Untampered handguns allign Heaven's Fence
As God polishes the bones of Man,
Weeping, tears spilling on the shimmering skulls.
Oh writing, what art thou?
Inability, a curse, an incessant lecture of things I just don't understand. You swallow up the factual, yet still you tag your selves with the word "empirical," as if that would help the wallowing-child within.
Indifference, I've come to resent you.
Honestly, is it truly so normal to think in verse, to constantly be swallowed by dimensions of witches and lonely girls, of harbored men and anchored trauma's? Is not madness the very thing that has us sprinting to our locked shelters to simply place output on the many, many things that, for the duration, swallow the mind until outlet.
Without the truths, Rachel staggered on
Moonlit road, licking at the Rubies
Spilling from her wrist.
Tonight,
The sky would have it's way her way
What is the release, what is the motive? There is nothing but hidden texts, countless tomes strewn in drawers and awkward spaces between mantles and chairs.
What the fuck is the point of all of this, and why won't it stop?
Contemplating the point, the reason, that writing, that stories, have devoured the real, have suffocated the football-toss and drum-set conversations.
Why, why, why is this contemplation arising? Why, why, why is this doubt sufficing for this night rather then the lonely sight?
Think, though. Think, and vision, the awkward you whom, with napkin stolen from diner, scribbles the disgustingly barren world of text.
Why doesn't it stop? What is the point?
Googled though he was, Holland moved to the tower aware, unafraid of the blood-lively roots that spread about him indifferent to the oaks that once lined the sidewalks of his street, the trees that, one-by-one, fell during the invasion of Earth.
They say Mother Nature couldn't spare the life, that ours were the one's to keep, that ours were the ones to save.
As he moved on the glass-strewn road, Holland pondered the difference of the Oaks to People.
No life could be spared, no life should be surrendered.
Everything had fallen apart.
Futile is the mind to tie away the thoughts, unable, impractical in it's method of my direction, to sever the binding of things undeveloped yet waiting, of things dancing in the shadows with tints of neon-colors whisking off of them.
I shouldn't have drank the last four beers. Struggle doesn't wait and taste must be rationed. But how is one to exist without release? How is one to suffice on the stunningly lacking without a vision blurred and descending on the very organ of construction?
How is one to simply live when one cannot see his own life?
Vegetable-paste lay slathered atop the pasta, an ingediant of such historic distaste. Still, we never spoke to Aunt Anya on her terrible topping, instead watching with frowns spreading as she, smiling, pasted our breads and noodles with the olive-skined thickness that was her prize.
Later, I'd realize my own vegetable-paste.
Fading, that is all this really is.
Fading and degrading,
Derailed hesitating.
Axes on my doorsteps shine with the nostalgia of times long ago when Daddy would arrive and sit with a head between his thighs.
The lunchpail brings the truth that mother doesn't care; meatballs, laced with coccaine.
Regardless, Frankie moved beside me and kissed my cheek, her arms lifelessly dangling beside her. I moved my hand to hers, but she did not notice and left, running off from the fenceline to the swings that swung with girls.
Matt had cancer, and I had depression. Even at his bedside, the chemotherapy dripping into his vein, I still thought that I had it worse.
I don't have a clue what I'm getting at.
Actually, I do. Basically, the past-two-week writers block I had really has me down. My novel project has, for a month now, remained untouched. I was on such a high, and then it died.
My short-stories are suffering from editing. New ideas are axed for the already-done, and even when I play with them I find I hate them.
No creativity other than the mania that poisons me every ten seconds.
I offered you my hand in marrage; you offered me cab-fare.
Erasure is the cure.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Saturday, October 23, 2010
On (my own) Personal Pieces
First off, let me say that I am aware my last submission was garbage. Even worse, it didn't have to be.
I wasn't lying in my last post about writers block, and what I submitted to you was actually written in three hours before class. No edits were able to be made (As if actual editing could be done in such a time!) and the shortness of the project was definitely a stunt.
The whole premise of the story was supposed to be that buisness, and buisness conduct, are changing. It hasn't finished in it's evolutionary process, and at the moment it rests on a pillar lined with the text of "rude" and "confusing." I wanted to exemplify that in the chaotic nature that is malls, and popular products.
I failed, miserably, but that was the premise.
Anyway, the point of this blog is that, after reading over, regrettably, what I'd handed in to you, I saw that, throughout it, there was a very thick layer of anger, something that is present even in these blogs. I'm not confused by this, seeing as I'm quite lucid when I write these things and do not pretend to ignore the heaviness by which I press my keys, but that it essentially nullifies certain aspects of writing for me, which is sort of neat.
I couldn't possibly be a journalist. Despite my own faith that I am writing in an unbiased, empirical standard, I know that, generally, I am dissatisfied on a level indistuingishable from that of stupidity. If it is indeed something personal, opinion-based, actual observation, or anything that is indeed "real," then I am simply not fit to write it.
I think of the girl whom sits in the far corner of the class when I write this. Whenever she speaks, her voice carries with it a hostility so obvious that the general lack-of feeling delivered towards her goes completely unacknowledged for it is simply known. This is not a "judgemental" look, for one's tone is truly one's tone, except I resonate with her speech entirely in my own personal writings. I too used to speak anger-through-dialect, except I eventually cut myself from vocally being hostile for the reality over time that my vocal-hostility polluted even my imaginative, original-project writings. Except, looking back on a radical-left newspaper a friend and I started when we were fifteen, I see that my writing is actually, truly, unbiased, and the philosophy present (Though I now would disagree with) is indeed plausible for it's manner of telling.
What is the real route by which one must act/feel to truly find their outlet of writing? Who knows...
I wasn't lying in my last post about writers block, and what I submitted to you was actually written in three hours before class. No edits were able to be made (As if actual editing could be done in such a time!) and the shortness of the project was definitely a stunt.
The whole premise of the story was supposed to be that buisness, and buisness conduct, are changing. It hasn't finished in it's evolutionary process, and at the moment it rests on a pillar lined with the text of "rude" and "confusing." I wanted to exemplify that in the chaotic nature that is malls, and popular products.
I failed, miserably, but that was the premise.
Anyway, the point of this blog is that, after reading over, regrettably, what I'd handed in to you, I saw that, throughout it, there was a very thick layer of anger, something that is present even in these blogs. I'm not confused by this, seeing as I'm quite lucid when I write these things and do not pretend to ignore the heaviness by which I press my keys, but that it essentially nullifies certain aspects of writing for me, which is sort of neat.
I couldn't possibly be a journalist. Despite my own faith that I am writing in an unbiased, empirical standard, I know that, generally, I am dissatisfied on a level indistuingishable from that of stupidity. If it is indeed something personal, opinion-based, actual observation, or anything that is indeed "real," then I am simply not fit to write it.
I think of the girl whom sits in the far corner of the class when I write this. Whenever she speaks, her voice carries with it a hostility so obvious that the general lack-of feeling delivered towards her goes completely unacknowledged for it is simply known. This is not a "judgemental" look, for one's tone is truly one's tone, except I resonate with her speech entirely in my own personal writings. I too used to speak anger-through-dialect, except I eventually cut myself from vocally being hostile for the reality over time that my vocal-hostility polluted even my imaginative, original-project writings. Except, looking back on a radical-left newspaper a friend and I started when we were fifteen, I see that my writing is actually, truly, unbiased, and the philosophy present (Though I now would disagree with) is indeed plausible for it's manner of telling.
What is the real route by which one must act/feel to truly find their outlet of writing? Who knows...
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Bare-Knuckle Boxing and Writers Block
What is worse (for a writer) then writers block? A mangled hand. Even worse then that? Having both former and latter.
It appears that the creative-outlet of alcohol is also a destructive one, and rather stupid at that. Despite winning by swinging my hand without any hesitancy/reserve into the side of my friends skull, he got out of it with a decent lump and a day-stretch headache. I, now, have a hand the size of a textbook.
But oh well. I can still write, just a pinch more slowly.
But wait, I can't write. At all. An entire week of staring at blank documents pondering, and only pondering.
The rather important assignment that is due today? Besides beating feet and not making it to class, the thing is not done. In fact, it isn't even begun because after writing a personal tale I realized it wasn't a personal narrative, more like a creative auto-biographical account.
I didn't know there was a difference, but yes, there is.
This blog alone has had me pondering for three days. I'm aware that the extra-credit aspect of this thing is bi-daily/class, and that I am possibly blowing it by not updating this thing as of recent. Still, writers block wouldn't even allow me to type on this social-outlet for fear that there was indeed nothing to type.
And that's an interesting thing with writers block. It isn't that one gains writers block by having nothing to write. I have tons to write, a novel project healthily streaming, an endless river of short-story ideas to begin and both edit, and, of course, the many, many peices of garbage poetry I write. Still, though, I can't write.
Writers block is more like this dream-catcher, but not one of the finely woven ones you see hanging on people's rear-wheel mirrors or atop the shade beside their bed. No, this one is more like a thorn, just one gigantic thorn that is sticking out of the side of your head that is literally slicked with the many doubtful words that have been delivered to you throughout life, the ones such as, "You write? Neat, that's pretty cool. But what is it you're trying to do with life?". Tossers, basically, sprout from the sides of this gigantic thorn and shout indecent, ambition crushing tales at you, all the while a med-school flag waves softly from it's point.
Terrible, terrible, terrible is what writers block is.
So there isn't much to this blog other than a confession that I am not going to be in class today. Seeing as this is creative writing, I hope you can understand the manic-reality that every writer endures when they get an accidental whiff of the Block. Perhaps after the next upcoming four hours that I have assigned to endlessly writing on a blank document, I will cure this damn disease and manage to type up the Narrative.
The crow that ate my leg offered no delay and set at once upon my arm
Tearing at it dastardly with the subtle truth of murder lying in this harm.
Stretching my hand, I fetched him and bit, digging my jaws deep into his pits
And chewed and chewed, until I found inside his stomach my flesh, ripped to bits.
I ate that as well and hoped that it would peg
Itself upon the stump, where once rested my leg.
This is what happens when you have writers block. Beautifully terrible poetry like this. Oh well. Perhaps you can sympathize and delay axing my grade? I am trying to write, but, as you can see, it's just bad writing.
It appears that the creative-outlet of alcohol is also a destructive one, and rather stupid at that. Despite winning by swinging my hand without any hesitancy/reserve into the side of my friends skull, he got out of it with a decent lump and a day-stretch headache. I, now, have a hand the size of a textbook.
But oh well. I can still write, just a pinch more slowly.
But wait, I can't write. At all. An entire week of staring at blank documents pondering, and only pondering.
The rather important assignment that is due today? Besides beating feet and not making it to class, the thing is not done. In fact, it isn't even begun because after writing a personal tale I realized it wasn't a personal narrative, more like a creative auto-biographical account.
I didn't know there was a difference, but yes, there is.
This blog alone has had me pondering for three days. I'm aware that the extra-credit aspect of this thing is bi-daily/class, and that I am possibly blowing it by not updating this thing as of recent. Still, writers block wouldn't even allow me to type on this social-outlet for fear that there was indeed nothing to type.
And that's an interesting thing with writers block. It isn't that one gains writers block by having nothing to write. I have tons to write, a novel project healthily streaming, an endless river of short-story ideas to begin and both edit, and, of course, the many, many peices of garbage poetry I write. Still, though, I can't write.
Writers block is more like this dream-catcher, but not one of the finely woven ones you see hanging on people's rear-wheel mirrors or atop the shade beside their bed. No, this one is more like a thorn, just one gigantic thorn that is sticking out of the side of your head that is literally slicked with the many doubtful words that have been delivered to you throughout life, the ones such as, "You write? Neat, that's pretty cool. But what is it you're trying to do with life?". Tossers, basically, sprout from the sides of this gigantic thorn and shout indecent, ambition crushing tales at you, all the while a med-school flag waves softly from it's point.
Terrible, terrible, terrible is what writers block is.
So there isn't much to this blog other than a confession that I am not going to be in class today. Seeing as this is creative writing, I hope you can understand the manic-reality that every writer endures when they get an accidental whiff of the Block. Perhaps after the next upcoming four hours that I have assigned to endlessly writing on a blank document, I will cure this damn disease and manage to type up the Narrative.
The crow that ate my leg offered no delay and set at once upon my arm
Tearing at it dastardly with the subtle truth of murder lying in this harm.
Stretching my hand, I fetched him and bit, digging my jaws deep into his pits
And chewed and chewed, until I found inside his stomach my flesh, ripped to bits.
I ate that as well and hoped that it would peg
Itself upon the stump, where once rested my leg.
This is what happens when you have writers block. Beautifully terrible poetry like this. Oh well. Perhaps you can sympathize and delay axing my grade? I am trying to write, but, as you can see, it's just bad writing.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Doubting, and Prose
Some would say I'm "fucking myself over" while others would simply label it as "academic disinterest." Personally, I think it's just all bullshit and that the thick atmosphere of self-induced pressure is not worth it.
It's bullshit. Despite the 1,500 that I dropped on academics, I am failing two of my four courses, which is, now placing in another year worth of OCC (2014, here we come!). But am I, the person whom, at six, went up to Princeton, saw it, and longed ever since for on-school livelihood and total scholarly-directive, really capable of continuously working these meager jobs while sloppily stuffing my pockets with non-curiculum based credits, all the while eroding and chipping away at my initial ambitions and philosophic desires?
No, absolutely not.
Except there is no other method. If I drop school, then the only thing waiting for me are these piece of shit jobs which do absolutely nothing to test the mind.
I want a task!
I want a damn challenge!
"Take a philosophy course!"
I did, except they are all morons.
Ethics apparently means morality, and apparently that justifies total snobbery and a ceaseless, disgusting tone of pretentious-lore to one's self. The moron actually said that Russia and China are "communist countries." There can be no such thing! There is no such thing! You can't throw away years and years of research and output into making communism practical just because yellow-journalism wanted to make american's afraid of radical-left thought. And what the hell does she think ethics amounts to? Kids who know why "please" and "thank you" are polite? Ethics isn't morality, you bastard! Ethics is the study of the appropriate laws and consistent features in the means of constructing and maintaining an orthodox about however many collective people's. It's just as politically-based as political theory. Ethics has no place without taking a constructive look at structure, how structure will advance, when structure will fall and what structure will replace the former. It is a study that is based on the rationalizing of next-thought, meaning what the majority concensus will be tommorow, next week, next month, next year, next century.
...good rant.
Anyway, what I am saying is that it isn't academic disinterest, and that I'm not really attempting to fuck myself over. I know exactly what I want out of school (English/Creative Writing/Actually Intelligent Philosophy Courses) except I apparently can't do anything I want without being subjected to a series of curiculum courses that devour my own worth (mathematics). Might I add that the courses I enjoy are generally taught by absolute morons (Philosophy... There is a difference between admiring philosophy, and understanding it. I am in the latter, which means if I take these courses I don't want some moron to teach me about Kant's outdated, irrelevent theories. I'd like to discuss via intelligently about the practicality of post-colonialism, or the means by which leftist-theory should change, or how and by which method genocide via foreign cultures should actually be addressed (meaning not "stop it!" but on a practical, impartial scale, particularly authoritarian and wholly A-Moral)).
Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.
And a cup of smug.
But still... hmm, it's just tough. I dunno what I am getting at. I don't feel challanged, and I'm very bored and drinking doesn't do what it used to and despite the amount of flower-infused prose I write I still don't feel any better and all the "darkness" of heart is just powder and blood-flow and cementing further and further my idea that I am, indeed, alienated from my own species.
Oh well. Keep writing, right?
I don't get it. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel. I like getting presents, and sending Christmas cards and all that, but I'm still not happy. I almost always end up feeling depressed. Charlie Brown's Christmas
It's bullshit. Despite the 1,500 that I dropped on academics, I am failing two of my four courses, which is, now placing in another year worth of OCC (2014, here we come!). But am I, the person whom, at six, went up to Princeton, saw it, and longed ever since for on-school livelihood and total scholarly-directive, really capable of continuously working these meager jobs while sloppily stuffing my pockets with non-curiculum based credits, all the while eroding and chipping away at my initial ambitions and philosophic desires?
No, absolutely not.
Except there is no other method. If I drop school, then the only thing waiting for me are these piece of shit jobs which do absolutely nothing to test the mind.
I want a task!
I want a damn challenge!
"Take a philosophy course!"
I did, except they are all morons.
Ethics apparently means morality, and apparently that justifies total snobbery and a ceaseless, disgusting tone of pretentious-lore to one's self. The moron actually said that Russia and China are "communist countries." There can be no such thing! There is no such thing! You can't throw away years and years of research and output into making communism practical just because yellow-journalism wanted to make american's afraid of radical-left thought. And what the hell does she think ethics amounts to? Kids who know why "please" and "thank you" are polite? Ethics isn't morality, you bastard! Ethics is the study of the appropriate laws and consistent features in the means of constructing and maintaining an orthodox about however many collective people's. It's just as politically-based as political theory. Ethics has no place without taking a constructive look at structure, how structure will advance, when structure will fall and what structure will replace the former. It is a study that is based on the rationalizing of next-thought, meaning what the majority concensus will be tommorow, next week, next month, next year, next century.
...good rant.
Anyway, what I am saying is that it isn't academic disinterest, and that I'm not really attempting to fuck myself over. I know exactly what I want out of school (English/Creative Writing/Actually Intelligent Philosophy Courses) except I apparently can't do anything I want without being subjected to a series of curiculum courses that devour my own worth (mathematics). Might I add that the courses I enjoy are generally taught by absolute morons (Philosophy... There is a difference between admiring philosophy, and understanding it. I am in the latter, which means if I take these courses I don't want some moron to teach me about Kant's outdated, irrelevent theories. I'd like to discuss via intelligently about the practicality of post-colonialism, or the means by which leftist-theory should change, or how and by which method genocide via foreign cultures should actually be addressed (meaning not "stop it!" but on a practical, impartial scale, particularly authoritarian and wholly A-Moral)).
Nonsense, nonsense, nonsense.
And a cup of smug.
But still... hmm, it's just tough. I dunno what I am getting at. I don't feel challanged, and I'm very bored and drinking doesn't do what it used to and despite the amount of flower-infused prose I write I still don't feel any better and all the "darkness" of heart is just powder and blood-flow and cementing further and further my idea that I am, indeed, alienated from my own species.
Oh well. Keep writing, right?
I don't get it. Christmas is coming, but I'm not happy. I don't feel the way I'm supposed to feel. I like getting presents, and sending Christmas cards and all that, but I'm still not happy. I almost always end up feeling depressed. Charlie Brown's Christmas
Monday, October 4, 2010
This Novel Invisible
Novels are like shards of glass. Despite how much I try to convince myself that I can treat each chapter as a short story, I find that per continuing segment my fingers sting more, my head wincing and stuttering at thoughts.
Why, though, is it such an issue?
In all honesty, a novel is a series of short stories, particularly the one I am working on seeing as it is 3rd person single (meaning the narrator is following but one protagonist). It's no different then writing a short story and not finishing it in one go other than duration. Might I add this story is, outside of political theories and various philosophic questioning, an adventure story. After the initial six chapters, which stay in one community (a large community at that, with each chapter taking place in a different part save for two) the entire story should be, more or less, engaging to me.
When I begin though... ugh.
And this isn't so simple a solution as "maybe the story isn't for you." The reality is that this story has boiled and rotated insided my head now for eight months. Most novel projects are a week, two week high for me that I abandon no different than the 100+ short stories I drop per year. But here is this project, nearly fully fleshed upon conception and now I find the veins connecting and the ligaments functioning.
Despite the quality that it will amount to (low, I'd assume), the story exists on a scale like that of a child. A child I don't really like 95% of the time though still my child whom is occasionally cute and draws nifty robots.
It just seems so crude. Not the story but the project, The Novel. I hate it, it's a horrible word that is literally slathered with capitalist-engineering and objectivist-agreement. It's miserable! It's ugly! It's rude! And still I have to write the damn thing because unless the New York Times is going to start publishing my crap short stories and calling me with tear-choked throats pleading for another with a $1000 check already en-route to my home, the only way I am going to make writing an actual means by which I live is to write, indeed, the novel.
Bah-Humbug!
P.S. As for the personal-essay assignment due this friday... I have made no progress. Writing in the style of Rios bares to me no better fortune than that of the strangely labeled "Happily recount Unhappy Family" assignment which, despite the four times I went over it in the book, I still don't grasp.
I wish there was a way to write the noise that kids make about missles. That's what I feel like.
Pewwwwww-Brkk!
Why, though, is it such an issue?
In all honesty, a novel is a series of short stories, particularly the one I am working on seeing as it is 3rd person single (meaning the narrator is following but one protagonist). It's no different then writing a short story and not finishing it in one go other than duration. Might I add this story is, outside of political theories and various philosophic questioning, an adventure story. After the initial six chapters, which stay in one community (a large community at that, with each chapter taking place in a different part save for two) the entire story should be, more or less, engaging to me.
When I begin though... ugh.
And this isn't so simple a solution as "maybe the story isn't for you." The reality is that this story has boiled and rotated insided my head now for eight months. Most novel projects are a week, two week high for me that I abandon no different than the 100+ short stories I drop per year. But here is this project, nearly fully fleshed upon conception and now I find the veins connecting and the ligaments functioning.
Despite the quality that it will amount to (low, I'd assume), the story exists on a scale like that of a child. A child I don't really like 95% of the time though still my child whom is occasionally cute and draws nifty robots.
It just seems so crude. Not the story but the project, The Novel. I hate it, it's a horrible word that is literally slathered with capitalist-engineering and objectivist-agreement. It's miserable! It's ugly! It's rude! And still I have to write the damn thing because unless the New York Times is going to start publishing my crap short stories and calling me with tear-choked throats pleading for another with a $1000 check already en-route to my home, the only way I am going to make writing an actual means by which I live is to write, indeed, the novel.
Bah-Humbug!
P.S. As for the personal-essay assignment due this friday... I have made no progress. Writing in the style of Rios bares to me no better fortune than that of the strangely labeled "Happily recount Unhappy Family" assignment which, despite the four times I went over it in the book, I still don't grasp.
I wish there was a way to write the noise that kids make about missles. That's what I feel like.
Pewwwwww-Brkk!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)