Thursday, October 25, 2007
Photo: Buffalo
Are you kidding me with this stuff? (Alright, the secret is, I really want one of my own.)
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Photo: WPost, head
Bush has declared it for two reasons: Britney Spears and wildfires. Coming soon, Bush will declare the White House the next disaster area. I bet he doesn't even clean his room.
Questions: Presidency
Things on my mind.
1) I recently saw a broadcast of Barack Obama on Jay Leno and he used the word "peeps" to refer to his "people," obviously. Do you think candidates have the freedom to laugh and joke about particular stereotypes in the public eye, or does that hurt their reputation?
2) What do you think of the Stephen Colbert presidency bid?
1) I recently saw a broadcast of Barack Obama on Jay Leno and he used the word "peeps" to refer to his "people," obviously. Do you think candidates have the freedom to laugh and joke about particular stereotypes in the public eye, or does that hurt their reputation?
2) What do you think of the Stephen Colbert presidency bid?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Text: Blood, war
[In an email I sent the other day I started fleshing out something that had been in my head. I decided to share it.]
I think about war a lot. A couple of years ago I was into writing about it, even though I had never experienced it firsthand. It's weird trying to imagine what it might've been like. I remember the opening line to my story was:
"Bullets stomped down on the soldiers like Gods in the playing field of mortals." In my head I pictured bullets like rain, silver rain with a destination; a driving force with a purpose. It then prompted me to write a poem, thinking in this perspective. I was interested in Existentialism at the time, it made me think of a dying soldier in his final hours lying against the stone wall of a cell.
[Most of you have read this before, but just a quick reminder -- there is also more to read after the poem.]
The trail of moonlight licks
at my cell floor upon its arrival,
bathing the night's children as they
scurry across my withering leg, fleeing
to find refuge in the shelter of darkness,
calculating spoils thieved from
my rusted and crude plate.
I sit, aimlessly flicking my eyes to
the motion of a moth, mastering
its ability to smack against cracked cell lights.
Its determination so impressive, my hands
might clap to its loyal search for ultimate salvation,
twisted within a hot fuse and a glass case.
Ambition blinds this winged warrior,
who drives into a barrier, leaving
behind cinnamon-colored dust trails, with each
snap of its body to a current of shrinking electricity.
My stomach as empty as my soul,
I wish I had sold the latter for a purpose,
like my silent, fluttering friend above me.
The proprietor of an admirable goal.
My hand slides across sand and stone,
fingers prowling for those who fell
before this new contender in a tireless battle.
Never learning a lesson from the creatures who,
despite their valiant effort struggled in vain,
now lie beside me, in a ruin of their remains.
I've been thinking lately, of the hot soil of Iraq. Pictures that are shown in the media make the place look so empty, so primitive--so red, clouded by the roaming sand given life by the wind. A soldier cuts across the sand, searching desperately for shelter from a barrage of incoming fire. The intense sun breaking through the sandstorm that was once engulfing him, like the patriotism throbbing in his heart, an intensely passionate belief burning in his blood. A bullet finds him; he is mortal. His flesh cracks, splits from the force of a fiery metal; a ticket sending all he stands for back against a wall. He slides down, the grip on his gun loosens. He is wide-eyed; disbelief in his current state. His blood, running hot with his noble purpose flows freely--his body merely a vessel of American pride, stretching Democracy and freedom as far as it will reach. Reaching for his boy, the sun's rays warms his face; a small comfort for a boy who is a long way from home. The warmth slips. The boy's eyes fall--the sensation of losing all feeling, a fleeting rush as if he is falling out of his body--the sun's rays become a reaching hand trying to connect him back to the world. He can't grab hold. What does he find? What does he see?
I think about war a lot. A couple of years ago I was into writing about it, even though I had never experienced it firsthand. It's weird trying to imagine what it might've been like. I remember the opening line to my story was:
"Bullets stomped down on the soldiers like Gods in the playing field of mortals." In my head I pictured bullets like rain, silver rain with a destination; a driving force with a purpose. It then prompted me to write a poem, thinking in this perspective. I was interested in Existentialism at the time, it made me think of a dying soldier in his final hours lying against the stone wall of a cell.
[Most of you have read this before, but just a quick reminder -- there is also more to read after the poem.]
The trail of moonlight licks
at my cell floor upon its arrival,
bathing the night's children as they
scurry across my withering leg, fleeing
to find refuge in the shelter of darkness,
calculating spoils thieved from
my rusted and crude plate.
I sit, aimlessly flicking my eyes to
the motion of a moth, mastering
its ability to smack against cracked cell lights.
Its determination so impressive, my hands
might clap to its loyal search for ultimate salvation,
twisted within a hot fuse and a glass case.
Ambition blinds this winged warrior,
who drives into a barrier, leaving
behind cinnamon-colored dust trails, with each
snap of its body to a current of shrinking electricity.
My stomach as empty as my soul,
I wish I had sold the latter for a purpose,
like my silent, fluttering friend above me.
The proprietor of an admirable goal.
My hand slides across sand and stone,
fingers prowling for those who fell
before this new contender in a tireless battle.
Never learning a lesson from the creatures who,
despite their valiant effort struggled in vain,
now lie beside me, in a ruin of their remains.
I've been thinking lately, of the hot soil of Iraq. Pictures that are shown in the media make the place look so empty, so primitive--so red, clouded by the roaming sand given life by the wind. A soldier cuts across the sand, searching desperately for shelter from a barrage of incoming fire. The intense sun breaking through the sandstorm that was once engulfing him, like the patriotism throbbing in his heart, an intensely passionate belief burning in his blood. A bullet finds him; he is mortal. His flesh cracks, splits from the force of a fiery metal; a ticket sending all he stands for back against a wall. He slides down, the grip on his gun loosens. He is wide-eyed; disbelief in his current state. His blood, running hot with his noble purpose flows freely--his body merely a vessel of American pride, stretching Democracy and freedom as far as it will reach. Reaching for his boy, the sun's rays warms his face; a small comfort for a boy who is a long way from home. The warmth slips. The boy's eyes fall--the sensation of losing all feeling, a fleeting rush as if he is falling out of his body--the sun's rays become a reaching hand trying to connect him back to the world. He can't grab hold. What does he find? What does he see?
Photo: Crystle
[Removed the photo for Crystle's sake. She took hers down, it's only fair.]
Not much to update, other than, I found it strange that Crystle put up this picture on her MySpace earlier today:
Not much to update, other than, I found it strange that Crystle put up this picture on her MySpace earlier today:
Friday, October 19, 2007
Text: Grandma, dementia?
Visiting my grandmother's house always yields a surprise. In the past, when I was a child, I would visit and there would this expectation that there was going to be a toy waiting for me. Don't misunderstand me though, I never asked. Lately, though, the toy has converted into money. I don't ask for any, but my grandma insists that if she isn't able to cook that she will buy my breakfast or lunch.
"How much does breakfast cost these days?" she asks.
"Not much, grandma," I reply.
"Here take this, is that enough?"
She drops a $20.00 on the table.
"No that's not enough, here, take this too."
A $10, $5, and another $20 stack on the previous bill. Is she mad?
"Okay grandma. Thank you, that will buy me breakfast for several days."
"Oh good, great," she replies with a smile.
This offer doesn't conclude that she has driven herself mad in the silence of her home, but I ponder whether or not if she has. The same broken tile is propped against the top of her oven. Today I realize I should probably help her fix that. I should help out a lot more than I am. I make the excuse that our schedule conflicts, but in reality, when I have time off lately, I just want to relax.
I'm still at Pappadeaux bartending three nights a week. It has been going good, since I can work 25 hours a week and have enough to live on. It's about all I'm doing though. I have enough to pay my bills and eat, especially with the monthly help of my grandmother. My schedule is especially nice because I have to do an internship two nights a week and go to school two afternoons. I have no days off, but enough time each day to get some personal things done.
The internship is going well. They seem to really value my help and lately almost all of my headlines are being used. Headline writing can be difficult. I definitely have to be in the right mood to write them. Not only do I have to come up with something catchy and clever, I also have to fit a certain character requirement. Editing is nice though. I've come to realize that I'm a much better editor of other people's writing than I am my own. I've been helping Rachel on some of her school work. She is in some weird hybrid class, which seems to be a combination of both creative writing and Holocaust literature. She has spent a month or more on one paper writing it paragraph by paragraph and getting feedback from her classmates and teacher.
I read some of their work because it is a workshop and she has to take home some of the papers. Man, some kids really have no idea what they're talking about. It is frustrating because I know people have opinion's about the things going on in the world, they just either have no idea how to express them, or are really naive. I don't have any examples of the work, but there is just terrible grammar throughout, and really no fresh ideas. I know I've had this commented on my work before, but now I fully realize what that meant. It must come with age. As I get older, I feel like I'm looking back at other work and I know that I am taking steps forward. That's all I can really hope for I guess.
Rachel also has her roommates back now that school has started. One roommate, Lucas, left at the beginning of the summer and was replaced by a small, young Korean girl that is a second or third cousin of Rachel's. Her father apparently married a Korean woman so she could get her citizenship, then parted after having a child together. Her name is Ivry, pronounced Eve-ree, and aside from being "in touch" with her culture, she goes on these feminist kicks about how men and women are equal in every aspect. Great. I think it's the feminist kicks that draw attention to there being some sort of inequality. I've never looked at a woman and for a second thought that she was on some lower level than me. So I give her shit all the time because she constantly needs Rachel to do things for her, like fix the toilet, or fixing the smoke alarm in her room. People crack me up.
It is really amazing how hypocritical people can be. People get these ideas in their head that they need to fight for some cause and in refusing to back down on how they feel, end up missing out on the larger picture. Sweet, so you want to enforce your feminist politics on me, great, but maybe you would accomplish this better Ivry, by being a strong woman. Instead of calling Rachel, "rae rae" and approaching every conversation in the tone of a six-year-old, you could just put a little backbone into your speech and have some confidence. I can't take her feminist push seriously when she acts like an immature teenager on some rebellious affair. Who cares. Get a life.
Different subject now. Flight of the Conchords, what a riot. I don't watch much TV, but I feel like I should after seeing these guys on youtube. If you don't know the name, check them out. Their live stuff is really funny, but the Rhymenoceros vs. Hiphopopotamous clip from their television show is amazing. I've watched it several times now. Thanks Catherine, for linking me to "Business Time" and enriching my world with these two. They are beautiful. I am beautiful.
"How much does breakfast cost these days?" she asks.
"Not much, grandma," I reply.
"Here take this, is that enough?"
She drops a $20.00 on the table.
"No that's not enough, here, take this too."
A $10, $5, and another $20 stack on the previous bill. Is she mad?
"Okay grandma. Thank you, that will buy me breakfast for several days."
"Oh good, great," she replies with a smile.
This offer doesn't conclude that she has driven herself mad in the silence of her home, but I ponder whether or not if she has. The same broken tile is propped against the top of her oven. Today I realize I should probably help her fix that. I should help out a lot more than I am. I make the excuse that our schedule conflicts, but in reality, when I have time off lately, I just want to relax.
I'm still at Pappadeaux bartending three nights a week. It has been going good, since I can work 25 hours a week and have enough to live on. It's about all I'm doing though. I have enough to pay my bills and eat, especially with the monthly help of my grandmother. My schedule is especially nice because I have to do an internship two nights a week and go to school two afternoons. I have no days off, but enough time each day to get some personal things done.
The internship is going well. They seem to really value my help and lately almost all of my headlines are being used. Headline writing can be difficult. I definitely have to be in the right mood to write them. Not only do I have to come up with something catchy and clever, I also have to fit a certain character requirement. Editing is nice though. I've come to realize that I'm a much better editor of other people's writing than I am my own. I've been helping Rachel on some of her school work. She is in some weird hybrid class, which seems to be a combination of both creative writing and Holocaust literature. She has spent a month or more on one paper writing it paragraph by paragraph and getting feedback from her classmates and teacher.
I read some of their work because it is a workshop and she has to take home some of the papers. Man, some kids really have no idea what they're talking about. It is frustrating because I know people have opinion's about the things going on in the world, they just either have no idea how to express them, or are really naive. I don't have any examples of the work, but there is just terrible grammar throughout, and really no fresh ideas. I know I've had this commented on my work before, but now I fully realize what that meant. It must come with age. As I get older, I feel like I'm looking back at other work and I know that I am taking steps forward. That's all I can really hope for I guess.
Rachel also has her roommates back now that school has started. One roommate, Lucas, left at the beginning of the summer and was replaced by a small, young Korean girl that is a second or third cousin of Rachel's. Her father apparently married a Korean woman so she could get her citizenship, then parted after having a child together. Her name is Ivry, pronounced Eve-ree, and aside from being "in touch" with her culture, she goes on these feminist kicks about how men and women are equal in every aspect. Great. I think it's the feminist kicks that draw attention to there being some sort of inequality. I've never looked at a woman and for a second thought that she was on some lower level than me. So I give her shit all the time because she constantly needs Rachel to do things for her, like fix the toilet, or fixing the smoke alarm in her room. People crack me up.
It is really amazing how hypocritical people can be. People get these ideas in their head that they need to fight for some cause and in refusing to back down on how they feel, end up missing out on the larger picture. Sweet, so you want to enforce your feminist politics on me, great, but maybe you would accomplish this better Ivry, by being a strong woman. Instead of calling Rachel, "rae rae" and approaching every conversation in the tone of a six-year-old, you could just put a little backbone into your speech and have some confidence. I can't take her feminist push seriously when she acts like an immature teenager on some rebellious affair. Who cares. Get a life.
Different subject now. Flight of the Conchords, what a riot. I don't watch much TV, but I feel like I should after seeing these guys on youtube. If you don't know the name, check them out. Their live stuff is really funny, but the Rhymenoceros vs. Hiphopopotamous clip from their television show is amazing. I've watched it several times now. Thanks Catherine, for linking me to "Business Time" and enriching my world with these two. They are beautiful. I am beautiful.
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