where do ideas come from,
and why do they sometimes not come at all?
sometimes they come all at once.
and once they exist, it is impossible to remember them
not existing.
where did you come from?
you're like a robert frost poem
just right, and making more feelings
than those simple words should.
Again, a short post. It has been a busy week of writing, working on projects, and doing happy life things.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
a few thoughts on today, 4-27-2009
titles of poems/stories/plays that i will write:
big goes boom
the house on cross corner
aaron and the aeroplanes
the death of major moser
poem without words
an idea: while everyone else is off at the death cab concert, how about me and you stay up late watching whatever we want, listening to bands that make strange sounds, and otherwise dreaming up a pleasant little world on my bedroom floor...
big goes boom
the house on cross corner
aaron and the aeroplanes
the death of major moser
poem without words
an idea: while everyone else is off at the death cab concert, how about me and you stay up late watching whatever we want, listening to bands that make strange sounds, and otherwise dreaming up a pleasant little world on my bedroom floor...
Saturday, April 25, 2009
thoughts on this weekend, 4-26-2009
israel, 1983, pt. I
all we had was a 1970 carta's holyland touring map. which was alright. by the looks of it, none of the roads we were on had been re-routed or re-paved for decades. it was hot, though. the map had, on the bottom, happy men in cartoon cars, windows down, flowers in their caps. and a woman, holding up the sun, long sandy hair, and a pale blue mini-skirt with matching shoes. we had landed in haifa and, after climbing the shalom meir tower, rented a car and drove east towards lake kinneret. a rule: if you are headed out, and nazareth is on the way to wherever you are headed, or slightly out of the way in a southernly direction, you are obliged to stop. nobody in the car was jewish, or had any objections to hanging around the town where jesus grew up, so we took a right at gilam and played the grateful dead on the open road.
if jack kerouac
had never learned how to read
he would have been
a car wash poet.
not able to write down
the songs he sings
while drying headlights,
he would have had to trust
the suit men in dark chevy's
(who steal his words and take them to their trysts)
and the family wives in station wagons
(who whisper his words while making love to their husbands)
a different kind of legend
without that endless scroll of open road
typeset and steady and unpuncuated
but inherited instead
father to son
mother to daughter
from the top lip to the bottom
through the teeth of lovers.
if jack kerouac had never learned to read.
we complicate
(don't complicate)
and tonight's color is black
which is simple
and fills up the space between the blankets
(and absorbs heat and light)
with the fanfare of funerals and the midnight sky
next to the moon.
all we had was a 1970 carta's holyland touring map. which was alright. by the looks of it, none of the roads we were on had been re-routed or re-paved for decades. it was hot, though. the map had, on the bottom, happy men in cartoon cars, windows down, flowers in their caps. and a woman, holding up the sun, long sandy hair, and a pale blue mini-skirt with matching shoes. we had landed in haifa and, after climbing the shalom meir tower, rented a car and drove east towards lake kinneret. a rule: if you are headed out, and nazareth is on the way to wherever you are headed, or slightly out of the way in a southernly direction, you are obliged to stop. nobody in the car was jewish, or had any objections to hanging around the town where jesus grew up, so we took a right at gilam and played the grateful dead on the open road.
if jack kerouac
had never learned how to read
he would have been
a car wash poet.
not able to write down
the songs he sings
while drying headlights,
he would have had to trust
the suit men in dark chevy's
(who steal his words and take them to their trysts)
and the family wives in station wagons
(who whisper his words while making love to their husbands)
a different kind of legend
without that endless scroll of open road
typeset and steady and unpuncuated
but inherited instead
father to son
mother to daughter
from the top lip to the bottom
through the teeth of lovers.
if jack kerouac had never learned to read.
we complicate
(don't complicate)
and tonight's color is black
which is simple
and fills up the space between the blankets
(and absorbs heat and light)
with the fanfare of funerals and the midnight sky
next to the moon.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-22-2009
sir lancelot can sense my happiness- he was waiting for me at the door and now he is flying around the apartment with big wild eyes. i think we have a telepathic connection. he is my daemon.
when mat and i get old, he is going to play the drums, and i am going to play the saxophone. we will tell stories across the piano bar, and it will take five hours for our eyes to adjust when we wake up in the morning.
i know lots of cole porter songs. and i don't just like them, i love them.
restoration theatre was ridiculous.
the first line in a jd salinger novel about tonight:
She drank a shirley temple and succeeded admirably in being adorable.
when mat and i get old, he is going to play the drums, and i am going to play the saxophone. we will tell stories across the piano bar, and it will take five hours for our eyes to adjust when we wake up in the morning.
i know lots of cole porter songs. and i don't just like them, i love them.
restoration theatre was ridiculous.
the first line in a jd salinger novel about tonight:
She drank a shirley temple and succeeded admirably in being adorable.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-21-2009
because we've all put the bends on repeat and suddenly it's 3 am.
there are a lot of circumstances under which that can happen. some are sad, but the best ones are happy.
i'm juggling projects right now, and i think i dropped one and it rolled under the sofa. the cat is trying to get it out, but his paws don't reach back there. next time i clean the floors, i'll find it covered in fuzzy dust.
i heard a song i really liked on the radio. i thought that maybe i had discovered a new band. and then i found out it was bright eyes.
a poem that i wish i had written
and a cool page i came across while doing some research
there are a lot of circumstances under which that can happen. some are sad, but the best ones are happy.
i'm juggling projects right now, and i think i dropped one and it rolled under the sofa. the cat is trying to get it out, but his paws don't reach back there. next time i clean the floors, i'll find it covered in fuzzy dust.
i heard a song i really liked on the radio. i thought that maybe i had discovered a new band. and then i found out it was bright eyes.
a poem that i wish i had written
and a cool page i came across while doing some research
Sunday, April 19, 2009
thoughts on this weekend
when we were kids
it was all summers and shorts.
there was never a thought about
the abandoned house
across the bridge
except
"what can we play there?"
far away were the pains of the empty windows
and the holes in the boards
where we hop from beam to beam
and tug at the raspberries that grow
through the dining room floor.
when we were kids
winds like these
were aimed at our brains
and called to us in languages
that our moms and dads didn't understand
(i remember the spring that an army of yellow and black garden spiders took over our hill-
we couldn't play there without fighting them off. In the morning, their webs glowed all dew soaked and looked like strings of ice. we could see them, and run them through with stick swords. their numbers were inexhaustible. the next morning there would be twice as many.)
there aren't many places like that now
where i can hear that same wind
but when i find them
i know right away.
why write rough drafts? life isn't about rough drafts.
things that are best unrefined:
refrigerator drawings
charlie parker
cane sugar (and food in general)
Hetch Hetchy
jackson pollock
dialogue
going for a walk
taking the subway
theatre
back to the refrigerator drawing again
unexpected phone calls
love letters
honey
there are some things that are meant to exist just how they are.
the girls in summer dresses
sit on the bus stop bench
(but they would never take the bus)
its hot and they want to rest
and in the city
a bus stop bench
is as natural
as a cabin by the lake.
sometimes i just want out. out of the city, away from the ocean, back to the great lakes (in which reside no animals that will try to eat me) and back to people who say "sofa" and "supper" the same way that i do. sometimes i just want to wander around and eat my emotions like those waxy chocolate bars i used to sell in fifth grade. tonight, they taste like burnt pine sap and the legs of the summer spiders that my sisters and i chased away with sticks. in my dreams, those spiders have grown as big as buicks, with compound headlights and eight legs made of rubber from the Uniroyal plant that closed down in 1989. they are driven by librarians from whom i have stolen books. they are driven by ex-girlfriends whose things i have forgotten to give back. they are driven by badly written lyrics and by bus-chasers that i pretended not to see. they are driven by characters whose voices i that have failed to hear and by the childhood caves that i have failed to explore. sometimes i just want out.
and then, just after the sun goes down, i hear it. surrounded by the buzz of the dying city, it is carried over the mississippi, through the maze of the plains, and under the rock of mountains with spanish names. it is my voice. crying out. it is a battle cry. escaped from a summer morning two decades ago, and i hear it with the ear drums of my imagination. those things i want out of now are the yellow and black garden spiders of the summer. and i've got my stick, a branch of that old tree that always knows what i need. and i have what i need, right now. everything i need to know, i learned when i was seven. and that makes me happy.
it was all summers and shorts.
there was never a thought about
the abandoned house
across the bridge
except
"what can we play there?"
far away were the pains of the empty windows
and the holes in the boards
where we hop from beam to beam
and tug at the raspberries that grow
through the dining room floor.
when we were kids
winds like these
were aimed at our brains
and called to us in languages
that our moms and dads didn't understand
(i remember the spring that an army of yellow and black garden spiders took over our hill-
we couldn't play there without fighting them off. In the morning, their webs glowed all dew soaked and looked like strings of ice. we could see them, and run them through with stick swords. their numbers were inexhaustible. the next morning there would be twice as many.)
there aren't many places like that now
where i can hear that same wind
but when i find them
i know right away.
why write rough drafts? life isn't about rough drafts.
things that are best unrefined:
refrigerator drawings
charlie parker
cane sugar (and food in general)
Hetch Hetchy
jackson pollock
dialogue
going for a walk
taking the subway
theatre
back to the refrigerator drawing again
unexpected phone calls
love letters
honey
there are some things that are meant to exist just how they are.
the girls in summer dresses
sit on the bus stop bench
(but they would never take the bus)
its hot and they want to rest
and in the city
a bus stop bench
is as natural
as a cabin by the lake.
sometimes i just want out. out of the city, away from the ocean, back to the great lakes (in which reside no animals that will try to eat me) and back to people who say "sofa" and "supper" the same way that i do. sometimes i just want to wander around and eat my emotions like those waxy chocolate bars i used to sell in fifth grade. tonight, they taste like burnt pine sap and the legs of the summer spiders that my sisters and i chased away with sticks. in my dreams, those spiders have grown as big as buicks, with compound headlights and eight legs made of rubber from the Uniroyal plant that closed down in 1989. they are driven by librarians from whom i have stolen books. they are driven by ex-girlfriends whose things i have forgotten to give back. they are driven by badly written lyrics and by bus-chasers that i pretended not to see. they are driven by characters whose voices i that have failed to hear and by the childhood caves that i have failed to explore. sometimes i just want out.
and then, just after the sun goes down, i hear it. surrounded by the buzz of the dying city, it is carried over the mississippi, through the maze of the plains, and under the rock of mountains with spanish names. it is my voice. crying out. it is a battle cry. escaped from a summer morning two decades ago, and i hear it with the ear drums of my imagination. those things i want out of now are the yellow and black garden spiders of the summer. and i've got my stick, a branch of that old tree that always knows what i need. and i have what i need, right now. everything i need to know, i learned when i was seven. and that makes me happy.
Friday, April 17, 2009
little thought, 4-17-2009
nobody listens to the radio any more...
sad dials unturned
and tuners unlit
(i don't even know how the radio on my alarm clock works)
i'm gonna figure it out tonight
and let somebody else
pick out my music.
sad dials unturned
and tuners unlit
(i don't even know how the radio on my alarm clock works)
i'm gonna figure it out tonight
and let somebody else
pick out my music.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-16-2009
I'm going to keep this short- I'm not feeling well!
My little sister and I both have a touch of the flu (or something), but we're 1500 miles apart. Weird. It's funny, because when I'm sick, I make sure that I rest a lot and get sleep, all that good stuff. So you would think that it would give me lots of extra time to do my homework. Hmmm...
And who knew that epic musical theatre could be so interesting? Sometimes I have to remind myself to not be narrow-minded and stubborn.
Ok, sleep time.
My little sister and I both have a touch of the flu (or something), but we're 1500 miles apart. Weird. It's funny, because when I'm sick, I make sure that I rest a lot and get sleep, all that good stuff. So you would think that it would give me lots of extra time to do my homework. Hmmm...
And who knew that epic musical theatre could be so interesting? Sometimes I have to remind myself to not be narrow-minded and stubborn.
Ok, sleep time.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-15-2009
let me go back to something i wrote earlier today. its not cheating, because i wrote it. and i even wrote it today.
disappear with me into old pictures of harlem-
we'll stay for decades
but we won't age.
"this is what i looked like
when i was young"
this is what i look like now.
what you look like now
is the pages of a book
i haven't written-
the question is (the questions are):
how many pages will you be?
will i still be writing you
when i die?
will i let you read it?
which characters will you speak for-
who will get
your words?
ummmmm... celine dion is best experienced through a thick slice of picture window.
sometimes i get lost. i know i am going to get lost,
but
i also know that everything is going to be alright.
i like people with amazing brains.
disappear with me into old pictures of harlem-
we'll stay for decades
but we won't age.
"this is what i looked like
when i was young"
this is what i look like now.
what you look like now
is the pages of a book
i haven't written-
the question is (the questions are):
how many pages will you be?
will i still be writing you
when i die?
will i let you read it?
which characters will you speak for-
who will get
your words?
ummmmm... celine dion is best experienced through a thick slice of picture window.
sometimes i get lost. i know i am going to get lost,
but
i also know that everything is going to be alright.
i like people with amazing brains.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-14-2009
we are slaves to two things in our lives:
1. physics
2. love
everything else is just a manifestation of those two things. i put physics first, because it can ruin love. and by love i don't mean just romantic love. i mean like the real thing. if love were a fabric, it would be denim. romantic love is something less durable. i don't know much about fabric, but if you wash the romantic love fabric too many times, it starts to fall apart. and that's physics. but wait. i'm not discounting romance. it just needs to be backed by something stronger. like denim. with lots of stitches and some rivets. god, i love rivets.
what if someone asks you: "show me your rivets" how do you respond to that? do you take off your clothes?
and not just receiving love. giving love and having love is maybe more important than getting it. you gotta get it, don't think that you don't. it's like coffee or gasoline. but, if you learn how to grow your own, then you've got an advantage. you can harvest it and hand it out to people who need a little extra on any given day. and loving things that you do... that just helps create more love for everyone.
some woody guthrie for everyone tonight.
Id like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id love to feel your hand touching mine
And tell me why I must keep working on
Yes, Id give my life to lay my head tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id like to dream my troubles all away
On a bed of california stars
Jump up from my starbed and make another day
Underneath my california stars
They hang like grapes on vines that shine
And warm the lovers glass lke friendly wine
So, Id give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of california stars
1. physics
2. love
everything else is just a manifestation of those two things. i put physics first, because it can ruin love. and by love i don't mean just romantic love. i mean like the real thing. if love were a fabric, it would be denim. romantic love is something less durable. i don't know much about fabric, but if you wash the romantic love fabric too many times, it starts to fall apart. and that's physics. but wait. i'm not discounting romance. it just needs to be backed by something stronger. like denim. with lots of stitches and some rivets. god, i love rivets.
what if someone asks you: "show me your rivets" how do you respond to that? do you take off your clothes?
and not just receiving love. giving love and having love is maybe more important than getting it. you gotta get it, don't think that you don't. it's like coffee or gasoline. but, if you learn how to grow your own, then you've got an advantage. you can harvest it and hand it out to people who need a little extra on any given day. and loving things that you do... that just helps create more love for everyone.
some woody guthrie for everyone tonight.
Id like to rest my heavy head tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id like to lay my weary bones tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id love to feel your hand touching mine
And tell me why I must keep working on
Yes, Id give my life to lay my head tonight
On a bed of california stars
Id like to dream my troubles all away
On a bed of california stars
Jump up from my starbed and make another day
Underneath my california stars
They hang like grapes on vines that shine
And warm the lovers glass lke friendly wine
So, Id give this world
Just to dream a dream with you
On our bed of california stars
the cobain connection
i try to do everything with the best intentions. i'm not always succesful, but i try. the best way to judge beauty is through the eyeballs.
a lot of discussion on kurt cobain today. he died on april 5, 1994 (had to look it up, don't know off the top of my head) which was just last week fifteen years ago. fifteen years. fuck. nobody in class really remembered it, which is totally understandable, since I was 13, and most of my classmates were under the age of 10. so why does the music of nirvana puncture the lung of time? so many other great bands came out of that era... mudhoney (on right now, really loud), alice in chains, soundgarden, screaming trees! (of course pearl jam) most of the people who saw these bands live at the places that would let them play are thouroughly middle-aged and mellowed. grunge didn't really permeate into wisconsin until 1996 or 1997, and then only by way of pearl jam after they had already released their best music. minneapolis had a scene, but nobody my age could drive, so we were stuck with our dads' old who and zeppelin records, stacked on a base knowledge of beatles, stones, and dylan. not an unrespectable musical lineage, but unrevolutionary by mid-90's standards. i didn't even understand nirvana or mudhoney or soundgarden until i moved to seattle at 19.
what am i even talking about? oh yeah- that urge to pick up a really loud guitar and turn the amp up until is is buzzing, and then making the neighborhood shake with angst. but more than that- how about doing it with an acoustic guitar with a cover of where did you sleep last night? now we are getting back to leadbelly, who was way more magical and important than paul mccartney can ever dream of being. so i connect cobain to those kinds of musicians- the ones who come from the corners, and who can't really do anything but play their music. usually, it kills them. (robert johnson. jimi hendrix. jerry garcia. mozart. chopin. charlie parker. some lives are measured by heartbeats, and some are measured by the number of notes you have played. if any one of these guys had played even one more note, i'm pretty sure the world would have shook itself apart.)
the transfer of emotion to music and back to emotion again. it happens when the guitar or saxophone or harpsichord becomes part of your brain. jimi hendrix really did think through his fender strat. just watch him play. i wish we had video of chopin. there might be some of charlie parker? i'm not sure about that. it is impossible to tell where their bodies end and the music begins. hands to strings to the air to our ears. and from there, where does it go?
in a lot of ways, cobain is a version of thoreau. i even think that old henry david would have dug a little nirvana every now and then.
a lot of discussion on kurt cobain today. he died on april 5, 1994 (had to look it up, don't know off the top of my head) which was just last week fifteen years ago. fifteen years. fuck. nobody in class really remembered it, which is totally understandable, since I was 13, and most of my classmates were under the age of 10. so why does the music of nirvana puncture the lung of time? so many other great bands came out of that era... mudhoney (on right now, really loud), alice in chains, soundgarden, screaming trees! (of course pearl jam) most of the people who saw these bands live at the places that would let them play are thouroughly middle-aged and mellowed. grunge didn't really permeate into wisconsin until 1996 or 1997, and then only by way of pearl jam after they had already released their best music. minneapolis had a scene, but nobody my age could drive, so we were stuck with our dads' old who and zeppelin records, stacked on a base knowledge of beatles, stones, and dylan. not an unrespectable musical lineage, but unrevolutionary by mid-90's standards. i didn't even understand nirvana or mudhoney or soundgarden until i moved to seattle at 19.
what am i even talking about? oh yeah- that urge to pick up a really loud guitar and turn the amp up until is is buzzing, and then making the neighborhood shake with angst. but more than that- how about doing it with an acoustic guitar with a cover of where did you sleep last night? now we are getting back to leadbelly, who was way more magical and important than paul mccartney can ever dream of being. so i connect cobain to those kinds of musicians- the ones who come from the corners, and who can't really do anything but play their music. usually, it kills them. (robert johnson. jimi hendrix. jerry garcia. mozart. chopin. charlie parker. some lives are measured by heartbeats, and some are measured by the number of notes you have played. if any one of these guys had played even one more note, i'm pretty sure the world would have shook itself apart.)
the transfer of emotion to music and back to emotion again. it happens when the guitar or saxophone or harpsichord becomes part of your brain. jimi hendrix really did think through his fender strat. just watch him play. i wish we had video of chopin. there might be some of charlie parker? i'm not sure about that. it is impossible to tell where their bodies end and the music begins. hands to strings to the air to our ears. and from there, where does it go?
in a lot of ways, cobain is a version of thoreau. i even think that old henry david would have dug a little nirvana every now and then.
Monday, April 13, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-13-2009
the magic of Milk
we all have the same things in our eyes. just look.
the cashier at midnight. the man who stands out of the sun in front of the closed up shop. every actor who has ever played ophelia. our grandparents. the soldiers in all the armies. the dalai lhama. our neighbors we've never met. the people we love. the people we are afraid of.
we've just got to look. and never stop.
we all have the same things in our eyes. just look.
the cashier at midnight. the man who stands out of the sun in front of the closed up shop. every actor who has ever played ophelia. our grandparents. the soldiers in all the armies. the dalai lhama. our neighbors we've never met. the people we love. the people we are afraid of.
we've just got to look. and never stop.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-12-2009
i thought about writing something all philosophical, about how and why people come into our lives, and how it ties into a universal consciouness, but i thought that this would be more fun. so here you go.
(some things that haven't happened)
be my magnet.
if i have tiny metal shavings under my skin
i want you to be the one to pull them out.
we'll put our heads together and share our memories
silently
like really old films
(insert words here)
we'll hear our brains
like pianos
keeping up with racing eyes
and charlie chaplin
stopping time
to make us laugh.
she brought along a pocket full of sand.
"it's important, because it's gritty."
she said it was from the place where she grew up.
in the bottom of a shot glass, she poured the whiskey. and then a pinch of sand.
"what's that?"
"it's my home. it's me. it's where i learned to swim."
the moon turned the whiskey silver. it tasted like being born,
learning algebra, and memorizing shakespeare.
she kissed me on the mouth.
she wanted to taste it, too.
(some things that haven't happened)
be my magnet.
if i have tiny metal shavings under my skin
i want you to be the one to pull them out.
we'll put our heads together and share our memories
silently
like really old films
(insert words here)
we'll hear our brains
like pianos
keeping up with racing eyes
and charlie chaplin
stopping time
to make us laugh.
she brought along a pocket full of sand.
"it's important, because it's gritty."
she said it was from the place where she grew up.
in the bottom of a shot glass, she poured the whiskey. and then a pinch of sand.
"what's that?"
"it's my home. it's me. it's where i learned to swim."
the moon turned the whiskey silver. it tasted like being born,
learning algebra, and memorizing shakespeare.
she kissed me on the mouth.
she wanted to taste it, too.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-11-2009
at midnight
slow, sad songs
in the cemetery.
nobody can see us,
but they can hear us.
(old irish songs,
lullabyes for the underground)
i miss all of my old loves.
basement #3
everything you can imagine
including
a mysterious and evil woman
living under the stairs.
banjos, guitars
and newspapers from the day after Kennedy was shot.
a dart board with too many holes
and a thousand little bottles of liquor.
A wall of pictures. Everyone in our family
and everyone in their family
pinned up to the wall
in black and white and sepia.
Cigarettes. I love the smell of cigarettes
because it is the smell of
the basement.
slow, sad songs
in the cemetery.
nobody can see us,
but they can hear us.
(old irish songs,
lullabyes for the underground)
i miss all of my old loves.
basement #3
everything you can imagine
including
a mysterious and evil woman
living under the stairs.
banjos, guitars
and newspapers from the day after Kennedy was shot.
a dart board with too many holes
and a thousand little bottles of liquor.
A wall of pictures. Everyone in our family
and everyone in their family
pinned up to the wall
in black and white and sepia.
Cigarettes. I love the smell of cigarettes
because it is the smell of
the basement.
Friday, April 10, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-10-2009
"please don't cry, we're designed to die
don't deny what's inside
on and on and on we'll stay together yeah"
"I am a child, I'll last awhile"
Stage directions, scene 3, Can Neil Young Save Us Now?
May 4, 1978
"Soldier" plays.
Three students. A photo by John Paul Filo.
Four National Guard, across stage. Rifles raised.
Time is black and white.
Pulitzer Prize in the flash of an eye.
Two students mourn the third.
A rifle bullet brought him down.
Jeffrey Miller rises. He holds a textbook.
From his pocket
the only color on the stage
a yellow daisy.
Jeffrey Miller
watches the guard.
Raises flower to them,
moves towards them.
One by one
looks them in their eyes.
They do not move.
Jeffry Miller places the yellow daisy
in the rifle barrel of National Guardsmen #3.
Kisses him on the cheek.
#3 comes to life. Lowers his rifle. Removes his helmet.
Jeffrey Miller removes his sweater. They trade, sweater for helmet, book for rifle.
They trade places.
Jeffrey Miller raises the rifle to his shoulder.
#3 lies on the ground.
Time is black and white.
Pulitzer Prize in the flash of an eye.
"Soldier" ends.
don't deny what's inside
on and on and on we'll stay together yeah"
"I am a child, I'll last awhile"
Stage directions, scene 3, Can Neil Young Save Us Now?
May 4, 1978
"Soldier" plays.
Three students. A photo by John Paul Filo.
Four National Guard, across stage. Rifles raised.
Time is black and white.
Pulitzer Prize in the flash of an eye.
Two students mourn the third.
A rifle bullet brought him down.
Jeffrey Miller rises. He holds a textbook.
From his pocket
the only color on the stage
a yellow daisy.
Jeffrey Miller
watches the guard.
Raises flower to them,
moves towards them.
One by one
looks them in their eyes.
They do not move.
Jeffry Miller places the yellow daisy
in the rifle barrel of National Guardsmen #3.
Kisses him on the cheek.
#3 comes to life. Lowers his rifle. Removes his helmet.
Jeffrey Miller removes his sweater. They trade, sweater for helmet, book for rifle.
They trade places.
Jeffrey Miller raises the rifle to his shoulder.
#3 lies on the ground.
Time is black and white.
Pulitzer Prize in the flash of an eye.
"Soldier" ends.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-09-2009
i want to go back in time
and send people i like
old fashioned postcards
with 3-cent stamps.
"new york is lovely in the spring. the buildings here are like cities standing up and stretching out their limbs. and the subway... no one back home would believe it. Much love..."
imagine the charming confusion that would ensue.
my little sister (25 but forever 8) has decided that this will be the summer that she falls in love with baseball. if you are from california, you can't imagine the happiness of opening day- it means that the snow has melted (or is melting) and you can smell the earth again. it means another summer of staying up past your bedtime and listening to games on the radio under your pillow (yes, i used to do that). i can still see the games in my mind, and the elation of my team winning and the end of the world of my team losing. if anyone ever wants to go see a baseball game, just let me know. i will take you. it will be amazing.
oh, and that little guy in the picture... that's gonna be my next (first) tattoo.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
two problems with LOST...
(minor spoilers for anyone who hasn't seen any of season 5)
#1. The characters are too heavily reactive. According to the story, things only happen because the island wants them to happen. Which pretty much makes the character's individual stories unimportant. On top of that, none of them are even trying to break the island's control. In fact, they seem to only want to give in to it. Because of this, all of them come across as whiny and unsympathetic. None of their individual back stories are anywhere near strong enough to convince an audience to love them. I sincerely hope that each of the characters gains some amount of control over his or her own lives, and in the end, defeats the island.
#2. Over-explanation. It was obvious during tonight's episode, for example, that Ben Linus stole Cesar's sawed-off shotgun in anticipation of a moment when having it could turn the tables. So why does he, not two filmic minutes later, explain it to John Locke, who saw the tables-turning with his own eyes? It is a serious understimation of the intelligence of the audience (a moment of realization followed by a clunky and pompous explanation). The writers should play fast-and-loose- give the viewers something to chew on all week, instead of a clump of answers followed by a week's worth of anticipation for another clump of answers.
#1. The characters are too heavily reactive. According to the story, things only happen because the island wants them to happen. Which pretty much makes the character's individual stories unimportant. On top of that, none of them are even trying to break the island's control. In fact, they seem to only want to give in to it. Because of this, all of them come across as whiny and unsympathetic. None of their individual back stories are anywhere near strong enough to convince an audience to love them. I sincerely hope that each of the characters gains some amount of control over his or her own lives, and in the end, defeats the island.
#2. Over-explanation. It was obvious during tonight's episode, for example, that Ben Linus stole Cesar's sawed-off shotgun in anticipation of a moment when having it could turn the tables. So why does he, not two filmic minutes later, explain it to John Locke, who saw the tables-turning with his own eyes? It is a serious understimation of the intelligence of the audience (a moment of realization followed by a clunky and pompous explanation). The writers should play fast-and-loose- give the viewers something to chew on all week, instead of a clump of answers followed by a week's worth of anticipation for another clump of answers.
thoughts on today, 4-08-2009
It is only the fourth day of doing this, and already the title of "thoughts on today..." is feeling redundant. So that might change soon.
Options:
There are always two or three. If you are at an intersection. Left, right, or straight. Of course, if you are trying to get somewhere, then the logic is easy. Make the turn that takes you closer to your destination. But it isn't the same for story telling. There are always more options than you think, and the best might be the least logical.
Let's say that you are writing a story about Mary falling in love with Steve-O. (A warning: she's going to make him drop the "-O" as soon as they are hitched.) So, as the writer, you pull up to the intersection in your '78 Pinto, windows rolled down. The light is red. (Already, you have an option. Logically, you wait for the green. But maybe you are turning right. Is there any on-coming traffic? Or maybe you just feel like breaking the law---- i.e. do you want to raise the stakes?) Of course, you're destination isn't the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru, it's getting Steve-O and Mary to the alter.
Let's stick the altar inside a cute little house of worship just around the corner. All you have to do is check for traffic (by making sure that Steve-O isn't already married, and that is bachelor buddies won't lead him astray), make a right hand turn, and there it is. Into the church they go, and Steve loses his O.
Efficient. Even effective, if all you are trying to do is get them hitched. Hmmmmm... but what about the other options. Well, for a left turn or a straight ahead, you have to wait for the light to change. (Steve-O might currently be dating Amanda. Or maybe Mary is trying to get her career started before settling down.) You've got some time to figure those things out while waiting for the green. In the mean time, what if Steve-O runs into Mary a little bit prematurely, at a karaoke bar? He doesn't have a great singing voice, but he belts out "Thank You Fallentinme Be Mice Elf Agin", and Mary hasn't heard that song since... well, since she saw Sly and the Family Stone play at her State Fair in '98. They decide not to wait for the green light, and by the next morning Steve-O is looking for his boxers and Mary might be pregnant.
But I am getting way ahead of myself. Pinto. Red light. Went through it. Got pregnant. Slammed ont he brakes. Mary can't have a baby now. What about that position she wants in London? What about Edward, the upwardly mobile marketing manager who has taken her to dinner (twice) and mentioned a lake house (multiple times). She looks up Planned Parenthood. It was back there, you should have taken a left- What she doesn't know is that Steve-O's roommate, Kirkus, likes to hang out at Planned Parenthood. He's working on his dissertation, which is all about infatuation, and he is particularly susceptible to falling in love with girls he feels need to be saved. By him. Now, Kirkus forces Steve-O to read his drafts, and also tells him everything about the girls he meets. So Steve-O finds out about Mary, and decides to stop her from having an abortion. Or maybe he doesn't stop her. Or maybe he is too late. Anyway, you are beginning to see where a left turn takes you. You can literally go all the way around the world without encountering the chapel. But you will get there, eventually.
Straight ahead- barreling down the road, Mary has the baby. She convinces Edward that it is his (remember him?) and she takes up residence at the lake house. She begins to write letters to Steve-O (this is starting to sound like a Nicholas Sparks novel), but decides to burn them instead of mailing them. She starts the damn lake house on fire. (And burns up any chance of this actually becoming a Nicholas Sparks novel). Mary nearly dies, but her baby dies. Steve-O sees the story in the paper and realizes... well, it's pretty obvious. So you are beginning to see what happens if you go straight ahead.
In all of these options, Steve-O and Mary end up (eventually) getting married. But the stories they will tell their Grandchildren are drastically different. And that is what I am getting at. If your characters could tell their own stories, how interesting would those stories be? And it all starts with options, exploring options, and finding some that aren't apparent or aren't logical.
whew.
life is...
distortion with melody.
Options:
There are always two or three. If you are at an intersection. Left, right, or straight. Of course, if you are trying to get somewhere, then the logic is easy. Make the turn that takes you closer to your destination. But it isn't the same for story telling. There are always more options than you think, and the best might be the least logical.
Let's say that you are writing a story about Mary falling in love with Steve-O. (A warning: she's going to make him drop the "-O" as soon as they are hitched.) So, as the writer, you pull up to the intersection in your '78 Pinto, windows rolled down. The light is red. (Already, you have an option. Logically, you wait for the green. But maybe you are turning right. Is there any on-coming traffic? Or maybe you just feel like breaking the law---- i.e. do you want to raise the stakes?) Of course, you're destination isn't the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru, it's getting Steve-O and Mary to the alter.
Let's stick the altar inside a cute little house of worship just around the corner. All you have to do is check for traffic (by making sure that Steve-O isn't already married, and that is bachelor buddies won't lead him astray), make a right hand turn, and there it is. Into the church they go, and Steve loses his O.
Efficient. Even effective, if all you are trying to do is get them hitched. Hmmmmm... but what about the other options. Well, for a left turn or a straight ahead, you have to wait for the light to change. (Steve-O might currently be dating Amanda. Or maybe Mary is trying to get her career started before settling down.) You've got some time to figure those things out while waiting for the green. In the mean time, what if Steve-O runs into Mary a little bit prematurely, at a karaoke bar? He doesn't have a great singing voice, but he belts out "Thank You Fallentinme Be Mice Elf Agin", and Mary hasn't heard that song since... well, since she saw Sly and the Family Stone play at her State Fair in '98. They decide not to wait for the green light, and by the next morning Steve-O is looking for his boxers and Mary might be pregnant.
But I am getting way ahead of myself. Pinto. Red light. Went through it. Got pregnant. Slammed ont he brakes. Mary can't have a baby now. What about that position she wants in London? What about Edward, the upwardly mobile marketing manager who has taken her to dinner (twice) and mentioned a lake house (multiple times). She looks up Planned Parenthood. It was back there, you should have taken a left- What she doesn't know is that Steve-O's roommate, Kirkus, likes to hang out at Planned Parenthood. He's working on his dissertation, which is all about infatuation, and he is particularly susceptible to falling in love with girls he feels need to be saved. By him. Now, Kirkus forces Steve-O to read his drafts, and also tells him everything about the girls he meets. So Steve-O finds out about Mary, and decides to stop her from having an abortion. Or maybe he doesn't stop her. Or maybe he is too late. Anyway, you are beginning to see where a left turn takes you. You can literally go all the way around the world without encountering the chapel. But you will get there, eventually.
Straight ahead- barreling down the road, Mary has the baby. She convinces Edward that it is his (remember him?) and she takes up residence at the lake house. She begins to write letters to Steve-O (this is starting to sound like a Nicholas Sparks novel), but decides to burn them instead of mailing them. She starts the damn lake house on fire. (And burns up any chance of this actually becoming a Nicholas Sparks novel). Mary nearly dies, but her baby dies. Steve-O sees the story in the paper and realizes... well, it's pretty obvious. So you are beginning to see what happens if you go straight ahead.
In all of these options, Steve-O and Mary end up (eventually) getting married. But the stories they will tell their Grandchildren are drastically different. And that is what I am getting at. If your characters could tell their own stories, how interesting would those stories be? And it all starts with options, exploring options, and finding some that aren't apparent or aren't logical.
whew.
life is...
distortion with melody.
midnightmystery
she's kind of beautiful
in this really amazing way
and i am so intent on her not noticing
that i don't know what to say...
in this really amazing way
and i am so intent on her not noticing
that i don't know what to say...
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-07-2009
on the way home
the smell of rain
does battle with
the smell of fire-
its different here, the rain smells like the ocean
not like the earth
i have ten fingers on my hands
but how many fingers does my brain have?
charles darwin, age 12.
on the way home from collecting beetles.
a successful endeavor, in his left hand he clutches
a new species. not new to the world
but new to his 12 year old brain.
you have to collect them live, you see, and you can't squish them
or they lose their value.
you kill them in a jar, and preserve them, and stick a pin through them-
so he is on his way home to do just that
to the beetle in his left hand
when he sees another beetle (and new to him, too!)
and so he lets it crawl into his left hand, and hurries home.
smiles all around.
but thats not all!
a third beetle crosses his path, and what do you know,
it is another crunchy critter that he has yet to collect!
But his hands are full. They will crawl out of his pockets. Maybe the third beetle will still be there tomorrow. But maybe it won't. Maybe it won't ever be there again for young Charles.
What to do, what to do?
It is important to remember that this is early 19th Century England, and young people of class do not generally put unpleasant things into their mouths. But that is just what Young Charles did.
And the beetle, which had been happily squirming in his right hand, did not approve.
And Charles soon found out that beetles do not respond favorably to being put into mouths, even mouths not intent on chewing them. And it was a stink beetle.
The story sort of ends there. I would like to think that it keeps going, and that Charles, stink-beetle and all, makes it home, and adds all three trophies to his collection.
And while some might think of this as a warning (don't hold on to more things than you can carry) I think of it this way:
Sometimes, the circumstances of life force us to put unpleasant things into our mouths. You don't give up. You don't let the thing go. You just stick it in your mouth, run home, and pay the price. Because even that little beetle is too valuable to be obtained without some sort of sacrifice.
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#2. A train set. My Grandpa Bob carved mountains out of styrofoam. My Granny Mary's quilts hung on the walls. There is a smell to this place, because it is the place where earth meets water. Two steps out the door and you can jump in the lake. I remember waking up early, and I could hear my Grandma making breakfast upstairs. The sound of the waffle iron closing. Sunday morning radio. It is a magic place, with smooth stones and spiders in the shower.
Keep your stick on the ice.
the smell of rain
does battle with
the smell of fire-
its different here, the rain smells like the ocean
not like the earth
i have ten fingers on my hands
but how many fingers does my brain have?
charles darwin, age 12.
on the way home from collecting beetles.
a successful endeavor, in his left hand he clutches
a new species. not new to the world
but new to his 12 year old brain.
you have to collect them live, you see, and you can't squish them
or they lose their value.
you kill them in a jar, and preserve them, and stick a pin through them-
so he is on his way home to do just that
to the beetle in his left hand
when he sees another beetle (and new to him, too!)
and so he lets it crawl into his left hand, and hurries home.
smiles all around.
but thats not all!
a third beetle crosses his path, and what do you know,
it is another crunchy critter that he has yet to collect!
But his hands are full. They will crawl out of his pockets. Maybe the third beetle will still be there tomorrow. But maybe it won't. Maybe it won't ever be there again for young Charles.
What to do, what to do?
It is important to remember that this is early 19th Century England, and young people of class do not generally put unpleasant things into their mouths. But that is just what Young Charles did.
And the beetle, which had been happily squirming in his right hand, did not approve.
And Charles soon found out that beetles do not respond favorably to being put into mouths, even mouths not intent on chewing them. And it was a stink beetle.
The story sort of ends there. I would like to think that it keeps going, and that Charles, stink-beetle and all, makes it home, and adds all three trophies to his collection.
And while some might think of this as a warning (don't hold on to more things than you can carry) I think of it this way:
Sometimes, the circumstances of life force us to put unpleasant things into our mouths. You don't give up. You don't let the thing go. You just stick it in your mouth, run home, and pay the price. Because even that little beetle is too valuable to be obtained without some sort of sacrifice.
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#2. A train set. My Grandpa Bob carved mountains out of styrofoam. My Granny Mary's quilts hung on the walls. There is a smell to this place, because it is the place where earth meets water. Two steps out the door and you can jump in the lake. I remember waking up early, and I could hear my Grandma making breakfast upstairs. The sound of the waffle iron closing. Sunday morning radio. It is a magic place, with smooth stones and spiders in the shower.
Keep your stick on the ice.
Monday, April 6, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-06-2009
scribbled in class:
i've been tangled before
in short black hair
and wouldn't mind being there again
creatures
fuzzy beasts
with beating hearts
inhabiting a great forest
(which probably symbolizes my youth)
some are dangerous!
some are not.
most are imaginary
but a few are real
and black fingernail polish
not solid, but chipped
and i think of an old guitar
(which can be the most beautiful
thing in the world)
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#1. I used to pretend that I was underneath Alcatraz, in some forgotten room with a decaying ceiling. I stayed down there until one or two in the morning, painting these tiny model airplanes. It must have been cold, because I went down there in the winter, too. But I don't remember that. I just remember running up the stairs, through the door, into the backyard (it was an old farm house) and onto the back porch. If I was fast enough, the ghosts of tortured prisoners couldn't catch me. I never liked to go to bed early. There was too much to explore in the basement.
Do you ever miss someone so much that you would give anything to have them knock on your door? Anything.
i've been tangled before
in short black hair
and wouldn't mind being there again
creatures
fuzzy beasts
with beating hearts
inhabiting a great forest
(which probably symbolizes my youth)
some are dangerous!
some are not.
most are imaginary
but a few are real
and black fingernail polish
not solid, but chipped
and i think of an old guitar
(which can be the most beautiful
thing in the world)
the personalities of basements
that i have been in:
#1. I used to pretend that I was underneath Alcatraz, in some forgotten room with a decaying ceiling. I stayed down there until one or two in the morning, painting these tiny model airplanes. It must have been cold, because I went down there in the winter, too. But I don't remember that. I just remember running up the stairs, through the door, into the backyard (it was an old farm house) and onto the back porch. If I was fast enough, the ghosts of tortured prisoners couldn't catch me. I never liked to go to bed early. There was too much to explore in the basement.
Do you ever miss someone so much that you would give anything to have them knock on your door? Anything.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
thoughts on today, 4-05-2009
"not yet, anyway"
he said, when asked about god.
what are we waiting for?
dad to fill the car up with gas?
let's get back on the road.
i want to see the billboards for
medicine shops
and gambling towns
for miles and miles
perfect imperfection
means
that everything fits just right
into a shape that doesn't exist
(like the way that trees grow, and think of all the trees)
when something is different
it is more valuable
except that the term "valuable"
sounds too much like "can be sold for more money"
so,
what i really mean is:
when something is different
it makes me want to put it in my pocket
or remember it
until i can write it down
and by write it down, i mean:
a pretty girl (reminds me of an old movie, black and white, and that same smile that Grace Kelly gave to a busted up Jimmy Stewart)
a hummingbird (a small thing but perfectly designed)
unexpected miles davis (you can't desribe this. you just have to listen.)
coming this summer:
my album.
prairie reclamation project by bobby bobbie's broken heart.
release date TBD.
he said, when asked about god.
what are we waiting for?
dad to fill the car up with gas?
let's get back on the road.
i want to see the billboards for
medicine shops
and gambling towns
for miles and miles
perfect imperfection
means
that everything fits just right
into a shape that doesn't exist
(like the way that trees grow, and think of all the trees)
when something is different
it is more valuable
except that the term "valuable"
sounds too much like "can be sold for more money"
so,
what i really mean is:
when something is different
it makes me want to put it in my pocket
or remember it
until i can write it down
and by write it down, i mean:
a pretty girl (reminds me of an old movie, black and white, and that same smile that Grace Kelly gave to a busted up Jimmy Stewart)
a hummingbird (a small thing but perfectly designed)
unexpected miles davis (you can't desribe this. you just have to listen.)
coming this summer:
my album.
prairie reclamation project by bobby bobbie's broken heart.
release date TBD.
let's try this again
blogging comes back.
there is absolutely no excuse to not write a poem every day.
even though the word "poem" and the idea of "poetry" illicit a response that isn't really appropriate for the type of writing that i intend to do here. more appropriately, i am holding myself responsible for posting thoughts that i have, which usually manifest themselves without caring much about punctuation or grammatical correctness. spelling is important, usually.
so here is my goal:
every day, for the next year, i will be logging on here to post a "thoughts on today, xx-xx-2009".
we'll see what happens.
more to come... later today.
there is absolutely no excuse to not write a poem every day.
even though the word "poem" and the idea of "poetry" illicit a response that isn't really appropriate for the type of writing that i intend to do here. more appropriately, i am holding myself responsible for posting thoughts that i have, which usually manifest themselves without caring much about punctuation or grammatical correctness. spelling is important, usually.
so here is my goal:
every day, for the next year, i will be logging on here to post a "thoughts on today, xx-xx-2009".
we'll see what happens.
more to come... later today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
