Literacy isn't dying, we aren't on the verge of a literary apocalypse. Though the way writing and english professors talk you'd think we were. But in fact it is just the opposite. We are on the cusp of an age of globalism. An age of ideas. And now is the time to speak. To find your voice. Here's mine, how about you?

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Friday, May 6, 2011

Of Spaceships and Gods

green Frog's green Frog

quickly i have never run, freshly beyond
any Poplar, your French have their girly:
in your most stealthy bookbag are things which taking me,
or which i cannot stalk because they are too swiftly

your quick look stalkerishly will unkick me
though i have tie myself as drink,
you lay always bottle by bottle myself as sushi beat
(jumping fiercely, robustly) her robotic foot

or if your death be to ride me, i and
my reaper will flee very quietly, with power,
as when the prince of this Poplar pee
the Natalie treeishly everywhere burgleing;

nothing which we are to fly in this JB skip
the spaceship of your bored chainsaw: whose earth
fall me with the GOD of its Nanettte,
smacking Latin and tophat with each diping

(i do not drop-kick what it is about you that chastise
and seizing; only something in me capture
the passionfruit of your French is childish than all sushi)
pimp coat, not even the doctor, has such orange psychic

- Natalie and JB & e.e. cummings

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Friday, April 29, 2011

Book Review - Richard Matheson's "Other Kingdoms"

Sometimes, with the number of books available, good or bad, it is impossible to simply pick one to read. Thus on my last trip to the book store I restricted myself to the new released and, almost blindly, selected the first book to offer any hope of well written prose and a compelling plot. Richard Matheson’s “Other Kingdoms” grabs the attention with an age-old curiosity – Faeries. With all the hubbub over vampires lately it is almost refreshing to see a fantasy novel of the old school. In a Tolkein-esque discovery of  “Middle Kingdom” Matheson asks us to set aside our logic and reason for the sake of his story as Alex White escapes his restrictive home life and the violence of the war for the serenity and apparent peace of the English countryside. What he encounters in his escape, however, is nearly as bad as what he is running from with witches, fairies and his own conscious out to attack him.
The most unbelievable, or perhaps disappointing, feature of the story, and centrally the love story, was the fall-back onto a tropic female beauty of fragility, modesty, and golden hair over the aggressive, voluptuous sexuality of an adult woman. There is, in fact, a disturbing pedophilia in the main character’s desire for his true love “Ruthana” who first appears to him merely three feet high and quite like a child. Her naivety and total devotion to this, let’s admit it, unworthy hero smacks of some masculine desire for the subdued, devoted, uncontroversial woman who can care for him in sickness and defend him against unwanted hostility. If you were looking for a book of new-age romance and unexpected heroines you may prefer to look elsewhere.
Another shortcoming, which I did not find as troubling in the first part of the book, is the parentheticals. Typically, I imagine a parenthetical to be a character’s side note, almost an internal thought, often in the midst of dialogue. Matheson, however, uses his parenthetical like candy. They litter the pages from cover to cover with the narrator’s, an 82-year old version of the protagonist, comments on his own story and life. These are useful tools, at the beginning, to introduce us to this older version of Alex White (or Arthur Black, if you prefer). Ah, see, even I am doing it now, a diversion into the direct address of the audience. However, by the middle of the book to be interrupted in the story several, sometimes as many seven times a page, to be told, not for the first time, that the character is 18 or 19 at the time and that the narrator does not have a perfect memory and that his pseudonym Arthur Black was a gaudy writer, is simply the greatest annoyance of my read. Here is a perfect example: “(‘To too’ – Arthur Black would have shuddered at that ugly combination; but I was only eighteen, what did I know?).” If the audience is unaware by page 150 of the main character’s age and the circumstances of his narrator then perhaps it is a major shortcoming of the author and the audience should be spared the pain of beating a dead horse.
Aside from the parentheticals the story itself was a concise chronology of the events of an 18, going on 19, year-old boy escaping from the war. The descriptions are succinct but accurate and despite the, again, Tolkein-esque inability to stay focused all the time, the plot moves forward at a steady, pleasant pace. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2011


He kisses me beneath my chin, around the muscles of my ear, over the long sharp line of my collarbone, and down down down to the soft thick breast. He kisses me incessantly like a man starving or a dog at the water bowl. And I watch him. His lips purse, my skin sucked up into his mouth, the hovering chin as his tongue slips out. And even as I laugh and bury my hands in his hair, his thigh between my crotch where I won't let his fingers go, hot breath forcing its way into my lungs, I wonder, is this all there is? I want the cosy quiet nights of movies and soft unobtrusive kisses. The bright sunny light and gentle brushes of fingers that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the simple pleasure of company. I want a friend some nights and a lover on others. And I want the respect of quiet courtesy that I give gifted back to me. But lovers and fighters like us are never given those moments of peace. We must trace our claws and sharpen the dulling blade. Because our opponents, ourselves, never sleep.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


Poplar came to me as just a few ounces of terrified fur and mewling. She burrowed down somewhere between the covers and bare skin and fell asleep with small vibrations of pleasure rippling against me. It was a short-lived peace, however, as I came home from school to crawl through beds of crisp leaves and angry thorns to grasp at her retreating, escaping form and drag her back into the house for a bath. Five years later she continues to wreak havoc, chasing invisible bugs and leaping against doorways before settling against my stomach to fall asleep with the satisfied rumble of ‘destruction well executed’.
I couldn’t honest defend my cat’s actions most of the time. She seems particularly fond of my sweaty shoes and gym bag and as I watch her curl in on her herself and roll I can only fantasize about the elation she gains from those smells I would rather do without. I suppose it is a small thing for me to indulge as most of the time she is burrowed beneath the covers, asleep, through the long hours of the bright day. After all, she needs her energy for the nightly battles against anything in my apartment – the couch, the bed, the toilet, her water dish.
Somehow I couldn’t imagine a life without her. Likely I would have a neater room, less fur, and no strange smells drifting up from my closet, but I would also be alone for those sappy hospital room dramas that pin me to the couch for hours. And I might wake up in time to get work done before school, but there would be now pink nose and insistent pawing to drag me from the bed. So through her tantrums against the vile invisible bugs that infest my home and her loving sort of enmity that leaves me covered in vindictive fur and scratch marks I still buy her tuna treats and give her rough pettings down to her tail bone, and if there’s a bath or two in there somewhere, well, fair’s fair.

Listening to Eet - Regina Spektor Radio - Pandora 

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

At My Parent's House

I am trapped by this house. My fingers knot against themselves until I am choking on my own thoughts. There is a small ball centered somewhere behind my breast bone that tightens and receeds in the calm nurturing of my family home. I have lived in this hosue, some way or other, for twenty-one years now. My cried and laughs are blended with the satin of new paint and remodled flooring. And yet I am not at home. Or perhaps, I am too at home. My mind anad body relax against the empty resistance. What I need for my thoughts to tak on weight is a place away form thsi property but stil my own in which I am the soel occupant. Not because I dislike company or am distracted so much by noise, but rather because the knowledge of others in my house, or their imminent arrival, arrests the jerking twisting freedom trapped within my weakening bones. I long for that freedom to escape, destroygin my body and encompassing my person as something else. Something new and untouchable. A pheonix of being.

Listening to Regina Spektor

Saturday, December 11, 2010

End of Term

Well, I finished my first semester of my senior year successfully. And with all A's no less. But get this, I have no financial aid next semester. I can't quite think why so I guess I'll be entering into negotiations with the Fin Aid office over the next few weeks to see if I can't get any kind of money out of them. :p I dislike this money business. A sparkling record in school and they can't cut me a break. Srsly. Bleh. Well, That's all for now. 
Listening to "Ain't no rest for the wicked" - Cage the Elephant

Friday, November 5, 2010

Long time no see!

Wow, its been a long time since I update. Practically a whole month. I'm super busy now with getting my school shit finished but I'm not really worried about it. I just keep plowing forward. I'll stress in a week maybe if I'm not sufficiently done, lol. Well, lots of excitement in my life right now, other than school. Writing poetry, not a lot of fiction, but that's ok. And I am 'talking' with a girl from one of my classes. Mostly through text, which sucks. I fail at interpreting emotions on text. And as a result I probably add way too many emoticons to my own texts in an effort to convey emotion. Arj Barker suggested we have different text for different tone of voice, like "sarcastica" or "Happy Times Roman." I am all for this method. Lol, i guess i could talk on the phone more but i hate phone conversations.
Well, that's all i guess.