Testing something.

Date:	2007-04-18 21:20
Subject:
Security:	Public
Mood:	nostalgic
Music:	Life is Like a Boat by Rie Fu

I finally dusted off my old livejournal so I can post on other journals.  I've cleared out a lot of entries, but I'm leaving in the pieces I wrote for my last creative writing course, so no, this isn't just a blank journal made by a troll.  I just have more to say to other people than I have to say about myself.

Date:	2004-03-19 00:25
Subject:	Another poem
Security:	Public
Mood:	irate
Music:	Can You Forgive Her? by the Pet Shop Boys

This poem was written in response to the prompt, "Choose a poet who writes in a manner that is very different from yours and write a poem in that style." I chose Allen Ginsberg. He's a tough poet to mimic; if my poem doesn't revolt you or make you grimace at least once, I haven't written it brutally enough. That's his style though: hideous images and harsh language.

Nobody’s Happy



I.
I see you girls wearing make-up, trying to look mature,
you don’t realize that maturity doesn’t come in a bottle,
you don’t love your ages love your faces love yourselves,
scarecrows, thin and gaunt, bare your flesh, flash and flaunt,
weight up weight down, just another jean size,
fad diet, counting carbs, too much flab, string bikini, summer coming,
spring break, give it up, take off your shirt, no one cares,
pluck paint shave wax, tear rip shred rive,
desiccated china dolls, thin and pretty, jutting bones,
eye shadow, lipstick, mascara, nail polish,
hide your faults, hide your skin, cover up and cover all,
hot date, school can wait, you don’t need it anyway,
gotta have the latest styles, doesn’t matter what the cost,
if someone better wears it, you should too,
don’t make a style all your own, it’s all a game you’ve got to win,
if she’s prettier then she’s better, always something wrong with you,
chubby thighs, pudgy waist, chest too small or hips too big,
lose a pound, and then he might notice you and ask you out,
go through hours dressing up, paint yourselves another face,
too much pressure, too much worry,
be thin be painted be like women in the magazines,
think you’re never pretty, not enough,
designer clothes and pricey jewelry,
a few more piercings might be pretty,
so change yourselves, you’re never good enough


II.
I see you women wearing make-up, trying to look young,
you don’t realize that youth doesn’t come in a bottle,
you don’t love your ages love your faces love yourselves,
pathetic nightmares like bloated corpses with made-up faces,
walking dead stench of perfume, reeks of embalming fluid,
shut the coffin lid be done with it already,
nip here tuck there lift up pull down,
cow hide stretched out, turn to leather all your skin,
want a healthy glow again?
buy it back with lotion cream miracle brand,
if you want it they can sell it,
take your money make you young,
‘cause age is a plague that affects us all,
gotta fight, gotta grab the hands of time and hold on tight,
make it last, flowers under glass, freeze dried and crystallized,
a sad demise, sack of bones, go down the row and pick your stone,
‘cause people tell you to look young,
so what’s the use of living if you can’t look good?
too much pressure, smooth-skinned, wrinkle-free,
like the girls in magazines,
think you’re old think you’re fat think you’re wrinkled,
spotted hands to gnarled toes, resigned to varicosity
don’t think that laughter put your wrinkles there,
time’s the culprit, one to blame, beauty fades, you’re all alone,
a few years younger might pretty,
so hide your age, you’re never good enough

Date:	2004-03-03 00:06
Subject:	Poetry
Security:	Public
Mood:	sleepy
Music:	The Phantom of the Opera Soundtrack, Original Cast Recording

Quick deal tonight... I'm posting a poem I wrote to be turned in tomorrow. Well, two actually.

Never Looked Back

She walked out the door one summer day.
She gave me a look as she went on her way.
It wasn’t the first, it wouldn’t be the last
Look that she’d tossed my way in the past.

The look plainly said it’s better this way.
At the time I didn’t know what else to say,
So I went in the house and unpacked my things,
But I know that to me she still sadly clings,

Yet her clinging is not of the affectionate kind.
It’s a mold, it’s a fungus, a disease of the mind.
I’ve done all that I can to keep her at bay;
She thinks that I’m hers, though she gave me away.

One rotten apple at the bottom of the bowl
Can taint all the others, leaving none whole.
She lingers in my life like an brown apple rind,
And she refuses to see that I’ve left her behind.

I wish that my mother had never looked back.


Billfold

I lost my billfold today.
No surprise there;
An elephant I am not.
I’m glad cards can be replaced.
New library card, new license…
No new photographs, though.
Little squares with tattered edges,
smudged by years of handling,
The ticket stub from the movie I saw last week,
The receipt from the sweater
I gave my aunt one Christmas,
The note my brother wrote me
before he left for college;
Just little bits of paper,
frayed and torn.
It’s just a billfold.
I’ll go and buy another.
I’ve looked everywhere for it,
I really have.
I just don’t get it.
So I lost my billfold today.
Why does it feel like more?

I'm still working on these poems, and surprisingly, I'm having fun doing it. I never thought I was much of a poetry person, as far as writing goes.

Date:	2004-01-23 00:27
Subject:	"Dolosus Lupus Equidem"
Security:	Public
Mood:	predatory
Music:	Peter and the Wolf by Tchaikovsky

I took three semesters of Latin in high school, so I'd hate to waste it. The title of my story means "A Sly Wolf Indeed." It's my fairy tale response. As planned, I based it on "The Boy Who Cried Wolf" and wrote it in first person. The hardest part, for me, was finding the voice of the wolf and writing the first line. I know I wanted my wolf to be snarky and insufferable, but I wasn't sure about how I could do that. Where to begin in the story? In medias res? I finally settled on an older wolf, still as sardonic as he was in his youth, recalling the story. I tried it as a bedtime story to some young cubs, but I scratched that idea. What I ended up with goes along much better with his personality. Here is my final draft:


You know, a friend once asked me, “Have you ever fallen in love?” I replied, “Why, yes. I do it every time I see my reflection.” He didn’t have to be so rude with his reply. I was only being honest. I may be getting a little greyer in the fur this winter, but my teeth and my wit are as sharp as ever. These young pups nowadays have no sense of style. They tear through the countryside, their antics haphazard and sloppy at best. I’m surprised a few of them are still alive. In fact, one of my nephews--you've probably heard of him, sadly--was involved in some kind of... I don't know what to call it. There were pigs and houses. Oh, that was a spectacular mess, that was. I didn't want to even look at him for months afterwards. I barely claim him as kin now. I mean, a wolf is supposed to be a proud creature, full of cunning and stealth. Take one of my favorite hobbies, for instance. Human baiting, in my opinion, has always been an art form quite above this rolling around with pigs thing (honestly, who bothers with pigs anymore?), and it requires a good deal more skill, too. You have to watch the human, selecting him from his herd as you would one of his sheep. Then, you must carefully monitor his behavior, cautiously feeling out his weak points. It takes finesse. None of this huffing and puffing, thank you very much. Only then can you successfully execute your plan and seize a free meal, and if you do it right, you'll earn bragging rights for years to come. Why, in my younger days, I pulled a stunt so clever, so cunning, and so absolutely perfect, that my poor victim still feels the sting of it many winters later. The poor boy has never been able to live it down.

It all started when I was trotting along the forest’s edge near the village, the one by the river. A young boy had been put in charge of his father’s flock, and he was awfully anxious to prove himself. In fact, he was a little too anxious. He kept jumping at the slightest sound, as if hoping he might have a chance to use his new sling. Still wet behind the ears, he was. Anyhow, he took a notion that day to call attention to himself. “Wolf!” he cried, pointing into the forest and firing off stones from his sling. “There’s a wolf coming for our sheep!” It wasn’t me he was indicating; I was tucked away in a favorite hiding spot of mine, languidly watching the fluffy appetizers he was trying to protect. The boy’s father came running out, pitchfork in one hand, flaming torch in another. He searched that section of the forest high and low, eventually coming back in defeat. There was nothing to be found. The boy tried to hide his laughter, but the father caught him and promptly dragged him back to the farmhouse by an ear. The boy kept struggling and pleading the whole time. The father ended up watching the flock himself for the next few days. When the boy was finally trusted enough to return to his work, I happened to be in the vicinity again. He hadn’t learned his lesson, though. He repeated his call, and again, the father came running out, fearing for the lives of his lunch... Sheep, I mean. Sorry. Anyway, when the father discovered it was another trick, things got very bleak indeed for the boy. I didn’t see him for a solid month, and he limped a little when I did finally see him. It wasn’t time to make a move yet, though. When I’m in the process of carrying out a plot, I can have the patience of Job, unlike these impatient pups I complain about. I waited until the boy developed a false sense of security and let his guard down. I sized up the flock, selected my prey, and easily picked off my meal. The boy didn’t even notice me until I was carting off my haul. “Wolf!” he cried again, this time in vain. “There’s a wolf here, a real one!” No one came to the rescue. They were deaf now to the boy’s cries, and no amount of shouting was going to bring help. I escaped into the forest with my prize, leaving the boy forever branded as the boy who cried wolf. Now tell me that isn’t a clever scheme. None of the cubs I know could have pulled that off. Like I said, they have no style these days.

Date:	2004-01-16 16:24
Subject:	To His Coy Mistress
Security:	Public
Mood:	satisfied
Music:	Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts by Bob Dylan

I got back a recent homework assignment today. It's a poem in response to Andrew Marvell's To His Coy Mistress, in which a man tries to woo a young girl by telling her that life is short. It has the standard "carpe diem" message to it. Read the whole, original poem here. The assignment was to reply to the young man from the girl's point of view. Here's my final, edited copy:

Feigning Modesty

'Tis true what you say that a marble vault
Awaits us all, bringing all to a halt.
Lovers who are wise will quicken their pace
Before the ashes fly and leave no trace
Of love forever lost by frosty Death;
We have such little time to catch our breath,
So it would indeed be a heinous crime
For us to waste our precious given time
By playing coy and feigning modesty.
Aye, if all the time in the world had we,
Perhaps then your echoing song could be heard
Through two long ages and into the third.
Your words so rich and so sweetly composed
Could well consume three ages unopposed,
And yet, 'tis fruitless for your love to swear,
For I cannot become your Helen fair.
I must take my leave and say goodbye,
For your older brother has caught my eye.

For this poem, I interpreted this girl not as a young and innocent thing, as the reader of the original poem is led to believe. My coy mistress is impetuous, experienced, and a little bit conceited. She knows men are easily attracted to her, and she uses that to her advantage. I fussed over the number of syllabes in each line. I finally settled on 10, though the original has 8.