Darkest Truth
By Jacob Kutnicki
I hear a scream in the dark, loud enough to shake the flames from their wicks. I fear our nightmare will in fact manifest itself into tangible terror. I thought we would have more time before the Grays break down our door and begin to take us away.
In the train I stood next to a boy from my school. He was greatly fatigued and fell in his spot. Due to lack of space, his had twisted into an unnatural angle and I could have sworn I heard bones cracking but the sound was blanketed by the high pitched wail of the train whistle. I glanced out the little window of the train and I saw the camps.
I know in my heart that some better fit and healthier group than ours are fighting back. They must be….They must.
Time is strange in the camps. All the days seem to be getting longer yet nighttime and meals seem to be happening less and less as each day passes.
I heard the guards talking of my father with a morbid enthusiasm. His death had been cruel and undeserved for a man of his stature. My sister too is dead.
I was told once that our souls leave our bodies before the pain can reach us. Lack of sleep and food has made my body weak. I feel I have become diseased and there is blood when I cough. I feel warmth in my chest, like a foreign fire burning next to my heart. I fall, hoping they will let me sleep. As I glaze up at them I feel as if I am dreaming. The ground is wet and red. I know I am awake because I start to shiver. A figure steps over me and says something, then there is a bright light and then…warmth. They were right, there was no pain.
A Stalkers P.O.V.
By Jacob Kutnicki
I think she looked at me yesterday. I was across the street from her and she looked out the store window and I think she was looking at me. That is the fourth time this month.
Some of my favorite times we have spent together have been when I watch her listening to music. Sometimes, her curtains are closed so I can only see her silhouette, but most of the times she leaves them open for me. I love the way she moves, silently gliding as she mouths along with the words. I wonder what she listens to. We have so much in common already I think I can assume we have the same taste in music, after all our relationship is built on assumptions.
Her left tire in the front of her car needs air. Maybe I should tell her. No, she hates when I don’t mind my business. I am sure it will be fine.
It’s a good thing I took her cell phone bill because otherwise I wouldn’t know her new number. She is so funny. I could never get that number out of her.
The first day I saw her, she walked into my store. She was just looking around so I didn’t approach her. And now look at us, our two year anniversary is right around the corner and I’m getting happier every day.
I know she doesn’t cheat on me. I remember she was interested in the guy who owned the store across the street from mine. I took care of him so that even if she wanted to cheat on me with him, it would already be two years to late.
I wonder what it will be like to grow old with her. I wonder what our kids would look like if we had any. I wonder what its like to hold her. I wonder what its like to kiss her.
Among the Ashes of Millionares
By Jacob Kutnicki
You know how sometimes you see a woman and you can tell that you will do just about anything to be with her. That’s what she was like. Tall, great body, eyes like the sky, and hair that you could get lost in.
Our time together wasn’t all that bad. It was the end that was the problem. I had heard all the rumors about her but I disposed of them as jealousy. Even the trail of corpses she left in her wake could not persuade me to leave.
I was blind to what she was doing. A month ago at the restaurant, they told me my credit card had been declined and subsequent attempts with the same card and others had proven futile as well. I wrote a check instead which bounced due to insufficient funds.
In hindsight I clearly see how she worked me. I was just one of the many pawns that this queen had taken. My wealth has been burned down to nothing, fallen away like the ash on the tip of a cigarette. Everything ends, so I must put it out.
Poems by Ashmeena for Sept. 17
I'm posting below two poems that were put up by Ashmeena. (They were in the comments on the post about the schedule, but I want to make sure that everyone sees them.) Thanks, Ashmeena.
We'll be discussing both Ashmeena's poems and Jacob's story next Wednesday (the 17th). Before then, your job is to write a comment responding to each of them. What sort of comment? Well, the idea is that you will help your colleagues develop and enhance their writing. Most importantly, you should try to understand what the writer is attempting to do in the piece, and base your assessment on the same criteria. Even if the piece is not your cup of tea, you should try to take it for what it is, and discuss the ways it succeeds, or the ways it might be improved. First, tell your colleagues what you like about the piece, or what works well. If there was a certain word choice or image that struck you, let them know. Tell them if it reminds you of anything that they might be interested in. Tell them about your reaction to the piece. If you found anything confusing, ask for clarification. If it made you angry, sad, scared, or happy, explain why. And if you have any suggestions about how they might revise the piece, tell them that too. Your suggestions might be as simple as punctuation advice, or as drastic as, "what if you rewrote this as a Broadway musical?"
By the way, if everyone is going to have two chances to submit work, then we should have three texts per week. So if there is someone else who has something to share on the 17th, please speak up.
Corey
Without You
I lie here thinking of you,
Wishing I was there with you,
With memories flashing before my eyes.
Your tender, gentle touch,
Is what my body craves so much.
Your smile and style, so simple and sweet,
As if on a stormy day, the sun came out to play.
Visions of you, so hard to stray.
Makes me feel like my mind can't stay.
My memories of you are so vivid,
I know in my heart, that i want to live in it.
This dream of mine i do hope come thru.
For you are the one i know its true.
I Need You
I need you,
Just as a poet needs inspiration to write a masterpiece.
I need you,
Just as an artist needs a subject for his work of art.
I need you,
Just as a teacher needs a pupil to mold into greatness.
I need you,
Just as a composer needs a theme to create a timeless melody.
I need you,
Just as a song needs notes to form beautiful melodies.
I need you,
For without you, my life would be empty of all inspiration.
There would be no work of art to gaze at,
No person of greatness before me,
And there will be no timeless melody to listen to.
My life would be like a candle without a flame.
There would be no light in my life. I need you.
Ashmeena Divya Teakram
We'll be discussing both Ashmeena's poems and Jacob's story next Wednesday (the 17th). Before then, your job is to write a comment responding to each of them. What sort of comment? Well, the idea is that you will help your colleagues develop and enhance their writing. Most importantly, you should try to understand what the writer is attempting to do in the piece, and base your assessment on the same criteria. Even if the piece is not your cup of tea, you should try to take it for what it is, and discuss the ways it succeeds, or the ways it might be improved. First, tell your colleagues what you like about the piece, or what works well. If there was a certain word choice or image that struck you, let them know. Tell them if it reminds you of anything that they might be interested in. Tell them about your reaction to the piece. If you found anything confusing, ask for clarification. If it made you angry, sad, scared, or happy, explain why. And if you have any suggestions about how they might revise the piece, tell them that too. Your suggestions might be as simple as punctuation advice, or as drastic as, "what if you rewrote this as a Broadway musical?"
By the way, if everyone is going to have two chances to submit work, then we should have three texts per week. So if there is someone else who has something to share on the 17th, please speak up.
Corey
Without You
I lie here thinking of you,
Wishing I was there with you,
With memories flashing before my eyes.
Your tender, gentle touch,
Is what my body craves so much.
Your smile and style, so simple and sweet,
As if on a stormy day, the sun came out to play.
Visions of you, so hard to stray.
Makes me feel like my mind can't stay.
My memories of you are so vivid,
I know in my heart, that i want to live in it.
This dream of mine i do hope come thru.
For you are the one i know its true.
I Need You
I need you,
Just as a poet needs inspiration to write a masterpiece.
I need you,
Just as an artist needs a subject for his work of art.
I need you,
Just as a teacher needs a pupil to mold into greatness.
I need you,
Just as a composer needs a theme to create a timeless melody.
I need you,
Just as a song needs notes to form beautiful melodies.
I need you,
For without you, my life would be empty of all inspiration.
There would be no work of art to gaze at,
No person of greatness before me,
And there will be no timeless melody to listen to.
My life would be like a candle without a flame.
There would be no light in my life. I need you.
Ashmeena Divya Teakram
Monday, September 8, 2008
Reading Wednesday
Thanks, Jacob, for posting your story. It's great! You have definitely captured the atmosphere and the style of an Edgar Allen Poe story, and the ending is evocatively gruesome. I will have more to say, of course, and I'm looking forward to hearing what others think.
I have also posted, to the right, a sample pdf of poems by Aracelis Girmay, who is reading in Klapper on Wednesday at 6:30. Check it out.
Corey
I have also posted, to the right, a sample pdf of poems by Aracelis Girmay, who is reading in Klapper on Wednesday at 6:30. Check it out.
Corey
The Cellar by Jacob for Sept. 17
This is my story called The Cellar, I hope you like it.
The Cellar
By Jacob Kutnicki
I remember tales of woe. Twisting, mysterious, serpentine stories of the macabre and darkness. Of course, as a youth not below the age of five and ten, I thought these stories were relayed upon my impressionable brain for their sheer fantastical value. It was only later when I became a young man that I learned the horrid truth of the stories I had heard as a child. Now you may think I am mad, that I should be relocated to the bowels of Hellgate, but I tell you that what I speak is true. There will be those who say that my Joie de Vivre lies within a bottle of a yellowish, opaline elixir, but I swear upon my father’s grave that the words crossing my lips ring as true as prayer bells. Twas’ nearly twenty years ago to the day that the fiction I knew as a child altered into the reality that I know as an adult.
My trade was as an apprentice to a printer. One of my final duties before retiring for the day was to clean the moveable type that had been used during production. I was in the process of rinsing off a capital “Q” when I heard a sound issue itself from below me. It seemed to be the faint sound of metal scratching metal. I slowly drew my eyes up from my work and stared at the wall in front of me. I stood stone still and listened with such vigor that I could literally feel the blood coursing through my body. I held my breath so as not to create any noise. The beating of my heart was all I could hear, and it threatened to become deafening. As I stood there, I scanned the room, tuning all my senses to their sharpest in an effort to see from where had this scratching sound come. After about three-quarters of a minute, I could hold my breath no longer. I let a slow and quiet gust of air escape my lungs. A wave of relief washed over me as I let go of my breath, for I feared I was about to collapse. I convinced myself that I had heard nothing. The building in which I worked in had been built in the mid 18th century, and as any engineer will tell you, when a building gets old it will let you know. I deduced that the old age of the building was guilty of causing my anxiety, so I took in a few more deep breaths and continued on with my work. I finished polishing the last type, donned my hat and jacket, and made my way home. I did not think of the noise again until I was readying myself to leave the workhouse the following day. This time the screeching pierced my ears, louder then before. I shudder even now to think of this awful sound. I was a curious lad so I mustered up all my mettle and made my way to the cellar door.
As I open the cellar door, a crack of light from the candle that lit my work room struck an eerie contrast to the pitch blackness that resided in the cellar. I lit a small taper and made my way down. With every step I felt as if the step beneath me would give way and deliver me to some horrible demise, paralyzed and bleeding in the dark among ruble in a cold cellar. I pressed on. Finally, after what seemed like a millennia I put my foot down upon solid ground. I could almost feel the cold stone of the floor below me. I turned and tried to illuminate the darkness with the candle so I could begin looking for this phantom that was haunting me with its wretched squeal. As I was looking around I hear very low breathing. In the stone silence of the cellar, I found it hard to fathom that anything, human or otherwise, could think that any sound could be concealed from the cavernous basement. The slightest drop of water became magnified tenfold. I called out “Who is there. Show yourself or I will send you back to hell from where you came!!” There was no answer. As soon as the echo of my voice finished it reverberations, I steadied myself and began to listen for the breathing again. After a few seconds, my ears found the breaths but this time they seemed louder. They seemed closer. I took a few steps toward the sound. I felt the dull thuds of my heart beat begin to increase and the sweat on my brow began to flow evermore. I took another step and felt a presence to my right. I turned quickly and I saw a hideous creature. A creature no man alive (other than myself) could describe. It had black shiny eyes that seemed to be in a permanent grimace, as if dealt with some great pain through all hours of the day. Its face was covered in scars and blood and random tufts of hair on its head that were matted and stuck to its scalp by sweat. It was rather large too, for it could meet my eye-line without difficulty. The horror that I felt in that moment surpasses any ever felt by another human. The creature let out a shriek and attacked me with the savagery of a wild beast, tearing at my clothes with its long sharp fingernails. I put my hands around the creature’s neck in an attempt to stop it from eviscerating me. During the struggle I dropped my candle and it rolled in to a stack of papers that must have been stored down there for ages. The stack was soon engulfed in flames and in minutes, half the room was on fire. I could see the flames mirrored in my assailants’ eyes, dancing and biting the air around them. I managed to grab an old wrench that had been left on the floor and hit the creature in the face. It let out another one of those horrid screams and fell backwards. I stood up and looked at it writhing in pain on the ground and I saw its body covered in boils and lesions. Its skin seemed tough as if it was calloused all over. Still very much afraid, I turned and ran up the creaky old stairs and slammed shut the cellar door behind me. Smoke curled up from beneath the door and heat was radiating from the floorboards. Then I heard a sound that to this day haunts me sleep. It was the creature being burned alive. The scream seemed to be filled with the anguish of a thousand souls and it echoed throughout the night sky. Tis’ a sound makes me wish I had never been born. I hurried myself to the front door and made my exit. I stood across the street and watched my once beloved workhouse turn to ash. I ran home, lit as many candles I could, and laid in my bed, afraid of what I would see if I closed my eyes.
The next morning I went back to the ruble where I once conducted my trade to see if I could find any evidence of the creature that had attacked me the night before. The smell of carbon and burnt paper stung my nostrils. I stood at the top of where the cellar stairs used to be. In the morning sun I could see a hand, burnt black as tar and severed at the elbow. Around the wrist was a thick metal ring that was attached to a chain that led to a wall placed at the back of the cellar. The creature didn’t reside in the cellar it was being held captive there! I was out of the town by nightfall. I ran to many towns in many places over the years, but I can never escape that sound, the scream of the creature being burned alive.
Epilogue
I had severed most of my ties with my old hometown, but I had kept correspondence with an old school acquaintance of mine. I had written him and asked him if there was any information about the fire in my old workhouse. This is what he wrote back:
So glad to hear from you my old friend, I have been enthralled by your tales of travel and adventure. I must admit, I am a bit jealous that you have escaped the dreariness of this town and embarked for a more meaningful life for yourself. In regards to your question about the fire, I went over to see my friend William Halverton, who you may remember as being the chief of the volunteer fire brigade. I asked about the details surrounding the fire. He said that the investigators had been through the ruins of the old house and found a hand that had been severed at the elbow. Around its wrist, a chain had been affixed that led to a wall. He also said that the area from where the arm had been severed was covered in bite marks. Something had chewed through bone and muscle, in a hurry no less, and torn the appendage from the body. Then William told me something that chilled my spine. He said that the bite marks where human. It had been confirmed by a doctor from the city. Whatever or whoever the previous owner of that hand was had gnawed its own arm off, no doubt in its attempt to escape from cellar as it was burning. There was a pool of burned blood and footsteps leading away from the house. What had been in that cellar chained to the wall was now free. I hope this letter finds you well my friend and I await your next correspondence.
Sincerely your friend
Nigel Adamson
When I finished the reading letter my blood turned to frost. For years that sound has followed my every move, stalking me at every turn. Now I fear I am being hunted, that I am prey for some unholy creature. I do not know if my predator is human or demon, I do know that this creature and I walk the same ground…. And I pray that hell does not follow with him.
The Cellar
By Jacob Kutnicki
I remember tales of woe. Twisting, mysterious, serpentine stories of the macabre and darkness. Of course, as a youth not below the age of five and ten, I thought these stories were relayed upon my impressionable brain for their sheer fantastical value. It was only later when I became a young man that I learned the horrid truth of the stories I had heard as a child. Now you may think I am mad, that I should be relocated to the bowels of Hellgate, but I tell you that what I speak is true. There will be those who say that my Joie de Vivre lies within a bottle of a yellowish, opaline elixir, but I swear upon my father’s grave that the words crossing my lips ring as true as prayer bells. Twas’ nearly twenty years ago to the day that the fiction I knew as a child altered into the reality that I know as an adult.
My trade was as an apprentice to a printer. One of my final duties before retiring for the day was to clean the moveable type that had been used during production. I was in the process of rinsing off a capital “Q” when I heard a sound issue itself from below me. It seemed to be the faint sound of metal scratching metal. I slowly drew my eyes up from my work and stared at the wall in front of me. I stood stone still and listened with such vigor that I could literally feel the blood coursing through my body. I held my breath so as not to create any noise. The beating of my heart was all I could hear, and it threatened to become deafening. As I stood there, I scanned the room, tuning all my senses to their sharpest in an effort to see from where had this scratching sound come. After about three-quarters of a minute, I could hold my breath no longer. I let a slow and quiet gust of air escape my lungs. A wave of relief washed over me as I let go of my breath, for I feared I was about to collapse. I convinced myself that I had heard nothing. The building in which I worked in had been built in the mid 18th century, and as any engineer will tell you, when a building gets old it will let you know. I deduced that the old age of the building was guilty of causing my anxiety, so I took in a few more deep breaths and continued on with my work. I finished polishing the last type, donned my hat and jacket, and made my way home. I did not think of the noise again until I was readying myself to leave the workhouse the following day. This time the screeching pierced my ears, louder then before. I shudder even now to think of this awful sound. I was a curious lad so I mustered up all my mettle and made my way to the cellar door.
As I open the cellar door, a crack of light from the candle that lit my work room struck an eerie contrast to the pitch blackness that resided in the cellar. I lit a small taper and made my way down. With every step I felt as if the step beneath me would give way and deliver me to some horrible demise, paralyzed and bleeding in the dark among ruble in a cold cellar. I pressed on. Finally, after what seemed like a millennia I put my foot down upon solid ground. I could almost feel the cold stone of the floor below me. I turned and tried to illuminate the darkness with the candle so I could begin looking for this phantom that was haunting me with its wretched squeal. As I was looking around I hear very low breathing. In the stone silence of the cellar, I found it hard to fathom that anything, human or otherwise, could think that any sound could be concealed from the cavernous basement. The slightest drop of water became magnified tenfold. I called out “Who is there. Show yourself or I will send you back to hell from where you came!!” There was no answer. As soon as the echo of my voice finished it reverberations, I steadied myself and began to listen for the breathing again. After a few seconds, my ears found the breaths but this time they seemed louder. They seemed closer. I took a few steps toward the sound. I felt the dull thuds of my heart beat begin to increase and the sweat on my brow began to flow evermore. I took another step and felt a presence to my right. I turned quickly and I saw a hideous creature. A creature no man alive (other than myself) could describe. It had black shiny eyes that seemed to be in a permanent grimace, as if dealt with some great pain through all hours of the day. Its face was covered in scars and blood and random tufts of hair on its head that were matted and stuck to its scalp by sweat. It was rather large too, for it could meet my eye-line without difficulty. The horror that I felt in that moment surpasses any ever felt by another human. The creature let out a shriek and attacked me with the savagery of a wild beast, tearing at my clothes with its long sharp fingernails. I put my hands around the creature’s neck in an attempt to stop it from eviscerating me. During the struggle I dropped my candle and it rolled in to a stack of papers that must have been stored down there for ages. The stack was soon engulfed in flames and in minutes, half the room was on fire. I could see the flames mirrored in my assailants’ eyes, dancing and biting the air around them. I managed to grab an old wrench that had been left on the floor and hit the creature in the face. It let out another one of those horrid screams and fell backwards. I stood up and looked at it writhing in pain on the ground and I saw its body covered in boils and lesions. Its skin seemed tough as if it was calloused all over. Still very much afraid, I turned and ran up the creaky old stairs and slammed shut the cellar door behind me. Smoke curled up from beneath the door and heat was radiating from the floorboards. Then I heard a sound that to this day haunts me sleep. It was the creature being burned alive. The scream seemed to be filled with the anguish of a thousand souls and it echoed throughout the night sky. Tis’ a sound makes me wish I had never been born. I hurried myself to the front door and made my exit. I stood across the street and watched my once beloved workhouse turn to ash. I ran home, lit as many candles I could, and laid in my bed, afraid of what I would see if I closed my eyes.
The next morning I went back to the ruble where I once conducted my trade to see if I could find any evidence of the creature that had attacked me the night before. The smell of carbon and burnt paper stung my nostrils. I stood at the top of where the cellar stairs used to be. In the morning sun I could see a hand, burnt black as tar and severed at the elbow. Around the wrist was a thick metal ring that was attached to a chain that led to a wall placed at the back of the cellar. The creature didn’t reside in the cellar it was being held captive there! I was out of the town by nightfall. I ran to many towns in many places over the years, but I can never escape that sound, the scream of the creature being burned alive.
Epilogue
I had severed most of my ties with my old hometown, but I had kept correspondence with an old school acquaintance of mine. I had written him and asked him if there was any information about the fire in my old workhouse. This is what he wrote back:
So glad to hear from you my old friend, I have been enthralled by your tales of travel and adventure. I must admit, I am a bit jealous that you have escaped the dreariness of this town and embarked for a more meaningful life for yourself. In regards to your question about the fire, I went over to see my friend William Halverton, who you may remember as being the chief of the volunteer fire brigade. I asked about the details surrounding the fire. He said that the investigators had been through the ruins of the old house and found a hand that had been severed at the elbow. Around its wrist, a chain had been affixed that led to a wall. He also said that the area from where the arm had been severed was covered in bite marks. Something had chewed through bone and muscle, in a hurry no less, and torn the appendage from the body. Then William told me something that chilled my spine. He said that the bite marks where human. It had been confirmed by a doctor from the city. Whatever or whoever the previous owner of that hand was had gnawed its own arm off, no doubt in its attempt to escape from cellar as it was burning. There was a pool of burned blood and footsteps leading away from the house. What had been in that cellar chained to the wall was now free. I hope this letter finds you well my friend and I await your next correspondence.
Sincerely your friend
Nigel Adamson
When I finished the reading letter my blood turned to frost. For years that sound has followed my every move, stalking me at every turn. Now I fear I am being hunted, that I am prey for some unholy creature. I do not know if my predator is human or demon, I do know that this creature and I walk the same ground…. And I pray that hell does not follow with him.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Tentative Presentation Schedule
I wanted to pin down a schedule for presenting the texts on the syllabus, and about half of you have told me your preferences, so for the rest of you I'm just going to slot you in. If this doesn't work for you, let me know.
M. Sept 8: Kurt Vonnegut Jr./ Justine on Franz Kafka
W. Sept 10: Arlene on Denis Johnson / Joanne on Eileen Myles
M. Sept 15: Nicholson Baker / Jody Ann on Lori Moore
W. Sept 17: WORKSHOP (Jacob and Ashmeena and Patricia)
M. Sept 22: Roland Barthes / Jacob on Jorge Luis Borges
W. Sept 24: WORKSHOP
M. Oct 6: Anne Carson / Maria on Lydia Davis / Dewa on Joe Brainard
T. Oct 14: Lisa Robertson / Charles Bernstein / Angie on Jack Spicer
W. Oct 15: WORKSHOP
M. Oct 20: WORKSHOP
W. Oct 22: B. K. Stefans / Patricia on J.R. Carpenter (who will also visit)
M. Oct 27: Ammiel Alcalay / Mahmoud Darwish / Antonia on kari edwards / Anthony on Kent Johnson
W. Oct 29: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 3: Hallie on Kimiko Hahn / Roger Sedarat
W. Nov 5: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 10: Georges Perec / Nadia on Christian Bök / Ashmeena on Kenneth Goldsmith
W. Nov. 12: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 17: Bertolt Brecht / William on Antonin Artaud
W. Nov 19: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 24: Miranda July / Spalding Gray / Shane on Catherine Kidd
W. Nov 26: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 1: Anna Deveare Smith / Tyrike on Ntozake Shange
W. Dec 3: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 8: WORKSHOP
W. Dec 10: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 15: WORKSHOP
M. Sept 8: Kurt Vonnegut Jr./ Justine on Franz Kafka
W. Sept 10: Arlene on Denis Johnson / Joanne on Eileen Myles
M. Sept 15: Nicholson Baker / Jody Ann on Lori Moore
W. Sept 17: WORKSHOP (Jacob and Ashmeena and Patricia)
M. Sept 22: Roland Barthes / Jacob on Jorge Luis Borges
W. Sept 24: WORKSHOP
M. Oct 6: Anne Carson / Maria on Lydia Davis / Dewa on Joe Brainard
T. Oct 14: Lisa Robertson / Charles Bernstein / Angie on Jack Spicer
W. Oct 15: WORKSHOP
M. Oct 20: WORKSHOP
W. Oct 22: B. K. Stefans / Patricia on J.R. Carpenter (who will also visit)
M. Oct 27: Ammiel Alcalay / Mahmoud Darwish / Antonia on kari edwards / Anthony on Kent Johnson
W. Oct 29: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 3: Hallie on Kimiko Hahn / Roger Sedarat
W. Nov 5: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 10: Georges Perec / Nadia on Christian Bök / Ashmeena on Kenneth Goldsmith
W. Nov. 12: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 17: Bertolt Brecht / William on Antonin Artaud
W. Nov 19: WORKSHOP
M. Nov 24: Miranda July / Spalding Gray / Shane on Catherine Kidd
W. Nov 26: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 1: Anna Deveare Smith / Tyrike on Ntozake Shange
W. Dec 3: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 8: WORKSHOP
W. Dec 10: WORKSHOP
M. Dec 15: WORKSHOP
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Thoughts on "The School"
I really enjoyed "The School" by Donald Barthelme. It was very funny and also clever. Barthelme process of constructing the pattern of introducing subjects and then revealling their fate which is of course death. This in intersting because he begins with the students planting trees before the trees died. Then he takes it a step further from trees to animals which also died. Then he takes it to the ultimate level by incorporating a human which had the same fate as the trees and the animals. Even though the pattern is obvious, I still didn't think he would have the Korean orphan die as well. Then just when I thought the climax of the pattern was reached, Barthelme seems to "take the cake" with his peculiar comedy when reminiscing about some parents dying from suicide, drowning, car accidents and strokes. Barthelme's story then takes a "left-turn" when he writes abut the students asking the teacher to make love with his assistant because they never seen it before. Just as George Saunders stated in "The Perfect Gerbil", the ending which consisted of a knock on the door and the gerbil entering as the students become excited, leaves many questions. With the story ending at that point, all questions remained unanswered. However, I think Saunders overly discts this short story. I believe that Barthelme wrote this story mainly for comic relief. Not to eliminate possibilities of a serious underling message, but if so, the story as a whole is not to be discted and analyzed in a sort of philosophical manner.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Wednesday recap
Hi folks. Just a reminder: I am genuinely curious about your reasons for taking this course and your expectations for the course, so please take a moment to post a response here, or just comment on this post. If you're at all confused by the interface of this blog, send me a note and I'll clarify things for you.
In general, I have a tendency to suggest you should write things, and it may not always be clear whether I am giving you a required assignment or not, and it occurs to me that you may want to know what is required. The only absolute requirements are outlined on the syllabus (click on the link to the right): one presentation of a text, comments on other people's writing, and your final portfolio. Everything else falls under the category of participation, and you will certainly end up with a better grade if you write a lot and post to the blog a lot. For example, I asked you today about why you took this course, and I suggested you post your answers here. You will not lose any marks if you don't post anything, but if you do post something it goes a long way towards convincing me that you are serious and engaged. You can take this as a bit of advice that applies to all of your courses: rather than ask yourself "what am I required to do?", ask yourself questions like, "how can I demonstrate my own initiative in this class?" and "what else can I do that will help me get the most out of this class?"
So, in other words, post to the blog as much as you can / as much as you like. Post your thoughts on the class, your thoughts on the reading, or the texts you come up with during our writing exercises. Surprise me.
For next class, make sure you read the Kafka story and the Vonnegut essay. Take them with you when you come to class next Monday. If it's not feasible for you to print them, let me know and I'll bring an extra copy for you.
Enjoy your weekend.
Corey
In general, I have a tendency to suggest you should write things, and it may not always be clear whether I am giving you a required assignment or not, and it occurs to me that you may want to know what is required. The only absolute requirements are outlined on the syllabus (click on the link to the right): one presentation of a text, comments on other people's writing, and your final portfolio. Everything else falls under the category of participation, and you will certainly end up with a better grade if you write a lot and post to the blog a lot. For example, I asked you today about why you took this course, and I suggested you post your answers here. You will not lose any marks if you don't post anything, but if you do post something it goes a long way towards convincing me that you are serious and engaged. You can take this as a bit of advice that applies to all of your courses: rather than ask yourself "what am I required to do?", ask yourself questions like, "how can I demonstrate my own initiative in this class?" and "what else can I do that will help me get the most out of this class?"
So, in other words, post to the blog as much as you can / as much as you like. Post your thoughts on the class, your thoughts on the reading, or the texts you come up with during our writing exercises. Surprise me.
For next class, make sure you read the Kafka story and the Vonnegut essay. Take them with you when you come to class next Monday. If it's not feasible for you to print them, let me know and I'll bring an extra copy for you.
Enjoy your weekend.
Corey
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