Post by Velesia on May 13, 2004 19:17:52 GMT -5
(you might be a little scared)
So far I have no place to hold my drawn art, and thus have decided to post some of my written stuff. These things range from breif images to possible books, but nothing is terribly long (i.e.: exceeding two pages)
Criticize, worship(please don't i'm not that good), whatever, but please please read.
Imagine
Imagine yourself walking down a dark suburban sidewalk with you’re faithful canine companion. I know it’s menacing to think about, all those terrifying white-collar-fathers and soccer moms just waiting to jump through their dining room windows at you,(especially when Fido is a beichon friseh or a jack Russell terrier) but for the sake of imagery please place yourself in the not necessarily aged, but “well broken in” sneakers of a middle class parent who is probably returning to one of those terrifyingly dull development houses, an if not loving, at least hospitable wife or husband, and two point seven darling little angels whose halos rarely outshine the horns holding them up. The sky is a black and never-ending expanse yawning above you, soaring behind you, and generally threatening to suck you off the face of the earth if you would just stop traveling at seventeen million miles an hour, dammit!
The stars are surprisingly bright tonight… or the light pollution coming from your hometown is slightly decreased for whatever reason and you find your head tilted back as far as your neck will allow without choking yourself to get the best possible view of them. You compare yourself to their amazing age and perseverance, and think to yourself about whether they really like to shine or maybe are really frustrated with it but have to keep doing it because they have to even though it doesn’t fit into their schedule just like walking the dog, feeding your bird, or taxes.
But surprisingly enough, one of the stars seems to be increasing in brilliance rapidly, and you wonder if perhaps you are the only living being to see the next hail Bop, and yet remain perplexed as to why the miniscule point of light is increasingly becoming the size of Jupiter.
Your question is answered as Fido pees on your leg (accidentally, he assures you) (I mean hey, you’ve been still for the past four minutes, you must be inanimate now, and therefore are in need of his recognition as an object belonging to him). Ironically, however, Fido won’t have a chance to testify to his claim because you’re about to become the property of someone else. Ie: It’s not Jupiter floating eerily above you, or shining many bright and multicolor lights on you, but a space craft, an original UFO that seems to have selected you as the prime(or at least most available) specimen or the planet earth.
What’s your most initial reaction? Do you think “Well, I hope Becky doesn’t mind that I won’t be home for dinner.”? Does your life flash before your eyes? Do you cower? Do you cringe? Do you hope they teleport your dog with you so you have something to cling to or a quick meal you know isn’t poisoned? Do you humanely hope the dog isn’t sent with you so he doesn’t have to be subjected to the same agonizing torture you are sure you are about to undergo, or so that you don’t have another mouth to feed while your in alien jail? Do you lust after your high school flame, the last man/woman you had an affair with, or even *gasp* your spouse? Do you think of all the wonderful oil paintings you had planned to paint in your retirement, or the last rugby game you played? Do you wish you could hold your child’s hand again, one last time, or wish your fish hadn’t died last Tuesday? Or perhaps are you craving one last cigarette, bottle of whisky, episode of Seinfeld, or game of Jedi Academy on your “kid’s” PS2 at home? Do you whistle? Do you laugh? Do you cry? And if you do…
Do you realize that your singing laughing and crying underneath a street-lamp you unconsciously walked beneath and now have to return to your spouse with explanations for both your wet leg and tardiness at the dinner table? Believe me, abduction wont work for either, but who says you didn’t notice a “meteor” streaking across the empty night sky, cheerily blinking it’s many bright and multicolor lights at you.
Futility
Emotion thick as tar sloppily entrenches me as I push futilely ever forward, forcing my legs to complete the motion of a running stride even as the movement pushes them deeper into the dark mass seeping through my clothes. I reach towards a small and distant light, flickering, failing, and dying as I am in the hopelessly distant horizon; forever out of my reach. Tears threaten hotly to pour out of my unremitting eyelids and down my face as I suffer in silent denial of my lost hope. They build and press, like small armies pushing red hot battering rams ‘gainst my stubborn ducts. In final agony my spirit pushes out, wishing to escape my confining, dirty body; wishing to leave
Untitled
I lean forward and placed dry hands over pursed lips while dreams both previous and yet to come filter across my mind as I try to select the correct one. They dance behind my vision in dilute, filmy forms. They poke, sigh, and burn into my eyeballs like white-hot irons, reminding me of the occult perverseness to be found in the depths of human subconscious. And yet, I survey them all dispassionately, recalling the exact happenings of each individual vision with the slightest prompt.
(I thought this an eventful essay, but it is title-less)
Of all the terrible things that can happen to man, I believe probably the worst destiny that he might find himself entrenched in is none other than that utterly terrible fate of writers block. To quote an essay by Garrison Keillior, “an eight-and-a-half by eleven inch sheet of paper can seem the size of Montana when the pen’s not so hot”, and yet I recall that the week I read that essay out of my Norton’s Sampler, I had a hundred point essay due which I hadn’t even outlined yet, and I must say that Montana had nothing, absolutely nothing, on that sheet of computer paper described on the screen in front of me that Thursday night. Ironically enough, however, I ended up adding several pages to the book I was currently writing the next day in a period of about twenty minutes.
With the essay, however, I remember staring into the electron-projection flat-screen of our three month old dell that no one in the house really knew how to use until my eyes were so bombarded by miniscule particles of negative energy that they felt fried, fried and fricasseed with all the grease and oil available to the race of man. And still I had no essay, but at the top of the page were twenty-four reassuring little characters in size twelve Times New Roman font reading: Carl Newman, 11/6/03, 6* Eng. Count them, twenty four (including the period) happy little characters smiling down at a sheet of paper larger than the entire African continent, forget Montana. They seemed quite confident of the notion that at any moment the inspired fingers of the twenty-two-year-old user sitting in an open-mouthed daze of horror affront it would hit its sleek black keyboard and begin the shrinking process of the gargantuan area beneath them.
At long last I took a deep but not very emboldening breath and decided something about my paper: It needed a title, and, perhaps, page numbers, though I knew this composition would not exceed a single page. Forty-two characters then crowded in on the right side of my header above Eng. 301 Reading “A Hockey Rink Awash with Blood: An Analytical Essay”. I exhaled slowly and wondered whether I had a right to do so, a title was hardly cause for celebration, but at least it was a start. It gave me not only tone, but a topic on which to focus, and reminded me of one very important factor in this essay – it had to be written.
I sat, gazing into the computer screen with all my might for a good five minutes or so, and finally a thought hit me: “Just type, you dumb-ass.” Upon this exasperated command, phrased so eloquently by the mass of grey matter calling itself my brain, I shrugged and gave up. Typing a random quote, I desperately grasped at wisps of information I had gained in class and which were beginning to straggle away from my short term memory at what now appeared to be alarming speed. My anxious fingers clawed through several of them that floated drearily away like smoke, but in a last fraught grab, my hands finally met matter. With my precious prize I adjusted my position in the seat and placed the reward carefully in a pan that had magically appeared, ready to assimilate and marinate any possible clue about what I was supposed to be doing with this homework assignment.
Things went well, from there on…. What am I saying, it was agony. As any writer knows, forced works are the most painful, and though I’ve never had the misfortune to experience such a situation, I do believe I would have found it more pleasurable to have porcupine quills removed from my thigh, than continue writing that essay.
Let me know what you think
So far I have no place to hold my drawn art, and thus have decided to post some of my written stuff. These things range from breif images to possible books, but nothing is terribly long (i.e.: exceeding two pages)
Criticize, worship(please don't i'm not that good), whatever, but please please read.
Imagine
Imagine yourself walking down a dark suburban sidewalk with you’re faithful canine companion. I know it’s menacing to think about, all those terrifying white-collar-fathers and soccer moms just waiting to jump through their dining room windows at you,(especially when Fido is a beichon friseh or a jack Russell terrier) but for the sake of imagery please place yourself in the not necessarily aged, but “well broken in” sneakers of a middle class parent who is probably returning to one of those terrifyingly dull development houses, an if not loving, at least hospitable wife or husband, and two point seven darling little angels whose halos rarely outshine the horns holding them up. The sky is a black and never-ending expanse yawning above you, soaring behind you, and generally threatening to suck you off the face of the earth if you would just stop traveling at seventeen million miles an hour, dammit!
The stars are surprisingly bright tonight… or the light pollution coming from your hometown is slightly decreased for whatever reason and you find your head tilted back as far as your neck will allow without choking yourself to get the best possible view of them. You compare yourself to their amazing age and perseverance, and think to yourself about whether they really like to shine or maybe are really frustrated with it but have to keep doing it because they have to even though it doesn’t fit into their schedule just like walking the dog, feeding your bird, or taxes.
But surprisingly enough, one of the stars seems to be increasing in brilliance rapidly, and you wonder if perhaps you are the only living being to see the next hail Bop, and yet remain perplexed as to why the miniscule point of light is increasingly becoming the size of Jupiter.
Your question is answered as Fido pees on your leg (accidentally, he assures you) (I mean hey, you’ve been still for the past four minutes, you must be inanimate now, and therefore are in need of his recognition as an object belonging to him). Ironically, however, Fido won’t have a chance to testify to his claim because you’re about to become the property of someone else. Ie: It’s not Jupiter floating eerily above you, or shining many bright and multicolor lights on you, but a space craft, an original UFO that seems to have selected you as the prime(or at least most available) specimen or the planet earth.
What’s your most initial reaction? Do you think “Well, I hope Becky doesn’t mind that I won’t be home for dinner.”? Does your life flash before your eyes? Do you cower? Do you cringe? Do you hope they teleport your dog with you so you have something to cling to or a quick meal you know isn’t poisoned? Do you humanely hope the dog isn’t sent with you so he doesn’t have to be subjected to the same agonizing torture you are sure you are about to undergo, or so that you don’t have another mouth to feed while your in alien jail? Do you lust after your high school flame, the last man/woman you had an affair with, or even *gasp* your spouse? Do you think of all the wonderful oil paintings you had planned to paint in your retirement, or the last rugby game you played? Do you wish you could hold your child’s hand again, one last time, or wish your fish hadn’t died last Tuesday? Or perhaps are you craving one last cigarette, bottle of whisky, episode of Seinfeld, or game of Jedi Academy on your “kid’s” PS2 at home? Do you whistle? Do you laugh? Do you cry? And if you do…
Do you realize that your singing laughing and crying underneath a street-lamp you unconsciously walked beneath and now have to return to your spouse with explanations for both your wet leg and tardiness at the dinner table? Believe me, abduction wont work for either, but who says you didn’t notice a “meteor” streaking across the empty night sky, cheerily blinking it’s many bright and multicolor lights at you.
Futility
Emotion thick as tar sloppily entrenches me as I push futilely ever forward, forcing my legs to complete the motion of a running stride even as the movement pushes them deeper into the dark mass seeping through my clothes. I reach towards a small and distant light, flickering, failing, and dying as I am in the hopelessly distant horizon; forever out of my reach. Tears threaten hotly to pour out of my unremitting eyelids and down my face as I suffer in silent denial of my lost hope. They build and press, like small armies pushing red hot battering rams ‘gainst my stubborn ducts. In final agony my spirit pushes out, wishing to escape my confining, dirty body; wishing to leave
Untitled
I lean forward and placed dry hands over pursed lips while dreams both previous and yet to come filter across my mind as I try to select the correct one. They dance behind my vision in dilute, filmy forms. They poke, sigh, and burn into my eyeballs like white-hot irons, reminding me of the occult perverseness to be found in the depths of human subconscious. And yet, I survey them all dispassionately, recalling the exact happenings of each individual vision with the slightest prompt.
(I thought this an eventful essay, but it is title-less)
Of all the terrible things that can happen to man, I believe probably the worst destiny that he might find himself entrenched in is none other than that utterly terrible fate of writers block. To quote an essay by Garrison Keillior, “an eight-and-a-half by eleven inch sheet of paper can seem the size of Montana when the pen’s not so hot”, and yet I recall that the week I read that essay out of my Norton’s Sampler, I had a hundred point essay due which I hadn’t even outlined yet, and I must say that Montana had nothing, absolutely nothing, on that sheet of computer paper described on the screen in front of me that Thursday night. Ironically enough, however, I ended up adding several pages to the book I was currently writing the next day in a period of about twenty minutes.
With the essay, however, I remember staring into the electron-projection flat-screen of our three month old dell that no one in the house really knew how to use until my eyes were so bombarded by miniscule particles of negative energy that they felt fried, fried and fricasseed with all the grease and oil available to the race of man. And still I had no essay, but at the top of the page were twenty-four reassuring little characters in size twelve Times New Roman font reading: Carl Newman, 11/6/03, 6* Eng. Count them, twenty four (including the period) happy little characters smiling down at a sheet of paper larger than the entire African continent, forget Montana. They seemed quite confident of the notion that at any moment the inspired fingers of the twenty-two-year-old user sitting in an open-mouthed daze of horror affront it would hit its sleek black keyboard and begin the shrinking process of the gargantuan area beneath them.
At long last I took a deep but not very emboldening breath and decided something about my paper: It needed a title, and, perhaps, page numbers, though I knew this composition would not exceed a single page. Forty-two characters then crowded in on the right side of my header above Eng. 301 Reading “A Hockey Rink Awash with Blood: An Analytical Essay”. I exhaled slowly and wondered whether I had a right to do so, a title was hardly cause for celebration, but at least it was a start. It gave me not only tone, but a topic on which to focus, and reminded me of one very important factor in this essay – it had to be written.
I sat, gazing into the computer screen with all my might for a good five minutes or so, and finally a thought hit me: “Just type, you dumb-ass.” Upon this exasperated command, phrased so eloquently by the mass of grey matter calling itself my brain, I shrugged and gave up. Typing a random quote, I desperately grasped at wisps of information I had gained in class and which were beginning to straggle away from my short term memory at what now appeared to be alarming speed. My anxious fingers clawed through several of them that floated drearily away like smoke, but in a last fraught grab, my hands finally met matter. With my precious prize I adjusted my position in the seat and placed the reward carefully in a pan that had magically appeared, ready to assimilate and marinate any possible clue about what I was supposed to be doing with this homework assignment.
Things went well, from there on…. What am I saying, it was agony. As any writer knows, forced works are the most painful, and though I’ve never had the misfortune to experience such a situation, I do believe I would have found it more pleasurable to have porcupine quills removed from my thigh, than continue writing that essay.
Let me know what you think
