So ignore the postmodernism crap- that was for a class. But some of it's interesting I guess... Anyway! On to better things!!! :)
Like Enoch.
:)
Friday, July 2, 2010
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Bhanu Kapil
Dropping scraps of paper, one by one.
She talked about eating dinner like a bird, a bird at St. Johns.
Hungry.
Meat in the belly,
A girl, rescued from the cave sheets. Incredible.
At the circus, with all the sights and smells, a white eagle and a black panther are mating. This could be unrelated.
Nursing in the cave, hunger. Sucking the breast for food. Being carried.
Then the panther is killed. More blood.
The papers are still thrown in scraps.
A cat in the tree, biology. Study. Articulate words.
Country, the jungle is organized. Everything is organized. More very Articulate words.
Dad as a boy eating butter, being beaten, and caring but not caring. Do what is necessary.
Scars. Protein. Perfect feet. Lots to do with the perfect feet, and the sharp grass of the jungle now cultivated as a farm. More blood.
Then at the end, she throws everything at the audience.
I would write more of a responce, but really there's not much to say. It's like looking at a giant red object. It's giant. It's red. It's not really doing a whole lot for me, to be quite honest.... but there it is.
She talked about eating dinner like a bird, a bird at St. Johns.
Hungry.
Meat in the belly,
A girl, rescued from the cave sheets. Incredible.
At the circus, with all the sights and smells, a white eagle and a black panther are mating. This could be unrelated.
Nursing in the cave, hunger. Sucking the breast for food. Being carried.
Then the panther is killed. More blood.
The papers are still thrown in scraps.
A cat in the tree, biology. Study. Articulate words.
Country, the jungle is organized. Everything is organized. More very Articulate words.
Dad as a boy eating butter, being beaten, and caring but not caring. Do what is necessary.
Scars. Protein. Perfect feet. Lots to do with the perfect feet, and the sharp grass of the jungle now cultivated as a farm. More blood.
Then at the end, she throws everything at the audience.
I would write more of a responce, but really there's not much to say. It's like looking at a giant red object. It's giant. It's red. It's not really doing a whole lot for me, to be quite honest.... but there it is.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Jungle
I remember a jungle.
It was a long time ago. The grass was sharper on my feet, probably because I had a whole lot less weight bearing down on that sea of green reeds- or maybe it was because our backyard was filled with crab grass. At any rate, it wasn’t real pleasant, but then again it’s not the quest itself that means anything. It’s the stories coming back after the expeditions that are the draw. The pictures you make up in the moment.
I would enjoy cutting the jungle in those days, putting it back in its place week in and week out, like taming my own small plot of the world. It was my jungle.
Now it’s interesting. I don’t cut the grass anymore, I pay rent to a corporation and they come by to do the cutting and raking as needed. But I still live in my jungle, only here, it’s better.
The old priest that I live with is terribly British, and the ideas of the empire still sail in and out of his sharp but forgetful mind. He is the commander of his vessel, and orders it against the forces of creation that in their chaos and given half a chance would tear him to pieces. But he has no fear.
Our house is surrounded by forests. The trees tower overhead, sixty, seventy and eighty feet in the air, around the perimeter of the lawn and deep into the dark and trackless jungle. The vines of poison ivy, wild grapes and Virginia creepers wrap them like they are the Ladies and Lords of their domain, choking and killing certain trees as the vulgar crowds grow restless. But the fury and politics of the jungle hold their ground at the edge of the lawn, for fear of the swinging machetes and tiger lilies that stand guard on the line.
You shall come thus far and no farther.
Inside the delightful little patch of freedom the warm sunlight comes in, and gives life to the most spectacular little garden. Here, amid all the chaos, is an ordered plot of land. Nothing grows without permission, and each flower and shrub courts the favor of Father with rich blooms and color. The uncooperative will be given a chance on appeal (of and to clemency) by being moved to the fronts, where if they prove their valor in the face of the jungle they may regain entry to the coveted soils. But their society is ordered by a trained hand and gives delight to the eyes.
As I patrol the edges of my domain, I take note of their keeping.
It was a long time ago. The grass was sharper on my feet, probably because I had a whole lot less weight bearing down on that sea of green reeds- or maybe it was because our backyard was filled with crab grass. At any rate, it wasn’t real pleasant, but then again it’s not the quest itself that means anything. It’s the stories coming back after the expeditions that are the draw. The pictures you make up in the moment.
I would enjoy cutting the jungle in those days, putting it back in its place week in and week out, like taming my own small plot of the world. It was my jungle.
Now it’s interesting. I don’t cut the grass anymore, I pay rent to a corporation and they come by to do the cutting and raking as needed. But I still live in my jungle, only here, it’s better.
The old priest that I live with is terribly British, and the ideas of the empire still sail in and out of his sharp but forgetful mind. He is the commander of his vessel, and orders it against the forces of creation that in their chaos and given half a chance would tear him to pieces. But he has no fear.
Our house is surrounded by forests. The trees tower overhead, sixty, seventy and eighty feet in the air, around the perimeter of the lawn and deep into the dark and trackless jungle. The vines of poison ivy, wild grapes and Virginia creepers wrap them like they are the Ladies and Lords of their domain, choking and killing certain trees as the vulgar crowds grow restless. But the fury and politics of the jungle hold their ground at the edge of the lawn, for fear of the swinging machetes and tiger lilies that stand guard on the line.
You shall come thus far and no farther.
Inside the delightful little patch of freedom the warm sunlight comes in, and gives life to the most spectacular little garden. Here, amid all the chaos, is an ordered plot of land. Nothing grows without permission, and each flower and shrub courts the favor of Father with rich blooms and color. The uncooperative will be given a chance on appeal (of and to clemency) by being moved to the fronts, where if they prove their valor in the face of the jungle they may regain entry to the coveted soils. But their society is ordered by a trained hand and gives delight to the eyes.
As I patrol the edges of my domain, I take note of their keeping.
Jungled
Gracious,
green, garden.
Growing oh so sweetly.
The flowers bring joy in moonlight or sunlight.
Freedom!
Beauty!
Do you not see? Peace is yours at last. All you have longed for, all you have sought.
It’s interesting, the wild and the tame,
Which does your heart most long for?
The wild is sweet,
The tame is rich,
Their manager will speak to them both on the matter.
Life!
Delights!
Light for the eyes and hope for the soul!
What more can we hope for- living in this world of jungles?
We can hope. Emotions are not colorless intangibles, but the feelings that well up inside of us at the sight of what is good. We don’t have to see red to know blood, the color in the eye is an emotion to the brain the same as any mental picture.
green, garden.
Growing oh so sweetly.
The flowers bring joy in moonlight or sunlight.
Freedom!
Beauty!
Do you not see? Peace is yours at last. All you have longed for, all you have sought.
It’s interesting, the wild and the tame,
Which does your heart most long for?
The wild is sweet,
The tame is rich,
Their manager will speak to them both on the matter.
Life!
Delights!
Light for the eyes and hope for the soul!
What more can we hope for- living in this world of jungles?
We can hope. Emotions are not colorless intangibles, but the feelings that well up inside of us at the sight of what is good. We don’t have to see red to know blood, the color in the eye is an emotion to the brain the same as any mental picture.
Jungling
The stealthy hunter was jungling. His eyes twitching like a cat’s, and the machete in his hand like a tiger’s claw. Jungling was a new sport, he invented it himself. It’s what you call going roaming in the woods and chopping till the blisters bleed your hands dry and the insects are biting and stinging and you almost wish you could throw yourself into the fifth stream you’ve crossed this afternoon.
But he was not swimming, oh no, he was jungling. He was jungling in a delta, through the thorns and trees and bushes and webs. His garden was at the top of the hill, base camp, along a trail he had jungled himself earlier that year. The paving stones and patio made a nicer floor than the mud of a dammed creek-bed, but resting and swinging gently in the hammocks could wait.
He was jungling. Part of the hunt is the stalking of prey, part of the kill is the swipe and the slash, but often times the quarry is dead before the hunter even sets foot on the trail. This is because an idea in the head is worth more than a fat herd of deer surprised by a crazy man dropping out of a tree on them with an ax. Preparing the ground, knowing the terrain, and studying the tracks weeks and months in advance give the hunter what he needs to bring down his prey.
He wasn’t hunting though, our friend with the blade, and such thoughts were not of such relevance. His quarry were small trees, cut down in a single swipe, and paths, hidden among all the brush. Onward he chopped, and none could stay him in his burning quest.
But he was not swimming, oh no, he was jungling. He was jungling in a delta, through the thorns and trees and bushes and webs. His garden was at the top of the hill, base camp, along a trail he had jungled himself earlier that year. The paving stones and patio made a nicer floor than the mud of a dammed creek-bed, but resting and swinging gently in the hammocks could wait.
He was jungling. Part of the hunt is the stalking of prey, part of the kill is the swipe and the slash, but often times the quarry is dead before the hunter even sets foot on the trail. This is because an idea in the head is worth more than a fat herd of deer surprised by a crazy man dropping out of a tree on them with an ax. Preparing the ground, knowing the terrain, and studying the tracks weeks and months in advance give the hunter what he needs to bring down his prey.
He wasn’t hunting though, our friend with the blade, and such thoughts were not of such relevance. His quarry were small trees, cut down in a single swipe, and paths, hidden among all the brush. Onward he chopped, and none could stay him in his burning quest.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sword
I am ten. My weapon is plastic, but I attack again and again even as it bends and breaks from the blows. My Father has another blade, shorter and fatter than mine but not by much, he alternates with my little brother as together they take me on. I always attack with fury. It doesn't hurt, I get smacked a few times sure, but I am in a comfortable living room jumping on couches and off the arms of furniture. My dad tells me not to, I'll break them. But this is battle. I am ten.
The sword divides. "One who does not have a sword should sell his cloak and buy one." In the Bible a sharp two-edged sword separates bone from marrow and soul from flesh. It pierces to the heart. What is a sword? It is an extension of the arm, a partner in a dance of death against an opponent and his partner. It is hardened by fire and made of steel, sometimes it is quenched in blood and sharpened and otherwise used to kill. It sings when swung, whistling through the air. The sword divides.
I am sixteen. Six years later. I am in high school, and I have made for myself more dangerous weapons. The swords are now forged of PVC pipe and foam, but when swung like baseball bats they leave bruises welts and sometimes they draw blood. I beat many, but when I fight an ex-military guy I find myself flat on my back on the pavement, sword knocked from my hand. I grow tough, cracking my neck and knuckles I jump back in to take it. Often my glasses are knocked from my face and skid across the black tar and gravel, but I learn to swing the great swords single handed. With either the left or the right I windmill the power back at my foes, inventing anew an ancient sport. Six years later. I am sixteen.
The sword unites. Common groups of people with common ideas take action together. They form alliances, patrols, divisions and companies. A community, international, called the Sword of the Spirit. They started right here in Ann Arbor, now they are tens of thousands strong, with communities in every continent and dozens of countries. More countries than I can keep track of, and still their unity grows. I was born into this community, we pray for each other and for the world. We go on mission trips to foreign lands and local slums. We fight our foes together, as one. The sword unites.
I am twenty-two. Six years later. I no longer am hit by the swords, unless I want to teach a skittish new beginner that it's ok to hit the other person. You can't win if you only go for their sword, a sword can be held out as a distraction while moving in for the kill. The focus is on the other person, or persons when you fight a whole contingent of swordsmen together. I train my boys to be tough, and when they can take it I hit them back. They learn to move quickly, their reflexes sharpen and their footwork becomes light and agile. They make their own weapons now, and fight even when I'm not around. I still can take them when I fight with a sword in each hand, and I have the advantage of stronger arms than they have, but fighting is a young man's sport. Maybe my heart will stay young forever. I hope so. Six years later. I am twenty-two.
The sword divides. "One who does not have a sword should sell his cloak and buy one." In the Bible a sharp two-edged sword separates bone from marrow and soul from flesh. It pierces to the heart. What is a sword? It is an extension of the arm, a partner in a dance of death against an opponent and his partner. It is hardened by fire and made of steel, sometimes it is quenched in blood and sharpened and otherwise used to kill. It sings when swung, whistling through the air. The sword divides.
I am sixteen. Six years later. I am in high school, and I have made for myself more dangerous weapons. The swords are now forged of PVC pipe and foam, but when swung like baseball bats they leave bruises welts and sometimes they draw blood. I beat many, but when I fight an ex-military guy I find myself flat on my back on the pavement, sword knocked from my hand. I grow tough, cracking my neck and knuckles I jump back in to take it. Often my glasses are knocked from my face and skid across the black tar and gravel, but I learn to swing the great swords single handed. With either the left or the right I windmill the power back at my foes, inventing anew an ancient sport. Six years later. I am sixteen.
The sword unites. Common groups of people with common ideas take action together. They form alliances, patrols, divisions and companies. A community, international, called the Sword of the Spirit. They started right here in Ann Arbor, now they are tens of thousands strong, with communities in every continent and dozens of countries. More countries than I can keep track of, and still their unity grows. I was born into this community, we pray for each other and for the world. We go on mission trips to foreign lands and local slums. We fight our foes together, as one. The sword unites.
I am twenty-two. Six years later. I no longer am hit by the swords, unless I want to teach a skittish new beginner that it's ok to hit the other person. You can't win if you only go for their sword, a sword can be held out as a distraction while moving in for the kill. The focus is on the other person, or persons when you fight a whole contingent of swordsmen together. I train my boys to be tough, and when they can take it I hit them back. They learn to move quickly, their reflexes sharpen and their footwork becomes light and agile. They make their own weapons now, and fight even when I'm not around. I still can take them when I fight with a sword in each hand, and I have the advantage of stronger arms than they have, but fighting is a young man's sport. Maybe my heart will stay young forever. I hope so. Six years later. I am twenty-two.
Goldberg final post
I agree with the instructor in "claim your writing", where she tells the students to recognize a good piece of their writing and claim it as their own. I often have a problem doing that, I'll write something and never be sure of how good it is. I feel like I am looking for the perfect reader, and that I won't trust anyone else until I hear from them and hear that my writing is good. It's helpful to work on something and then approach it with the mindset of "this is good. I like this piece."
In addition I also appreciated the parts in Samuri where it talks about cutting apart your writing for the pieces. This is also a helpful technique, because I'll find something I like while being unsure of the rest, and then I tend to be unsure of how to proceed. Cutting and editing even large parts of texts may be what I need.
Rereading and Rewriting is actually something I do a lot. I learned this skill with an art class, to put aside a painting or a drawing and come back to it the next day or a few days later. My hangup with this method is I often find myself proofreading, editing, and rewriting my entire story every time I sit down to look at it, so I don't get a lot of new material out of my system. Sometimes I just need to put text on a page and then forget about it, rather than mull over it for hours on end. But I like the idea behind this chapter.
And the last part was a little much zen for me- but oh well. We knew that was the philosophy behind this book from early on, I disagree with big chunks of it, but that's life...
Or death, as the case may be.
Rereading and Rewriting is actually something I do a lot. I learned this skill with an art class, to put aside a painting or a drawing and come back to it the next day or a few days later. My hangup with this method is I often find myself proofreading, editing, and rewriting my entire story every time I sit down to look at it, so I don't get a lot of new material out of my system. Sometimes I just need to put text on a page and then forget about it, rather than mull over it for hours on end. But I like the idea behind this chapter.
And the last part was a little much zen for me- but oh well. We knew that was the philosophy behind this book from early on, I disagree with big chunks of it, but that's life...
Or death, as the case may be.
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