hello, blog

things are a bit crazy. havnt posted in a while. I dont know why i apologize for it since no one ever reads this, but there it is.

welter. oh, god...WELTER. the magazine is taking over my free time, along with the new hbo series john adams. the series is amazing, and welter is only going to own my life for another week.


sadly, my blog ends here because i feel guilty using my spare time for something as frivolous as a blog when there is a deadline to be met.

i feel like im cheating on welter or something. i hope it doesnt find out.

self-fulfilling prophecy

i am so sick of waiting on other people. my impatience on this particular occasion is brought to you by the Welter staff who are not doing what needs to be done so that my life is not miserable next week.

i have to fit a month's worth of work into one week, and i had no idea that that was the case until this weekend. press day is april23 and i have no cover art, no written work, much less author bios, order of appearance, or logo. now, if this was my magazine, and i could take care of all of that myself, it would be done by now. but no...i have to wait for a democratic decision on cover art that is apparently not even created yet. i also have to wait for 5 people to proof 43 stories, essays, and poems. they are supposed to have them to me by the 17, and as of yet, they havnt looked at them. i have to wait for someone to tell me that i can go ahead and create a logo, but that logo has to depend on the cover art that i dont have. how can i figure out how to incorporate the cover in the layout without first seeing the cover?

this impatience has extended to disliking people who do not immediately respond to text messages, phone calls that are not picked up on the first ring, being left waiting for a response on ichat, especially when the other person is the one who started the conversation, traffic, sitting in class and listening to a lecture when there are so many other things i would rather be doing with my time, havint to write papers instead of reading a book that i would love to read, slow windows computers in the computer lab at school, being in front of, behind, next to, or within a 50 mile radius of a cop while driving, email, having to be nice to people because they are in my class, when i would rather be in charge so that i can enforce the rules and deadlines in a way that ensures they will be done, not being in a position to step on toes when necessary, and having to move from my bed to my desk to connect my macbook to my external harddrive. thats it, for my birthday, i want some sort of wireless or bluetooth external!!!

why do all of my feelings become clear after i leave?

i dont even know what to type. i had all kinds of good things planned for this blog: some social commentary, some discussion of what constitutes anger and what a quarterlife crisis really is.


but the sad truth is that i have an overpowering sense of rage that is pent up inside of me. there is no way to let it out. none. and i think that is what is wrong with everything in the world. we are so suppressed and restricted. we have to worry about hurting the feelings of people we love, and people we dont love, and we need to make sure we dont do anything that will ruin people's good opinion of us, or change anyone's perspective of us. destruction of property is illegal. detruction of people is immoral and illegal. trowing things is frowned upon, i havnt screamed...actually yelled or screamed and raised my voice since middle school. hitting a tennis ball isnt very satisfying if you arent good at it.



there is no outlet for the rage and pent up emotion i am struggling with.


we have reached victorian england again. we are quakers. we are fucking pilgrims who burn people at the stake for feeling.



and i hate it.


even the word hate has no meaning now. i hate many things: onions, ignorant people, religious pamphlets, crying, my job. but saying that i hate them does not express fully how i feel. nothing can.


feelings are static. they change, but they cannot effect change.


thats why some kid beat her teacher, and two kids beat each other with hockey sticks. thats why so many people are killed daily. because god, or whatever else is responsible for this shit hole decided to eff with us and give us these feelings, but no way to contain, control, or outlet them.

and i am sick of it. perhaps i should give up on worrying about what people think, and hurting feelings. maybe i should stop letting myself feel shitty. perhaps i should look to hurt people. then i would be normal in the eyes of society.


i wish my mouth could open as wide as anatomically possible, but i have a restricting divice psychologically. damn morals and caring.

just because you cant see it...

i cant decide if it is because we, the people who write, are so caught up in our own lives, or if it has something to do with the irregular way life seems to happen lately, dotting time with strange instances and too much rape and pain for the world to breathe healthily again. i'm not certain if it is a trend, or a permanent ocurance, and i sure as hell cant figure out if it is happening all over the globe, or just in the tiny whore-house that is the charles royal building at my particular university.

but the truth, mapped out in so many fonts on too many pages to read in an hour, is that fiction has faded into a fifth genre. if the first is poetry, and the second is drama, and the third is fiction and the fourth is essay, then the fifth is that slurry line between fiction and essay, a fraction of writing, if you will, where the inexperienced writer writes about him or herself and tells a life story, plays with form, and labels it as fiction when it is actually memoir.

everything has become memoir. of all of the fiction submissions to the welter literary journal, only two are actually fiction and not memoir, one of which is mine.


where has fiction gone? has the imagination finally given in and admitted that it cant keep up with how screwed up life really is? or are all of the characters on vacation? living in a place where storys are written about fluffy kitty cats and unicorns? maybe theyre waiting like the romanticists did for the world to turn itself upright again and for the rain to stop falling up. gravity has to take over again and set things right.


in the mean time, do we let them go on thinking that memoir is fiction? perhaps they just dont see the difference, or cant believe what has happened to them. it must have happened to this character that has assigned itself a first person omniscient point of view with which to tell a true story in disguise as fiction.


at least there are submissions. amd im not complaining, im just happy to be around to see it happen. the genre that was not a genre 15 years ago, that is only now being accepted by the literary big wigs, is taking over like it owns the joint, building a work out room in the old nursery and tearing out the flower beds that old aunt eudora took so much pride in. It plans to open up some windows and air out the rooms, finally get rid of the smell of cigar smoke from grandpa earnest and uncle charles. but the carpet hasnt changed, and no one will ever knock down the giant oak in the front yard or dry up virginia's lake.

manifesto for one's purpose

i like to think that there is a purpose to everything that every individual does. if not, then bring on the brave new world. but as a dreamer, i cant settle for what i get.

I have never been so deeply moved, disturbed, actually, by any class I have ever taken. My contemporary Literature class is slowly driving me crazy.

In the class, we are studying the common themes and concepts behind literature of all genres written in the past 20 years.

common themes include:
1. failure of a character to connect with other characters
2. inability to show emotion
3. disconnection with the world
4. rape, hate, crime, psychotic behavior, abuse, distrust, ect.
5. death
6. the acceptance of the inevitable, example: death is part of life, death makes life
7. the down side of liberation movements
8. selfishness
9. mistrust, and why mistrust is intelligent
10. the lack of value in love and human relationships
11. lack of hope
12. loss of faith, innocence, life, meaning

all of these topics are things that surface in one way or another throughout current writing.


as a writer (i.e., one who writes) I am discouraged. I never thought of my writing as adhering to any of the topics above, and yet I see, after looking at my writing through the lense of contemporary literature, that my writing is overflowing with many of those things.


After some consideration, I see that I have fallen into the trap of becoming a product of my environment. I write what I see and live through. I write about the ugliness of the human race. The downfall of education, the inevitability of death, and politics. I write about the same things that other people write about.


I cant allow myself to believe that this period in which I live will be defined as a theory of literature hundreds of years from now. Students will take some archaic class that covers my contemporaries. perhaps, instead of the Victorian, modern, post modern, renaissance, Marxist, structuralist, classical, post colonialism, semiotic, or new historicism, we will be called the "hopelessists" or "destructionists"

is there any way to change that? no. literature and art reflect the time in which it is created, but also change the time. Picasso painted in a time of great turbulence, and so his painting was chaotic. "guernica" is a perfect example. He painted a war in the most chaotic, and color-symbolic way he could. his painting reflected the war the way the war created the painting. literature is the same way. literature reflects the time, but also changes how people think.


I wish I could be so brave to think that I could change the way literature works. perhaps, in my own small way, I could.


after waking up at 4am this morning from a bad dream, i decided to consciously change my writing.

for a long time, i viewed writing as something that is very much a part of the self. i still think that way, but i understand that, like the self, writing must undergo change. static writing is boring and useless. so i want to change my writing to still follow the way of my contemporaries (because i have no choice in the matter, mostly) but in a way that allows hope.

I am at a point in my life where i refuse to settle into this American hopelessness. I cant do it. I cant look at the world as something ugly and full of hatred. I am a dreamer, and as such, i need to believe that there is a purpose, that there is meaning, that life is not defined by the absence of death.

I cant give up on hoping that the world is beautiful.


I want to write the way I want to think. but when the world around me is going to hell and people are becoming more hateful and self-centered, selfish, disconnected, i need to hang on to what i have and what i know to be possible.

I want to surround myself with beautiful things. I want to write beautiful things.


i cant avoid writing about how ugly the world is, because the world i live in is ugly. no way around it. and a story without conflict is a story without change, is a story without a story, is a story without purpose. i cant write empty stories. everything i write, fiction, nonfiction, poetry, or even expository writing, has to have a purpose. I have no time for stories about a cute little kitty or unicorns. i despise fiction about empty subjects.


i want my writing to have the weight of lead, but also a sense of hope. damn the contemporaries for creating a world of writing where denouement is not part of the plot line. nothing should end without some sort of resolution. i see the point of doing things that way, but it is sloppy, and it doesnt leave hope. there needs to be hope. i will not live in a world that has no hope.


so, i have thought about my writing and what i want to experiment with next. what is writing if not experimentation? i change my style every time i edit a story, why not change my style in terms of content? forget adding imagery and poetic device. i want to change my place in literary history. not that i expect to become part of literary history, but i feel that i need to take into account that my writing may (if i am lucky) one day reach beyond the small circle i live in. and if it does, god willing, what will people say about it. where will i fit? writing is something that can easily become a legacy. music is too plagued with luck, and art is too critical, but writing is a possibility for recognition, especially posthumously. the editor of the urbanite said that the first thing you have to do to become one of the greats is not to write fantastic pieces, but to give up the obsession you have with air. who knows where my writing will take me, or where it will go without me. but if it goes even as far as one small college lit magazine, or as far as the new yorker, or to whole books, or just my own portfolio, i do not want to be lumped into the same burlap sack with those who write about a lack of hope. they are dragging us down just as much as the topics they write about.


so. i want to write some stories where the situation is serious and the suffering is great, but the setting and description downplay it. i want to use that hemmingwayish understatement to hide the importance of the situation and to focus on the setting and characters. he was a master. perhaps he was much more ahead of his time than we thought.

I dont pretend that i will ever become a great writer, or that i will even be recognized for my writing. i actually doubt that i will. but the point is that i need to look at my writing more seriously, or else i have wasted my degree before i have even gotten it. and in that sense, i need to write something that makes me feel as though i have done something good. and if writing a story every now and then that has a little bit of beauty and hope in it is as far as i can go, then thats all i'll ever need.

the aforementioned poetry:

Hole in the Wall

A speck with depth
just a minor hiccup
on the smooth surface of institution.
A fissure of change trapped
within a cinder block prison.

Walls have to breathe too—
inhaling carbon dioxide thoughts
moist with scraps of textbook regurgitation.

If the school was a ship
our education would sink;
drown
one drip
at
a
time.




Edward Hopper Hotel Room Ekphrasis
(form was lost in online translation, sorry)

broccoli chair,
cherry dresser,
banana walls,
asparagus carpet

sheets

like the meat
of a coconut
freshly
crac ked
dri
p
p
i
n
g
with
milk.



International Terminal

His knuckles drain
pale and drip
with nervous response
to the reverberation of combat
boots trudging across
a crisp linoleum desert
scattered with camouflaged
tumble-weed bags.
Thirsty wives and dessicated mothers
muster cheek-to-cheek
to drink in the last
drops of rain




Presidential Vacation Pantoum

How do you live
in a yacht on the lake,
playing with toys
while the country suffers?

In a yacht on the lake
you govern the world
while the country suffers
and others fight your war.

You govern the world
and destroy the country.
Others fight your war
and they’re still fighting.

Destroy the country.
The children are soldiers
and they’re still fighting
a useless war.

The children are soldiers,
but you don’t care.
A useless war
is money in your pocket.

You don’t care
that cities are burning
money in your pocket
as people die.

Cities are burning
how do you live
as people die?
Play with your toys.



Some Poems Become Baggage

Some concepts bog down the mind
and thwart thoughts
from following their instinct
like the scent of cheese to the end of a maze.
To recuperate,
some stanzas must be hemmed
with scratches and eraser smudges.

Some lines make better

space

than Erector-set words protected by Lojack.

Some words might
sound good
and look pretty

but encumber the moment
like a sopping sponge.



Maryland Avenue

The parking meter flashes green, and mounds
of fresh reflection flank the sides, standing
like sentinels to an invaded door
deprived of dignity; its shattered window
destroyed by selfishness. The seat is left
exposed to wind, or rain, or prying eyes
with sticky, prying hands. A lump of grey
hoodie entraps the seat and pleads: “I’m still
in class. I still believe my car is safe.”
But on the center console, chiseled out
of murky travel dust, a palm-sized
rectangle draws the borders of the place
where music used to live. Remaining is
a tangled, white, electric artery.




Coach

Primped for market,
embroidered, branded, and buckled
bovine pose on glass pedestals
surrounded by mirrors.

Patched with pieces of snake
or zebra or snow leopard,
each cut of veal
tastes of exotic fashion.

Skirted ladies laced in gold
admire hides of dyed
pink or baby blue suede
sows with silver stitching.

Mint or white or bright red
patent leather doesn’t squeal
when tucked beneath a cashmere’d arm
and stuffed with money.

8. Writing

perhaps this one should be closer to the top of the list. Actually, it should be number two. I will not change it though, for I have a love-hate relationship with my writing.

I love to write more than I love to eat.

But writing is never easy, and has landed me in a dead-end cardboard box-major where I will graduate without a job and make no money.

I think that I am a good writer (dont judge me by my lazy blogging habits, please) but so are the thousands of other writers out there. My age, younger, older, working, unemployed, in college, published, not published, afraid to show their work. Too many writers.

Nothing is worse than when someone judges you as a good writer and asks you to read their writing. "be honest"

but it sucks, and if you tell them honestly that the writing needs work, they get defensive, and all of a sudden you must not know what you're talking about.

But lets not forget about the release. Thats why I blog, isnt it? I think so. Like finally getting to a bathroom after walking for a few miles with two cups of coffee in your bladder. its like spring cleaning for your mind.

I have a problem with fighting or having serious discussions with people. Unless I write my thoughts out first, I feel as though they never come out right. I have to write them first. I think through my hands.

I hate people who write stories and essays and poetry on the computer. It is called writing for a reason. Not typing. it shouldnt be done. it uses a whole different hemisphere of your brain. its the difference between preparing food and making food. between betty crocker and from scratch.


I think I shall post a second blog. I have not posted poetry to this blog before, have I? I dont think I have. Perhaps I shall. Lots of poems from last semester that I have just finished revising. I dont know if theyre done now or not.

7. Asheville/"hope"

my recent gallops across the internet have landed me on a flicker site belonging to a photographer from Asheville North Carolina. Have you ever been somewhere, or passed through a place and fallen completely in love with everything about it? Troy, Jeremy, and I visited Asheville for one day to see a Smashing Pumpkins concert, and I fell head over heels for the city.

I have several fears about the city:
1. that I am building it up and idolizing it beyond what it could ever have been, and will be disappointed if I ever get to go back
2. that I will never get the chance to go back
3. that, if I get to go back, I will find it changed like so many other places in this country.

anyone who knows me very well (like troy) will think that Asheville is a stupid addition to my 10things list, but the love for the city extends beyond that short visit.

To me, Asheville is proof that this country is not completely lost. there are still places, whole cities where there may be drugs and crime, but people, as a whole, get along, share, love one another, and exist peacefully. The cost of living is low, the scenery is beautiful, people stopped on the streets to say hello, the streets are alive day and night, even the drug addicts and insane people were nice. Its like a whole section of the 60's got trapped in this valley. Its the city of love.

Everything was organic, hand-made, and generally clean and fair-trade. Why cant the rest of the country be so correct and caring? why cant a hamburger in MD have a history? why are hand made clothes in DC or Towson so over-priced? why cant we have organic co-ops instead of massive grocery stores?

Why does the rest of the country have to suck?

I would absolutely love to move there. I am serious. 100% serious. I have never fallen in love with a place. Hell, i've only fallen in love with one person, I didnt think there could be more than that! but Asheville is my second love. Streets full of music, limited walmarts, no fast food downtown, big buildings living peacefully among small cottages and single family homes, all situated cozily between the blue ridge mountains. beautiful.

maybe it would be best to not go back. I can only hope that, regardless of how far the country sinks into despair, Asheville will always be my symbol of how it could be. Hope does exist. so maybe my #7 thing should be labeled "hope". the city is wonderful, but the hope it inspires in me is what i appreciate most.

6. Lomography

I am not a photographer. Not by any standard. I cannot focus properly, am not patient enough to line up a shot and take it properly. I know very little about all of the elements of photography that count. But i love taking pictures.

I actually learned what I do know about photography from an ex- national geographic photographer. he was Australian and his name was Andy. The man knew his stuff! He taught me everything I have since forgotten about shutter speed, film, processing, aperture, the works. I spent three weeks working in his dark room, helping him develop his own shots and also the slides for a summer camp slide show. Lots of fun. I became obsessed for a while with trying to take interesting pictures. But, as with everything else I start, I didnt follow up on it. Not like my mother would have let me. Waste of time, she said. and so, like Sign Language, Soccer, Gymnastics, Dance, Swimming, Ice Hockey, Piano, Singing, and Girl Scouts, photography became one of those things I have done but do not do.

Until Lomography.

my Lc-a (may it rest in peace) was a chance to capture fun moments, to see the world through a series of color, shape, and shadows once again. not much is needed, the film is basic 35mm, cheaper the better. it allows for mistakes, most of the best shots are mistakes. over-exposure generally doesnt happen. as long as you look for color, you get results.

I feel like I might finally have the hang of it, setting the distance properly was a problem, but now that I understand the distance between feet and meters, I am hopeful. I have a whole slew of things I want to shoot. It is a free way to express my view of the world. no paint involved. I like a form of art that literally takes seconds. some paintings can take weeks. wriing a story can take years. lomography takes a second.

And it encouraged me to get out and about. I wanted to go anywhere and everywhere. a perpetual search for color and strange shapes. I wanted to experiment. I still do. I hope to have a new Lc-a before spring is in full bloom. I cant wait to get pictures of flowers blooming and the fake snow from flowering trees. and summer sunsets and beach pictures and trips and new places.

I havnt had my Lc-a for four or five weeks, and yet, when I see something that appeals to me, I still begin to reach into my giant coach bag for it. talk about a lasting impression. a very easily made friend. I almost always forget about my Holga, though. does that make any sense? I dont think so. Holga is a bit of a disappointment. mostly because it requires 120 film. I cant stand spending $20 to process and print a roll of 12 exposures. not to mention how expensive the film itself costs!

I'll have my Lc-a back soon enough, I guess. In the mean time, I continue to study up and learn more about it, research film, make notes of things that i want to snap pictures of. And play with my crappy Kodak point and shoot. horrible camera!!!! absolutely terrible. how is the cheaply made russian camera better than a brand new Kodak? you tell me!


Yay Lomogaphy!

time vs. fear: round one. or, what breaks as easily as a camera?

and a clue is a reasonable thing to give. when all other gifts are exhausted and material items cant breathe beneath the value of one word. one word that means a world, or at least the difference between one world and another and any list of others that neatly organize themselves among possibilities. fear, or at least the brink of it, of that uncertainty of knowing whether fear should even be a minute on your clock, is enough to drive the bus home without the children on it.

but some clues are disguised. or hidden beneath uncertainty. when one thing seems certain, when it is the reason that you breathe and feel and love and remember and expect. and then that certainty seems uncertainly uncertain. when goals and plans become a possibility, or not. those are the times that fear is reasonable.

but how do you know. and should you prepare for the storm? he who gathers bags of sand and bread and milk for a spring shower is a fool. all that toilet paper is good to have...you wont have to go shopping again, but why stock pile something that takes up so much room when you really dont need it? fear and attachment issues are not something as easily stackable as rolls of thin paper. more like bread, as they grow old in the face of needlessnesss, they become stale and mouldy and ruin an otherwise good kitchen.

but how do you know? do you? should you? a weatherman is just a weatherman. he can no more predict the weather as a traffic man can predict accidents. and weather and traffic and potential loss is all lumped into one general category of potential pain staked against uncertainty. theres that word again. that fear of losing what was once that safety. that warm feeling. a mattress, a camera, shoes, meals, plans, a love for that one yellow house, weekend trips, an anniversary. all things that comfort like crawling under a fuzzy blanket. all like a scarf around your neck when the wind is ripping at your throat. but they are just part of plans that, when not carried out, when lost, when forgotten, when...changed...for whatever reason, are just loss.

and how do i know. if the other doesnt. security in the face of a regression is empty. but to not put value in that promise is to force a depression. probably a needless one. but how do i know?

change is what keeps my planet spinning. but we spin around a sun that can go dark. still bright on my side of the world, but there is still a whole hemisphere that i cannot control. i cant see it any more than china can see argentina. smiles are real, and words mean worlds, but change, a reversal of the planet, can destroy the world through inertia.

words can only reassure. and doubt is slightly redundant. but how do i know? and will i ever again? redundancy is a sure way to dig a hole. to push. but fear is a sure way to hurt. needlessly? and questions not asked eat. or at least chew and chomp till unrecognizable and useless.

fear. it all comes down to that one basic human instinct. the one from which wars have stemmed, from which anger can grow, and sadness flourish. i'm sure it can be defeated. but how do i know.


doubt is something wholly different. doubt is a lack of trust. theres no room for it, and i dont harbor. i dont share my space with unneeded visitors. doubt is a step from cheating. and thats not me. but fear can flourish without doubt. fear can make, or break, or strain. and i just want to know.


limbo. not just a game, but a horrible place to live and work and love. it has infiltrated a place previously inhabited by certainty and hope. i dont want it there. but what can i do. questions. answers. words, fear. change.


love.


and what is eternal? what outlasts change? does it? can anything? can something given unconditionally and freely and selflessly and in the face of the possibilities produce a return? i know it is there. i know it has been. i feel it, i see it, i hear it. but is it going to stay? is there room? can a person be baggage? extra weight? a hinderance? a comfortable place full of warmth but no promise?



is there room? its a reasonable question. it eats more than fear. its a name brand fear, not the generic type. it has a face and lungs and has breathed its hot breath down my neck for weeks. change takes up more space than a queen sized mattress. and pressure isnt the goal. what is two years in the face of life-altering change the size of a country? is there room? will there always be room? re-evaluation is natural, understandable. needed. but is there room?