Next on the Agenda:
Wage a make-believe Revolution,
Chart a pretend war,
Hypothetical World War Three.
With an Online Simulation,
We will depict
How nuclear detonations
Catastrophically interrupt
Our daily Lives
With Death.
With the internet
We will explore
the mass dissemination
of imagined photographic manipulations
displaying atrocities beyond repair.
In doing so,
We will have created
A grand vision
Of a new romantic nightmare
Unfolding in fake reportage.
In comparison,
Aerial Photographs of
'Clear Cutting in the Amazon'
or visions of
'Antarctica's Melting Glacial Drifts'
Will Appear
Mundane.
Thus, we will trump
All of the other nightmares.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Mental Dump #4
This one is something like Surrealism. For me, its a little bit too random, but parts are okay. (Breton, you fool, look what you've done to me).
I'd like to order an earl grey tea and spill it on the floor to see the look on your face. The look of humor or disgust? I can't predict what you'd do, but I love to bring it out of you. Let's go dancing when the wind is just cold enough to make our skin hairs prick up like little alarms. Then I can hover close to you because in your warmth, I'll find something that I've never found in anyone else's warmth. It goes something like this: Tears infused with lavender burning on the hood of my Hyundai, pooling as they bubble, nearing the point where gravity pulls them all of the way to the cement floor. Forever, I'll wait for the tear to drop but it won't. It hovers there on the hood of the car as the paint chips off over centuries of decay and eventually the tear evaporates leaving the scent of rust and compost. I've never felt this sensation anywhere else but its particulars are refreshed with each embrace.
Darling, I went to find an outfit to wear to the movies with you and I had a sick feeling that nothing in my closet would do. The shops were closed and painful music blared in my ears. I finally just threw on a pair of your pants and my grandpa's duck-hunting scarf over a black dress. My coat was the wool one with elbows that are worn through. With a flower in my hair and my hair covered with a wide brimmed hat, I found you smoking against the wall at the Castro Theater and you said, "Hi."
It seemed like you didn't pay heed to my clothing because the first thing you did was reach in my coat and pinch my side. I laughed because the pinch was a bit rough. It made me sad at the same time. The irony amounts to more than I can usually bear. The irony usually makes me want to throw my clothes into a pile on the floor where you can light them on fire. Together we will lay in bed, pinching each other until we bruise and bleed. The confusion will amount to a larger pool of blood on the floor that in the sunlight will eventually evaporate and leave that same scent, of rust and compost.
The movie we saw was another foreign film without subtitles and the conversations of the people in the row behind us covered up the language, anyway. The images were obscured by the curtains that weren't pulled all of the way open so the faces were all ripping over the thick velvet. The clothing I wore was all too tight on me and I kept shifting my weight. I could see you growing more and more frustrated, having wasted all of your dollars on a corrupt form of entertainment. Finally you couldn't take it any more and you got up with an irritated thrust. You stomped up the aisle that was steep, like a mountain. You had some words with the theater manager and they must have been well chosen words because after that, everything was immediately put in order. The people behind us were asked to leave. The curtains were pulled open and subtitles in English appeared for us Americans. The manager even brought me a garment box that was tied up with a bright-red satin bow. I pulled the ribbon open and found a gorgeous cocktail dress wrapped in tissue paper in the box. WIth wide eyes, I stared in amazement at the gown and kissed you in slow-motion on the corner of your mouth. You whispered something in my ear but I didn't understand it. It was a phrase that held more meaning in another context but the one that I was in was filled up with my amazement. I trotted to the ladies room and tossed my trousers, coat, dress, and scarf into the trash receptacle. The new gown fit me like a dream.
When I returned to the theater, the seats had been removed from the downward slope to the screen and most of the couples were ballroom dancing, bathed in the light of the movie. You held out your hands in position to begin a waltz and I ran down to place each of my palms in yours. You acted like a marvelous gentleman. Certainly you knew that without your words addressed to the theater manager, the night would have been a huge mistake. Instead, we were having the time of our lives, with a huge well of dignity inside of us. It shined through each dance step. I spun in circles and each time I lost balance, you pulled me back into place. My erratic motions paired with your adjustments made for a strange style that the others started to mimic. All of the women embodied a whimsical acted-out lunacy.
I got tired of this terrible style that I had begun accidently. You wouldn't let me stop, though. Each time I tried to even out my balance, you'd push me out, nearly causing me to sprain an ankle unless I gave into your adjustment. The dance grew more and more restrictive and soon enough, I felt as though I was really going mad. I started to pant and panic. My dress tore at the hem. Tears pooled in my eyes and you looked at me with a vast smile that expressed a unique sort of dignity. I folded into your arms and you shoved me back into position. I went limp and you kicked me up from the bottom. I started to sweat and you tossed me out to get some air.
There are people like you at the laundromat. Those people sing in Amharic. They sing the beautiful clothes washing song to their Ethiopian-christian deity. Your friend told me that my eyes were beautiful. Is it because I'm the other one, the blue-eyed monster, the eyes that you're not used to where you're from? I told you that your singing was beautiful and you said that it appeals to people like me because it sounds foreign to us. Your friend didn't like the singing though, too familiar. There are people like you in art galleries creating worlds that are so alien and unfamiliar in their beauty that it draws me in like a floating seed in the air, seeking new ground. There are people like me who like to write it out on the wall.
I'd like to order an earl grey tea and spill it on the floor to see the look on your face. The look of humor or disgust? I can't predict what you'd do, but I love to bring it out of you. Let's go dancing when the wind is just cold enough to make our skin hairs prick up like little alarms. Then I can hover close to you because in your warmth, I'll find something that I've never found in anyone else's warmth. It goes something like this: Tears infused with lavender burning on the hood of my Hyundai, pooling as they bubble, nearing the point where gravity pulls them all of the way to the cement floor. Forever, I'll wait for the tear to drop but it won't. It hovers there on the hood of the car as the paint chips off over centuries of decay and eventually the tear evaporates leaving the scent of rust and compost. I've never felt this sensation anywhere else but its particulars are refreshed with each embrace.
Darling, I went to find an outfit to wear to the movies with you and I had a sick feeling that nothing in my closet would do. The shops were closed and painful music blared in my ears. I finally just threw on a pair of your pants and my grandpa's duck-hunting scarf over a black dress. My coat was the wool one with elbows that are worn through. With a flower in my hair and my hair covered with a wide brimmed hat, I found you smoking against the wall at the Castro Theater and you said, "Hi."
It seemed like you didn't pay heed to my clothing because the first thing you did was reach in my coat and pinch my side. I laughed because the pinch was a bit rough. It made me sad at the same time. The irony amounts to more than I can usually bear. The irony usually makes me want to throw my clothes into a pile on the floor where you can light them on fire. Together we will lay in bed, pinching each other until we bruise and bleed. The confusion will amount to a larger pool of blood on the floor that in the sunlight will eventually evaporate and leave that same scent, of rust and compost.
The movie we saw was another foreign film without subtitles and the conversations of the people in the row behind us covered up the language, anyway. The images were obscured by the curtains that weren't pulled all of the way open so the faces were all ripping over the thick velvet. The clothing I wore was all too tight on me and I kept shifting my weight. I could see you growing more and more frustrated, having wasted all of your dollars on a corrupt form of entertainment. Finally you couldn't take it any more and you got up with an irritated thrust. You stomped up the aisle that was steep, like a mountain. You had some words with the theater manager and they must have been well chosen words because after that, everything was immediately put in order. The people behind us were asked to leave. The curtains were pulled open and subtitles in English appeared for us Americans. The manager even brought me a garment box that was tied up with a bright-red satin bow. I pulled the ribbon open and found a gorgeous cocktail dress wrapped in tissue paper in the box. WIth wide eyes, I stared in amazement at the gown and kissed you in slow-motion on the corner of your mouth. You whispered something in my ear but I didn't understand it. It was a phrase that held more meaning in another context but the one that I was in was filled up with my amazement. I trotted to the ladies room and tossed my trousers, coat, dress, and scarf into the trash receptacle. The new gown fit me like a dream.
When I returned to the theater, the seats had been removed from the downward slope to the screen and most of the couples were ballroom dancing, bathed in the light of the movie. You held out your hands in position to begin a waltz and I ran down to place each of my palms in yours. You acted like a marvelous gentleman. Certainly you knew that without your words addressed to the theater manager, the night would have been a huge mistake. Instead, we were having the time of our lives, with a huge well of dignity inside of us. It shined through each dance step. I spun in circles and each time I lost balance, you pulled me back into place. My erratic motions paired with your adjustments made for a strange style that the others started to mimic. All of the women embodied a whimsical acted-out lunacy.
I got tired of this terrible style that I had begun accidently. You wouldn't let me stop, though. Each time I tried to even out my balance, you'd push me out, nearly causing me to sprain an ankle unless I gave into your adjustment. The dance grew more and more restrictive and soon enough, I felt as though I was really going mad. I started to pant and panic. My dress tore at the hem. Tears pooled in my eyes and you looked at me with a vast smile that expressed a unique sort of dignity. I folded into your arms and you shoved me back into position. I went limp and you kicked me up from the bottom. I started to sweat and you tossed me out to get some air.
There are people like you at the laundromat. Those people sing in Amharic. They sing the beautiful clothes washing song to their Ethiopian-christian deity. Your friend told me that my eyes were beautiful. Is it because I'm the other one, the blue-eyed monster, the eyes that you're not used to where you're from? I told you that your singing was beautiful and you said that it appeals to people like me because it sounds foreign to us. Your friend didn't like the singing though, too familiar. There are people like you in art galleries creating worlds that are so alien and unfamiliar in their beauty that it draws me in like a floating seed in the air, seeking new ground. There are people like me who like to write it out on the wall.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Symmetry Project
Tonight, I saw the Symmetry Project performed, as a guest of my friend Damon Smith, featuring the work of Jess Curtis, Maria Scaroni, and Klaus Janek on bass. It was unlike anything I've ever seen; absolutely beautiful in its postmodern aesthetic.
Jess Curtis
and the music of
Klaus Janek
who is also friends with my friend
Damon Smith
Jess Curtis
and the music of
Klaus Janek
who is also friends with my friend
Damon Smith
Friday, March 27, 2009
Esoterica
Decomposition. Parts separate and sort themselves into matter that smells. New senses depict the decay, telling what sight may miss. Sight looks down and sees earth, brown earth, in the color and composition of decay. Sitting down, rolling down a grassy hill, children cover themselves in decay. Worms bathe in decay. Fish swim in decay. I breath decay and its okay. Take my hand and put it where you think there might be an opportunity for decay. I don't know where you intend to put it. I think it will offer me insight into your aesthetics. Please bring me something foul to put on television. I could broadcast anything. Foul is for the children to bathe in, glowing bath of electric light. This is decay. This is another instance of decay. Mental decay. Forming new visions of dreams that lose depth because the flatness of things decays depth. Sorts out into a wall that stand like a fortress, making us believe that we cannot breakthrough. Do you remember when history did not own any televisions and people dreamt of space that they could maneuver. With television, space is a one-sided endeavor, decided by programmers who hired actors and actresses to depict allegories that infuse our minds or one-line catch phrases to become mantras, the answers to questions where curiosity goes flat. There is a momentum halting jargon that brings people into submission and its prime progenitor is the television. What am I saying, anyway. Text is becoming twice, tree times, exponentially more constant with the advent of the internet. A great soaring mouthful splattered onto a two dimensional screen. A screen where I grow tired and in the morning, where I gaze, drinking coffee, and in the afternoon, where I gaze, looking toward no horizon, just a two dimensional pan of icons that I click on to pop up something else. These windows appear and they are stacked, one on top of another like pieces of paper but flatter still, non-individual sheets, just a simulation of objectification. This screen is the pan in which my text goes soaring out like little birds who have found their endless sky. The screen of the computer is the words' garden, ripe and fertile for them to exponentially proliferate. Times are changing and technology brings language to the fore. Keep watching the sky
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
B.O.R.E.D.O.M.
Various people have me thinking of Boredom: Tao Lin, Jacques Debrot, Andy Warhol, Tony Dryer & Jacob Felix. Boredom is the new wave of emotional complexity. Not knowing how to pull pants on or off. Tangled cords of gadgetry all convening in one or two surge protectors. Upload/Download. A Drawer of Organized File Folders. Handwriting practice. Editing Email Drafts. Re-readings. Re-readings. Editing Email Drafts. Handwriting practice. A Drawer of Organized File Folders. Upload/Download. Tangled cords of gadgetry all convening in one or two surge protectors. Not knowing how to pull pants on or off.
Submitting to Boredom: Re-reading my favorite Blogger's Oeuvre. Learning how to spell Oeuvre.
Submitting to Boredom: Re-reading my favorite Blogger's Oeuvre. Learning how to spell Oeuvre.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Mental Dump #3
Since I think writing fast vignettes helps my writing, I'm going to continue with the next story that I recently compiled. Its called 'The Winter of History'
Emerson, the school boy, studied late in the evenings all December. For the first time in his life, the details of history unfolded before him, projecting imagery onto the wood-slatted roof in his attic bedroom. With the low light of a candle he tore information from his history book, quietly mesmerized in the cold where the buzz of his space heater covered the sound of turning pages from reaching the ears of his mother, on the level below.
Here, his imagination soared up to the corners of the attic where spiders and beetles made their homes in shadowy corners, to save themselves from the cold. They descended the walls finding warmth in the cracks between books on Emerson's bookshelf and under his bed. By candlelight, he raced to find horrors upon horrors in the text, discovering that history amounted to an elaborate eulogy for entire races and nations of people.
He read evil into the course of World War II and pondered his Grandfather's participation. December grew colder and colder and ice sickles grew from the gutter outside his window. His studies ensued along with the constant discomfort of the frozen season. A week long storm welled up around the wood homestead in Rathdrum, Idaho where he lived. Each morning, his mother would heat the station-wagon so she could drop him at the bus-stop, one mile down their gravel driveway. The gravel was covered in ice and the chains of the wagon wheels slid to a stop at the bus-stop intersection.
Each night, the cold air tickled him to sleep. He clutched his knees with gangly arms that could not muster warmth even under mounds of blankets. In contrast, each morning, he felt too warm, having generated heat that surmounted the outside air, insulated in the pockets of wool weave and quilted folds. The outer most layer of his bed was his Grandfather's army sleeping bag, a thick green canvas sheath that protected him from the chill.
The American Army in World War II stood out like a glorified knight in shining armor for Emerson who read of the German atrocities by night. The matter became complex, as he tried to factor in the Russians who waged a Revolution and the many details about the Western Front. Masses of murdered people piled in his imagination, heaping like the blankets atop his bed. One night during his studies, he lit his first cigarette with the candle that burned on his desk for late-night study.
...but the Americans, he thought, weren't they Germans, too? Africans, and Natives and Asian Immigrants. English, French and Italian immigrants who all participated together along with their former Kingdoms? Emerson's Grandfather was German. He was a German with classic German appearance. Tall and thin, with pale eyes and complexion. He was of Aryan descent, the preferred race of the Nazis. This comparison made Emerson cringe.
The weather grew worse in the middle of the month. Power outages and road-closures due to snow drifts gave way to school-closure so that Emerson was left home, alone. His mother warned him not to go out in the snow to play because he might catch fever. Without central heating, the fire in their wood-stove was the only source of heat and it left unfettered frost looming in the reaches of the house.
Emerson continued his mental mappings of the War and discovered the course of battle over time. He felt removed from the atrocities, but they formed hints about the world that anticipated something awful. He couldn't understand warfare. He couldn't fathom deaths in the way that they amassed on the page. Meanwhile, America was untouched, waging war abroad. Furthermore, his grandfather's stories of relative safety during the war made his personal experience of World War II resonate with a feeling of adventure. It was the only time his Grandfather ever received a subsidized vacation to Italy, Morocco, and Greece. Without power, Emerson's contemplative days passed slowly. His box of cigarettes grew fewer in number.
One morning, Emerson rolled over in his bed to find his electronic alarm blinking numbers. He realized the power was back on. Emerson ran down the stairs to find his mom cooking instant oatmeal in the microwave.
"The power's back on!" he shouted.
"It is! And guess what day it is!" his mom replied, "Its the first day of Christmas break!"
"Awesome!" shouted Emerson at the top of his lungs while he leapt in the air. He ran into the living room to turn on the TV to the Cartoon Network.
"Sweetie, don't forget. Today we are going to your grandparents' house to bake Christmas cookies with your cousins."
"Today?!"
"Yes, this afternoon."
"Sweet! I love Christmastime!" he shouted loud enough to scare the spiders into the wood-grain.
At Emerson's grandparent's house, his cousins were already putting on their snow-pants and mittens to play outside in the snow and take turns on the snow-mobile. He rushed to join them, with a manic attempt stuff his sweater into the elastic lining of the pillowy pants. Soon, he rushed outside and launched a snowball at his cousin, John.
"Trevor, come here! Let's hide behind this heap of snow to wage an attack at John and Mike!" He shouted, collecting Trevor by his side.
Trevor joined him. Almost instantly, the boys formed teams. The enthusiastic crossfire went on without cease. Mallory giggled with her neighbor, Susie, to cross between the two snow-forts. John's eager thrust accidently nailed Mallory in the forehead and knocked her to the ground. Emerson ran out to be sure she was alright. John took this as an invitation to launch an onslaught at his easy target.
"Quit it, Jack-ass!" shouted John, "I think she's hurt."
"Mama's boy!" shouted John's partner Mike.
"I think she's hurt." they mocked Emerson in shrill voices.
"Fuck off!" shouted Emerson.
"Yeah fuck off!" shouted Susie who piped up, taking sides.
They looked at each other in agreement and Emerson realized that Mallory's friend was very pretty, and fearless. Aunt Joan came to check on the kids and to see why Emerson and Susie were huddled over Mallory, who was on the ground.
"Hey, what's going on, here?"
"John hit me in the forehead." Mallory sniffed.
"Come inside Mallory, I don't want you sit with your head in the snow," she admonished, "Besides the cookies are almost ready."
"Cookies!" the kids shouted and ran back inside like a pack of dogs.
Susie and Emerson took their time walking back, together. He started to tell her about World War II. He explained Hitler, in his own words, "An evil demon wearing stiff clothes." He tried to explain all of the European heads of state during World War II in one line, each. Finally, Susie looked at him with wide eyed curiosity and asked, "What about America?"
He stumbled over her question, the words lost upon him. Somehow, he felt complete admiration for Susie. She caught him off guard and he realized, he didn't even know the name of the presidents in America during the war. Instead of answering her, he quickly kissed her on the lips and ran off into the kitchen where the other kids were filling up glasses of milk and gathering at their parents' feet in the living room. Her skin flared up in a crimson stain.
The night before Christmas, Emerson made his way through the his history book to detail the turns of events forged by Americans during World War II. For the first time, his mind turned to the other side of the world, discovering Pearl Harbor. Pages turned and turned. Finally, after much arbitration, he stumbled upon information about Hiroshima and his mind went blank.
"Hiroshima," his lips whispered to the dark corners of his room.
"Hiroshima," he mumbled out loud.
Europe faded away. He held back tears and swallowed them like a girl who has been insulted. He tip-toed to the kitchen where he had spied on his mother's whiskey for months. Unlatching the cupboard from a stool, he retrieved the bottle and ran back to his room. For the first time, he swallowed the vile liquid while he read about America and nuclear warfare during World War II. For the first time in his life of many times to come, he fell asleep drunk.
Emerson, the school boy, studied late in the evenings all December. For the first time in his life, the details of history unfolded before him, projecting imagery onto the wood-slatted roof in his attic bedroom. With the low light of a candle he tore information from his history book, quietly mesmerized in the cold where the buzz of his space heater covered the sound of turning pages from reaching the ears of his mother, on the level below.
Here, his imagination soared up to the corners of the attic where spiders and beetles made their homes in shadowy corners, to save themselves from the cold. They descended the walls finding warmth in the cracks between books on Emerson's bookshelf and under his bed. By candlelight, he raced to find horrors upon horrors in the text, discovering that history amounted to an elaborate eulogy for entire races and nations of people.
He read evil into the course of World War II and pondered his Grandfather's participation. December grew colder and colder and ice sickles grew from the gutter outside his window. His studies ensued along with the constant discomfort of the frozen season. A week long storm welled up around the wood homestead in Rathdrum, Idaho where he lived. Each morning, his mother would heat the station-wagon so she could drop him at the bus-stop, one mile down their gravel driveway. The gravel was covered in ice and the chains of the wagon wheels slid to a stop at the bus-stop intersection.
Each night, the cold air tickled him to sleep. He clutched his knees with gangly arms that could not muster warmth even under mounds of blankets. In contrast, each morning, he felt too warm, having generated heat that surmounted the outside air, insulated in the pockets of wool weave and quilted folds. The outer most layer of his bed was his Grandfather's army sleeping bag, a thick green canvas sheath that protected him from the chill.
The American Army in World War II stood out like a glorified knight in shining armor for Emerson who read of the German atrocities by night. The matter became complex, as he tried to factor in the Russians who waged a Revolution and the many details about the Western Front. Masses of murdered people piled in his imagination, heaping like the blankets atop his bed. One night during his studies, he lit his first cigarette with the candle that burned on his desk for late-night study.
...but the Americans, he thought, weren't they Germans, too? Africans, and Natives and Asian Immigrants. English, French and Italian immigrants who all participated together along with their former Kingdoms? Emerson's Grandfather was German. He was a German with classic German appearance. Tall and thin, with pale eyes and complexion. He was of Aryan descent, the preferred race of the Nazis. This comparison made Emerson cringe.
The weather grew worse in the middle of the month. Power outages and road-closures due to snow drifts gave way to school-closure so that Emerson was left home, alone. His mother warned him not to go out in the snow to play because he might catch fever. Without central heating, the fire in their wood-stove was the only source of heat and it left unfettered frost looming in the reaches of the house.
Emerson continued his mental mappings of the War and discovered the course of battle over time. He felt removed from the atrocities, but they formed hints about the world that anticipated something awful. He couldn't understand warfare. He couldn't fathom deaths in the way that they amassed on the page. Meanwhile, America was untouched, waging war abroad. Furthermore, his grandfather's stories of relative safety during the war made his personal experience of World War II resonate with a feeling of adventure. It was the only time his Grandfather ever received a subsidized vacation to Italy, Morocco, and Greece. Without power, Emerson's contemplative days passed slowly. His box of cigarettes grew fewer in number.
One morning, Emerson rolled over in his bed to find his electronic alarm blinking numbers. He realized the power was back on. Emerson ran down the stairs to find his mom cooking instant oatmeal in the microwave.
"The power's back on!" he shouted.
"It is! And guess what day it is!" his mom replied, "Its the first day of Christmas break!"
"Awesome!" shouted Emerson at the top of his lungs while he leapt in the air. He ran into the living room to turn on the TV to the Cartoon Network.
"Sweetie, don't forget. Today we are going to your grandparents' house to bake Christmas cookies with your cousins."
"Today?!"
"Yes, this afternoon."
"Sweet! I love Christmastime!" he shouted loud enough to scare the spiders into the wood-grain.
At Emerson's grandparent's house, his cousins were already putting on their snow-pants and mittens to play outside in the snow and take turns on the snow-mobile. He rushed to join them, with a manic attempt stuff his sweater into the elastic lining of the pillowy pants. Soon, he rushed outside and launched a snowball at his cousin, John.
"Trevor, come here! Let's hide behind this heap of snow to wage an attack at John and Mike!" He shouted, collecting Trevor by his side.
Trevor joined him. Almost instantly, the boys formed teams. The enthusiastic crossfire went on without cease. Mallory giggled with her neighbor, Susie, to cross between the two snow-forts. John's eager thrust accidently nailed Mallory in the forehead and knocked her to the ground. Emerson ran out to be sure she was alright. John took this as an invitation to launch an onslaught at his easy target.
"Quit it, Jack-ass!" shouted John, "I think she's hurt."
"Mama's boy!" shouted John's partner Mike.
"I think she's hurt." they mocked Emerson in shrill voices.
"Fuck off!" shouted Emerson.
"Yeah fuck off!" shouted Susie who piped up, taking sides.
They looked at each other in agreement and Emerson realized that Mallory's friend was very pretty, and fearless. Aunt Joan came to check on the kids and to see why Emerson and Susie were huddled over Mallory, who was on the ground.
"Hey, what's going on, here?"
"John hit me in the forehead." Mallory sniffed.
"Come inside Mallory, I don't want you sit with your head in the snow," she admonished, "Besides the cookies are almost ready."
"Cookies!" the kids shouted and ran back inside like a pack of dogs.
Susie and Emerson took their time walking back, together. He started to tell her about World War II. He explained Hitler, in his own words, "An evil demon wearing stiff clothes." He tried to explain all of the European heads of state during World War II in one line, each. Finally, Susie looked at him with wide eyed curiosity and asked, "What about America?"
He stumbled over her question, the words lost upon him. Somehow, he felt complete admiration for Susie. She caught him off guard and he realized, he didn't even know the name of the presidents in America during the war. Instead of answering her, he quickly kissed her on the lips and ran off into the kitchen where the other kids were filling up glasses of milk and gathering at their parents' feet in the living room. Her skin flared up in a crimson stain.
The night before Christmas, Emerson made his way through the his history book to detail the turns of events forged by Americans during World War II. For the first time, his mind turned to the other side of the world, discovering Pearl Harbor. Pages turned and turned. Finally, after much arbitration, he stumbled upon information about Hiroshima and his mind went blank.
"Hiroshima," his lips whispered to the dark corners of his room.
"Hiroshima," he mumbled out loud.
Europe faded away. He held back tears and swallowed them like a girl who has been insulted. He tip-toed to the kitchen where he had spied on his mother's whiskey for months. Unlatching the cupboard from a stool, he retrieved the bottle and ran back to his room. For the first time, he swallowed the vile liquid while he read about America and nuclear warfare during World War II. For the first time in his life of many times to come, he fell asleep drunk.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Mental Dump #2
(This is a short story about some Marina Chick whose luck runs out, or something to that effect. I wrote it tonight.)
The tables had turned. A pair of black dice lay before her. She grabbed them and toyed with them in one hand. Her mind was elsewhere. The sun cast a warm ray that burned her skin through the window from between mini-blinds. The striped pattern of light on her arm wavered as her knuckles rotated the dice in hand at the same pace as the wheels that reeled in her head. The tables had turned.
Mavis knew from the beginning that the sum of money she had invested in the creative fund was a gamble. Still, she didn't foresee this outcome. Jude had steadily gained bargaining power through his success in leading the fashion division that was Mavis' brainchild. There had been many indications that he wished to make new demands on the existing board of directors but never did Mavis expect that Jude would abandon them without negotiations. Overnight, he resigned, leaving his end of the contract unfulfilled and all of their clients in a position to follow him. His legacy in fashion design was wielded in part by a handful of influential screen actors and actresses who had sported his designs on the red-carpet and at benefits throughout the past five seasons. Now Zephyr Trading, the stock brokerage firm that spearheaded the name-brand launch of Jude's designs known as Amoreux would have to find a fresh new face to fill his position, while either pressing charges (which would greatly reduce their favor in Hollywood) or pleading for some kind of hushed severance negotiation with Jude. But this second option would do little in Zephyr's favor.
Jude flounced around like the ultimate wild-card, appearing and reappearing all over-town in the least likely of places, the most reputable places. It was unclear how he had managed to gained the glitterati's favor with such speed. Jude had been Mavis' friend for years. He was adorable, her favorite 'project' so-to-speak, like a little brother. He was the kind of boy you are compelled to pat on the head when he does something good. She had no idea he had the ability to make such a short-sighted maneuver. Furthermore, he appeared to be gaining momentum, despite the inevitable consequences.
Momentum. Gravitational momentum, blundering forward like the die when she tossed them out the window, in a careless gesture. Below, a pigeon hopped out of the way as one dice of the pair soared down, landing in it's pile of crumbs, and ricocheting into the street where a bus' wheel came to a stop on top of the plastic article, It's face read a solo 'dot'. Off in the gutter, the other landed on the edge of a metal grate. A sewer rat popped its head up to sniff the foreign cube whose face read another solo 'dot'. Mavis threw snake eyes, that morning.
With her long-island nearly sucked dry, and her silk robe sliding off her right shoulder, piling at her elbow, Mavis whistled 'Ain't Misbehavin' out of tune. The knot of jumbled hair on her head sank down over her cheek-bones and she lit a cigarette. Her Saturday was off to a decadent beginning and she still had a list of errands to complete before meeting with her psychoanalyst at three in the afternoon.
Meanwhile, Jude strutted up to the mail slot at Mavis' gate and inserted a hand-written letter. It was similar to letters he used to send, while traveling. He'd always kept polite and consistent communication open with Mavis because he had known from the beginning that her patronage could lift him out of his mediocre regional success into the speedier realm of high fashion on an international level. Finally his prediction was beginning to pay off, and he wanted to thank her for all that she had done to support him over the years.
Mavis heard the metal slot shifting from her open window and she blew a ring of smoke, in curiosity. Reaching with mistaken fingers, she batted at the table for her lighter while gazing out the window. Upon a closer listen, she could hear footsteps fading away with a familiar pace and timbre. She envisioned Jude's Prada boots and vintage trousers ambling with sedentary grace. This recognition caused her to race down the stairs and out her front door to spy out her tall, private gate. When she burst out onto the sidewalk, all she found was a taxi parked across the street in front of her neighbor's driveway. The driver was taking a nap. His turban-wrapped head leaned back over the headrest, with eyes shut.
Finding no one else, she closed the gate and opened her mail compartment. A scent of rose-water wafted up from an envelope pressed with a custom seal. It was like every other letter Jude had ever sent to her, although this article superseded all previous editions in refinement. It signaled an air of superiority. She tore it open with her French tips, leaving a fray of roughage along the seam.
A pretty cursive sang to her with subtle niceties that skirted the traitor's disobedience by coating it in silky praise for Mavis dearest, Jude's so-called "crowning tigress of the city" who "tromped around with perverse magnetism in his one-of-a-kind chiffon tunic during the holidays."
"You gloating, puckish faggot!" she hissed at the page.
Finally she reached the final paragraph that tickled eerily under her skin, "Alas, my lady, I bid you adieu. Your generosity has flowered immensely in my hands. I hope you recognize the impact of your contribution to our nation's fashionable elite. Even though I'll be working to fulfill their needs without Zephyr, I wish to keep our personal alliance free of misrepresentation. Most of all, I respect you. You're a gorgeous person. Best of luck, Judo."
She clenched her fists around the edges of the thick-bonded letter and breathed in a dose of rose-water paired with fury through her nostrils. A pink heat churned upward from the pit of her stomach and her tightly wrung musculature twisted further. She fumed with the letter in hand while her kitten, Dandelion, tackled the hem of her robe.
She turned with bulging eyes at the cat, and kicked it aside with a swift boot. The thrust was too strong for the kitten to bear and it wailed in discomfort before slamming into the wall in front of Mavis. Stunned at the force of her gesture, Mavis stared at the lump of fur before her. She called out its name, noticing that it could not pick itself up from the cement.
"Dandelion?"
Dandelion didn't make a sound.
"Dan...delion?" Mavis' voice trickled up into the air as she slowly tiptoed toward the kitten.
She knelt down like a criminal, peeking at the neighbor's windows in both directions to be sure no one had seen her. She shuddered at the sight of the cat's awkward frame. Her french tips clutched the fur of the tiny limp creature with shaking anxiety and two tears wet her strained line of vision. She wept over the accidental murder of her young, sweet pet. The sound of a knock on her gate from behind made her jump.
Mavis sank to the ground so that whoever it was couldn't see her standing at the front steps. She saw a shadow shifting weight between the cracks in the wood-slatted fence.
"Mavis? Is that you there?" asked a man's voice that she did not recognize.
She didn't say a word. She just clung to her dead kitten as though it were a teddy bear and as though she were a six year-old girl.
"Mavis! Open up. I can see you sitting there."
Tears welled in her eyes and she couldn't bring herself to move.
"Who is it?" she whimpered.
"Are you drunk again?" asked the voice.
"Who the fuck is it?!" she shouted back.
"Honey, its me! Your Father. My voice is stuffed up from a sinus infection."
Mavis set down the cat and rose slowly, tightening her robe to cover her undergarments. She drug her feet towards the gate in resignation and opened it to find her Father's twinkling eyes inspecting her demeanor from under the brim of his Fedora. It was the same Fedora he'd worn for the last thirty years, as long as she could remember. His neck was covered in a neatly wrapped wool scarf. More importantly, his overcoat looked like it could hold her weight, so she unbuckled her knees, and folded into his embrace like a bag of garments bottoming out.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"Yes, papa," Mavis pouted, "something's terribly wrong."
The tables had turned.
(Written by Erica Eller, 2009)
The tables had turned. A pair of black dice lay before her. She grabbed them and toyed with them in one hand. Her mind was elsewhere. The sun cast a warm ray that burned her skin through the window from between mini-blinds. The striped pattern of light on her arm wavered as her knuckles rotated the dice in hand at the same pace as the wheels that reeled in her head. The tables had turned.
Mavis knew from the beginning that the sum of money she had invested in the creative fund was a gamble. Still, she didn't foresee this outcome. Jude had steadily gained bargaining power through his success in leading the fashion division that was Mavis' brainchild. There had been many indications that he wished to make new demands on the existing board of directors but never did Mavis expect that Jude would abandon them without negotiations. Overnight, he resigned, leaving his end of the contract unfulfilled and all of their clients in a position to follow him. His legacy in fashion design was wielded in part by a handful of influential screen actors and actresses who had sported his designs on the red-carpet and at benefits throughout the past five seasons. Now Zephyr Trading, the stock brokerage firm that spearheaded the name-brand launch of Jude's designs known as Amoreux would have to find a fresh new face to fill his position, while either pressing charges (which would greatly reduce their favor in Hollywood) or pleading for some kind of hushed severance negotiation with Jude. But this second option would do little in Zephyr's favor.
Jude flounced around like the ultimate wild-card, appearing and reappearing all over-town in the least likely of places, the most reputable places. It was unclear how he had managed to gained the glitterati's favor with such speed. Jude had been Mavis' friend for years. He was adorable, her favorite 'project' so-to-speak, like a little brother. He was the kind of boy you are compelled to pat on the head when he does something good. She had no idea he had the ability to make such a short-sighted maneuver. Furthermore, he appeared to be gaining momentum, despite the inevitable consequences.
Momentum. Gravitational momentum, blundering forward like the die when she tossed them out the window, in a careless gesture. Below, a pigeon hopped out of the way as one dice of the pair soared down, landing in it's pile of crumbs, and ricocheting into the street where a bus' wheel came to a stop on top of the plastic article, It's face read a solo 'dot'. Off in the gutter, the other landed on the edge of a metal grate. A sewer rat popped its head up to sniff the foreign cube whose face read another solo 'dot'. Mavis threw snake eyes, that morning.
With her long-island nearly sucked dry, and her silk robe sliding off her right shoulder, piling at her elbow, Mavis whistled 'Ain't Misbehavin' out of tune. The knot of jumbled hair on her head sank down over her cheek-bones and she lit a cigarette. Her Saturday was off to a decadent beginning and she still had a list of errands to complete before meeting with her psychoanalyst at three in the afternoon.
Meanwhile, Jude strutted up to the mail slot at Mavis' gate and inserted a hand-written letter. It was similar to letters he used to send, while traveling. He'd always kept polite and consistent communication open with Mavis because he had known from the beginning that her patronage could lift him out of his mediocre regional success into the speedier realm of high fashion on an international level. Finally his prediction was beginning to pay off, and he wanted to thank her for all that she had done to support him over the years.
Mavis heard the metal slot shifting from her open window and she blew a ring of smoke, in curiosity. Reaching with mistaken fingers, she batted at the table for her lighter while gazing out the window. Upon a closer listen, she could hear footsteps fading away with a familiar pace and timbre. She envisioned Jude's Prada boots and vintage trousers ambling with sedentary grace. This recognition caused her to race down the stairs and out her front door to spy out her tall, private gate. When she burst out onto the sidewalk, all she found was a taxi parked across the street in front of her neighbor's driveway. The driver was taking a nap. His turban-wrapped head leaned back over the headrest, with eyes shut.
Finding no one else, she closed the gate and opened her mail compartment. A scent of rose-water wafted up from an envelope pressed with a custom seal. It was like every other letter Jude had ever sent to her, although this article superseded all previous editions in refinement. It signaled an air of superiority. She tore it open with her French tips, leaving a fray of roughage along the seam.
A pretty cursive sang to her with subtle niceties that skirted the traitor's disobedience by coating it in silky praise for Mavis dearest, Jude's so-called "crowning tigress of the city" who "tromped around with perverse magnetism in his one-of-a-kind chiffon tunic during the holidays."
"You gloating, puckish faggot!" she hissed at the page.
Finally she reached the final paragraph that tickled eerily under her skin, "Alas, my lady, I bid you adieu. Your generosity has flowered immensely in my hands. I hope you recognize the impact of your contribution to our nation's fashionable elite. Even though I'll be working to fulfill their needs without Zephyr, I wish to keep our personal alliance free of misrepresentation. Most of all, I respect you. You're a gorgeous person. Best of luck, Judo."
She clenched her fists around the edges of the thick-bonded letter and breathed in a dose of rose-water paired with fury through her nostrils. A pink heat churned upward from the pit of her stomach and her tightly wrung musculature twisted further. She fumed with the letter in hand while her kitten, Dandelion, tackled the hem of her robe.
She turned with bulging eyes at the cat, and kicked it aside with a swift boot. The thrust was too strong for the kitten to bear and it wailed in discomfort before slamming into the wall in front of Mavis. Stunned at the force of her gesture, Mavis stared at the lump of fur before her. She called out its name, noticing that it could not pick itself up from the cement.
"Dandelion?"
Dandelion didn't make a sound.
"Dan...delion?" Mavis' voice trickled up into the air as she slowly tiptoed toward the kitten.
She knelt down like a criminal, peeking at the neighbor's windows in both directions to be sure no one had seen her. She shuddered at the sight of the cat's awkward frame. Her french tips clutched the fur of the tiny limp creature with shaking anxiety and two tears wet her strained line of vision. She wept over the accidental murder of her young, sweet pet. The sound of a knock on her gate from behind made her jump.
Mavis sank to the ground so that whoever it was couldn't see her standing at the front steps. She saw a shadow shifting weight between the cracks in the wood-slatted fence.
"Mavis? Is that you there?" asked a man's voice that she did not recognize.
She didn't say a word. She just clung to her dead kitten as though it were a teddy bear and as though she were a six year-old girl.
"Mavis! Open up. I can see you sitting there."
Tears welled in her eyes and she couldn't bring herself to move.
"Who is it?" she whimpered.
"Are you drunk again?" asked the voice.
"Who the fuck is it?!" she shouted back.
"Honey, its me! Your Father. My voice is stuffed up from a sinus infection."
Mavis set down the cat and rose slowly, tightening her robe to cover her undergarments. She drug her feet towards the gate in resignation and opened it to find her Father's twinkling eyes inspecting her demeanor from under the brim of his Fedora. It was the same Fedora he'd worn for the last thirty years, as long as she could remember. His neck was covered in a neatly wrapped wool scarf. More importantly, his overcoat looked like it could hold her weight, so she unbuckled her knees, and folded into his embrace like a bag of garments bottoming out.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
"Yes, papa," Mavis pouted, "something's terribly wrong."
The tables had turned.
(Written by Erica Eller, 2009)
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Mental Dump #1
(The following is the result of my mental dump of the day, situated in the prose/fiction genre of dumping. By making these writings public, I hope to push myself toward a new potential for my insular mind by allowing myself to be tasteless and un-selfconscious at once while still being accessible. Perhaps a particular style will develop as a result. Perhaps I will defy embarrassment as time goes on. They're minor hopes but reasonable ones.)
"Its funny how his work never improved in twenty years." (Dwight)
"He's plateaued, and a plateau is such an untrustworthy model." (Theodore)
"It contradicts evolution, devolution." (Dwight)
"I think he was locked in some unchanging hovel when he wrote that novel. Or maybe its the result of this city, where seasons aren't distinguishable." (Theodore)
"Perhaps he just sits at home, reminiscing, forever satisfied." (Dwight)
"Yes, the plateau affirms satisfaction." (Theodore)
"When one is happy, why should any change occur?" (Dwight)
"He's found a zone of utter contentment." (Theodore)
"He's found what others search and search for but he acts as if it were merely natural, a birthright, so to speak." (D)
"Meanwhile people like us are digging for evolution, to divulge some inner crystal, mining for gems." (T)
"But what have we become? Critics!" (D)
"I'm actually quite concerned that my whole life has been spent searching in a vacuum for ghosts." (T)
"Critics know where to find value, weighing the options left and right, down to microscopic fractions." (D)
"I thrash with desperate arms at these ghosts who mock me with their sullen faces that melt in my grip." (T)
"Smaller and smaller compartments, constructs, building blocks, and fractals." (D)
"They dart toward me, taking occupation of my spirit, leaving me shivering with a cold sweat." (T)
"Its a lego-set of meaning fitting together into an interconnected infrastructure."
"The mystery renders me inept." (D)
"The bits and pieces just amount to a bigger piece of bits." (T)
"Luckily, I have some demons to oust, otherwise I'd suffer from boredom." (D)
"Do you think he's ever bored with his satisfaction?" (T)
"He seems to be constantly perplexed." (D)
"You're right. He seems to find little perplexing details to whittle away at in his imagination." (T)
"He puts them in my consciousness where they get trapped, minor details like the weight of vermouth on my tongue." (D)
"Yes, and the sound of ice jostling in a glass." (T)
"Say, do you want to have a drink?" (D)
"I'm dying of thirst, now that you mention it." (T)
"Likewise." (D)
Off they went, one squarish, the other stout to find seats at George Kaye's, the bar on Piedmont Ave. They were talking, of course, about their beloved Simon, who had recently published his fourth book entitled Spirits. It was about festive merriment in a time of war. The two men were both failed writers who had been inching along with their local readings and minor story publications for years. Their biggest success had been accepting positions as editors to a joint literary journal between the three friends entitled, "The Wayward Whisper: Writings from Near or Far." It was a local oddity published by Amigos Copies, once a month, also known by its acronym WW. Collaborators ranged from Bhuddist Monks to Elementary school librarians. These folks were all a loosely connected network of post-middle aged, middle-class thinkers whose appetite for flights of fancy had never been quelled by practicality.
The two men were both named after Presidents: Theodore and Dwight. As they wandered into Kaye's, they didn't bother to acknowledge the many faces who all looked ready to drop to the countertop like dead weight. Auntie Selma, the barfly at Kaye's, was the only face that transformed upon their entry. She greeted them by their respective pet-names, Tio and Dewey.
"Whoa Tio, your whiskers grow like the weeds in my neighbor's ditch!"
He rubbed his face in wonder.
"And You! Dewey got a tan, out in the sunshine!"
He too rubbed his face in wonder.
Their own appearances baffled them because neither had bothered to examine their reflection in a mirror for months. They were too wrapped up in revising the ten-year anniversary collected works of WW, representing the its best writing, and had forgone the practice of common toiletry.
"Come over here, let me give you each a kiss."
They wandered to her as though hypnotized, passively following orders under her spell. They lined up before her and accepted kisses like taking communion, just as they once did when they were Catholic school-boys.
"That's right. Now Tio, Auntie owes you a drink. What will you have?"
"Scotch."
"Awww, now hear me out. Dave appears to be out of Scotch so you better order something easier on the liver."
"Nonsense!" Dwight defended Tio.
"Hey! Who asked you? Scotch is not on my bill, today."
"Dave never runs out of Scotch and that's a fact." Dwight whined.
"Well, I don't suppose you'd allow me to have brandy or tequila or rum. No vodka or cognac, either. No liquor straight, anyway. So why don't you order whatever you think is best for me," ruminated Theodore.
"Will do, sweetie pie. Dave! Howsabouta Mai Tai for this boy and a Pina Colada for Dewey."
"She apparently wants us to partake in her display of flamboyant garnish." mentioned Dwight.
The men looked at each other with mutual complacence about the offer.
Selma had a large round frame, and each detail shimmered with gloss. She had glossy nails, glossy eyes, glossy hair, and glossy lips. In the bathroom, even her stool dribbled out like a puddle of gloss from a remote glossy anus that murmured with glossy sounds. She wore glossy satin shirts that shimmered over her wealth of glowing skin. Her words rolled off a thick tongue in a glossy jumble from a voice that gurgled with an abundance of glossy saliva in her throat. Auntie Selma was just like a giant slug, sliming her gloss all over the bar at Kayes.
Dave poured the colors of juice into each glass like mixing paint.
"Its funny how his work never improved in twenty years." (Dwight)
"He's plateaued, and a plateau is such an untrustworthy model." (Theodore)
"It contradicts evolution, devolution." (Dwight)
"I think he was locked in some unchanging hovel when he wrote that novel. Or maybe its the result of this city, where seasons aren't distinguishable." (Theodore)
"Perhaps he just sits at home, reminiscing, forever satisfied." (Dwight)
"Yes, the plateau affirms satisfaction." (Theodore)
"When one is happy, why should any change occur?" (Dwight)
"He's found a zone of utter contentment." (Theodore)
"He's found what others search and search for but he acts as if it were merely natural, a birthright, so to speak." (D)
"Meanwhile people like us are digging for evolution, to divulge some inner crystal, mining for gems." (T)
"But what have we become? Critics!" (D)
"I'm actually quite concerned that my whole life has been spent searching in a vacuum for ghosts." (T)
"Critics know where to find value, weighing the options left and right, down to microscopic fractions." (D)
"I thrash with desperate arms at these ghosts who mock me with their sullen faces that melt in my grip." (T)
"Smaller and smaller compartments, constructs, building blocks, and fractals." (D)
"They dart toward me, taking occupation of my spirit, leaving me shivering with a cold sweat." (T)
"Its a lego-set of meaning fitting together into an interconnected infrastructure."
"The mystery renders me inept." (D)
"The bits and pieces just amount to a bigger piece of bits." (T)
"Luckily, I have some demons to oust, otherwise I'd suffer from boredom." (D)
"Do you think he's ever bored with his satisfaction?" (T)
"He seems to be constantly perplexed." (D)
"You're right. He seems to find little perplexing details to whittle away at in his imagination." (T)
"He puts them in my consciousness where they get trapped, minor details like the weight of vermouth on my tongue." (D)
"Yes, and the sound of ice jostling in a glass." (T)
"Say, do you want to have a drink?" (D)
"I'm dying of thirst, now that you mention it." (T)
"Likewise." (D)
Off they went, one squarish, the other stout to find seats at George Kaye's, the bar on Piedmont Ave. They were talking, of course, about their beloved Simon, who had recently published his fourth book entitled Spirits. It was about festive merriment in a time of war. The two men were both failed writers who had been inching along with their local readings and minor story publications for years. Their biggest success had been accepting positions as editors to a joint literary journal between the three friends entitled, "The Wayward Whisper: Writings from Near or Far." It was a local oddity published by Amigos Copies, once a month, also known by its acronym WW. Collaborators ranged from Bhuddist Monks to Elementary school librarians. These folks were all a loosely connected network of post-middle aged, middle-class thinkers whose appetite for flights of fancy had never been quelled by practicality.
The two men were both named after Presidents: Theodore and Dwight. As they wandered into Kaye's, they didn't bother to acknowledge the many faces who all looked ready to drop to the countertop like dead weight. Auntie Selma, the barfly at Kaye's, was the only face that transformed upon their entry. She greeted them by their respective pet-names, Tio and Dewey.
"Whoa Tio, your whiskers grow like the weeds in my neighbor's ditch!"
He rubbed his face in wonder.
"And You! Dewey got a tan, out in the sunshine!"
He too rubbed his face in wonder.
Their own appearances baffled them because neither had bothered to examine their reflection in a mirror for months. They were too wrapped up in revising the ten-year anniversary collected works of WW, representing the its best writing, and had forgone the practice of common toiletry.
"Come over here, let me give you each a kiss."
They wandered to her as though hypnotized, passively following orders under her spell. They lined up before her and accepted kisses like taking communion, just as they once did when they were Catholic school-boys.
"That's right. Now Tio, Auntie owes you a drink. What will you have?"
"Scotch."
"Awww, now hear me out. Dave appears to be out of Scotch so you better order something easier on the liver."
"Nonsense!" Dwight defended Tio.
"Hey! Who asked you? Scotch is not on my bill, today."
"Dave never runs out of Scotch and that's a fact." Dwight whined.
"Well, I don't suppose you'd allow me to have brandy or tequila or rum. No vodka or cognac, either. No liquor straight, anyway. So why don't you order whatever you think is best for me," ruminated Theodore.
"Will do, sweetie pie. Dave! Howsabouta Mai Tai for this boy and a Pina Colada for Dewey."
"She apparently wants us to partake in her display of flamboyant garnish." mentioned Dwight.
The men looked at each other with mutual complacence about the offer.
Selma had a large round frame, and each detail shimmered with gloss. She had glossy nails, glossy eyes, glossy hair, and glossy lips. In the bathroom, even her stool dribbled out like a puddle of gloss from a remote glossy anus that murmured with glossy sounds. She wore glossy satin shirts that shimmered over her wealth of glowing skin. Her words rolled off a thick tongue in a glossy jumble from a voice that gurgled with an abundance of glossy saliva in her throat. Auntie Selma was just like a giant slug, sliming her gloss all over the bar at Kayes.
Dave poured the colors of juice into each glass like mixing paint.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Russian Poets
Anna Ahkmatova: Tartar sounding name with Open 'A's' on the ends of the names, Her real name was Anna Gorenko, Non-avant guarde, Modern Classicism, Pedigree, Collage like diversification of content, Humbled by past literature, emotional subtlety, intimacy of history, political stance relating to imprisoned son. Wrote during the October Revolution.
Voznesenksy: Studied with Pasternak till his death. Critics claim he is ambiguous and formalistic. Thematic variety, emphasis on Architecture, linguistic variety (describes his tombstone as 'a lump of Rock', and uses scientific language but expresses bewilderment toward technology) He thought form should be a back-drop, a looming presence and he was ambiguous it might have been a mask because he was one of the few who remained defiantly prolific during political campaign against his work and other artists by Kruschev. Wrote about America. WIDE POPULARITY during 60s during the anti-art campaign of Kruschev.
Khlebnikov: Radical Poet. Poetic conception of Time in a grand scheme, "King of Time" for prosody, metre, timing, Use of historical-fictive & non-fictive interplay, Traces Russian language back to Slavic Culture rooted in Persia to distance it from Western Europe and the bourgeois. Russian Futurist, avant guarde poetry. Wrote during October Revolution.
Mayakovsky: Died by Suicide via Russian Roullette, on third attempt. Prodigal aspect, young success. Friends with Pasternak. Propagandist as well as poet for the Bolsheviks. Acclaimed by Stalin and Pasternak (a seemingly contradictory feat).
Pasternak: Known for Doctor Zhivago. Organic unity, natural aspect. One of the least "alienated" of 20th century Poets. Touted for lyric beauty. Radically original as if the world were born everyday. Synthesis of sound, image and narrative elements linked together with the specificity of objects. Wrote during the October Revolution.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
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