A Man

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

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

frustrated

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

Narrative poem......The Game

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

ghazals

Ghazals

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

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

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

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

A woman

The Woman

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

deep image poem

Mirror

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

The Eye

The Eye

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

A body poem

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

An interesting conversation between a boy and a girl

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

Cinderella Snowball

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

Workshop Dec. 15

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

Untitled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You play numbers? The lottery?”

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

“1,0,9,4,”

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

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

Your portfolio

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

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

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

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

Corey

Not for Workshop-just a random piece

12/12/2008

Dear Baby,

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

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

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

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

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

Love,
Your mommy

P.S.
Good Luck :)

For Dec 15

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

Phase Union

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Words

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

2nd piece for the workshop

Solace

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

December 10th workshop

60 + 1 (keys)

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

Just Because.

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

The way you make me feel.

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

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

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


New Love.

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

About a Break Up. Work Shop 12/10

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

Workshop 12/10

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

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

Poem that sums up the other poem.

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

Haiku Version of Ashmeena's Poem "Paths"

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

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

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

Evaluations!

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

Corey

Workshop 12/8

The Tale of Evindayle

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

Chapter One

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

(work in progress...)

WORKSHOP FOR 12/8

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

Assignment for this week.

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



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

This is for You.

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

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

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

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

Name poem

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

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

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

Not The Same (Thanksgiving)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty

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

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

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