What is Your Seduction Style?

The Dandy You're a non-traditionalist, not limited by gender roles or expectations. Your sensuality is more fluid than that - and you defy labels or categories. It's hard to pin you down, and that's what's fascinating about you. You have the psychology of both a male and a female, and you can relate to anyone.

Fun quizzes, surveys & blog quizzes by

I wonder if this means I love myself a little too much...
Jung Explorer Test
Actualized type: ENTP

ENTP "Inventor". Enthusiastic interest in everything and always sensitive to possibilities. Non-conformist and innovative. 3.2% of the total population.

Preferred type: ENTP (who you prefer to be)

ENTP - "Inventor". Enthusiastic interest in everything and always sensitive to possibilities. Non-conformist and innovative. 3.2% of the total population.

Attraction type: ENTP

(who you are attracted to)

ENTP - "Inventor". Enthusiastic interest in everything and always sensitive to possibilities. Non-conformist and innovative. 3.2% of the total population.

Take Jung Explorer Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

Final Project

I like to think of writing as a way of telling our personal mythologies. A way of filtering the world through our own perspective, and letting people look in. Maybe it’s because I’m a control freak, or maybe it’s simply ego, but one of my favorite ways of writing is to twist an old story the way I think it should go, shaped by my experiences.

The first of these poems, Athena’s Rebirth, I actually wrote a few years ago. Growing up, the story of her birth was one of my favorites. It didn’t matter to me that her father lacked morals, or that her mother was dead; I just thought it was cool that she was the goddess of wisdom, and she came out of her dad’s skull. Back then, I never thought about consequences or repercussions.

When Sean killed himself my freshman year of high school, I refused to think about it. He wasn’t in class, and all day I’d heard millions of rumors. When it was finally announced over the PA, static-y and final, I went numb. All they told us was that he was in a coma. I started second guessing my memories of him, mind racing over every interaction I could remember. The next day my friend Matt called me to tell me he’d been taken off life support, and I did my best to wipe the memory of Sean from my head. But there were times he’d creep back in. When the fires were raging in California, I couldn’t help thinking ‘Sean always wanted to be a fire fighter. He could’ve been there, helping.’ Sometimes it was just the gruesome image, a loud bang and then a spray of blood, bone and brain. It was one of those times when the memory of Athena’s birth flashed in my head, and I became irrationally furious. I resented that there was a story about someone having their head cracked open and living, even if it was a fictional character. So I wrote the poem, a blending of reality and legend to remind myself that myths were created to help people make sense of the world, not as a reflection of it.

The poem Apples to Apples was written using a combination of lines I’d scribbled down at different times. When I was watching a show about the Garden of Eden on the history channel, they explained how they’d used clues in the Bible to track where the garden would’ve been located. I laughed hysterically when they said it was located in what is now Iraq. I wrote down some lines about it, and left it for awhile. When I finally came back to it, I decided I wanted to add in other things I found ironic - like the fact that something is actually labeled ‘Adam’s Apple’ when it’s usually Eve that gets the blame for eating it. The dichotomy of womanhood that seems to exist, even in Greek goddesses, with Kore (a.k.a. Persephone) as both the goddess of fertility and death. And Pandora’s blame for the worlds evil, when she was created by Zeus and Hephaestus specifically as a punishment for Prometheus’ theft of fire from the gods. And last, going back to the idea of the apple from the Garden of Eden, my amusement that my friend John eats apples whole - stem and seeds included.

The victimization of Persephone throughout history, and even in modern references, drives me crazy. She’s supposed to go from a young, innocent, goddess, to Hades’ prisoner for six months of the year. Captured, tricked into eating the pomegranate seeds, and only defended by her mother, she’s the epitome of what a victimized woman is supposed to be. So I wrote both The Iron Queen and Hades, and wanting. as my take on the myth, with Persephone able to make the choice for herself, right or wrong, about what she wants for her future. My Persephone isn’t naive, but makes her own decisions, even if they aren’t understood by the people around her, and I like her a lot better than the victimized Persephone. It was fun to imagine her opinion and viewpoint, when most people tend to focus on the story from her mom's view.

Zeus and Hera’s relation has always been a bone of contention for me. There’s Zeus, the philandering husband, and Hera, the accepting but bitter wife. While there’s an occasional myth about Hera being angry at her husband, she mostly takes her anger out on the women he sleeps with. And, as for the gods having human traits, this seems to be a pretty excellent example. The lack of rationality behind this irks me. Similarly, you can’t get mad when someone ‘cheats’ if you aren’t even in a relationship. I was labeled heartless for my lack of sympathy for my friend when her ‘friend-with-benefits’ flaunted his sexcapades in front of her. Apparently repeating ‘you aren’t dating him, he didn’t cheat’ doesn’t snap someone into reality. I ended up hearing over and over (and over) about how it was the fact that it was a stripper that made it so bad. But even if it hadn’t been a stripper, I knew that she’d find some other way of dismissing the girl instead of the boy. This led to the poem, Hera was more human than Goddess, which reflects on this need to find blame with the other woman involved instead of simply leaving a bad situation.

The last poem of the collection, Moirae, deals with the compulsion people feel to know their future. From palm readings and horoscopes to tarot cards and stupid online quizzes, everyone wants to find some way to figure out what’s going to happen next. Moirae is about my personal love of Tarot Cards. Even though I don’t believe in them, I still maintain a certain sense of awe and trepidation when I have them in my hand, shuffling them. The basic spread lays out past, present and future, and reminds me of the Greek goddesses of fate, the Moirae. I like the idea of intertwining stories, and pictorial depictions, those of the tapestry of fate or the pictures on the tarot cards, as a map of the future. And, while I'd rather not truly believe in it, I like the idea of an inescapable fate.


Athena’s Rebirth

I missed the foreshadowing
the way his smile would flicker, wave, crack
like lightning hitting an antenna
how when he spoke, the words throbbed.

when he asked me to run away with him
I said no
because I was young and stupid,
didn't notice the way that even the classroom
would shake, pound like his temples.

the headache grew -
a week later he took Hephaestus’s hammer to relieve the pressure;
cracked his skull open with a shotgun.
he wasn’t Zeus,
wasn't immortal.
still, I was born again in grey matter
left with only guilty knowledge.


apples to apples

The alliteration of 'forbidden fruit' wasn’t enough
it was Adam’s Apple, too
but the Garden of Eden was found
in ancient Mesopotamia; modern day Iraq
now we know there wasn’t an apple, it was
a pomegranate, a fig, some other fruit
that Eve and Adam choked on.

So I mix my mythology -
Eve, Kore, Pandora -
my trinity, lips tinged carmine
based on curiosity and,
god forbidden,
knowledge.

And I smile
when John eats his apple whole
despite my reminder
about arsenic in the seeds.


The Iron Queen and Hades

the ground may have split
exposing his sooty features
eyes of raw coal
sharp slate cheekbones
lips flavored ash

this was no abduction
I recognized costume jewelry
catching my attention, sparking in fluorescent lights
yet I was hungry to see him stripped
expected him to glimmer even then

he put on his invisibility helmet
while I ate all the pomegranate seeds


wanting.

It’s wicked, I’m told,
to think Persephone wished to be
taken from her mother, apprehended by a god.
(I don’t – I won’t – call it rape.)
Immoral to think she was flattered
a handsome deity with emerald eyes
garnet lips, skin veined like opal
would want, would lust, enough to capture her
riding in on a dusky horse.

My mother’s eyes, too, become dusky
as I settle in at his back on the motorcycle
but it’s already winter
and I’m not scared of her cold
the fires of Hades’ Elysium are waiting


Hera was more human than Goddess

her eye-shadow
peacock blue, purple, green
eyelashes feathered
she smells of yeast, of hearth smoke, of home.
mothers him
stealing his drinks, forcing him to eat bread
to absorb
the Southern Comfort.

Cronus vomited her up
after eating ambrosia made
of alcohol and drugs.
she imitates him
vomiting food, as the boys
talk of strippers
and sex.

her mind changes the girls
into weasels, bears, white calves
trying to become a goddess through
divine forgiveness
he never asked for.


Moirae

the cards snap
like Cerberus’ jaw snatching
a bite
of meat, of bone, of marrow.
some stick, proving you can’t
shuffle fate & the fool is
bleeding pomegranate juice from his eyes
as he hangs
from his foot, smiling.

Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos lay before me;
the thread, the loom, the shears.
I ignore the cards, content.
my hands don't tremor
when arranging fate.
I look down at the fool, smiling.

My dad's playing random music that's actually throbbing in beat with my head. Well it's probably the other way around, but either way - ouch. It's been awhile since I've had to wake up and delete my texts without looking at them. I don't miss it. I think I'm getting to old for 'barmageddon.' *sigh* I wish I'd gone to bed when I got home, not stayed up 'til 3:30, only to get woken up by a text from my friends boyfriend at 7:30-ish. (Thanks, Wess.)

Best part of Thanksgiving - getting to make fun innuendos about pie. Yes, I'm that immature.

No, I'm not ready for a big, bad step in that direction.

It's incredibly disorienting when you realize you don't actually like someone's personality, you just like their habits. (Yes, I know it's a thin line, but they really are different things.)

seemed class appropriate: Xaphoon Jones

Love: Chiddy Bang - Kids (ft. MGMT)

And, I never should've stopped listening to Tegan and Sara.

I'm so extremely frustrated right now. And stressed. I grind my teeth in my sleep, which combined with my habit of clenching my jaw, is really starting to make them hurt. Too bad that when I get stressed, my first reaction is to panic and do nothing.

Edit: I'm in a much better mood - I just realized that the season finally of Project Runway is tonight!

Portrait of a Lady - T.S. Eliot
III

The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
“And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that’s a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn.”
My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.

“Perhaps you can write to me.”
My self-possession flares up for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
“I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends.”
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.

“For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.”

And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression … dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—

Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon…
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a “dying fall”
Now that we talk of dying—
And should I have the right to smile?

Want.

I could write a boring critical paper, but I'd hate every second of writing it which would make reading it even more miserable. So that just leaves me with a creative piece. (That was my attempt at deductive reasoning.)

That still leaves a wide range of choices, but since I'm incapable of finishing a fictional story, and I'm kind of over creative non-fiction - my finally choice is poetry. How, exactly, I'm going to work that into the class work we've done, I've yet to figure out. I'll probably focus on why/how the author choose which poems get published together, and come up with my own theme for my selection.

It's like they write about my life....

I'm such a good little consumer. But seriously, I loooove these shoes:



Plus, I only let myself buy one pair and I put the *on sale* Michael Kors shoes back.

*sigh* I really can't afford myself.

Happy Guy Fawkes Day.

The following links talk about Joey Comeau's book Overqualified and a bit about cover letters.

la times blogs

Quill and Quire

eye weekly

And, of course, the book on Amazon.

Also, kind of want these to write with.

Places I would kill to live in:

Reversible Destiny

Poseidon

water tower, chapel, barn

cabin

'silhouette materpiece theatre' (hilarious.)

I love Graffiti.

And, some creepy/fun, art.

OMG! The 50 Greatest Simpsons Movie References (awesome.)

More fun things...

Recycled cassette tape necktie makes me wish I was a boy. Or that I wore ties.

Kind of want to make one of these.

Seriously?? Blood Caffeinated Energy Potion

For everyone freaking out about the swine flu, Maddox will set you straight.

If I had the HIV, I’d sleep with it every night.

They even have the swine flu.

Cheesy, but I still kind of like it.

This amuses me. I need to work up some courage to get the tattoo I want.

I debated for a long time what I wanted to do for this assignments. It was tempting to tear apart some Dickens or Whitman, but instead I ended up doing some poetry. (It was pretty much a done deal when I found a poem written by Bukowski about my old poetry Prof. Diane Wakoski. Love.)

The first poem I used was ‘a sickness?’ by Bukowski. Of course at least one of the poems had to be written by him. I love this one because I understand where he’s coming from. I’m accused all the time of romanticizing things that I probably shouldn’t. (Like I said in the assignment, my ‘about me’ on Facebook is taken directly from this poem.) While his list of people isn’t exactly the same as the ones I would pick, it’s close enough to have me beyond jealous that he wrote it first. (And better than I ever could, but I try to ignore that.)

The second poem I used was ‘Red Bandana’ by Wakoski. This one was a little harder for me to pick, but I love the imagery she uses in it, and the ties to the old west. It’s a little (a lot) different reading the poems of someone you know who’s been published. After having her rip apart my poems in class, I can’t help but look at the poem how I think she would. I look for the trope, and make sure all the references are tied together. (Of course they are.) I think the neatest thing about her poetry is the way she’s able to create so much emotion through her images, instead of simply spelling it out for the reader. After taking her class, I definitely look at poems in a different way than I used to.

Last was Bukowski’s poem to Wakoski, titled ‘to a lady of posey’ from 'What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire.' Not only do I like the poem, but it gives me an odd feeling of closeness to Bukowski because he’s written about someone I actually know. Since, like Bukowski, I’m a bit of a ‘hero worshiper’ this is pretty fucking awesome. (They actually both have the same publisher...) I just wish I’d gotten to see the look on Wakoski’s face when she read it (in her turtleneck sweater with her big round, Harry Potter glasses....)

Your dating personality profile: Intellectual - You consider your mind amongst your assets. Learning is not a chore but a constant search after wisdom and knowledge. You value education and rationality. Funny - You laugh often. People never accuse you of lacking a sense of humor. You don't take yourself too seriously. Adventurous - Just sitting around the house is not something that appeals to you. You love to be out trying new things and really experiencing life.

Your Top Ten Traits 1. Intellectual 2. Funny 3. Adventurous 4. Practical 5. Big-Hearted 6. Liberal 7. Wealthy/Ambitious 8. Traditional 9. Outgoing 10. Sensual

Your date match profile: Funny - You consider a good sense of humor a major necessity in a date. If his jokes make you laugh, he has won your heart. Conservative - Forget liberals, you need a conservative match. Political discussions interest you, and a conservative will offer the viewpoint you need. Outgoing - Shy and timid people are not who you are after. You need someone with a vibrant personality to breathe life into a relationship.

Your Top Ten Match Traits 1. Funny 2. Conservative 3. Outgoing 4. Practical 5. Traditional 6. Adventurous 7. Big-Hearted 8. Intellectual 9. Sensual 10. Wealthy/Ambitious

Take the Dating Profile Quiz at Would I Date You


Ohhhh I love stupid quizzes like this. Okay, time for homework.

Want.




(While I adore skulls, I'm getting kind of sick of how they're everywhere. Maybe switch back to the swastica? No?)

so cute.

adorable.

completely awesome.

Also...

I'm a fan:
Check out portfolio 7!

Kind of love:
LED eyelashes
button up leggings.

Kind of disturbing to me:
The Clash Converse
Twitter tights...

I could do this all day... *sigh*

About the most originality that any writer can hope to achieve honestly is to steal with good judgment. - Josh Billings

Seemed to be a class appropriate quote.

Anyway.

On the debate of 'book vs. movie' I tend to fall on the book side. (Maybe that's just because I've never actually seen the Godfather.) One of the common themes I noticed throughout the articles is the idea that in order to be good, the adaptation needs to remain true to the main theme of the book. The reason I choose the True Blood article (sorry to those of you that hated it) is because I completely disagree with it. I'm completely in love with the show (trashy as it is) because it's nothing like the books. Well, book. I only read the first one, and it was miserable enough that I had no wish to continue the series. Same with the show Dexter. Love, love, love the show. The books? Horrible. The spoken alliterations, while annoying, aren't as bad as the random CAPITALIZED alliterations in the book, that to me scream gimmicky writing. The character in the show is much more... well, anti-hero in a fun way. And, like one of the articles mentions being super important, it's awesomely cast - Michael C. Hall's portrayal of Dexter is amazing.

The reason I included the article with the list of adaptations was because I rarely think about the fact that most movies are based on novels, unless I've actually read the book or they make a point of noting it somewhere. Like Jaws? Never knew that was a book.

I also probably should’ve looked for an article about it, but the production of the movie Lolita had a lot of negative response. And that was despite the fact that they made her older in the movie, and had an older actress play her, too. Which just makes me think that for many people there’s a huge disassociation between reading something and seeing it. It seems that it’s easier to be subversive in books instead of movies, still.

What's on my mind:

*I'm over half way finished with my last pack of Blacks. (I hate you FDA and your stupid, stupid laws.)

*All Saints Day (they finally made it, yay!)

*The absurd amount of homework I should be doing

*How to teach my adorably clumsy cat to 'attack' (for the high entertainment value)

*Where my phone charger disappeared to

*Related - where my phone is

*Unrelated - where the super cute hat we just got in at work falls on the scale of need - want

*Why I'm doing this instead of something remotely productive - like, say, making another pot of coffee.

there's probably something wrong with my growing love of white boy hip hop.

I’m a very cynical person -more because I find it amusing, than any other reason. But the articles we’ve been reading for class about publishing have been poking at one of the spots I’ve chosen to remain gloriously naive about, e.g. that artists care more about their vision than they do about the mass consumerism of their work.

Freeman’s guide to writing comics makes me want to stick my fingers in my ears and go “la la la la la la.” He makes sure that you know, “If you want to shine in the unsolicited slush pile your work must be polished, take on board the current trends in the market and particularly those of the company you're aiming at.” (emphasis mine) You must take on current trends. So, write a comic book about vampires if you want it to sell. (Thanks Twilight franchise for ruining one of my favorite mythical creatures.) Never mind how you personally feel about the subject, it’s all about getting your name out there, and your work published... UGH. No, no, no! Let me go on believing, ignorantly, perhaps, that people care about their own creative vision and remain uncompromising to trends. Please?

Freeman even wants you to be prepared to know the line you won’t cross - which, okay, compromise of some sort is probably necessary - but to remember, “If it was good enough to be accepted, it's good enough to sell elsewhere if things are going horribly wrong for you.” How about having FAITH IN YOURSELF, instead of thinking ‘well, someone else likes it so it must be at least kind of okay.’ Grrrr.

I’m glad that Bennett, in her article about writing for comics makes sure that we know “comics are not a genre, but a medium of expression — like movies or prose — that can communicate a wealth of ideas and emotions spanning all genres.” Umm, pretty sure that’s incorrect, considering comic books and prose are genres of writing. And, uh, “mysteries, science fiction, autobiography, or even surrealist montages” would be then be their sub-genres, if that’s what topic they cover. Just sayin’. Pet Peeve - When someone tells you what you can and can’t do in a work of art. Thanks for letting me know that if I decide to create my own comic book that I have the artistic license to make it “verbose or wordless, serialized or self-contained, funny or tragic, color or black-and-white.” I really needed you to let me know that.

Okay, I’m also being kind of mean because she insulted my favorite part of comic books, the campy sound effects. “Biff! Bang! Pow!” are not trite, thank you very much. They’re awesome.

Women In Refrigerators = bad ass. Okay, so being me I have to have at least one point of disagreement, so I’ll get that out of the way. Did no one actually think about the fact that women in general are statistically more likely to be sexually assaulted then men? Which means, by default, that female characters would also be more likely to be shown as sexually assaulted. There’s also the fact that men can’t have babies, so of course the female characters are going to be the ones that deal with magical insemination, and miscarriage. This isn’t sexist, it’s realistic and people are stupid. As for more super heroines being depowered, that’s just because women don’t need super powers. Without ‘em we’re still pretty much better than men with them. (Which is probably why Batwoman is now a lesbian. Yay feminism?)

If I didn’t already know what I was going to be for Halloween this year, (Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction - post needle injection, of course.) then I would totally have picked an obscure super heroine from the list, post horrible injury. Could’ve been epic.

i'm so glad today is taco Tuesday.

This poem is driving me crazy. Read, enjoy (that's a demand, not an option), comment?

talking of michelangelo

talking of michelangelo

we drink tepid coffee & talk of visiting
the museums of the Ninja Turtle artists - Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo
& Donatello (who we can never remember created what,
& get stuck instead reminiscing
his bandana is purple
& he’s the one with the bo staff).

I watch the rim of your oversized mug
engulf your chin & lips,
wonder aloud if it’s blasphemy,
claiming museums as sacrosanct.

I could be wrong - I’m not sure
I believe in god, anyway.
I’d rather talk to you about art.
the edge of the cup grins, toothlessly,
from the bottom of your face.
I relate better to the partially filled mug of cold coffee
you lift with two hands & sip like a chalice
than to some communion goblet.

curiouser and curiouser

I love words. Really, really love them. I don’t believe there is anything that can’t be communicated through their correct combination (even if you have to make up a few new ones - which happens to be a side hobby of mine). The manifestation of this love is displayed throughout my life. I talk a lot, usually without thinking. I read anything I get my hands on with an almost compulsory need. My enjoyment of a song is heavily tied up in its lyrics. And I write as frequently as inspiration strikes.

I consider writing a type of emotional whoring. You take what you feel and use it as a catalysis to help you find the words to project a certain tone or feeling. That being said, I’ve never really been shy with my writing. You want to read more by me, just ask. I'll gladly share. I force my friends to read it frequently. I’m sure they’re sick of me interrupting them to ask, “want to read something?” They almost always say yes, and I’m amazed at the grace they have about it, considering the majority of my friends are more into math and science than words. (Don’t ask me how that works out, it still manages to amaze me. Numbers. *shudder*)

My personal favorite is probably poetry. I like the thrift, imagery and incomplete thoughts that develop it. Word choice seems to matter more in poetry, and the writer is forced to be more selective. When you disect a poem, the number of layers that go into each line amazes me. That being said, I’m picky about what I like. You can preach the glory of Whitman as the first all-American poet as much as you want to, but I still can’t stand his poetry. And unless you’re Dr. Seuss, I don’t want to read anything you’ve written that is a direct rhyme. Even slant rhyming has a tendency to make me throw up in my mouth a bit. I’m not a particular fan of sonnets, partially because of their built in rhyme schemes, but largely because I’m pretty much incapable of writing one.(Trust me, I had to for a class - it was a wreck.) It’s rare that I like a haiku - but when I do I really, really like it. I could go on, but I doubt anyone really cares about my preferences. But in case you do, I swear that I don’t hate everything - Bukowski’s amazing. And Plath. And T.S. Eliot. And lots of others. More people need to read good poetry, so they can actually appreciate it. I wish they’d change all the poetry we were forced to read, to poems that are actually interesting. (I prefer Bukwski as a representative of America to Whitman by far. And hey, both have lots of sex and talk about the American dream - so they should be sorta interchangeable, right? No one would miss Whitman. I promise.)

When we got this assignment, I began reading through my favorite pieces I’ve written. Many of them were about the more tragic events in my life. But when I read them, I realized that I’d written most of the emotion out of them. It could be that many of the events happened years ago, but there was an emotional disconnect between the piece and me reading it now. Not that the events that I wrote about don’t still hurt, because they definitely still do, but because I’d had to make a peace of sorts with what happened and my emotions in relation to it in order to write about the event.

While I was tempted to pick a poem, because it’s my more frequent type of writing, instead I decided to go with a creative non-fiction piece I wrote for a class. We were told to pick our favorite song, and write about it. Just like when you ask me what my favorite book is, when you ask me to pick a favorite song, I’ll end up staring at you blankly. It’s an impossible question, and choosing just one is simply a monumental task. I knew I could never go about it that way. So instead, I twisted the rules a bit and wrote about a song that has one of the greatest emotional impacts on me. “I’m Dying Tomorrow” by Alkaline Trio. (Great band, by the way.)

The reason I chose this piece, besides the fact that it’s a personal favorite of mine, is because as easily as words seem to come to me now, there was a time when I didn’t say everything I wanted to. I’ll never know if the words I choked back then would’ve been that magic combination that would have made things different. It’s probably why I’d rather say too much now, instead of too little. So I thought it was an appropriate piece to share - a story about not saying enough.

Do It Right

Do It Right

I grew up listening to Meat Loaf, Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen. The attitude in their voices, the honesty in their lyrics and their unapologetic way of being themself struck a chord in me. I began to idolize everything that came along with the rocker stereotype. If you go through my collection of MP3s, you'll find many raspy-voiced singers with lyrics that range from the poetic to the political, or both.

You'll find art, classic, Detroit, garage, glam, and hard rock. There's emo, punk and power rock - to name a few. I have dresser drawers stuffed with band t-shirts, and a Sid Vicious doll that stands proudly on the bookshelf in my room. But it really is about the music - the message, and emotions that get conveyed from the first to the last note of a song. I'm the person that will put on a song, saying, "You have to listen to this!" I'll make you mixed CDs (which admittedly doesn't have the same ring as the classic "mixed tapes"). I have songs for every occasion... even when I wish I didn't.

When Macky died, when he killed himself, I was an ocean away. Back in Michigan my friends, his friends - our friends - were gathering for his funeral, to reminisce and say goodbye. I never expected to feel trapped in England, a country I'd always wanted to visit and explore. I paced around my tiny apartment, walked around the neighborhood chain smoking. I frequently found myself headed subconsciously to the nearby graveyard when I wandered aimlessly on the cobbled streets of Earl's Court, my home that summer. The graveyard held cement crosses and angel statues covered in moss. It was beautiful, if morbid. There was peace lurking, hidden in the graves and the tall unkempt grass. I would listen to one song on repeat.

"I'm Dying Tomorrow" by Alkaline Trio might be considered a macabre song by some. The title tends to cause a few raised eyebrows. But it fit Macky. For 2 minutes and 32 seconds, Dan Andriano sings over an upbeat sounding, pop-punk track a series of questions, a check list for things he wants to make sure he's done before he dies.

I met Clinton McQueen III sometime in middle school. Back then he went by Macky, but when he went away to college and surrounded himself with people who didn’t know him, he decided that Clint was more fitting. He had tried to recreate himself, to get distance from his past. I'll always call him Macky.

Macky came out in 7th grade, breaking up with his girlfriend by telling her that he liked boys. He wore a hula skirt made out of plastic green leaves and a bright blue, pink, and green Hawaiian shirt to our 8th grade graduation because the theme for our graduation dance was tropical (and because he wanted to stand out in the sea of khaki, navy and black). He was my debate partner our Junior year of high school, and I joined the Gay Straight Alliance club he formed our Senior year. I watched as he dropped almost 40 pounds too fast to be healthy in the aftermath of his mother's suicide, saw him struggling to make peace with himself. I was there for him in only an insubstantial way, waiting for him to come to me if he wanted.

He seemed the epitome of the Rock ‘n’ Roll personality, clad in tight jeans and with an aura of rebellion. I loved everything about him - his over the top behavior, the cigarettes he smoked (cloves that he shared with me behind the school one night when we stayed late for some club), his ability to shrug off other people's opinions. He was my partner for my high school graduation walk- amusing me at the rehearsal with outlandish stories, and tales of his sexcapades when we were supposed to be paying attention.

He made me laugh constantly, and being around him gave me a fuck it all attitude that made me feel like we were both invincible. When he slipped into the drugs that come with a rock ‘n’ roll persona, I thought it was easier to ignore it than to confront him. The handful of times I saw him in college, when he came to visit me in East Lansing or when we both went to Ann Arbor, he was drunk or high - telling me I had to try this amazing weed, and popping prescription pills I knew weren't his. When Dan Andriano croons out, "Did I remember to sleep in,/ Take lots of pills?" I hear Macky's first few checks.

The lyrics ask:
Did I remember to keep your beer as full as mine?
Did I remember to say cheers?
Did I at least try to make sure everybody had a good time?

Each time I hear them, it's as if Macky's asking me - and the answer to each one is yes. He was the kind of guy who was always there to fill up your cup, to encourage you to hit on the cute guy that you’d been looking at across the room. He was an enabler and a constant supporter. Because he was so fun to be around, so accepting, it was easy to ignore his problems. To ignore the million warning signs he needed help that, looking back, are glaringly obvious. Easy to see that I should have confronted him, instead of waiting for him to come to me.

Dan Andriano sings:
Did I remember to stay up late-
Singing for the fun
Drinking for the taste?

Again, Macky's answers are yes. I know because I was there with him. I only regret not being with him for the rest of the things in his life that had him so troubled. So I play the song, as both a warning and reminder - as a substitute for Macky when I need strength, or when I just want to think about him. And when the song hits the final "Did I do it right?" I choke back a "no." I wish I could have let him know that he should have come to me, and how much he means to me. And I take solace in the fact that I'm still around to try to "do it right."

Sometimes I make really weird and awkward cds...

Don't judge me.

1. Fashion - Lady Gaga
2. 3- Britney Spears
3. Unstoppable - Kat DeLuna
4. The Only Difference Between Martyrdom And Suicide ... - Panic! at the Disco
5. London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines - Panic! at the Disco
6. Politically Incorrect - SR-71
7. They All Fall Down - SR-71
8. Sucker - New Found Glory
9. Boy Crazy - New Found Glory
10. Come Out Fighting - The Vandals
11. Extra Ordinary - Better Than Ezra
12. Misunderstood - Better Than Ezra
13. The Curse of Curves - Cute Is What We Aim For
14. Cigarettes And Alcohol - Oasis
15. Time To Pretend - MGMT
16. Cigarettes - Lucky Boys Confusion
17. Kiss Me, I'm Irish - Gaelic Storm
18. This Is How I Disappear - My Chemical Romance
19. Let Me Kiss You - Morrissey
20. Cum On Feel the Noize - Quiet Riot
21. Calling All Skeletons - Alkaline Trio

1. This Could Be Love - Alkaline Trio
2. Radio - Alkaline Trio
3. If You Had A Bad Time - Alkaline Trio
4. All On Black - Alkaline Trio
5. Fall Back Down - Rancid
6. The Way I Feel - Rancid
7. Never Gonna Change - Drive By Truckers
8. Rebels of the Sacred Heart - Flogging Molly
9. What's Left of the Flag - Flogging Molly
10. Seven Deadly Sins- Flogging Molly
11. Citrus - The Hold Steady
12. Certain Songs - The Hold Steady
13. Barfruit Blues - The Hold Steady
14. Girls Like Status - The Hold Steady
15. Multitude of Casualties - The Hold Steady
16. Easy Way Out - The Pink Spiders
17. Modern Swinger - The Pink Spiders
18. Back to the Middle - The Pink Spiders
19. King of Fools - Social Distortion
20. Live Before You Die - Social Distortion
21. That's Not Her Style - Billy Joel
22. She Moves In Her Own Way - The Kooks

I can't stop listening to Sage Francis.

I think I'm extra grumpy today, or just lack patience thanks to my excessive coffee drinking this morning. (Both, probably.) Basically, you can't say I didn't warn you.

When I was reading Morine's article "Ideas in Creative Writing," I couldn't stop thinking about Dickens. I HATE Dickens. I only ever managed to make it through Hard Times (and only then because I had to for class) and it was full of 'static characters' (or characters that had a complete flip in personality FOR NO REASON). I completely agree that "an entire cast of these cutouts will render any appeal to emotion or to any level of gravitas completely useless." However, two of my college English professors must not agree, because I had to read it for both their classes. Despite my hatred, even I have to acknowledge how firmly entrenched he is in literary canon... in direct contrast to Morien's point. I understand that he’s trying to give general help, but I guess the point I'm trying to make is that there's no accounting for taste. Novels chock-full of stock characters can do well, and even having lasting, uhh, ‘merit.’


In Tolbert’s “Getting Started Writing Science Fiction” just made me think of how much I love Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert Heinlein and not much else. Oh, The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress is pretty awesome, too. TANSTAAFL.

And then I got to “Descriptive Writing” by Rita Putatunda... I understand her point that the writer should make the language as descriptive as possible. But my favorite short story is by Hemingway - “For sale: baby shoes, never used.” I suppose you could argue that it’s written using pretty much only descriptive writing, but Hemingway made a point of cutting out any unnecessary words. There were no “nuanced interpretations” to it. We don’t know the color or size (or, hell, the smell) of the shoes. Through omitting these things, Hemingway is able to focus more on the emotion behind the story. AND a pet peeve of mine is the use of a thesaurus. While a thesaurus can usually list that follow a general concept, they are not all interchangeable. Through constant misuse words begin to lose their ‘nuanced’ meaning, and pick up one that’s more general. Although Putatunda doesn’t exactly encourage thesaurus use, I feel like she omits the importance of looking at the actually meaning of a word - it seems more important to her that it’s a descriptive word, not that it’s the correct descriptive word.

*sigh*

hahahaha.

Instead of doing real work, I'm reading things online. While not productive, it is hilarious.

Reflections on Rape Tunnel
5 Works of Art That Can Probably Kill You
Lamebook
a softer world

I'm not saying we could save you. But we could put you in a place where you could save yourself.

I love that I turn to online tarot readings when I have writer's block. Okay, and sometimes when I don't - they're fun.

Tarot Reading

http://www.facade.com/tarot/
The Creative Process spread is designed specifically to peer into the nature of a project or creative undertaking, and shine a spotlight on the evolution of its parts.

The card in the middle represents the creative force behind the project, be it a person, organization, or other entity. Queen of Cups, when reversed: A melodramatic scene stealer. A sentimental hypochondriac. A person prey to wild and shifting emotional fancies.

The card on the top represents imagination - the prophetic image that stems from the creative force of the previous card to initiate the project. This is the poetry or voice of the undertaking. Ace of Staves: Creativity. Change. Success in new undertakings. "A breath of fresh air." "New blood." The sanguine temperament of the Ace promotes experiment, reform and appreciation of beauty, both of people and of nature.

The card on the left represents emotion - the feelings aroused by or surrounding the ideation of the project that takes place in the previous card. This is the music or scent of the undertaking. Two of Coins (Change), when reversed: Admirable flexibility. Agility. Expertise.

The card on the bottom represents thought - the analytical process of organizing the project and capturing the emotional content of the previous card. This is the science or vision of the undertaking. Ace of Cups: The free reign of the heart in overflowing joy and abundant love.

The card on the right represents manifestation - the real work involved in completing the project, and the form it will take upon culmination. This is the painting or touch of the undertaking. Eight of Staves (Swiftness): An explosion of movement and activity. A dramatic event. An unusual manifestation.

'plagiarism'

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness - in short, the period was like the present period. If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself. Every last minute of my life has been preordained and I'm sick and tired of it.

Between the big events, the earthquakes and the tidal waves, God's got me squeezed in for a cameo appearance. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we can’t understand we call nonsense. Then maybe in thirty years, or maybe next year, God's daily planner has me finished. The Italian Renaissance penciled in for right after the Dark Ages. The Information Age is scheduled immediately after the Industrial Revolution. Then the Postmodern Era, then the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Famine. Check. Pestilence. Check. War. Check. Death. Check.

Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Quit your job. Sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets. Prove you're alive. Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll. I mean, there's no future in anarchy. But when I was into it there was never a thought of the future. We were certain the world was gonna end.

When it didn't, I had to do something.

Somebody laid down this rule that everybody’s gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that... Boring damned people. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves?

We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to Fear -- fear of poverty, fear of getting down-sized or fired because of the plunging economy, fear of getting evicted for bad debts. Whether you clean a stain, a fish, a house, you want to think you're making the world a better place, but really you’re just letting things get worse. You think maybe if you just work harder and faster, you can hold off the chaos, but one day you’re changing a patio light bulb with a five-year life span and you realize how you’ll only be changing this light maybe ten more times before you’ll be dead. There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors.

I want out of the labels. I don't want my whole life crammed into a single word. A story. I want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that's not on the map.

A mystery. A blank. Unknown. Undefined.

I hate to advocate drugs and alcohol to anyone but they’ve always worked for me - it’s an emotional thing. We had two bags of grass, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine and a multicolored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, and a case of beer. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that it’s a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost. You see life is like that. We change, that's all. You see, the guy I am now is not the guy I was then. If the guy I was then met the guy I am now he'd beat the shit out of me. Those are the facts.

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go. I mean, that was me, a troublemaker, a seeker, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right.

There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die. I could do a hell of a lot more damage in the system than outside of it. That was the final irony, I think.

What was the point? Final summation? None.

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax -- This won't hurt.
~~~~~~ Post with References:~~~~~~

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness - in short, the period was like the present period.[1] If you watch close, history does nothing but repeat itself. Every last minute of my life has been preordained and I'm sick and tired of it.

Between the big events, the earthquakes and the tidal waves, God's got me squeezed in for a cameo appearance. What we call chaos is just patterns we haven’t recognized. What we can’t understand we call nonsense. Then maybe in thirty years, or maybe next year, God's daily planner has me finished. The Italian Renaissance penciled in for right after the Dark Ages. The Information Age is scheduled immediately after the Industrial Revolution. Then the Postmodern Era, then the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse.

Famine. Check. Pestilence. Check. War. Check. Death. Check.[2]

Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Quit your job.[3] Sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whisky, and drive fast on empty streets.[4] Prove you're alive.[5] Res ipsa loquitur. Let the good times roll.[6] I mean, there's no future in anarchy. But when I was into it there was never a thought of the future. We were certain the world was gonna end.

When it didn't, I had to do something.[7]

Somebody laid down this rule that everybody’s gotta do something, they gotta be something. You know, a dentist, a narc, a janitor, a preacher, all that...[8] Boring damned people. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show.[9] Why are we so full of restraint? Why do we not give in all directions? Is it fear of losing ourselves?[10]

We are turning into a nation of whimpering slaves to Fear -- fear of poverty, fear of getting down-sized or fired because of the plunging economy, fear of getting evicted for bad debts.[11] Whether you clean a stain, a fish, a house, you want to think you're making the world a better place, but really you’re just letting things get worse. You think maybe if you just work harder and faster, you can hold off the chaos, but one day you’re changing a patio light bulb with a five-year life span and you realize how you’ll only be changing this light maybe ten more times before you’ll be dead.[12] There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you kill yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors.[13]

I want out of the labels. I don't want my whole life crammed into a single word. A story. I want to find something else, unknowable, some place to be that's not on the map.

A mystery. A blank. Unknown. Undefined.[14]

I hate to advocate drugs and alcohol to anyone but they’ve always worked for me[15] - it’s an emotional thing.[16] We had two bags of grass, five sheets of high-powered blotter acid, a saltshaker half-full of cocaine and a multicolored collection of uppers, downers, laughers, screamers... Also, a quart of tequila, a quart of rum, and a case of beer. Not that we needed all that for the trip, but once you get into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.[17] It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that it’s a form of suicide where you're allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It's like killing yourself, and then you're reborn. I guess I've lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.[18]

I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn't know who I was - I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn't know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn't scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.[19] You see life is like that. We change, that's all. You see, the guy I am now is not the guy I was then. If the guy I was then met the guy I am now he'd beat the shit out of me. Those are the facts.[20]

The problem was you had to keep choosing between one evil or another, and no matter what you chose, they sliced a little bit more off you, until there was nothing left. A whole god-damned nation of assholes driving automobiles, eating, having babies, doing everything in the worst way possible, like voting for the presidential candidates who reminded them most of themselves. They seemed to understand something that I didn't understand. Maybe I was lacking. I just wanted to get away from them. But there was no place to go.[21] I mean, that was me, a troublemaker,[22] a seeker, a malcontent, and at times a stupid hell-raiser. I was never idle long enough to do much thinking, but I felt somehow that my instincts were right.[23]

There are times, however, and this is one of them, when even being right feels wrong. What do you say, for instance, about a generation that has been taught that rain is poison and sex is death? If making love might be fatal and if a cool breeze on any summer afternoon can turn a crystal blue lake into a puddle of black poison, there is not much left except TV and relentless masturbation. It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.[24] I could do a hell of a lot more damage in the system than outside of it. That was the final irony, I think.

What was the point? Final summation? None.[25]

No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun -- for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax --This won't hurt.[26]
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[1].Tale of Two Cities, Dickens
[2]. Survivor, Palahniuk
[3]. Fight Club, Palahnuik
[4].Generation of Swine, Hunter S. Thompson
[5]. Fight Club, Palahnuik
[6]. Generation of Swine, Hunter S. Thompson
[7]. SLC, Punk!
[8]. Barfly, Charles Bukowski
[9]. Bukowski
[10]. Henry Miller
[11]. Extreme Behavior in Aspen, Hunter S. Thompson
[12]. Survivor, Palahniuk
[13]. Tennessee Williams
[14]. Invisible Monsters, Palahniuk
[15]. Hunter S. Thompson
[16]. Interview, London Magazine, Bukowski
[17]. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Hunter S. Thompson
[18].Interview, London Magazine, Bukowski
[19]. On The Road, Kerouac
[20].SLC, Punk!
[21]. Ham on Rye, Bukowski
[22]. SLC, Punk!
[23]. The Rum Diary, Hunter S. Thompson
[24]. Generation of Swine, Hunter S. Thompson
[25]. SLC, Punk!
[26]. Football Season is Over, Hunter S. Thompson

I love working retail.

Just so you know:

- If a store closes at 9 and you’re in the fitting rooms when they shut the music off - you suck at life. You can apologize all you want - but if you’re buying clothes at 9:25, you’re still the bitch who won’t leave.

- It is not funny to joke about paying with candy, nor is it polite to ask everyone in the store for change. Especially when you have the money, and just don’t want to break your 10$ bill. Stop annoying the other customers, and me. You’re an idiot.

- It is also not funny to joke about paying with food stamps. I don’t even like the fact that my taxes go to feeding you, so it’s probably not the best idea to throw it in my face while I’m working.

- If you pick something up, and don’t want to fold it, that’s fine. But how about giving it to someone who works in the store instead of throwing it on the table and making everything look like shit? It’s not like I’m asking you to fold it yourself, I'm just asking you to be considerate.

- And all those shirts you fuck up digging for your size? We have to fold them before we get to leave. So when we ask, “do you need help?” we’re really saying, "let me do that so you don’t mess it up." If you can do a neat job of getting what you want, fine. But if you say you don’t need help and then jack up the whole pile, it will be my death glare your feeling.

- Oh, and if you’re 21 and your mom feels the need to apologize for your behavior, you’re ridiculous. Grow up.

- No we don’t have coupons behind the counter. At least not for you.

I honestly do love my job, though. 90% of people are awesome.

I totally agree.

Love, love, love a softer world.

Plagiarism.

Allison Hetter, an artist, defined Postmodernism by saying “Everything's been done already.” And in “The Ecstasy of Influence” by Jonathan Lethem, he states (quoting someone else) that “The surrealists believed that objects in the world possess a certain but unspecifiable intensity that had been dulled by everyday use and utility.” This makes me think of soup cans, detergent boxes and Warhol. But throughout the article, Lethem is making an argument that art comes from a world where people are able to interact with other ideas they find, not blocked by cries of plagiarism and lawsuits. Since people don’t live in a vacuum and, in my mind, art is all about personal interpretation, it makes sense that people's work would be influenced by other work. Theoretically then, there is nothing that is plagiarism, since it goes through a personal filter before it is created.

That being said, when I first heard about the Salinger lawsuit, I sided with him. The Catcher in the Rye might not be my favorite book, but I think its literary merit would be hard to match and a bad sequel can affect the perception of the first novel, even if they aren’t written by the same person. On the other hand, I love Scarlet as a sequel to Gone With the Wind, even though I know that it’s far, far below the original in literary merit. (I’m a sucker for a happy ending.) And even that is something that’s up to interpretation.

Overall, I’m reminded of Palahniuk’s Fight Club (book, not movie) in which the protagonist says “I wanted to burn the Louvre. I'd do the Elgin Marbles with a sledgehammer and wipe my ass with the Mona Lisa. This is my world, now. This is my world, my world, and those ancient people are dead.” The idea that everything has already been done, and that if we want to create anything ‘new’ we have to destroy our history is a rather frightening thought. If you think of the number of books that are considered canon that are direct references to someone else’s story... on the other side, if you open a free for all for creative purposes, it’s very possible you’re going to get a lot of bad copies that hide the works of real merit.

How I learned to Write, and Love it

I was learning my letters around the same time I began piano lesson. What I remember most about learning to write, wasn’t the actual process but the struggle I went through trying to figure out which letter my teacher had written above the note on music, and then trying to find that key on the piano. There is a large gap from then to my first diary. I’m sure it’s still around somewhere, with a blank first page, some scribbled notes with a few tear stains, and then a lot more blank pages. From there, I had a blog I’d update sporadically. I always felt that I should try and write everyday, but I never really seemed to have the drive. Instead it would come out in random bouts. Usually when I was upset or depressed, occasionally when I was extremely excited. I started to post my writing on deviantart for comments. Since then, there have been a few more blogs, and I post my work to theheelpress. There are tons of unfinished and finished poems, and unfinished stories (no finished ones; I can never seem to complete a story) saved to the house computer. Even more are saved to my current computer, that I got when I started college.

I remember getting horrible scores on my practice MEAP tests in middle school. I’d write long, descriptive pieces that tended to stray from the intended topics. I have never done well with being forced to write on something specific. But I still remember the day my teacher handed back a creative writing assignment, and told me she loved my writing. I was the kid who had books stashed everywhere. I’d stay up late reading with a flashlight. My mom would frequently find me hidden somewhere, avoiding chores to read. As a punishment, she would take my books away. To say the least, I have always loved to read. But it wasn’t until my teacher complimented me that I realized that I loved to write, too. To be the one in charge of what was being said. It was a rush to be able to direct something in the way I thought it should go, instead of letting someone else do it for me.

In highschool, I wrote a few articles for my school newspaper. While it was fun, journalism clearly wasn’t my passion. Years later, I found out that my editors had kept from me the ‘hate mail’ I got in response to some of the more, uh, caustic things I’d written. It remains a large regret that I never knew about it back then. Maybe writing responses would’ve sparked a bigger interest in journalism.

Poetry, however, has always been a passion for me. Looking back on my earliest poems makes me cringe. They were melodramatic, riddled with cliches, and really just painfully bad. When I switched out of the business school to major in English at MSU, I was amazed at the classes I could take that would help me get my degree. Intro to Poetry seemed like a good fit, considering my poems had improved from the initial woe-is-me stage, and were somewhat decent. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. My teacher was horrifying. She would rank the poems for the day, then casually go through them, ripping them apart. There wasn’t a cliche she missed, or a mixed metaphors she didn’t point out. By the time the class was finished, I loved her. Unlike the people I’d had read my work before, she didn’t coddle me. Halfway through the semester, she wrote up individual evaluations. I have mine still, and I smile every time I read her words that say I’m a natural poet. My teacher? Diane Wakoski - author of more than 40 books, recipient of numerous grants and winner of the William Carlos Williams Award. She is even recorded on “In Their Own Voices: A Century of Recorded Poet” alongside Plath, Whitman and Bukowski. Had I known more about her before I started the class, I probably would’ve dropped. I was lucky, then, that I didn’t google her until the end of the semester. She is by far the most literate person I have ever met. I still find myself wondering what she would think of a poem, trying to look at it through her eyes.

My friend Maria recently had me review a personal essay she’d written for her application into nursing school. I obtained her permission to shred it to pieces, and by the time I’d slashed everything, and reworked it, I’d somehow managed to almost double the word count. I wish that was more common, but unfortunately when I write essays I usually tend to spit out what I want to say as precisely as possible, and then find myself scrambling to fulfill the word count. I also tend to find myself hurrying because I never write anything until the last minute. I like to claim that I’m really thinking about what I’m going to say, not actually procrastinating. But, to be honest, I’m probably just busy watching TV or hanging out with friends. Despite all the papers that I’ve had to write, I still haven’t gotten much better at writing when I don’t actually feel compelled to do so. Fortunately for me, since I love to write, I frequently feel the urge. The margins of my notes are filled with ideas, or poem segments. I love when get distracted by what I’ve written on the side, and end up writing instead of studying. I know, regardless of where the future takes me, writing will always be a large part of my life, and help define who I am.

I really should be doing homework...

I prefer to live dangerously...

I was shocked when I was recently told that I probably have ADD. Apparently I was the only one, because when I mentioned it to my friends, they all replied, "Of course you do."

But I've always been able to sit and read books for hours. From the moment I start a book, to the time I finish it, it's usually glued to my hand. Music playing, TV on, eating breakfast, lunch, and dinner... and the book would stay open. I'd be enthralled. It didn't make sense to me, then, that I could have ADD. Until I actually thought about it. Yes, I can read for hours - because it's constantly entertaining. There's never any need for my attention to wander very far, because every second amused by the story. So when Johnson, in his article “How the E-Book Will Change the Way We Read and Write,” mentioned the potential for wandering attention with e-books, I was kind of surprised. An e-book is still a book, which means it should have the same power to capture me.

Don't get me wrong -I habitually check my e-mail, and Facebook. All the time. I feel anxious when away from my phone for long periods. And I know many, many people who suffer from the same problems. But even when I'm reading a book that's printed, and actually in my hand, I still have the potential to be online. Hell, all you have to do is have a phone with internet access near you while you’re reading, and you’ll have that same constant temptation. Would it really be that different to have it combined?

I guess, what I'm trying to say, is that the people who like to read will still be able to have the same attention span for reading, regardless of its format. I do find his reference to Middlemarch highly amusing, though, since it’s one of the very few books that I was never able to make it all the way through. I still shudder when people mention it. And Dickens? Ew. Hate him.

Anyways, in the end, while I’m not against e-books, I don’t really agree with Johnson that they’ll have such a large impact on the finished product that we actually call a book. But I’d much rather read something that’s been printed, I like the danger associated - I mean, you never know when you’ll get a paper cut.

Define 'Traditional Writing Skills,' please. Oh, and 'classically trained English student,' too...

Reading McGovern’s article “Traditional Writing Skills Don't Work on the Web” made me want to punch him in the face. (Don’t worry, I’m really only violent in theory.) His article hinges on the belief that we’re taught to write “too much content, too much context, not nearly enough focus on the action.” Granted, as an English major my love of reading is pretty much an assumed fact. And it is true that I’ll read almost anything in front of me. (My mom used to joke about how I would re-read the back of the cereal box every morning.) My point is, while I might be more likely to excuse over writing than someone who enjoys reading less, I also know what is taught in writing classes. And a fundamental part of writing is to know your audience. “Tell them what you're going to tell them, tell them, then tell them what you've told them” is the formula I learned - in middle school. The older I got, the more in-depth I got. Had I used that formula on a paper written in college, I never would’ve gotten any A’s in my English classes.

His comment about a “classically trained English student” had me furiously googling him, and finding out what degree he earned in college. According to his website, he got a Management Science degree from Trinity College. It didn’t surprise me at all that he didn’t have an English degree. Maybe he’s taken enough English classes to claim he knows that it means to be a “classically trained English student,” but as someone with an English degree, I find his views misguided, if not totally false. The written word is always changing. Poets don’t always write sonnets anymore (thank god). Hell, most no longer feel compelled to rhyme (again, thanks god). A news article isn’t written the same way a story in a book is, even if it happens to be a non-fiction book. Inverted triangle, anyone? The who, what, where, when and why of journalism seem to parallel exactly what McGovern is implying is needed in Web content - quick, precise information that’s been pared down to the bare bones. He seems to ignore that writers adapt to their time, and their medium, and he takes for granted that the Web is the only place where people are attacked by their ADD.

Anyways, if I were to write web based content for a company, I would want to “show off all the clever things [I] know.” Mainly, that I’m clever enough to understand my audience.

But thanks for tweeting about Kanye's VMA behavior...

In Boutin’s article “Twitter, Flickr, Facebook Make Blogs Look So 2004" he quotes a retired blogger who complains that “Blogging is simply too big, too impersonal, and lacks the intimacy that drew [him] to it.” Maybe I’m missing something, but I thought the purpose of most writers (journalists aside) was the ability to express themselves, or tell a story through words. As Reid points out in his blog, a blog can simply be “blogging is essentially a place where one can hone one's skill as a writer.” So what if you get trolls that post inane comments? The fact that it’s your blog allows you the power to play god; just hit delete. And if your ego is torn up, and you’re upset about some anonymous poster, consider it a growth opportunity and get some thicker skin.

Puente’s article, “There’s an art to writing on Facebook or Twitter – really” only seems to show that the internet reflects real life. Yes, you’re going to read that boring status that tells you that Jane has spent her day doing laundry, or one that lets you know John is really excited that football season has started - but aren’t those similar to the conversations you have in real life? People go out of their way to be funny or clever in their status updates. This is surprising because? I don’t know about you, but even in the most basic conversations my friends tend to, well, make me laugh by saying funny and clever things. That’s why I like them. If there’s an art to writing a good status update, it’s the same art as being a clever conversationalist.

And, while Manaugh makes the interesting comparison between a ballpoint pen and twitter, he ignores one important difference between the two - things written with a ballpoint pen can be eradicated. However, once you place something on the internet, you’re offering it up to the hands of the masses. So those teenage girls, instead of writing in diaries, are posting infamous “MySpace pics” that have the potential to haunt them for the rest of their lives. Or offering up other aspects of their lives to the public, instead of in a private space, without thought to the consequence because Twitter is trendy. So, even though twitter and my ballpoint pen both have the potential to assist me in taking notes, I can put the paper I’ve written on through a paper shredder, or throw it in a fire. But, even if I delete my twitter post, or attempt to erase my blog, it’s still highly probable that someone would be able to find it, or even that someone has made a copy. One of my favorite bloggers, who I read frequently, is still haunted by a post she made while she was extremely emotional state. Considering she’s in her mid-thirty’s and should be much more mature than potential twitter users, I’m surprised that so many people seem to ignore the harmful effects these new technologies can have and instead defend against the insult that most posts are too mundane to matter.

First Post!

Gahhhh. I don't have time to do this right now!