to the legend who sold out

fueling the vat
of materialism
with monetary
gasoline,
you've destroyed
your message,
imagery,
legend.

now when
people hear
your voice of
social change,
your mind-blowing
imagery,
your awe-inspiring
genius,

they think
Chevy,
cell phones,
jeans,
and Kentucky-fried
fuckin'-
chicken.

good job.

Can I have my soul back now?

Portfolio Template:
1. My best work

• To the Legend Who Sold Out: I got the idea for this poem while I was either sweeping or mopping at my work. I then got on the computer the next morning and typed it out. I get most of my memory recovery, inspiration, and such while doing some random at work such as flattening ice cream or cleaning. I think it's because I have a lot of time to talk to myself in my head. But anyway, the subject is inspired by all the good classic rock songs--and any good song for that matter--that's been sold to advertising. The only time i've ever saw an artist fighting for their message was Paul McCartney v. Michael Jackson in the Nike/Beatles' Revolution despute. Advertising has ruined many of my favorite songs--and to materialism, no less! So I think I have the right to be a little angsty towards them, and I've finally expelled my thoughts on it in poetry without format.
• Elephant in My Attic/Dancing in the Fountain: I'm posting these poems as one set because I'm equally proud of both of them and they were both sprung from the same assignment, being start-up stories. While facing this assignment, I found myself in mental constipation as to what I could do. I can't readily do a whole story to save the life of me, so i opted to do what I'm most familiar with: poetry. But these poems also have a sort of Dr Seuss/Shel Silverstein feel to them, all whimsical and happy. Seeing as I've never written anything that happy, bouncy, fun throughout my whole writing career, I was overcome with the need to write more like it. The first of the poems I wrote, Elephant in My Attic, was so addictingly fun to do so I tried my hand at several more, but only Dancing in the Fountain found the seal of approval.
• necromantic: this is one of the many stories i'd really love to finish. the story's about this boy who gets turned on by dead bodies and how he doesn't understand or necessarily want to be like he is, his internal conflict with that and his crush on a girl in his anatomy class. I want the story to climax tragically when she dies and end happily with boy getting girl, but i'm not sure how i could... oh jeezus, i think i've got an idea!!!... eh, i don't feel like it right now. but this is how it's going to be if i ever decide to return to it: climax with death, resolve and end happily with boy exhuming body and getting girl. c'est magnifique!

2. My process: Look out, here she comes...

• Example of prewriting: i don't prewrite, i just do. i've never been one to do those, what do you call it, web graphs? Circle graphs? I don't know. I do use them is when i have to for a grade or when i'm desparate, but even then i don't use them because they don't help me. No, wait, I take that back. They help me very little in that i have most to all my ideas out in front of me, but it doesn't really help at all in it's progress. When I get an idea, i might write something down to remember it, but i usually i don't because it ususally drains my brain of any sort of creative force or flow that was behind that idea.
• Example of early draft- I probably printed at least... Ten? Copies of this gorram screen play, at, what? Twenty-something pages? Jeezus, what animosity I hold against this freakin' thing... Anyways... Early drafts are ususally covered front-to-back in grammer and spelling corrections, scratches and add-ins, doodles--lots of doodles--and the occasional table in the margins in order to recall anything I may have scrambled to writer's block. This is also only applicable to things that are printed/written out. When it comes to things on blogs or word documents, all it is is: type, type, delete, type, get distracted, come back to document to save and exit. And i wonder why I don't finish stories, eh?
• Example of feedback / response I received- Unfortunately, no one commented this story on the blog, and i don't think i have the one con commented anymore. Anyway, the type of feedback/response that helps me the most is probably positive comments that give my tiny ego momentum to keep going, or those that suggest i do something different. Any comment that reflects the idea of an unbiased reader (unbiased=doesn't love or hate me, doesn't hate my subject; objectively), reading my piece as your everyday... reader, are the ones that help the most in their validity. But also, I think that the comments that work best with me are the tiny-ego-boosting-ones. If i think someone actually has interest in what i'm writing, i sure as hell don't want to disappoint--but then that could also handicap me in pushing myself into perfection i cannot deliver.
• Example of finished proofed draft- most of my stuff, unless it's a poem, doesn't get finished. as you can see. I don't hold the creative juices or motivation to finish a full-fledged story. Bah, it's aggrivating. I'd really love to finish my stories, but i think it's the unconsious fear that i can't climax well enough and have the resolution to match a good beginning. I really can't recall a single story i finished to perfect piece of mind. "The Camel Girl" finished itself off, but it doesn't have that feeling of completion and has no prospect of a full story. Other stories may find an ending, but it doesn't resolve very well. What it reads to be is a buncha bull that sorta portrays an ending i'd like, but doesn't cut up to par.

3. My range (Examples of at least two other types of pieces I attempted)
between the devil and the deep blue sea (essay)
cat's cradle review (book review)

"Dancing in the Fountain"

Dancing in the fountain
Delighted and filled with glee
Like fresh mist from the mountain
Makes me feel fresh and free

Dancing in the fountain
May make you look quite queer
There's nothing else that rhymes with fountain
So i guess i'll end it here

"The Elephant in my Attic"

The elephant in my attic
Creates alot of noise
Shakes the television to static
And breaks all my toys

The elephant in my attic
Is still a really swell guy
He is very charismatic
And is not afraid to cry

The elephant in my attic
Needs some room to grow

This is very problematic:
He has no where else to go

between the devil and the deep blue sea...

"This program is not new, you've seen this entertainment through and through. You've seen your birth, your life, your death, you might recall all the rest. Did you have a good life? Enough to base a movie on?"



i want him to call me out of no where on valentine's day past nine o' clock and ask if i want to do anything, and i'll say "sure, how 'bout Mc Donald's?"
i want him to pick me up and hour or so later and give me my first ever v-day gift of bath salts and conversation hearts and never see the golden arches.
instead, we go to butt-fuckin' no where to pick up some dealin' money for your friends and while i wait, i get out of the car and fall in love with the country stars.
i want him to ramble on about how hilarious Blazin' Saddles is and introduce me to Chocolate and Cheese.
i want him to be my first valentine and my first backseat love in a random dirt driveway and prompt me on the trip back that we went to the Salt Lick on reservation and had a large plate of ribs.
i want him to not answer your phone when i call you because i know you're busy and that you'll call me again when you're able and wanting to and leave me with lingering thoughts that we'll get back together when the dust clears from your busy life.

i want other lovers to tickle and torture my fancy and distract me from what is in front of my face though out of reach and to get wrapped up in my self-piting cycle of being wretched and broken over trivial wantons and lament about i'm going to become a cat lady, only to fall in lust again.


i want to wonder if they allow non-parishiners to be buried in the church graveyard and call dibs for the spot next to him, and if they don't, devise a plan to hire hobos to bury me alive in a makeshift coffin and die by my own means when i'm buried. they'll never notice.

i want to never find the balls to do myself in for the sake of anybody who ever gave two shits about me.

i want to graduate.

i want to take a year off after graduation and realize that the long cock of the law is still on my ass so i can't go or do anything.
i want my "year off" to end up being dedicated to drug classes and NA meetings and, between the summers, i'll want to shoot myself on some 276 different occasions (other bodily harms omitted.)

i want to return to school the next summer and test the grounds with spanish classes and find out my motivation for school hasn't improved over the break, but still sign up for core classes in the fall.

i want to feel stressed juggling work and school and find comfort at the bottom of a bottle.
i want my mom to cry when she finds out my love for the search and break down, wailing and screaming and punching me in frustration, and i stay silently somber because i know why.

i want to get my credits for the core classes, and decide to take another year off.

i want to be finally released from the burden of the law, and try to travel and hop from town to town, but realize how unrealistic it is to carry on like that and keep a job, so instead i do a trial of homelessness to see if i can survive. so i get myself lost in the woods somewhere with my backpack of supplies, make camp, and last 4 days before i finally realize i hadn't set up anywhere near water, so i move. when i finally find a stream, i inspect it, strip down, and, right before i get thigh-deep, get neurotic about leeches and bugs and wasps and fish and snakes and ticks and chiggers and bacteria and spiders and alligators and sharks and mountain lions--and leave.
i want to feel like a failure.

i want to find myself between the devil and the deep blue sea and become a recluse until i can gain an idea of what i'm going to do.
i want to be fired from my waitressing job after calling in for three weeks when they lose their sympathy.
i want to be half-way glad because it was a shitty job anyway with nasty staff and customers who bitch and don't tip.
i want to leave the house after a few months to become a teacher, but realize i need money for that and make a u-turn back to my sanctuary.

teacher



writer


(martryr)

i want to own thirteen cats, and always bitch at them for being too whiney, except for the little grey-spotted one named minnie and have all the others be jealous of my love for her in their little kitty-ways. and when they give me that little kitty-look, i'll scold them about how it'd be them i baby if they weren't so whiney.

i want...

On your blog -
Capture you thoughts about the story:
Discuss the rhythm of the story. How does Elizabeth Crane create rhythm in her story. What language devices and rhetorical techniques does she use, and how do these speed up/ slow down the pace of the story. How do the shifts in pacing mirror and support the shifts in tone?
Consider repetition, use of vivid details vs. summary, narrative tone (humorous, nostalgic, poignant, realistic etc.)

After our class writing exercise:
In Microsoft Word -
Start drafting your own "I want" story in the style of "Football." Start with where you are today, and write a first person narrative based on a series of "I want" phrases that move chronologically through your death and possibly beyond.

"there was a time."

feelin' nostalgic over
years i've never lived
and lovers i've never kissed

look out, here she comes...

Characters in order of introduction:
Officer 1
Fredrica (Guevara)
Officer 2
Lupe (Llamas)
Boy
Secretary


Title sequence: helter skelter cover plays, dialogue cuts into ending of sequence

Scene 1: [how it began]

Setting: cliché police interrogation room. There is a girl sitting at the table with recorder on table, her face hardly visible. Police officer sits across, another in background shadows. Scene opens with shot of recorder.

Officer 1 [v/o title]
Please state your name for the record.

Fredrica [v/o]
Fredrica Guevara.

Officer 1 [v/o]
You understand you are currently being recorded and everything you say here on out w--

[Cut from end of title sequence into I/r]

Fredrica [Interrupts]
Do you have enough tape?

Officer 1 [Off-screen]
Ma'am?

Fredrica
Do you have enough tape for my story? I don't want to have to stop and wreck my train of thought so that y'all can switch the tape.

Officer 1 [o/s]
Uh, *checks* yes ma'am. Ninety-minutes, both sides.

Fredrica
Ah... I'm sure that'll be enough... Well... Where should I start?

Officer 1 [o/s]
Well, begin from where it all began.

Fredrica
Like a storyline?

Officer 1 [o/s]
If that's how you want to do it...

Fredrica [Audible sigh, beat]
Can I smoke in here?

Officer 1 [o/s, beat]
Uhh...
[Turns to officer 2, incoherent whispering]
Are you 18?

Fredrica
Do you want my story?

[Incoherent whispering between officers]

Officer 2
I'll get you an ashtray.

Fredrica
Ah, don't bother. I'll just use my cup...
[Lights a cigarette, sigh/exhale, beat]
It all began with a little boredom and some red fabric paint. W-

Officer 1 [interrupts]
'Scuse me?

Fredrica
...What?

Officer 1
I'm sorry, ma'am, but how c--

Fredrica [Interrupts, calmly]
Do you want my story or not? There are things that can't and won't be explained, and if you're going to interrupt every time...

Officer 1
I'm sorry, ma'am. Please continue.

Fredrica [Pause, audible exhale]
Okay. As I said, it all started with a little boredom and some red fabric paint. We were in my bedroom, sitting around after having gotten done cleaning my room...

[Camera pans to blank darkness]

Scene change: fade into bedroom, daylight in window. U/I girl on bed and u/I boy on bunk, Fred on floor. Music is playing; kids can be heard screaming beyond the bedroom door.

Fredrica [Con’t v/o]
... Bullshitting boredom to fill in dead space, we bust out the bud and--

Officer 2 [Interrupts]
Hold on one minute now...

[Cut back to I/r]

Officer 2 [Con’t]
Bud? Do you mean like Budweiser?

[Officer 1 abruptly turns to 2 wtf-style]

Fredrica
Uh... *laughs* yeah. We get to *mockingly* crackin' open our bud-weisers...

[Cut back to b/r. con't v/o]
...And figure out what we are to do to fend of the boredom.

Boy
Nice kicks there.

Lupe
Yeah, I spilt bleach on them. And this one, I tried to even it out, but it was wet so it spread.

Boy
I like how you colored it red.

Fredrica
Mmm-hmm, yeah, and where'd you get that from? *Big smile*

Lupe
Mayne, I’ll cut you, mayne. I’ll cut you so bah’, mayne, you wish I didn’t cut you so bah, mayne...

Fredrica
Heeheehee...

Boy [Pulling out bag]
What’s this?

Fredrica
Oh, uh.... It's fabric paint. Puta gave it to me to make shirts for the Zombie concert.

Lupe [grabs bag]
Ohhh sheeyt!
[Pulls out paint]
What should I write?

[Improv. suggestions]

Fredrica
Oh! Lemme see...
[Takes paint. writes "helter" on r., "skelter" on l.]

Lupe [Excitedly]
Oh sheeyt!

Fredrica
They spelled it wrong, but I can't remember how... Ooo! Hol' on, hol' on...
[Writes "death to pigs" (r.) and "x" (l.)]

Lupe
What's the "x" for?

Fredrica
It's my art signature and during the Manson trials,
[vintage clip]
Fredrica [v/o]
they carved an X into their foreheads—"I've X-ed myself from this world."
[end clip]

Lupe
Sweeet.

Fredrica
Mmm-hmmm.
[End scene]


Scene 2: [the b’n’e]

Setting- outside, daytime. Walking down sidewalk.

Lupe [With steps]
Helter—skelter—helter—skelter—helter—skelter…

Fredrica [Giggles]
You’re silly.

Lupe
Yeah, its fun but it can get to you after a while. Like, when I’m walking, I look down and a voice pops in my head—
[Voice]
“Helter—skelter—helter—skelter—helter—skelter…”
[Normal]
It’s sorta repetitive.

Fredrica [Laughs]
I can imagine…

Lupe
Hey… How long have we known each other?

Fredrica
Uh… Well… Let’s see… Since myyyy--5th? Grade year? Soo…
[Counts on fingers]
Seven? Eight years? Half our lives.

Lupe
Sheeyt…

Fredrica
Mmmmm-hm. You’re like my little sister, fool.
[Playfully punches Lupe’s arm]

Lupe
[Laughs]
Awww… Would you consider me your—partner in crime?

Fredrica
Oh hell yes. Las Vatas Locas…
[laughs]

Lupe
[laughs]
You’re so white… Is that even correct Spanish?

Fredrica
[laughs]
Fuck if I know… Somos las whettas locas. How ‘bout that?

Lupe
[laughs]
Ah, si…

Fredrica
Why do you ask?

Lupe
Why do I ask what?

Fredrica
Bacon and eggs…

Lupe
Oh shit! Well… I’ve been thinking and craving…

Fredrica
Hmm?

Lupe
What do you say to a b’n’e? And I ain’t talkin’ about bacon ‘n’ eggs…

Fredrica
Uh…
[shrugs]

Lupe
Breakin’ ‘n’ enterin’, muhfukuh!

Fredrica
Ohhh sheeyt!… Damn… Maybe? I duno, kinda risky, eh? I mean, I duno. It’s one thing to be purchasing pills and candy from a store—if you get caught, they generally don’t pull a shotgun on your ass.

Lupe
[laughs]
Yeah… But, I mean, with our criminal minds and mad skills put together, I’m sure we can pull together a flawless plan. I mean, Billy pretty much pulled it off with Blockbuster if it wasn’t for the slip-up…

Fredrica
Yeah… But he’s got them choppin’ skills in his blood…
[laughs]
We is but whettas.

Lupe
Si si… But still… I mean…

Fredrica
Hmm... Do you have anywhere in mind?

Lupe
Eh… I’m sure we can start with senior citizens and work our way up…

Fredrica
[laughs]
Work out way up?…
[thinking beat]
Maybe… We’ll hafta work on our ninja styles and quiet entries.

Lupe
Yeah… But sheeyt, mayne. We can take small stuff, pawn it in, and have some extra pocket money for “recreational purposes.”

Fredrica
Oooo, you know how much we love ‘em recreational purposes…

Lupe
And how.

Fredrica
Okie dokie, so you wanna start plannin’ over at your house?

Lupe
Yeah, sure. You want some cocoa?

Fredrica
Heck yes!

[end scene]


scene 3: [death to pigs]

note: throughout scene, clips of descriptions flash as Fredrica recalls it.

Setting: interrogation room

Fredrica
[sigh/yawn]
I’m tired of rambling. Ask me questions.

Officer 1
What happened with this “b’n’e”?

Fredrica
Well, we planned it, pulled it, and made big money.

Officer 1
On a senior citizen?

Fredrica
Eh… Sorta. It was some stuck-up rich-bitch senior citizen, so it was no worries.

Officer 2
How’d you do it?

Fredrica
Eh… Long story short: jimmied a window, got whatever looked most expensive that we could carry, and pawned it.

Officer 1
What did you do with the loot?

Fredrica
Bought large amounts of recreational purposes to ingest and sell.

Officer 1
Were there more break-ins?

Fredrica
Mmmm-hm. It’s addictive how easy it is and how much you can get! I think the smallest amount we got was, what? One-oh-seven? One-ten? Somethin’…

Officer 1
What about the drugs?

Fredrica
What about ‘em?

Officer 1
What did you get and how much?

Fredrica
Well… We got the good shit and a lot of it. What we got and how much is irrelevant and of the past… And a fleeting memory due to… their effects.

Officer 2
Uh-huh. And how long did this last?

Fredrica
[reflective]
Oh jeeze.. uhm.. at least… I duno, between six to nine months, give or take a few—like I said, “fleeting memory.” But in all honesty, I think it all started to get to her head. She started to prefer the hard shit, and you could tell it was frying more brain cells than Paris Hilton has in her entire entity. And she started actin’ real weird. Like, we’d be walking and I’d hear her chanting “helter skelter” as if she was some cult droid. And if she wasn’t saying it, she was mouthing it vacantly. It was startin’ to get creepy, but I brushed it off like it was her being silly on drugs… But still…
[searching for the proper wording]
there just... wasn’t… it just didn’t seem kosher, ya know?

Officer 1
Kosher?

Fredrica
Oh,
[giggles to self]
like… not… not right, not clicking. Not… cut to par?
[self-frustration]
Ah! You know?

Officer 2
[sternly impatient]
I think we get the picture. So far you’ve confessed about everything that we whether didn’t want to or didn’t need to know—what about the killings?

Fredrica
Hmm?

Officer 2
[impatiently—think cliché interrogative officer]
Hmm?? Hmm?! You don’t know? You don’t REMEMBER what you’re here for? Fry too many brain cells? Is this just a “fleeting memory?!” I’m tired of this beating-around-the-bush-bullshit!! You’ve been tiptoeing around and running the show and I’m sick of it! You’re here to talk about the murders, not to write a fuckin’ novel!!

[tense silence]

Fredrica
[quietly]
Where’s the bathroom?

Officer 1
[startled?]
Uh.. Down the hall and to the left after the water fountains.

Fredrica
Thank you. I’ll be right back.
[exit]

Officer 1
You didn’t have to blow up on her like that. She came in on her own free will, offered to confess, and she’s taking her on time with this. Just as long as we get what we need, she can take as long and as prolonged as she wants.

Officer 2
[defensive, intense]
She’s just toying with us, Hal! She’s not taking this seriously and she’s not really getting anywhere!!

Officer 1
Have you been listening?! She was just about to spill her guts on spilling the guts!! Patience is a virtue as well as… something that is good to practice.

Officer 2
It’s just that she shows no respect, no remorse, no nothing. You’ve seen the crime scene photos! How could one do something to gruesome—or even contribute to it—and not feel the least bit sorry for it? All the lifes lost and sadistically destroyed? I don’t get it. I just don’t fucking get it. Through my twenty-seven years on the force, I’ve seen a lot of shit—but this? This… This repulsive carnage--and by fucking teenagers, no less!! Fucking goddamn children…

Officer 1
[echoes]
Fucking goddamn children…
[shakes head]
I blame the media.

[enter Fredrica]

Fredrica
[quietly, no eye contact, distant]
Can we please continue this later, please? I don’t feel good…

Officer 1
[looks back at Officer 2]
Uh… Sure, I don’t see the harm in it—you’re not going to run to Mexico, are you?
[laughs, met with awkward silence. Clears throat]
Take this paper and go to the long desk across the room. Miss Hofflund will make sure you are let out. If you do not show by noon tomorrow, we will come by your house with a search and arrest warrant before dinnertime. Are we clear?

Fredrica
[staring at floor, distant]
Yes sir.

Officer 1
That’s good. Have a good night, Miss Guevara. Hope you feel better in the morning.

Fredrica
[distant]
Thank you, you too.
[exit]

[beats]

Officer 1
You too?

Officer 2
Fucking goddamn children…

[end scene]

scene 4: [the bell tolls for thee]

setting: outside Casa Guevara, dusk. Officer 1 and 2 are accompanied by fellow officers and are quipped with… door breaking down shit.

Officer 1
[beats on door]
Miss Guevara, it’s Officer Aikmen and Floyd. Please open up.

Officer 2
[beats more violently]
GUEVARA, OPEN UP. WE WILL NOT HESITATE TO BREAK DOWN THE DOOR.
I fucking knew it. I fucking knew she’d pull this shit.
[beats violently]
OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, GUEVARA!

Officer 1
[sigh]
Alright boys. Let’s take this sucker out.

[1 and 2 step out of the way]

Lead in procedure
One, two, three!!
[breaks down door]

indoor setting: mess mess mess mess mess—drug reminisce, paraphernalia, trash, toys, rotting food, etc.

[1 and 2 walk in armed and precautious, checking rooms]

Officer 1
Miss Guevara? Miss Guevara?

Officer 2
[attempts to open door—locked. Pounds on door; Fellow Officers crowd around]
Guevara, we know you’re in there! Open up!
[beat]
Fuck it.
[kicks down door]

[unison groans of disgust]

Officer 1
FUCK!
[punches hole in near-by wall]

inside room: clean clean clean white room. Disemboweled Fredrica on white—now red—bed. There is a syringe still in her left arm, knife in her right hand, and a hand-held tape recorder in a Ziplock bag.