The Pulitzer Project

In the wake of reading some pretty off fiction lately, I decided I will reawaken my literary neurons with a new project: The Pulitzer Project. The prize, literally "an incentive to excellence," as the website says, is just that, the recognition for literary excellence, passion, complexity, and capturing the essence of the human spirit and condition. It reaffirms what in my opinion all literature should strive to be. Many of the titles are taught as such; countless schools teach them, many college courses focus on a few, and all can be used as name-dropping fodder in literary social circles. Of course, one doesn't need to read the titles to be able to discuss them, but I wanted to give myself a chance to experience their cultural relevance firsthand. I want to see what has been excellent fiction through the years. So we have come to this. The Pulitzer Project.

The Pulitzer Project is a long-term goal of reading all of the Pulitzer Prize-winning novels in the span of 3 years. That's a total of 89 books (I am including all of the finalists from the 2012 debacle). That's about 2 1/2 books a month. It's a tough load, but hey, the things we do for our passion aren't always easy.

Let my education into excellence begin!

In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror and the Research this guy did about Hitler's Berlin

In the Garden of Beasts: Love, Terror, and an American Family in Hitler's Berlin by Erik Larson

My rating: 2 of 5 stars


I am wary of authors who constantly tell their audience how much research they did for their work. Authors who do that make me suspicious, and thus when I am reading through their books I disturst their authority. If they need to reassure me that, yes, this thing is true, he knows it, he researched it, then something is wrong. If the author was truly confident in the legitimacy of his work, there would be no need for all of this bombardment.

In "In the Garden of Beasts," Erik Larson is more enamored with how much research he, himself, the author, the big-man-in-the-library, did for this work rather than in telling the actual story. There's no doubt he did a lot of research--he tells you enough times--which is, on its own, quite admirable. But I would rather read the story and then flip to the back, only then discovering the vast amount of citations and sources that backs the work.

Larson, on the other hand, uses his research as the only interesting part of his authorship. His end note, "Among Monsters," talks about how difficult it was for his state of mind to do all of that darned research on that vile man we all love to hate, Hitler. I have no sympathy for Larson, because no one held a gun to his head and told him to stare at the cover of "Hitler: 1889-1936 Hubris," by Ian Kershaw. We all know how horrific the Holocaust was. We all know how terrible Hitler was. You are not special in your feelings, Larson.

This all struck me before I noticed Larson's static prose, and boring rendering of Dodd and his daughter Martha. The subtitle is a lie, since the book is not about the Dodd family at all, with the mother and son effectively disappearing after they are introduced, until their deaths at the end. I felt no connection to these characters, and found the book itself to be more of a list of parties they attended, sad letters they wrote and things they whined about. Which is why the end baffled me.

Larson heralds Dodd as "a lone beacon of American freedom and hope in a land of gathering darkness." (Pg 356) Wait... what? Throughout his diplomacy Dodd is characterized more as a bumbling academic, anti-semitic and incredibly sulky. As a character who comes back to America to give speeches about the horror of the early Nazi regime, he has the possibility to become a fairly deep and complex character, if only Larson had taken that opportunity and ran with it. Instead, there is no life in any of the characters. There is barely any life to this book at all.

The book should have ended with the massacre in 1934. Larson spends so much time wallowing in 1933 that the episode in 1934 is essentially the end of the story. He then speeds through the last 3 years of Dodd's ambassadorship so suddenly that for the last 70 or so pages I didn't know at what point in time the events were happening. It was almost as if Larson either had tired of the subject (like how I felt at the end) or had rushed to meet some sort of deadline. Whichever was the case, the book is a dud. I begrudgingly gave it that second star on account of all that research that Larson reassures us he most decidedly did do.


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From the Desk of an Intern: The Life of Trees

The fourth week of my internship was a short one. I was entertaining a visiting friend and little could be done until I visited the Library of Congress to undergo training for organizing the files for the American Scholar. Like the week before, I perused old issues of the Scholar. This time, however, I also went through old tear-sheets--unbound books, essentially--and got rid of any unnecessary copies. The amount of paper I went through was astounding.

Many organizations, even if they don't directly deal with books and other literary works, probably use an exorbitant amount of paper. Technophiles and environmentalists alike may use this as an argument for the digitalization of everything. I am not sure if I truly agree with this, but what I do know was how wonderful it was to sift through water-stained copies of the Scholar from 1960. I loved seeing the handwritten notes of editors-past on old tear-sheets. Even the difference in paper quality from 1990 to 2006 was amazing to me.

Maybe it does kill trees, but it keeps the heart of progress alive.

From the Desk of an Intern: Publishing Through the Ages

It's been said the publishing world is a dying industry. With the rise of the Internet, free-flowing information and the younger generation's ineptitude of the concept of plagiarism, it's no wonder.

Or is it?

I have no doubt the publishing industry is changing, but I do not think it is dying. Rather, it is more evolving than anything else. Maybe publishing is pushing its way from a sea of tear-sheets and reams of paper onto the malleable dirt of the Internet. Okay, may that's not the best metaphor, but the publishing industry has been in the process of evolution since day one.

This past week, June 13, I've been reading through the archives of the American Scholar as research for their new tumblr. Steve, the business manager suggested I go through and find the issues the "famous" authors, like Albert Einstein or Natalie Angier, wrote in. I ended up coming across Jacques Barzun first, a man I have never heard of before. His work was first published in the 40s and I found his work well into the 60s. He wrote on many topics, from political commentary to philosophy. And yet, his words, written over 50 years ago, are still able to ring true today.

It was then I found the Autumn 2001 issue in which a man named Andre Bernard compiled a chrestomathy of the best work from the 70 years the magazine has been in existence. At the bottom of all 8 pages is a list of all significant authors from each decade starting in the 30s, when the journal was first published. W. E. B. DuBois, Alduous Huxley, Ralph Ellison, even R. Buckminster Fuller... the list goes on.

What this says to me about the publishing industry is that there is always something to publish. In regards to the American Scholar, there is always someone striving to better oneself as well as humanity. Twitter and Facebook allow information to reach people instantaneously. Such a barrage of data loses any semblance of quality-control. A sparkling gem can be as easily access as a pile of ash... but much harder to find. Anyone can publish anything online these days. I think the publishing industry--the real publishing industry--will still exist as a sort of filter, a suggestion to those tired of wading through the muck. And even then, that filter will always depend on who holds the most money.

But there is something else to be said about humanity. Paul Shorey said in the first issue of the American Scholar, Winter 1932: "The man of educated sensibilities, whether conservative or radical, pays a big price for the blessing of democracy in widest commonalty spread." Maybe we are all paying a price for the blessing of the Internet.

From the Desk of an Intern: Filing for Excellence

Week two of my internship was a soft introduction to the wonderful, filing-filled world of the intern. It just so happened that the week I started was the week the summer issue for the American Scholar finished. We had only just received the shipment of shiny new magazines that first Friday, and because of this, everyone was in a "down time" before the frenzy of the next issue.

Mainly this meant people resigned to the colds their adrenaline-filled bodies had been resisting for the past month or two, so workers either called in sick or sat glumly at their desks amid a pile of kleenex. My boss, the Editor, was only in twice that week, although that was because he was taking time to work on his new book. Suffice it is to say, the office was eerily quiet. My days were spent apprehensively wandering around the office, asking the survivors of the summer issue if they needed help on anything. After many sheepish smiles and shaking heads, one of the managing editors said, "well, you could work on alphabetizing the authors, or do the index for this year--if you really want to."

Oh man did I ever!

To be honest, I even enjoyed the work ad tedium. It gave me a chance to let my mind wander over story ideas and snappy quips for this blog. Not to mention I could work on proper typing techniques, something I cheated profusely at in grade school. After the first day of wrist pains, I knew I had to do things a little bit differently. Lesson one in working at an office: do things correctly out of the consequence of pain.

Something even better about the work, though, was that I could take breaks and read submissions from "the slush pile," as it's called. As I breezed through alphabetizing author papers and started on compiling the index, the slush pile piqued my curiosity more and more, until I gave in and abandoned the mental chants of archiving for what appeared to be a more interesting use of my time.

I found the slush pile, meaning unsolicited manuscripts, quite endearing, humorous and even inspirational, oddly enough. There is a reason it's called the slush pile; you slog through an awful lot of the stuff, hoping to find something...anything worthwhile. It's an adventurous hike, if not always fruitful. I admit to thinking, "oh wow, I can write better than this!" after finishing a few of the submissions, some of which were written by Ph.D-wielding doctors and lawyers and society's crem-de-la-crem.

Most of the submissions in the slush pile are travel accounts of "white Americans visiting a foreign/exotic place," or blatant pleas of self-promotion in the form of exerpts or reviews of so-and-so's new book. There is a lot of uncited and unresearched journalism. Fiction pops up every now and then. I even came across the staple "dog story"--a major faux pas of any new writer. I enjoyed myself selfishly, relishing in the schadenfreude that these older writers had fallen into pitfalls I, myself had fallen into years ago. Many of these pitfalls I now know how to avoid (hopefully), but here are people, supposedly the smartest in the world, who are still tripping over them. I thought maybe, just maybe, I can make it out there.

Once the ego-boosting elitism sudsided, I began to really look into some of the better-crafted stories. What made them stand out from the rest of the slush? What made me recognize their aptitude but ultimately write a resounding "no" atop the cover letter? Because I had the time on my hands and didn't need to sift through all of them within a two-month deadline (which was not met most of the time, as the editors told me with a sigh) I could pry the works apart and sift through the inner cogs and wires. When I found the stone bolts, I imagined the steel ones I could replace them with.

One story told of a woman who had a pseudo-religious experience in a decorated church in Spain inspired me to write a story of a man contemplating aesthetics, and why some works of art are considered greater than others. Another submission made me think of two intellectuals physically fighting over a metaphysical idea. The wide range of topics and subjects revealed a vast lake of creativity I had a hard time diving into at WAC. I do not mean to denounce the college when I say this; Chestertown is a great place for learning and studying, for really bearing down and examining the exact technicalities of writing and encourages a personal assessment of what "excellence" means.

In fact, I probably would not have had much confidence in determining what makes a "good" story had I not taken numerous writing classes at the college. Had I been a freshman before I took this internship, I would have been eaten alive for sure, not by my co-workers, but by my own competence. The wide variety of classes I have taken for the past three years allowed me to assemble this knowledge into the ability to assess the quality of a genre I'm not wholly familiar with: non-fiction.

The American Scholar is made up of mostly non-fiction including, as the name implies, academic essays, but also real-life accounts of adventure, book reviews, on-going studies of contemporary culture and a lot of long-form journalism. There is poetry and fiction too, of course, but these are recent additions to the magazine.

I know I am taking a lot of liberties in this post, maybe even to the extent of sounding arrogant. What would I know? I'm just an intern, sitting here typing out the names of successful writers with established names. I don't even have a bachelor's degree yet. Hell, I even admitted to not knowing a whole heck of a lot about the stories that are supposedly slush.

But maybe it's not so far-fetched. The American Scholar gets its name from Ralph Waldo Emerson, who gave a speech of the same name at Harvard in 1837. That's quite some time ago, and yet people here at the scholar and across the world are living up to Emerson's ideals, to his models of "independent-thinking, self-knowledge, and a commitment to the affairs of the world." That's not something a Ph.D can get you any more than traveling to Africa will. They can help, but it is about the experience of life, of self-awareness, of living the ideals you want to see in the world. It is about excellence.

From the Desk of an Intern: No AC in DC

My internship at the American Scholar began with an end. Two ends, in fact. On my first day with the literary journal, there was an office retirement party thrown for the two senior editors who were leaving by the end of June. People congregated around the catered buffet and chuckled into their glasses of champagne. Smartly dressed men and women from the executive committee of Phi Beta Kappa revolved around the room. The low hum of smalltalk eventually dissapated when Bob Wilson, the Editor-in-Chief and my boss, stood up to give a glowing speech about the combined 70 years Jeanie and Sandra had put into the Scholar. Everyone applauded, and a few coughed to hide their sentimentality.

I felt like an intruder.

Despite the fact that everyone was friendly and open, I felt like I was impeding upon everyone's intimate and vulnerable moment. Amid tears and bittersweet smiles, nearly everyone extended their hand to me, curious about this strange girl nearly 20 years younger than most of them. I became very aware of the juxtaposition between the farwell of two women everyone knew quite well, and the introduction of this nervous sweaty intern.

My anxiety and sweatiness hadn't worn off from that morning, when I had scrambled into the office half an hour late, getting lost in the whirling streets of D.C. in 95 degree weather. My boss, worried, told the men working at the Argentinian Embassy next door to keep an eye out for me. During the rest of the day, the A.C. hadn't been functional either. I must have been quite an interesting conglomeration of bodily functions to see and smell. Thankfully, no one seemed to noticed, or were at least polite enough not to mention it.

After that interesting start to the week, I was thrown head-first into the interning life. My boss assigned me two research projects and as the week worn on, I learned bits and pieces of information about the filing and organizing work I would eventually be doing. If I did everything I needed, there was even a possibility I would get to read submissions and give input about them. My heart skipped a beat at that last part--me, a lowly intern, would actually be able to give my opinion of official submissions by professors and lawyers and professional writers from all over the world? My thoughts would, if only marginally, be taken seriously?

That's when I knew I had the coolest internship out there.

rE-view: A History of Experimental Film and Video

*Note: I'm not sure what's up with goodreads or blogspot, but I can't find how to format my reviews as they were before, so things are a little different now.

3/5

As someone who has little experience in artistic film-making and even less knowledge about it, A.L. Rees's A History of Experimental Film and Video is an encyclopedic account of just that: the history of experimental film and video.

It begins with a short preface about the aims of the book, a lengthy introduction defining what, exactly, "avant-garde" is throughout history. The book is then split into two parts, the first starting with the creation of the camera and photography and its development in America. In the second part, after a cunning segue, "A History" focuses on the film scene in Britain and the UK with the occasional mention of a German or French artist. It ends with a look at "contemporary" film-artists today, going as recent as 1998 (and with an original copyright date of 1999, that was fairly contemporary).

An obvious amount of effort and research was put into this volume, with a massive bibliography and over 150 end-notes. "A History" is, as I mentioned before, encyclopedic. As difficult as it is to write about such a complex visual medium, Rees is fairly effective. He or she is able to describe the events of films as well as critically analyze them. However, there are times when Rees's account may be as confusing as the film itself, and without access to the film or video, it is hard to tell. The plates were a help visually, but it would have been nice to have them dispersed throughout the text instead of in an insert. Since they were printed on the same type of paper as the text and in black and white--at in my 2008 print edition--there is no reason not to do this.

The language and style had high diction which, at times, toed the line between academic and arrogance. Lines like "the weight of cultural critique or rupture is therefore axially shifted from the mainstream to the marginal avant-gardes which haunt the fringes of conventional modernism" (93) are more ornamental than necessary, and "[the] concern poetic myth and illumination was displaced onto the formal place of light and colour, away from fictional diegetic space and the singular narrative subject" (67) encouraged my mind to wander. Despite the incredible amount of information laid out, it was sometimes overshadowed by the language.

Overall the book is comprehensive and, as far as textbooks go, pretty engaging. The distracting language and poor layout are setbacks, but I encourage anyone who is interested in or a student of film to read this book.

This is the Beginning of the Rest of My Life

There is always something refreshing about coming back to school from a break. Despite the fact that my Spring Break was neither relaxing nor warm, I've come home feeling energized, ready to work and ready to learn. The weather is warming up, and blades of green are poking up through the brown.

Today I have gotten things done I should have done months ago. Things are piling up around me, but I am not panicking, although I am shaking (which may be because I drank too much coffee today). I met with my interim adviser today, and told him about my internship with the American Scholar magazine this summer. The 15-minute appointment turned into a 20-minute discussion about the future of printing, the future of journalism, and my own future. Everything began to sink in: I will be living in D.C. this summer, and I will be working at a real magazine, in the real world. No more college coddling; I'm playing with the big boys now.

To be honest, I'm terrified.

I feel incredibly grateful to be given such a wonderful opportunity, but I'm worried something might happen and the whole thing will fall through. That may partially be my paranoia, but it may also partially be the fact that I have never played this high in the rankings before. My biggest question to myself is: Can I handle it?

Of course I am afraid I will fail. That's just how I am. But I also feel rejuvenated, powerful, like I am taking the first steps toward a life I can't imagine but know is there. The feeling is quite foreign to me.

rE-view: Politically Correct Bedtime Stories

Politically Correct Bedtime Stories: Modern Tales for Our Life & Times by James Finn Garner

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


This is a hilarious little collection of re-told fairy tales. In his versions, Garner points out the "negative" cultural influences in each original story, such as sexism, class distinction based on wealth and other numerous stereotypes. The results are highly entertaining and contain new morals that are more relevant to today's audiences.



Patriarchal influence and the oppression of women are present in nearly all of the old fairy tales, something Garner explicitly points out. Stories that normally end in marriage (as the only means of "success" for a woman) are changed entirely. These include Rumpelstiltskin, Rapunzel and Cinderella.



However, some of the changes Garner makes are not entirely positive. A few of the stories, like Red Riding Hood and the Three Little Pigs, use violent and murderous tactics to resolve problems. While some people may find these new versions "immoral," (and probably cringe that their sacred bedtime stories were messed with...) I feel the need to point out that the originals were not entirely "moral" either. I think Garner does this not only to point out the offensive messages in the original tales, but also to show how ridiculous it can be to be obsessed about being "politically correct." The Three Goats Gruff displays this theme the best.



Garner's collection is fun and interesting, and points out the flaws in both antiquated and modern viewpoints. I think he is trying to tell his audience to simply try and be a good person and live a good life. Otherwise we'll all end up paranoid we've offended someone just by existing.



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Dear Kevin,

Author's Note: This poem was written in response to a poetry collection by Kevin A. Gonzalez called "Cultural Studies." The collection was both aggravating and inspiring, thus the hard but tender feel I was going for. It is only a draft.

Dear Kevin,

I suppose all of your pain makes it okay to be a prick? But that’s no way to start a poem, is it? I’ve already filled all of the question mark cups allowed—soon the bartenders in my workshop will cut me off. Drinking words is a tired metaphor we both still serve. Let’s move on to places—I’ll sip New Glarus, you can savor San Juan.

An ampersand is just a child curled up & hugging his knees. I am that child & you—you are nestling in its curves, nursing your mitt hand which I’m sure all of those women-poets told you was much too small for baseball. But it’s stylish to be vegetarian—it’s even more stylish to make fun of vegetarians.

Dear Kevin, it is okay to be afraid. Ghosts are merely rain-soaked jackets we have sloughed off too early. Yours is molding on the beaches of Puerto Rico & mine is frozen in the ravines of Wisconsin. We are all someplace-people. We all come from hate-filled question marks. We all have coat-covered ampersands shivering inside our chest cavities.

First, I should have been a chemist.
Then, a politician.
Now, an environmental engineer.
I should have been many things.

Having fun with Herge

The Adventures of Tintin: Tintin in America / Cigars of the Pharaoh / The Blue Lotus by Hergé

My rating: 3 of 5 stars


Interesting to see the work of Herge as an American. His stories are long and involved and entertaining. However, the images and some text are quite overtly racists. Granted, these stories were first published in the 1940s and 50s, so I suppose it is just a product of its time. Despite that uncomfortable part, the stories are fun and well-drawn, and quite interesting! Herge was a talented man!



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untitled poem from October 13th

you open
your mouth

but only

sound
fell out.

Titus fought the law and the...law won. :(

Wow, I think I just took the longest shower I've taken in two years. Probably because A: it actually had hot water, B: there was no stuck window that let all the cold air in from outside and C: there weren't any bugs living in the shower! Hurrah for clean bathrooms.

In other news, I was invited to talk at the Creative Writing Minor meeting today, to dispel the horrendous myths the freshmen have been spreading about it. I personally haven't heard of any of those rumors, but whatever, I'll go with it. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. Most of the freshmen just stared blankly at the three of us speakers, and I felt a little out of place considering I had been debating whether or not I was actually going to fulfill the creative writing minor for a while now.

It was cool to talk to my poetry professor, though. There are many things about her that remind me of myself, which is maybe why I thought I didn't really like her at first? I suppose I wouldn't say "dislike" but more... threatened? Intimidated? Scared? Those seem like more appropriate words. My meeting with her earlier today probably helped too. She, much like my fiction professor last year, really inspire me to work harder on my own writing. It makes me feel a bit guilty for being so lazy. Well, maybe not lazy (I was accused of being a workaholic this week!) but more... scatterbrained. I want to do so many things, I feel like I don't have time for all of them. But that's an age-old story that everyone's heard before.

My art professor complimented me on my eye make-up today! I've sort of resigned myself to the idea that I'll look weird no matter what I do, so I've gotten a little more adventurous with my make-up and fashion. Today I wore a monochromatic ensemble with seafoam colored shoes and inside-out eye make-up (as in I only lined the inside V of my eyes and left the top lids blank).

It probably didn't help to be dismissed by a professor a few weeks ago for not being "fashionable." Oops, there goes my self confidence!

And now I should go work on my Shakespeare paper: How Titus Andronicus is a critique on the failure of Law in both Formal Law and Vigilanteism. Sound interesting, right? We'll see...

A New Chapter for All

It's getting to be that time of year when I feel giddy and excited about the cooling weather, the bright blue skies and the changing leaves. Fall is (and will always be) my favorite season. Maybe it's because that was when school started, and despite my utmost contempt for it most of the time, I loved buying new school supplies. Well, new notebooks, anyhow. Most of the other school supplies my mom just recycled from my sister, which used to bother me when I was young but just makes sense to me now.

But those notebooks... crisp, clean and shiny white pages, a brand new chapter, a sweet blank slate. The idea that maybe, just maybe, I'll do better this year. New notebooks and sketchbooks also instill in me a sense of great potential... that I am somehow on my way to doing great and important things. It's only until I start filling them up that I berate myself and regret wasting paper and all of those forms of self-chastisement.

Fall now leaves a trace of melancholy in amongst its reds, yellows and oranges. I remember my junior year of high school, when I visited the east coast. Fresh and bright with my first love, thoughts of potential finally found, of great, grand cities bustling with stylish students swirling around my head, I came to Washington College with such a profound sense of hope, of at last pursuing my dreams. The college seemed large and wonderful, and the anticipation built up in my limbs like electric shocks. I knew that life would finally be different, better than the tiny town and smaller school I had called home all of my life.

But these last two years have been a nightmare if they were anything dream-like. I fell into the wrong group of friends, gave myself away in desperation to abusive, insecure people and in turn, became insecure myself. I'm struggling with my own sense of identity now, and what I really want to do with my life.

About an hour ago, WAC's presidential inauguration of Mitchell Reiss ended. I sang in the Vocal Consort that accompanied the ceremony, and I am lucky enough to have my name in the program. It was interesting to attend the long ceremony since many of the speakers were former senators, governors, and congressman. President Reiss is an important man, and I was struck by how much influence he really has, not only here in Chestertown, but in Washington D.C. too. I was struck by how superfluous my interests are: English and Art. Yes, I do believe they are important in some ways, but fiction or fine art are rather elitist things--someone living paycheck to paycheck is probably not going to have an interest in either. President Reiss was out negotiating with terrorists in North Ireland and North Korea. What will I end up doing with my life? Write a quaint number of books and collections? Maybe eventually sell a piece of artwork, if I'm lucky?

I know this existential moment is born simply out of my desire (or desperation) to be known, to have the attention all to myself, to be seen as a great person of... something. There are times when I wonder if I have become too ambitious, set my sights too high. It's the characters with too much ambition who are the ones who tend to fail in the end.

Pantoum

We had the option to either write a pantoum or a sestina this week in poetry. I chose the pantoum, because I already had an idea that fit with the form even before we went over the sestina. The professor made me feel as though I had copped out (not intentionally, of course), but with the distasteful thoughts of Sophie Kerr looming above my head, every little lead helps. I may have given this one up here.

Anyway, this poem is probably one of my favorites so far. In response to all the pretension and ass-kissing you see here at school (and in the real world too, I suppose). My professor said it was reminiscent of Jane Austen, which I guess is a pretty nice compliment, considering I've never read Jane Austen.

How to Win

Don’t you want to know my name?
Oh you do look nice in those shoes,
how great it is to meet you—
and what wonderful work you’ve done!

You really do look nice in those shoes,
they totally flatter your figure perfectly
from that wonderful workout you do
now. I’ve heard it’s pretty tough

to flatter a figure in that but
you always do things with such ease.
Now, I’ve heard it’s pretty tough
to get a job like yours these days,

but little things like you can easily
get what you want. You look lovely—
to get a job like yours these days
is really all based on looks anyway.

Getting what you want, looking lovely,
this is all what you’re used to, isn’t it?
You base it all on looks anyway,
but by God why wouldn’t you—

you’re used to looking fantastic so
I’m not surprised you’ve done so well.
By God, you’re amazing! Won’t you
please tell me some trade secrets?

Okay, okay, I’m not surprised you won’t,
being the absolute best in your field,
the secrets aren’t always yours to tell,
but I’m still so thrilled you’re here.

You are, by far, the absolute best.
It is so great to finally meet you,
and I am truly thrilled you’re here.
Don’t you know my name by now?

Villanelle

The villanelle I wrote for my poetry class. I like the first line and nothing else about it. It's got a lot of work, but I did have a lot of fun with this form.

Watch me cleave this cleanly
like the good meat from a ham bone.
I follow the lines, discreetly

work around joints and muscle. We
eat by the bay window,
you watch light cleanly cleave

squares of yellow on the floor. Meekly
see me butcher the meal. I won’t
follow any lines when weak

with hunger. Do it meanly,
in the way I’ve shown
you how. Careful and cleanly

showing me up, you tweak
my style and claim it as your own.
You don’t even do it discreetly,

as if you were the only one hungry
for bodies fully grown.
Stop. Watch me cleave us, cleanly
following lines and not discreet.

31 Drawing Challenge

I'm trying my luck at a 31 day drawing challenge, to see if I can really keep up my goal of "drawing every day." It's sad that I have to make that a goal... especially because I consider myself an artist but blah, whatever. I'm going to try and post the drawings I do up here, but we'll see if that actually happens, not because I haven't done the drawings but because I'm so damned ashamed of them. The first day challenge was "draw yourself" and goddamn it was awful. I think I either draw myself waaaaay too inaccurately buxom or waaaay too ugly.

So you're gettin' nothing, folks!

Talk Fans the Flame

Paterson, Book Three, The Library, Part II

Fire burns; that is the first law.
When a wind fans it the flames

are carried abroad. Talk
fans the flames. They have

manoeuvred it so that to write
is a fire and not only of the blood.

The writing is nothing, the being
in a position to write (that;s

where they get you) is nine tenths
of the difficulty: seduction

or strong arm stuff. The writing
should be a relief,

relief from the conditions
which as we advance become--a fire,

a destroying fire. For the writing
is also an attack and means must be

found to scotch it--at the root
if possible. So that

to write, nine tenths of the problem
is to live. They see

to it, not by intellection but
by sub-intellection (to want to be

blind as a pretext for
saying, We're so proud of you!

A wonderful gift! How do
you find time for it in

your busy life? It must be a great
thing to have such a pastime.

But you were always a strange
boy. How's your mother?)

--the cyclonic fury, the fire,
the leaden flood and finally
the cost--

Your father was such a nice man.
I remember him well .

Or, Geeze, Doc, I guess it's all right
but what the hell does it mean?

--William Carlos Williams

Infintesimal Things.

You know, it's really the little things that can make or it break it for you.

This past week I've been stressed myself out needlessly (but hey, it's what I do!) over my independent study video project; I'm creating a visual interpretation of Verse I of East Coker by T.S. Eliot. Despite the fact that it's nearly impossible to render a poem visually, seeing as the words of the poem itself are a beautiful and complete mish-mash of phonetics, imagery and pacing, I've gone ahead and am attempting the impossible. Hoo-yeah, I know I've picked probably the most stressful thing I could have taken on, but I'm really trying to push myself hard.

Prof. Castro has been trying to get me to realize my potential, and has been talking about me pushing myself harder and working further in expanding my artistic pursuits. I feel like he's been telling me this for the past year--and either I've been stupid or deaf (or both) and have yet to completely listen to him. I think I've also taken on this behemoth because of the fiasco of my art endeavors last year, specially that in my Creative Process class, in which I came upon a tar-pit in my artistic path and promptly belly-flopped in. Earlier this summer I came upon another tar pit, and this time I tripped and awkwardly cannonballed in. I've never really thought of myself as a perfectionist, but a few of my friends have been telling me I've been too hard on myself, expected unrealistic results and it's been causing my anguish.

I'm starting to think they are probably right.

I've never been okay with my own limitations, I want to be the best in everything all the time...how unrealistic and juvenile of me! It's okay for me to have limitations, and it's okay for me to work hard at trying to best them. To be honest, I think I am a perfectionist with a lazy streak, I whine and whine and whine about how much I hate the things I create, but hell, I don't produce all that much, and it's hard to bat a 300 when I refuse to step up to the plate! I need to clamber on top of this fear of failure. So what if I fail...what's that going to do? Sure, I don't want to just throw myself under the bus or anything, but what's so bad if I'm not perfect all the time? (Because let's face it... I am pretty perfect every once in a while...)

An anecdote from my fiction professor, Prof. Mooney, comes to mind when I talk about this. He told us in class once, that there is a brick wall of shitty ideas in our heads, one long and tall and wide. The only way to get past this brick wall is to take it down, brick by brick. You need to write out and through those shitty stories to get to the masterpieces behind it.

I've always liked that story, because it brings everyone to a similar level--everyone has the capacity to make something great, but they also have the capacity to make something god-awful.

In other news, I'm moving along in my Infinite Summer endeavor, although I am sorely behind. I'm not worried, though, I've got a few days vacation without TV or internet, so I think I'm just going to plug through that with IJ.