A Walk on the Wilde Side

You have to wonder how people got anything done in 17th century Spain give how long-winded everyone was.  Was it really necessary to demonstrate one's point through twenty something examples, each of which sounds relatively similar to the preceding proof, and naturally reaches the same conclusion?  Perhaps men were even denser then than they are now...that's a scary thought.  Maybe the reason that Lotario takes so long to explain to Anselmo why his plan to tempt his virtuos wife is so wrong is because as a guy he is able to perfectly understand that his thick-headed friend is not going to be moved by a simple argument...and yet, he's not moved by the long, drawn out argument either, so really, Lotario should have just skipped the whole thing.  But then Lotario is also a guy and so in order to not offend his own powers of persuasion he must have, in his denseness, assumed that another man would actually listen to his reason, since he was enough of a coward to be so easily moved to immoral behavior by Anselmo in spite of his own well-founded arguments.  I think we should all take up a Hemingway-esque style of speaking, using no elaboration, and no excessively long words and just say exactly what we mean so as to limit and cut down on our conversation length.  Miraculous things may happen: we may have more time to do other things because we have become so efficient at talking in a brisk and to the point manner that hours of the day will suddenly be free.  We can translate books into this new manner of speaking (except for selected works of the witty Wilde of course) and Don Quijote will no longer be so long...who knows, we may even be able to reduce War and Peace to fifty pages!

So as a preamble to this interesting format of a poem, a sestina is a 39 line poem that has six stanzas of six with the same final six words except in a different order:
123456
615243
364125
532614
451362
246531
2/5 4/3 6/1

Here you have it:

I think I’m lost,

Wandering recklessly through lines

That rhyme and bounce gracefully

Through iambic pentameter as it sings,

Shatters glass,

With its sinfully false description.

 

What a horridly wrong description

When the beauty of one’s eyes it lost

And they are frosted like glass

Staring blankly back, unfeeling like lines

Of a bitter ballad an illiterate cowboy sings

Tending to his cows and strumming gracefully

 

On a dented banjo, gracefully

Moving his fingers as his vocal description

Fails and only the banjo sings.

Its melody is lost,

Vanished like the laughing lines

That crease ones face before it glazes like glass,

 

Glosses into an icy sheet of glass;

Gracefully

Erasing those pretty lines

Until it is once again subject to description

And all natural beauty is lost.

The muse sings

 

How sweetly she sings

With a voice as clear as glass

The music makes one feel lost

As is eases gracefully

Up and down the scale of subtle description

That cannot be captured in composed lines

 

I have written my fourteen lines

Listening as conscience sings

In my ear, laments my slim description

With all the depth of a pane of glass

That allows the light through, gracefully

Losing itself without knowing what has been lost.

 

“There are only outlines for glass,”

Conscience sings gracefully

“And thus no description to be lost.”

I’m so tired
But there are deadlines,
And red markings in the small
Boxes of my calendar –
Lines of red writing, sheets
Of red, bleeding through the
Boxes on that damn calendar
And I’m so tired.
My eyes are getting heavier
And the black ink is blending together,
Not sanguine like the deadlines,
But blurred like ink blots and I
Don’t know what they are and
I’m just so tired.
Indians.  There are Indians in those lines
And they’re fighting each other and
I’m sure it’s very exciting, but the
Heavy curtains of my eyes are falling
And the horses and the shouting is
Retreating back into the thin sheets -
Thin sheets, soft sheets,
And night is falling fast
And I’m so tired.
I have to write now,
But the pen is awkward,
Someone changed my pen
And it’s strange, but it won’t even
Draw a straight line and
My writing is squiggly and it’s blurring
Blurring like the Indians on the thin sheet
And I don’t know what I’m writing,
But I know I’m tired.
I can see them riding, and the words
Look funny, but I’m reading them
And I can see them riding, but they
Aren’t riding at all and I’m not reading
At all, I’m just so damn tired and
My face is too close to the paper,
I have to sit up straight in this
Hard-backed chair, but my spine just
Won’t uncurl and I don’t know what
Happened but my eyes are closed and
I can hear beatles outside the dark  window
Reminding me that it’s late and
I’m so tired.

The moral of the poem: being sleep deprived will result in terrible poetry -> art + fatigue = starving, tired artist.

 

Honestly, how?  I know that generally all the books have pretty much the same plot line, but how do authors like James Patterson and Dean Koontz, and even J.K. Rowling (though I'll be interested to see where her career goes after HP) do it?  I don't understand how one person can turn out so many books in such a short amount of time, and it's now even like they're short books!  500 pages is pretty damn good.  Here's some more food for thought, is this simply because of the reading public and a possibly lowered intellectual level and ability to comprehend, or what.  For instance, authors like Kate Chopin, Henry James, Truman Capote...they weren't turning out dozens of books every year, yet we consider their works to be key elements of real  literature and teach them in universities throughout the country as classic american works.  Were their works better?  Was there just an atmosphere in which the ability to confront issues like oppression and crime and sex was much more important to society?  Does society just not give a damn anymore, have they all turned to the television to impart wisdom about the world through shitty reality shows like "The Bachelor," or "Survivor"?   Yet despite the quality, how do they do it?  How do they come up with plot after plot, because despite the recurring themes and the repetitive style, there are differences enough in the books to warrent them being separate works...how?

Drip, drop, drip, drop, as the blood hits the base of the sink below her and spatters across the white, shell shaped, receptical.  Ah, the color crimson is pretty, pretty like her frozen flesh under the ice meant to stop the color and calm the paling of her cheek.  Scritch, scratch, pen on paper, as the man of steal runs off once more with the mind and she is lost to the provacative wordy gurdy left under the once empty boxes.  Numbers, numbers, one, two, three, all the way to nine, but can she find the right way to hold them all there; add them up to one great sum and collect them in the proper cans?  The tame sheep leap pleasantly off the pages at her, tame sheep, blue collars, swish, swish of the highlighter as it dabs down onto the page and puncuates the misunderstanding of it all.  Tick, tock, tick, tock time is running out and there is nothing she can do but sit back and hope that a viewing of stage beauty will be all it takes to turn her back to the path she started on.

So I'm sitting here in my long sleeve shirt with my OFR tee layered on top (a style that I never wear to school, but have come to love for weekend wear) thinking about the piles and piles of work that are looming just behind the turkey legs and somewhere amid the cranberry sauce...these piles are red like the cranberries so they blend in.  I'm not sure if the red is meant to symbolize passion or perhaps blood...if it were Robert Frost it would definitely be the blood metaphor though he'd pass it off in writing as some kind of leaf imagry or crap like that.  Creepy man.  Anyhow, I've reached that point in the semester when I want to slack off and feel that the dark circles under my eyes should be proof enough to my professors that the extra reading assignment really isn't necessary, and yet as always they misinterpret this as something like "damn those kids have time to party, drink, and watch mindless television, let's give them something better to fill their nights with."  Granted I just got done with an episode of DQMD, but I've been doing work all weekend in one sense or the other, so I felt I could take a little break.  Big mistake, going to have to rebudgit TG so I get a little less turkey and a little more Cervantes or something like that...
Hey wouldn't it be great if turkey day was a holiday that was really a celebration of turkeys rather than a massive slaughtering event.  I mean, think about this everyone's like "yeah, Turkey Day is coming..." as if he or she is glad that hundreds and thousands of turkeys are going to be killed, plucked, and cooked so that a bunch of overweight americans celebrating how our ancestors came to america and killed off all the native americans (after stealing their secrets for growing crops and things) can sit at the table and pretend to be thankful for things that they really don't give a damn about except for that one day a year.  "I'm thankful for my family and my suv and all the money that I have to piss away on useless shit for myself..." well of course you're thankful for your family dumb ass, but that's something that you shouldn't be thankful for only one day a year...then again I'm only thankful for parts of my family, there are other entities that I could live without (maybe not dead, but just not related to me).  And the rest of the crap is just material possessions that really shouldn't mean anything to anyone.  On one hand, you should be thankful for everything that you have because there are millions of people who aren't half as fortunate, but on the other hand how often do we actually think about that.  I'm pretty sure that the rich citiots that shop at Olishes all summer aren't thanking their chefs and maids and butlers everyday of the year.  Just because you say thanks for something one day a year, doesn't make you a good person, or even justify not saying it the rest of the time.  If I thank someone once for giving me a birthday gift that doesn't cover me for the rest of the year.  "Hey I bought you a horse," "Great well glad I got my annual thank you in during the beginning of the year so I don't have to use five minutes to get you another thank you card.  Thank would take way too much energy."
Damn it!  I wish JB were here to shoot someone for me, or at least BS with his STOD...yes Sarah I'm creating acronymes just for you (and yes I know I probably spelled that wrong).

The internet is a thing of mystery to me. We have the ability to communicate with massive amounts of people who we may or may not know and instead of doing anything constructive we create groups that organize events such as guys in clown suits swimming across a pond, or the newest group that I've been asked to join: "Wildbitch would like to invite you to join the group Wildbitch's live hot webcam." First of all I don't even know who this person is, second of all I don't own a web cam, and third of all, even if I did, what the hell is that! Do I have anywhere in my profile "I like to hang out with people that have nothing better to do with their time then display themselves online in a way that makes them appear to be a prostitute?" Because I don't remember writing anything like that. These people are insane.

Last night I went to the US Open for the first time and enjoyed it emensely.  I was only sad that we had to leave early because damn Lleyton Hewitt couldn't close in three sets...moron.  The french guy he was playing was very good and every rally went on forever!  Mauresemo and Williams played first and they had a really good match, however after a while Williams started with the stupid grunting crap and that was just annoying.  The only thing that would've made the open better was if I had been able to push the people behind us over the edge of the stadium to impending doom.  There were like two girls and two guys (or perhaps three of each) and the guys were arrogant assholes claiming to know everything about tennis and...well everything about life basically.  The sad thing was, a lot of what they were saying was..hmm..how shall I put this?  Blatently WRONG!
In sadder news, the crocodile hunter met his demise yesterday when confronted by an angered sting ray.  I can't believe that a man who has spent his life working with hundreds of dangerous animals died by a rare and freak sting ray accident.  He was very young, and he was such a wonderful environmentalist and aussie...

ARRRGGGGG! Just arg with life at this particular moment in time. Summer is going by way too quickly and I haven't been to the beach since about the beginning of June, I haven't seen/spoken to most of my friends because of my work schedule and because of the ridiculous amounts of reading I have to do for my oh so fun classes, and I have had to do all sorts of other crap that I just don't want to/didn't expect to have to do. I keep looking at the calender and thinking oh, ok, just another couple of weeks until classes end and I get to start seeing my friends and doing something other than reading these terrible feminist novels, but the weeks aren't flying by in the good way, they're flying by in the sense that I have less and less of them to see and do things with everyone and I don't know that I can make it for two more without going crazy or killing something, or....ARRRGGG!!!!!!! Thank is all of my angsty (yes I know that's spelled wrong) yelling. Then again I don't know how many of you are actually reading this because you probably think I don't exist anymore.

Condemnation;
Let it soar down upon you
and drive you into depths
deeper than hell where
there are no demons to guard you,
just a heat so searing you fall into
molecular format and sizzle there
for all eternity.

Smoke will rise from your 
seething components and I,
I will play the devil hovering about you;
waiting there with eyes slanted down
like spears ready to skewer you.

Fragments of your eyes will feel me,
fear me as they try to sort the blurred Picasso
of your once sharp vision.
"What is she holding" your toasted tongue
will ask as my arms swing up in an eager arch.

Then with a graceful push of my finger,
and a pleasant dripping sound
a drop will glimmer in your sights,
and knowing all too well what I hold
you will scream loud enough to shake
hell, heaven and whatever lies beyond and above us.

You, you the creator, the master of organic matter,
you who decided one day to mix, swirl, and examine,
you will feel the results of your curiosity as I,
using careful lab technique, drop the draught
to eat away at your carbon based components.

So first of all my mom watches the news every morning and I frequently walk in and out of her room, thus hearing various stories (most of which are stupid, doltish, and of no consequence to the world). Today on the news they have this whole thing about a new laser surgery that you can have done to "reverse the process of aging." Oh yes, it removes wrinkles, lines, skin damage, the things that "everyone dreams of fixing." THAT'S WHAT WE DREAM OF FIXING! BULLSHIT! First off, aging is a natural process and we should stop thinking about looking way younger than we are. Americans are assholes. They have this whole idea that getting old is a terrible thing and they've given it such a stigma that we've had to create terms like "midlife crisis." People should take pride in their age, be proud of all the things they've done and seen in their lives, and be grateful that they have more time to continue adding experiences. However, since Americans have such a problem with death I guess they want to look younger to fool themselves into thinking that they won't die because "they're not old." Now a woman comes on the program who's had this laser crap done 5 times (cancer any one, are we going to stop and think hey, there have been like 0 years of puckin' testing done with this procedure) and is like "I had acne scarring and I couldn't bear to look in the mirror. I had to avert my eyes." AHHHHH!!! THAT'S BECAUSE YOU'RE A PUCKIN' MORON! Where did we get the idea that we're all supposed to be the most beautiful people in the world? It's like anything, there are people who possess natural gifts; for instance I may not be beautiful, but I can write beautiful poetry and that makes me beautiful in my own way. We all have our own facets of beauty and not all of us are going to have the physical beauty that society makes the number one quality to concentrate on. Personally I'd rather be good at other things that actually show something about myself rather than I was born looking nice, and have made no contribution to that whatsoever.
Now the next thing that pissed me off...I sign out of my e-mail account and the log out page comes up with some "serving size" quiz to see if I know the serving size of various foods. I take the quiz and on the bottom of the page they tell you little tips I guess, one of which says "remember thing small with fruits and veggies, because though they're good for you they have calories that can lead to body fat." ARE YOU PUCKIN' KIDDING ME! We're telling people that it's more important to be thin than to eat healthy! I feel sick.

I don't know what it is about this semester, but it has at this point both physically and mentally wiped me out.  I feel like I lack the mental capacity to study for finals and though I know they'll soon be over, I also know that than summer classes will begin (although those should be fun).  I want to curl up in my papisan chair with a good book and a warm cat and read for days on end without interuption, however I know that I would only fall asleep.  I feel like I'll never be able to read for pleasure again just out of sheer exhaustion.

So I read today that fire alarms may cause death and I'm kind of hoping that's true because I'd like to try it out. Boundaries people...friggen', puckin' boundaries.

I am so done, doner than a cracked egg fryin' on the sidewalk in the summer afternoon sun.  I have a terrible headache, with pain concentrated in the lower right quadrant of my head/ borderline neck area, my knees are both aching, I managed to rebash the terrible bruise on the side of my leg so now it hurts when I walk like it's friggin' internally bleeding, and I HATE BIOLOGY!  It's an evil evil class.  Our TA is an asshat and I just don't have the patience for her at this point.  I feel like I didn't get my spring break the majority of it was taken up with school work and studying for the stupid organic chemistry test.  Plus I finished the first season of Stargate, and though the writing is terrible I like that show and it gave me a 40 minute break at night and was something to look forward to.  I want to read so so so badly, but I don't have the mental capacity to do it and I know that with finals coming up I won't be able to finish anything I start anyway so WHAT'S THE POINT!  ARGGGG!  And so I leave you with this fun poem:

The photo slips off the wall;

Hits the ground sharp and to the point

With a sound that lends finality to the

End of that memory.

I smile there behind the glass,

An image taken so long ago.

A moment forgotten like all the other past events

That I chain inside frames, hang on the wall

So they can wait to fall into foggy scenes

Barely seen through the gleaming sheet

That tries vainly to hide them.

Bending down I collect the shards of this puzzle

That can never be put back together.

Pebbles of glass that sealed the past there

are now lost to the present as am I.

A younger version of myself stares up from the floor,

gazes deep with eyes I know too well

and a smile I should be better acquainted with.

A prick of the finger sends

the shrapnel back down

And I watch helplessly

As the cracks shatter back

through this broken frame

and slice me to pieces.

So apparently all of Emily Dickinson's poems can be sung to the Gilagan's Island theme song.  Yes, yes I was skeptical at first too upon hearing this news, but then I went to an Emily Dickinson website to look at some of her poetry...it can be done.  I have to admit that it's a very cool thing, but I'm pretty sure that Gilagan and the skipper too weren't really all that popular in Emily's day so...it's kind of freaky.  Just felt the need to share this with all of you.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-5608525462454204315&q=hamster+wheel&pl=true

Why the hell do I waste my time?  I don't understand what the biology professors are trying to prove this semester, but it seems as though they're trying to see how good our guessing skills are, and whether or not we can interpret bad english.  At least when I do something for english I get a rewarding grade for all of my work.  What do I get in the sciences?  A crappy grade, a feeling of disappointment, and oh yeah, the loss of 574328957 hours of my life that could've been spent reading something I actually wanted to rather than the bullshit kidney system.  Meanwhile, my english inspiration is dwindling as one the the pillars of english is going to leave and I have not written a poem in like two weeks!  TWO WEEKS!  Let's ask the panal:  Sarah, how many poems do I normally make you listen to in the course of a week?  Not even, how many in one weekend?!?  Well, spring break is going to suck ass, but at least it's here.  Happy spring?

Most loathed and hated Dilgass:
  Sitting here in front of the computer screen inspired me to inquire as to whether you are the asshat who is responsible for assigning a lab report, quiz, and pre-lab the week or our exam?  I was sure that this was a sheer mistake made my a person of lesser importance in the lab department, however, I then received additional messages from you that told me otherwise.  Let me give you the headline:  EXTRA CREDIT OPPORTUNITES!  I think it was very nice of you, the kind and benevolent Doltger to give us a fair chance at going to very time consuming activites on the weekend before and the day before our EXAM.  Upon reading your e-mail I decided to simply burn my biology notes, throw my book out into the rain soaked streets, and hop joyfully into my car to attend an extra credit activity that will in fact be pointless seeing as your initial assignment is causing me to choose between failing my exam and greatly decreasing my 30%-of-your-course-grade lab average.  I suppose this is not important because according to your highly trained TAs, who specialize in the art of talking out their asses and not actually knowing what we're doing, the lower my lab grade the better I'll do.  Perhaps you would like to instruct the TAs to grade this lab report harder than all the others to lower our grades some more.  Maybe you could have them take off points based on not using the word rigmarole or vituperative, or onomatopoeia in the report.  I now return to working on some of your homework and leave you with a link to the wonderful website entitled "How can I become an Asshole in Five Easy Steps?"  Perhaps you can buck up on your technique!

          Death Wishes,
                Kristie

Yeah, that's really all I wanted to say because I have to remember that phrase...don't ask.