"creative writing"--feel free to throw a tomato.

to the legend who sold out

2007-05-14T07:57:00.000-07:00

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?

2007-05-10T07:56:00.000-07:00

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"

2007-05-01T08:52:00.000-07:00

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"

2007-05-01T08:39:00.000-07:00

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...

2007-04-10T08:33:00.000-07:00

"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...

2007-04-03T09:10:00.000-07:00

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."

2007-02-27T09:06:00.000-08:00

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

look out, here she comes...

2007-01-18T10:19:00.000-08:00

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.

misrilou

2007-01-11T08:37:00.000-08:00

Writing the Short Film
What is the rule of thumb for the length of a movie/ number of pages of the script?
between 95-125, but generally no longer than 114
What are the major ways that short films differ from feature films.
feature has 3-act structure, shorts have no time for elaborate plots.
Conceiving Our Story
What is the "Dramatic Moment" in the film?
when the boy confronts his father about his drinking
What are the major conflicts/ questions in "Because of Mama?"
"...he wants his parents to love him, but his parents are at war with each other, and they want different things from him. In his effort to please them both we have the germ of our story."
Determining the Structure
The writer claims that for a short screenplay "a good story needs to have an archetypal storyline and a big idea." Why does he state this, and do you agree?
he states that because it's more or less what every storyline boils down to. the big idea is the key concept needed pretty much to make the story worth while, make it stand out, make everything fall into place, and/or whatever the writer wants to use it for. i agree because otherwise the story has no point or structure.
Read the Step Outline.
Discovering/Crafting Images
What is exposition, and how did the writers decide to handle it in the example they give?
"...Characters... tell us what they are thinking, to explain why they are thinking it, or to give us a peek into their backstories and into the workings of their minds. We call this kind of writing "exposition," because it exposes something to the audience that they can't see."
"[With] a good visual moment... that...conveys information and wins the audience over. Without fail the audience chuckles warmly. They are "with" our character and his struggles. "
Writing Scenes. Beginnings, Middles, Ends / Tips for Writing Engaging Scenes
Read carefully - you will be writing scenes.
What are the three things you read in these sections that you found the most interesting/ helpful and that you will implement.
"...the screenwriter needs to provide a very linear sense of how the character gets from a to b. On the other hand, it's helpful to think of your story line as coming full circle."
"A good scene has its own dramatic moment... moves the action forward... reveals something new... accomplishes several goals.... has a clear purpose... [and] is engaging"
Avoid exposition. Avoid long chunks of dialogue. Avoid "calling the shots." Avoid adverbs and adjectives.
Exercises- Do exercise #1

portfolio? what portforlio? (green update: 12/15)

2006-12-07T08:03:00.000-08:00

For your semester final you must have at least the following:
1. At least one piece for the "My Best Work" section
2. At least three pieces for the "My Range" section
3. A piece that you are going to use an example of your process.
4. A completed template.
5. A short essay explaining your writing process.

my best work:
necromantic

my range:
kinky review
remember that time i told you i could fly?
camel girl

example of process:
i'll look...

completed template? huh?

short essay explaining my writing process. oh joy:
my writing process has absolutely no systematic procedure: it's basically me getting a spark of an idea, bullshitting off that idea, and hoping for the best.
bullshitting comes easy[-ish] with poems, seeing as they are generally very short, you can essentially say anything you want, and there's no real format to abide by. i tend to aim for a Bukowski-like freeform, though i never really hit the nail on the head.
Narrative stories, on the otherhand, are a pain in my ass. I'll get an idea, and if that idea isn't scrapped in a paragraph or so (if not automatically), I'll struggle with building interesting stuff around it. i've never really happily finished a narrative to-date. come to think of it, i don't think i've ever came to a climax either.... hmm... I don't know. The whole story-writing process illudes me...
Reviews, at this point, are a mix of both easy and a pain in my ass. easy because i've done, what? 16-18 reviews to-date, and after about the 14th? 15th? review, i've finally found the easiest way to do them: completely bullshit the stuff you want to say, then go back and censor and add whatever you may still need (details, relavance, analysis, opinion, quotes, etc.) They become a pain in the ass when you don't know what to say, which becomes a problem usually when trying to create some sort of opinionized, analysized synopsis without a spoiler for a complex story--or if you're past deadline, your editor is suffering from not having your story in on-time, and it's only days away from having to go out to print (haha, beat you to it, Bear!)
I'm pretty sure it's safe to say my "writing process" is unconvientional if not nonexistant, but why constrain yourself to the walls of the box when creativity should have no limits?

Whitney

2006-11-30T07:39:00.000-08:00

WHITNEY
This titled syllabic form, created by Betty Ann Whitney, has exactly seven lines.
Syllable Pattern: 3, 4, 3, 4, 3, 4, 7

Example:
In the Garden Year
Voted best
Among the months
May and June
Sprout root and grow.
Soon will dance
On wiry stems
A blend of upturned blossoms.
Betty Ann Whitney, Wesley Chapel, FL

remember that time i told you i could fly?

birds suck at
conversations:
they don't know
their manners well.
flap your arms,
please hurry up,
it's lonely here without you.

acrostics

2006-11-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

Acrostic was defined as a short verse composition, so constructed that the initial letters of the lines, taken consecutively, form words.

Green
Grass grows in the summer.
Really good apples are green.
Even a marker is green.
Even a frog is very dark green.
New Green backpacks are cool for school.
By Damian
(http://www.holycross.edu/departments/socant/dhummon/acrostics/ColorPoetry.htm)

dead of night
eight past two
after the bar
driving recklessly

doe screams
entrails
everywhere
reckless death

freeform?

2006-11-23T15:05:00.000-08:00

I saw
my cat
catch
and eat
a
grasshopper.
Shaking his head
at a
bitter taste
or still
twitching
leg.

Cinquain

2006-11-21T08:45:00.000-08:00

The traditional cinquain is based on a syllable count.
line 1 - 2 syllables
line 2 - 4 syllables
line 3 - 6 syllables
line 4 - 8 syllables
line 5 - 2 syllables

The modern cinquain is based on a word count of words of a certain type.
line 1 - one word (noun) a title or name of the subject
line 2 - two words (adjectives) describing the title
line 3 - three words (verbs) describing an action related to the title
line 4 - four words describing a feeling about the title, a complete sentence
line 5 - one word referring back to the title of the poem

Shining Secret
Moonbeams
Lighting the sea
On a still cloudless night
Illuminate the seaponies
At play

(http://members.optushome.com.au/kazoom/poetry/cinquain.html)

J'aime...
Je t'aime
Et alcool aussi
Et mon petite chou-chou
J'aime beaucoup pelucheux lapins
J'aime tout!

NECromantic

2006-11-07T09:10:00.000-08:00

"Every man to own taste. Mine is for corpses." - Henri Blot

I've never been to a funeral. I take that back. I've been to one: my great-grandmother's when I was about two. But given my age at that time, it easily escapes the grasp of my memory. I only remember the limo ride to the graveyard and my grandfather's pin to his lapel flower poking me as I tried to sleep through the ceremony. He died last year, and I downed a bottle of peroxide. In two minutes I was reenacting the famous projectile vomit scene from The Exorcist.

When my cat died a few years ago, I thought about a funeral, not his but one in general, and I began to discover rigor mortis of my own. While most kids my age steal a Playboy from the local convenience store, I steal the local obituary section from my neighbor's newspaper.

Of course there's the usual "Rita Crouton, 94, dies of natural causes." Those I must get creative with. But every now and then I hit GOLD: "Betsy Courtesy, 19"--that's all I need. I picture her surrounded by silk lining in her Sunday's best. I imagine running my hands up her stalking, up her skirt. My heart starts pounding and hands begin to shake. My rigor mortis grows intense, stomach crippling, and I want to scream but I keep it in, building intensity until...

I don't know why I am the way I am. I've looked into these things and I can't see where I fit in. I'm not in any way "psychotic," I don't want to kill anybody. I dress clean cut? I don't know. It puzzles me. I know what I do isn't "normal" but it doesn't feel wrong. It feels natural to me and I'm still attracted to live females, but where boys find short skirts or sluts sexy, my lure is a lack of a pulse.

However, I am proud to say, I am smitten with a girl I can take home and not fear the sweet, succulent smell of rotting flesh alarming my family. She isn't strikingly gorgeous, but more like delightfully sweet and incredibly quiet. She just sits there in Anatomy, scribbling notes with such attention; I bet she's going to be a great--whatever she's here for.

I haven't been able to talk to her yet. Scenarios of me asking her to be my lab partner and her smiling sweetly, obviously love-struck, accepting my offer, and somehow they end in me sweeping our disemboweled formaldehyde-kitty onto the floor, splashing her with juices, thus miraculously making her--I'm getting carried away. But the point is this Thursday, tomorrow, we're starting a new lab and I don't care how nervous I get, I'm going to ask her to be my lab partner.

Walking into lab room 252, the distinct odor of formaldehyde floats about the room, and I can feel myself getting excited. I sit down in my seat and look around for my angel of Anatomy, but don't see her anywhere. It's 9 til 8, so she still has some time. I walk around the room, looking at the different displays to kill time. Pig fetus in a jar, human anatomical system models, preserved disected kitty (7:57, still no show). Cell system model, human skeleton model, other classes' biology proj--"Good morning class. Get out your goggles, grab a pair of gloves, and partner-up."

I look around the class while returning to my seat, still she's nowhere to be found. I take my time getting out my goggles, still looking around. I fumble around with my lab papers, check the book for show and time, still no where to be found. People are shuffling around, and I start to panic, looking at the door. 8:06, come on please!! Where are you?!

"Hey, do you want to be my partner?" I turn towards the voice and jump at the sight. It's that weird looking girl with no lips! WHY?!

I stare at her mouth and manage to make out a "Uhhh..."

"I'm sorry I'm late! My car's actin' funny and it took some trouble to start." YES! The butterflies in my stomach are having seizures, it's her!

This is it, stand tall. Shake the jitters off. Take a deep breath. "Uhm, hey..."

"Hey.." There's that smile! Oh jeezus that smile!

"Uhhhh..." What?! Oh God! Think, man! Think!! "D-do you want to partner up with me?"

Her smile brightens, "Okay."

Oh God! That was the best freakin' lab ever! We talked through most of it while finding the different chambers and vessles of the cow heart. I found out her name (Mary Ellen), why she's in Anatomy (she wants to be a forensic pathologist), and that she's had her eye on me also! Oh hell yes! I'm so excited! We set up a luncheon date for tomorrow for 3 pm at The Shed (her favorite cafe), followed by the Museum of Anatomy and Pathology. I can't believe this is really happening! I haven't been this excited about a girl since--ever! Oh shit, man. I really hope I don't blow it.

FUCKIN' GODDAMMIT! No, no, NO!! Go down! Bad! BAD! Jeezus fuckin' Christ, just my fuckin' luck. I plan on arriving early to make reservations, but not only is traffic all backed the fuck up but the reason it's backed up is because of a fuckin' crash! Goddammit, goddammit, GODDAMMIT! And then I see body bags, and then I think of funerals, and then--GODDAMMIT! WHY?! I managed to cut out of the line onto the nearest exit, but now I've got to drive around and get rid of--I'M LATE! Fuck fuck FUCK!

Okay, okay, calm down, calm down. Okay, what can I do? I've heard of slapping it... AAAA! NO! BAD! Okay, okay, okay. Uhhmm... SHITMOTHERFUCKERSHIT! Oh jeeze, how am I going to explain this... Fuck it.... I'm just going to go to a conveniece store bathroom and take care of this... It's what truckers do, right?

I arrive at The Shed fourty-three minutes late, praying to whatever fucking god that she's still there (and that I didn't make a mess anywhere I could have missed). I walk around the cafe but don't see a sign of her. I decide to wait around the bathrooms to see if she had to do whatever girls have to do in there, but nothing. I ask the staff if any of them had seen her but they said there was too many girls who fit that description.

I sulk back to my car and bash my head on the steering wheel. Why do I have to have this depravity?! Why do I have to have this life?! This luck?! This curse?! Jeezus Christ I'm fucking stupid, and better yet, I have no way of contacting her. My only option at this point is to wait until Monday so I could talk to her in class. I hope to fucking god she will forgive me...

[to be continued...]

What the fuck am I doing? Oh god, what the fuck am I doing?? Oh god, i want to continue but at the same time IT'S WRONG IT'S WRONG!!

Let's recap::

Monday, I get to 252 and hope to fucking god that my loveliness is there... and she isn't. Ms. Bear gave us an announcement that there was a crash Friday and Mary Ellen was in it.... Uh... maybe something about comatose, failing life support.... And I left bawling like a bitch. I flew out of the building, into my car, drove wrecklessly home, and found my big brother's big bottle of Jack Daniel's.... and this is where the story gets fuzzy.

I remember drinking..... and drinking..... and drinking.....

I remember...... somehow finding her in the obituary and.. not.. getting... hard?

I remember.... running out booze and thowing myself at my big brother to get some more... Then getting my ass kicked for taking his.... Then him handing me a new bottle in disgust and pity...

I remember........... calling a cab, downing a half a bottle.... and the looks of disgruntled disgust and anger of the family.... Then her dad grabbing me... Then I blacked out.
---------------------------------------------------------------

Boy meets girl-Boy and girl fall in love-Boy and girl are physically or metaphorically separated-Boy and girl overcome incredible odds to be together (Usually the boy ends up saving the girl)-They live happily ever after

i like my coffee black just like my metal...

2006-10-16T22:35:00.000-07:00

Words so far: 1,340

The Thirteen Loop Blues Revisited:

How to Rip Open an Emotional Scar

By Kelsie Smith

“He kept at true good humor’s mark
The social flow of pleasure's tide:
He never made a brow look dark,
Nor caused a tear, but when he died.”
- Thomas Love Peacock

"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...'"What the hell is this guy talking about? Strange old man. You're too nice to hate, buddy. What's going on? Why would I want to hate you?...

"Grant called me last night crying... He was talking about how much he still loved you and missed you... He said that he had realized losing you... fueled his alcoholism. He wanted to know whether or not you would want to give it another try with him..."

Sarah's voice repeats herself over and over and over again. The off-white construction paper is stiff from sweat and a little weathered, the faded pencil is getting harder to read. I clutch my "Cristmas" glass heart close in my other hand, and close my eyes, never wanting to let go.

Sarah, my sister thrice removed. In my 6th grade year, Sarah and I were the best of friends. Summer of seventh grade, her house was my second home. When school started up, she went to Covington Middle School and I went to Bailey, so we barely saw each other. Despite our separation, we managed to talk on the phone or hang out every day, if not every other day.

She started talking to her friend Grant and, to make a long story short, she hooked us up. However, there was a catch to this: he lived in Wimberley over 30 miles away, and neither one of us knew what the other looked like. This was no problem for me because I suffered from ugly duckling syndrome, and I had the upper hand with a yearbook from his 7th grade year.

Our relationship was based on daily phone calls for hours at a time, talking just to hear each other's voice. We lasted one year, three months, and some days--only to end when he got a job and had less time to devote to me. He'd go for months at a time, never contacting neither Sarah nor I. He appeared or called randomly, and every time he did, he'd get hell from us for not checking up with us.

The beginning of sophomore year, I had missed the bus or something, so I didn't see Sarah until the morning. She told me to sit down and she handed me a letter scrawled on a folded piece of construction paper. It spoke about how Grant called her at 2 am crying, wanting to get back together with me. My heart skipped a beat and ran. I called him that night and we decided we were going to play by ear and hope we had anything left for each other. During the winter, we hung out more than we ever did when we were going out. That Valentine's Day, he was my first Valentine.

Needless to say, I was getting hopeful for a second time around. But then it got to the point where he didn't reply to my messages or answer the phone, so I stopped calling, figuring it was another period of withdrawal from Austin interaction. If he wanted to talk, he'd call me.

Three months later, I got the call I was waiting for. My dad picked me up from newspaper layout and told me Grant had called that afternoon. I got home to find my big brother Dylan, and Mikey, a stupid parasite in the intestines of society, in my front yard. So I figured I'd put the call off until tomorrow afternoon or evening since I was hanging out with them.

Towards the end of school the next day, I was getting hopelessly excited. Daydreams of us getting back together and eventually settling down fluttered in my head--somewhat extreme I know, but I loved this boy. He was my first for everything and the only one I could ever see being with forever.

I get home from school, all peachy keen. There is a random old man at my door: silver hair, gentle blue eyes, and warm smile. I smile and excuse myself, walking around him to go upstairs to fulfill my after-school routine: drop my backpack on the bed and plop down next to it, turn on the radio, and get comfy.

"Kelsie!! Kelsie come downstairs for a minute!!" my mom calls from the living room.

The old man had moved from the threshold to the living room--what's going on? My mom doesn't get visitors often--if at all--and she sure as hell doesn't invite me to join in their conversation. My mom was sitting on the table and the old man was sitting on the couch.

"Is this her?" the old man asks my mom.

She nods.

He looks at me and smiles. I smile back, confused.

"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...' People say 'I hate you!' And it's okay. It's okay if you want to hate me, hit me..." He looks at my mom, and I look at her too. Her face is pink, eyes glazed, and she smiles at me as if to say "I'm alright. Don't worry about me. Nothing's wrong."

"Something very bad happened last night. It's about your friend Grant King..." My heart drops.

"Last night, Grant committed suicide..." My insides implode and I burst into tears, doubling over and pulling my kitty hood as far as it can go over my face.

He's still talking but I don't hear him. I think he's babbling something about... something. I hear the door open and close, a new voice follows closely. She wants to talk to me about... something. I think she’s brought cookies.

My sister, also crying, comes to hold and comfort me. I hate being comforted. I hate being touched when I cry. I hate the fact that the stupid bitch never knew him and she cries. I want to rip away, but I don’t bother. I just want to be left alone in my upright fetal position, my mind a slosh of lamenting nostalg--“SARAH! I NEED TO SEE SARAH!!” I look at my mom, she understands. I apologize and thank them for coming.

On the walk over to her house, I compose myself the best I could, incase she hadn't found out yet. I knock on the door; she answers red faced and sobbing. I bust out in tears and we hold each other.

At his wake, bawling my little blue eyes out, I remember seeing him in the coffin, and wanting to touch is soft, blond hair, but I couldn't. I remember hearing someone say, "Who is she?" I was the only Austinite, and I was bawling harder than anybody in the sanctuary.

At his funeral, bawling my little blue eyes out, I wanted to touch him again, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I kept thinking, "That's not my Grant...That's not my Grant... That's not my Grant..." My nana's friend told me of a poem that brought her comfort; she offered to send me a copy for his family and myself. I gave a copy to his dad, who never showed any emotion. That irked me in unbelievable ways.

stock:
The glass heart he made me for Christmas back when we were going out. "Merry Crismas. Love ya!" carved into the back. I never let him live down his misspelling.
His love of Ween, Rush, and the Doors has become a musical memory and a part of me. Ween and the Doors, in particular, I have an undying, raging, obsessive love for.
His obituary, the only picture I have of him (when he was 16), the piece of paper I wrote his cell phone number on, and the prayer card from his funeral, has become my shrine and one of the few things I'd save if somehow my house went up in flames.

KK-Creative Write - 10/10

2006-10-11T08:07:00.000-07:00

Camel Girl

She gazes into the glistening glass of the camera's lens.
"1...2...3--FLASH"
"You stupid bitch!!!"
His hard knuckles slam into her soft jaw.
"HONEY, don't flinch! It's only a goddamn camera! What the hell's the matter with this girl?!"
She finds herself on the floor, holding her jaw, nursing her ghost pain. Her eyeliner streaks down her face, ruining her perfect pin-up mask.
"I'm sorry!!" she chokes out. "Give me another try!!"
"Time is money, sugartits!! Who the fu--"
"PLEASE!!! JUST ONE MORE TIME!! I'M SORRY!!! PLEASE!!!!"
He flinches with mercy or pity.
"Okay.... But it's coming out of your paycheck!"
She scrambles to the dressing room and scrubs the makeup off. Feeling some sort of comfort from the cold water, she calms down and chases a valium with a whiskey sour.
"Goddammit, girl! Wake up!!"
She glares at herself hard, wipes her face off with a towl, and reapplies her makup as fast as womanly possible. As the boar's hair brush passes over her silky hair, she feels the valium sweep over her. Looks in the mirror and smiles.
"I'm ready!!" she calls, appoaching the red X infront of the lights.
"About fuckin' time!"
She picks up the cigarette props and smiles into the camera.
"1...2...3--FLASH!"

i have no feet, but i found some fur...

2006-10-10T08:52:00.000-07:00

i've got an idea that i like...
i just need to know where i'm gonna run with it...

i have no rabbit's feet

2006-10-06T08:49:00.000-07:00

i don't know.. i have no luck or inspiration.
i'm not creative.
i'm...... __________.
i don't know what to write.
i don't know i don't know i don't know.

is this a good story? (update 10/06: no.) (update 10/10: dammit, con.... fine. i'll try.)

2006-10-05T08:06:00.000-07:00

Send me money, send me green,

Heaven you will meet,

Make a contribution,

And you'll get a better seat

What is my mother trying to prove? Is she trying to find salvation? Peace of mind? Happiness? Fill a void that rot into her heart, her mind, and in doing so, essentially taking food out of her children's mouth? Taking the clothes off their backs? You'd figure one would be relatively frugal with seven kids, still struggling with both parents working: dad makes a thousand, more or less, in a good week; mom works from 7 pm to 8 am some nights, pulling double shifts and raking in overtime.

It's some time past 1 am when my mom comes home earlier than usual, and nags about how dirty the house is, as usual. I went outside and smoked a half of a Turkish Royal that had saved some time ago. I decided it was past my bedtime, so I walked up the stairs, half muttering, half yelling goodnight just as my mom plopped down on the blue ottoman and whined loudly "I-III-I'M HUUUNGRRRRYY!!!!!!" I looked over and she was looking up at my dad "If I use the money I have, can we get more money tomorrow?" I roll my eyes, and grumble to myself about her being a spoiled brat.

I get to my room and shove papers and pens back into my backpack, turn off the light, and lay down in my bed, fondling the bedside tupperwear for a cd to play. I catch a gleam of silver and grab it, fumbling in the dark for the buttons on the cd player, finally playing it. Ahhhhh, the confortably warm and ragged voice of Bob Dylan dances around my room. I don't find my sleep-comfort in Rainy Day Women, but I let it ride on. It was probably near half-way into Blowin' in the Wind when I hear my Dad scream "I DON'T LIKE CBN!!!" "I KNOW THEY PRAY FOR US!!! WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME OUR CHURCH OFFERED TO PRAY FOR US????" my mom retorts. "THEN STOP BEING CATHOLIC!!!!!!!!!!" my dad screams.

This fight is over the money, hundreds, donated to the pockets of the shady Christian Broadcast Network. Every time I check the mail, I'm sure to trash the envelopes that have CBN, K-LOVE (a Christian radio station that I loathe with every inch of me), and anything that has the words "Christian" or "Organization." I take the "gifts" they send in order to bribe people into donating, but I throw anything that you can send money in away. We barely have enough money to support our family, and my mother donates money to "Christian Orginizations", that personally, I wouldn't trust with the life of me.

I can only make out mostly what my mom screams.

"I'M NOT GULLIABLE!!!!.... IF THE BIBLE SAYS..... 10 PERCENT OF WHAT?????.... I PRAY HARD ABOUT IT!!!! WHAT DOES THAT MAKE ME THE DEVIL????.... WHEN IT COMES TO THE THINGS THAT ARE IMPORTANT TO ME, YOU FUCKING SHIT ON THEM!!!!!....I DO BELIEVE THAT PEOPLE RECEIVE HEALING IT IS IN THE HOLY SPIRIT!!!!!!!"

My dad's voice is a low but intense rumble.

"YOU DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT IT!!!!!!!"

"I'M NOT FOLLOWING ANYBODY BUT ME!!!.... NO, YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S DIVIDING US BECAUSE YOU DON'T FUCKING HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!!"

I sigh and roll over to face my window.

i like that word... synopsis...

2006-10-03T08:46:00.000-07:00

i think i'm going to try to expand and play with my narrative start... the one with the brass princess bed torture scene...
i have an idea of where it can go, and how it can get there... but it's still fuzzy.

let's see...

Name: Iris Anne (s2c?)
Age: 17
Height: 5' 3"
Eye color: grey
Hair color: red/orange--amber
What is this character's major goal? punishment, find meaning in this punishment. touch on man is wolf to man philosophy?
Why is this goal so important to this character? need to feel that the boy gets what he deserves, experiences equal if not more pain than she feels
List events in the character's past that affect the significance of this goal? rape, trampled on, emotional turmoil, confusion
Describe your characters life till now, motivations, family situation, pet peeves--anything that comes to you, in the rest of this space. emotional turmoil, confusion, possible mental illness :), shy, trampled on... blah. parents.... mother beaten by father. iris beaten by father. father ran off, mother od-ed.

"i don't think this is what deaner was talking about..."

2006-09-29T08:36:00.000-07:00

suppose/what if... hooks

what if i told you you had until the end of this paragraph to live? would you keep reading? and if you did keep reading, why? would it be because you were curious as to how you would die? because you were afraid to stop reading? or would it be because you wanted to see if i was serious or not? and if i was serious, would you fight your death? or would you accept your fate freely? would you read slower? would you read faster? would you stop reading at the second-to-last line? what if i wasn't serious, would you have felt i wasted your time? let's find out.

ass-ign-ments

2006-09-27T08:15:00.000-07:00

1.) Copy and paste something from [“Wise words” or “Connolly’s Words”] that made you think or made you mad Do you agree or disagree? Why? Is there an idea in here that could be at the core of a narrative? Have you used any ideas from the selection in your writing in the past?

I happen to feel that the degree of a person's intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting attitudes she can bring to bear on the same topic. -Lisa Alther, Kinflicts, 1975

It made me think, "that makes sense." If you have an array of conflicting attitudes, it reflects the shades of view points and angles you think in. The more you think, the more colors you bring, and colorful things are pretty.
Yes yes, it could be the core of a narrative: a.) it could be elaborated on, and b.) the act of doing it.
No I haven't used this idea... well, actually, I have done it. But always in rants, never really... nevermind. One word--"essays."

2.) Explain the conflict in the story you read.
i. What is the title and author of the piece? "judas really did love jesus" by Phoebe Rusch
ii. What is the main conflict? _____ vs. _____ - daughter vs. parents, daughter vs. herself/emo
iii. How does this conflict ad[d] to the story? it's the epitome of the story. It deals with her emotions to her parents--how she loves them, how she hates them, etc--it's the meat of every section.
iv. Copy a few lines from the story that show how the conflict is resolved. If it is not resolved (very rare), copy a few lines that show the conflict. uh... it's not really resolved... well... -ish.
"it got to the point where the way you stressed certain syllables could make me shudder."
"And that I still loved you simply because we form the same misshapen pearl."
...come to think of it, i think she did resolve it.

am-biv-a-lence /æm-b-v-l-ns[am-biv-uh-luhns]...

2006-09-21T21:23:00.000-07:00

i've got another piece in mind...

i can't finish the Grant piece.
it's too long and without sight of a resolution.

september 27, 2006-
...nevermind. i got nothing.

com‧mit [kuh-mit] –verb 12. to pledge or engage oneself:

2006-09-13T08:42:00.000-07:00

i think i'll expand on the.... the Grant piece.
it's gonna take me a while, so BEAR with me while i struggle--but i'm going to do it.

how to rip open an emotional scar... (almost done)

2006-09-11T08:34:00.000-07:00

He kept at true good humour's mark

The social flow of pleasure's tide:

He never made a brow look dark,

Nor caused a tear, but when he died.

~anonymous

"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...'"
What the hell is this guy talking about? Strange old man. You're too nice to hate, buddy. What's going on? Why would I want to hate you?...

I had just gotten home from school, all peachy keen. There is a random old man at my door: silver hair, gentle blue eyes, and warm smile. I smile and excuse myself, walking around him to go upstairs to fulfill my after-school routine: drop my backpack on the bed and plop down next to it, turn on the radio, and get comfy.

Daydreams of Grant, my first love, flutter in my head, and I wonder when I should call him. He called last night and I didn't get to call him back because I had a couple friends over. I didn't want to be a bad hostess and make them wait while I talk to him for who-knows-how-long, you know. And, as far as I know, he had work in the morning and I didn't want to make him lose sleep when I could talk to him the next day.

Grant and I met through Sarah, my sister thrice removed. In my 6th grade year, Sarah and I were the best of friends. That summer her house was my second home. When school started up, she went to Covington and I went to Bailey, so we barely saw each other. But despite our separation, we managed to talk on the phone or hang out.

She had been talking to her friend Grant, and to make a long story short, she hooked us up September 22, 2001. However, there was a catch to this: he lived in Wimberley and neither one of us knew what the other looked like. This was no problem for me because I suffered from ugly duckling syndrome, and I had the upperhand with a yearbook from my 5th, his 7th, grade year.

Our relationship was based on daily phone calls for hours at a time, talking just to hear each other's voice. We lasted one year, three months, and some days--only to end when he got a job and had less time to devote to me. He'd go for months at a time, never contacting either me or Sarah. He appeared or called randomly, and every time he did, he'd get hell from us for not checking up with us.

The beginning of sophomore year, I had missed the bus or something, because I didn't see Sarah until the morning. She told me to sit down and she handed me a letter.

"Grant called me last night crying... He was talking about how much he still loved you and missed you... He said that he had realized his alcoholism was possibly fueled by losing you... He wanted to know weither or not you would want to give it another try with him..."

My heart skipped a beat and ran. I was overcome with joy. I called him that night and we decided we were going to play by ear, and see and hope we had anything left between us. During the winter, we hung out more than we ever did when we were going out. That Valentine's Day, he was my first Valentine.

Everything taken into consideration, I was getting hopeful. But then, it got to the point where he didn't reply to my messages or answer the phone, so I stopped calling, figuring it was another period of withdrawl from Austin-interaction--"if he wanted to talk, he'd call me."

May 11th I got the call I was waiting for. My dad picked me up from newspaper and told me Grant had called that afternoon. I got home to find my "big brother" Dylan, and Mikey, a stupid parasite in the intestines of society, in my front yard. So I figured I'd put the call off until tomorrow afternoon or evening since I was hanging out with them.

Tomorrow comes and towards the end of the school day, I was getting hopelessly excited. Daydreams of us getting back together and eventually settling down fluttered in my head--somewhat extreme I know, but I loved this boy. He was my first for everything and the only one I could ever see being with forever...

"Kelsie!! Kelsie come downstairs for a minute!!" my mom calls from the living room. My trance breaks and my peachiness made me feel like I was the million-dollar daughter and I obliged without a blink.

The old man had moved from the threshold to the living room--what's going on? My mom doesn't get visitors often--if at all--and she sure as hell doesn't invite me to join in their conversation. My mom was sitting on the table and the old man was sitting on the couch.

"Is this her?" the old man asks my mom. She nods. He looks at me and smiles. I smile back, confused.

"You might hate me after this. That's okay. People say 'I'll never forget you...' People say 'I hate you!' And it's okay. It's okay if you want to hate me, hit me..." He looks at my mom, and I look at her too. Her face is pink, eyes glazed, and she smiles at me as if to say "I'm alright. Don't worry about me. Nothing's wrong."

"Something very bad happened last night. It's about your friend Grant King..." My heart drops. "Last night, Grant committed suicide..." My insides implode and I burst into tears, doubling over and pulling my kitty hood as far as it can go over my face. He's still talking but I don't hear him. I think he's babbling something about... something. I hear the door open and close, a new voice follows closely. She wants to talk to me about... something. I think she’s brought cookies.

My sister, also crying, comes to hold and comfort me. I hate being comforted. I hate being touched when I cry. I hate the fact that the stupid bitch never knew him and she cries!! I want to rip away, but I don’t bother. I just want to be left alone in my upright fetal position, my mind a slosh of lamenting nostalg--“SARAH! I NEED TO SEE SARAH!!” I look at my mom, she understands. I apologize and thank them for coming.

On the walk over to her house, I compose myself the best I could, incase she hadn't found out yet. I knock on the door, and she answers the door crying. I bust out in tears and we hold each other.

At his wake, bawling my little blue eyes out, I remember seeing him in the coffin, and wanting to touch is soft, blond hair--but I couldn't. I remember hearing someone say, "Who is she?" Being the only Austinite, let alone bawling harder than anybody in the sanctuary (maybe two people sort of knew whoI was, excluding my parents, of course.)

At his funeral, bawling my little blue eyes out. I wanted to touch him again, but I couldn't bring myself to it. I kept thinking "That's not my Grant...That's not my Grant... That's not my Grant..." Hoping that at any time, he would bust through the doors yelling, "Ha! Fooled you!!"

My nana's friend told me of a poem that brought her comfort, she offered to send me a copy for myself and his family. I gave a copy to his dad, who never showed an emotion of loss (that irked me in unbelievable ways.)

Now everytime I visit him, I bawl my little blue eyes out. Wishing I could hold him again, talk to him again, hear him say "chicken pot pie" once more--anything! But the pieces I do have of him, I hold close and dear to me, as if it was his memorablia: puzzle pieces to someone, something I can never have.

The glass heart he made me for christmas back when we were going out. "Merry Crismas. Love ya!" carved into the back. I never let him live down his mispelling.

His love of Ween, Rush, and the Doors has become a part of me and a musical memory for me. Ween and the Doors, in particular, I have an undying, raging, obsessive love for.

His obituary, the only picture I have of him (when he was 16), the piece of paper I wrote his cell phone number on, and the prayer card from his funeral, has become my shrine and one of the few things I'd save if somehow my house went up in flames.

a narrative start.....

2006-09-08T08:05:00.000-07:00

His screams filled the air and echoed off the cold cement walls of the basement. It tickled me so seeing this "tough" motherfucker tied up, squeezed into my little brass princess bed, screaming like a bitch. I playfully yanked on the rope suspending his left arm behind him. He screamed as his shoulder bounced and strained at the jerks. My bubbly giggles were soon drowned out by his cries of confusion and profanity. I pulled down on the rope, pulling his arm higher and higher, centimeter-by-centimeter, until I felt a pop through the rope, followed closely by the dickhead screaming bloody hell. "YOU FUCKING BITCH! AAA-A-AA-AAAAA-AAAA!!! YOU FUCKING WHORRREE!! AA-A-AAA MY AAA-RM!!!" I kneeled down to level with him eye-to-eye. His eyes were squinted, glossy, and full of hate. We locked eye contact and I felt the fire in my eyes. I began to tremble with raging adrenaline. I glared hard into his eyes and smiled, shoving a wadded-up pair of dirty underwear into his mouth--this is going to be fun.

"the thirteen loop blues"

2006-09-05T08:58:00.000-07:00

fibers wrapped around itself
wrapped around your neck
around your life line
your life given in a snap

fibers wrapped around itself
wrapped around my heart
around my love's life
my love taken in a snap

i don't know where to run with it....

2006-08-30T08:31:00.000-07:00

as i was walking to class in the morning, i hit the shade of the tree and felt the hidden chill of fall masked by the summer sun. the breeze danced on my body, resurecting a restlessness killed by humid, ovenlike, triple-didgit weather texas summers are known for. my skin tingled in giddy anticipation: i had been waiting for this moment ever since summer started feeling at home. yearnings of cold weather ached my skin in excitement while it suffered the sun.

"my calandar girl"

2006-08-30T08:14:00.000-07:00

she sits there by her car
nicely polished and seductive
i can tell by her eyes she wants only me
i can get up in them guts

as much as i want, how ever i want

as long as my ky jelly doesn't run out

"5-7-5"

2006-08-20T23:53:00.000-07:00

what is a haiku
i can't grasp its formatting
ah--it's for the birds

"a barefooted confession"

2006-08-20T22:44:00.000-07:00

i'm tired of treading softly on shards of glass
--every step bares juicier fruit of pain
toe-heel, heel-toe, whole-foot
--there is no way around their unforgiving edge

i want to run on soft fields of grass
--cold and wet from morning dew
where i'm free to spin, skip, or jump
--there is no second guessing these double-edged blades

"the bear says blog"

2006-08-18T08:56:00.000-07:00

and so it begins.... connolly, there might be hope for me yet. last night kaitlin and i went to heb and spent at least 15-20 minutes shopping for pens. one aisle. one section. one reason: you. if it wasn't for your reading and lecture that day, we would have grabbed the cheapest fancy pens we could get our hands on and wouldn't have had to walk home (our ride left us for he became impatient.) i had popcicles, connolly! POPCICLES!! they could have melted! if it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have taken each and every angle and possibility and everything else normal people wouldn't have done--for a pen. some girls look at clothes, shoes, underwear, whatever. what were we looking at? bloody pens. you inspired us to actually think about what we were going to write with, write on, and we even decided to become "writing buddies" and set up a "club" (the white out society for we bought our first bottle of white out to cover up whatever mistakes we may make while writing and we will set up joint custody--it's become god.) if it wasn't for you, we wouldn't be taking our writing seriously or had any inspiration to becoming an actual writer-writer. if it wasn't for you, we'd still be thinking this is a blow-off class where we don't actually really have to think or work. anybody can put words to paper and make the most "emo"-y story just to put a grade in the gradebook--you made us want to write with a purpose and look forward to it, dammit. how dare you, bear. how dare you.