the pianist

Ten of the Many Things My Mother Has Taught Me

2011-05-08T00:00:00.002-04:00

1) Never pull open the giant M&M bag

2) No matter how shocking the situation is, keep your mouth closed when an alien explodes

3) Always get challenge details in writing.

4) Always keep euros on your person; you never know when you'll end up in Europe.

5) Protect you laptop from change.

These do not make your computer's disc drive happy.

6) Very little beats meandering conversations over tea.

7) The Beatles are fantastic.

8) Listen to people when they tell you not to freak out.

9) Spoons are great and wonderful things.

10) It's never too late to get the band back together.

Happy Mother's Day

Will Minus Intellect

2010-10-05T23:14:00.000-04:00

Maybe it's because I'm new--uninitiated, green, no0bish, however you want to describe my ignorance of how things work around here--but I don't completely understand this publication's tagline: "Crisp, clean, an hard-hitting since 2005". The "crisp" and "hard hitting" I understand: I've only ever read two editions of this fine publication, and even I can see that very few people beat around the bush with their opinions in these articles. Personally I love knowing this is a forum for candid, and sometimes brutal, honesty.

What I don't get is the "clean" part.

I imagine it's an adjective applied to the direct, frank commentary contained within these eighteen-or-so pages. I know for a fact, though, it's not used to describe some of its article's language.

Look, I understand people have the right to use whatever language they wish to make their point. Others are entitled to that right as much as I am. That said, I've noticed that some of my peers--not just the other authors within martini, all over--have the tendency to use expletives when talking about a particularly strong opinion or passionate argument, with the intention of emphasizing that passion.

Personally, big fan of the passion.

Not so much of the expletives.

Call me nerdy or old-fashioned (or both), but there are certainly better words than oft-used modifiers than, say, one that starts with f and rhymes with "ducking" or another that starts with "sh" and sounds like "fit". That's why there are unfathomable volumes of words in this English language: to express thoughts concisely and exactly, and especially in writing for a publication show that the writer put at least a little thought into the words on the page. It also shows creativity to use verbiage that's equally strong as, perhaps even stronger than, words that are censored from network prime-time.

I don't know about other people, but I for one appreciate a solid, well-composed, passionate argument. Somebody may present their opinion on a subject, and I may agree with the person on every point, but if it's presented with every couple of words scooped out of the gutter, to me it's a much less credible argument. However, if someone else presents an opinion with which I disagree completely and wholeheartedly--perhaps even find offensive--but it's devoid of foul language, that strikes me as the stronger argument.

Yes, the crux of any argument or opinion is its content, how well it's backed up. Equally important, though, is its word choice, how it's presented. If nothing else it show that you, as the author, respect your readers enough not to inundate them with filth. I couldn't care less if you, the reader, completely disagree with me on this topic; you're entitled to your opinion as much as I am to mine. I do respect you enough not to swear every three lines.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Original appearance:

g-squared. "Will Minus Intellect", Martini. 29 September 2010: 16. Print.

don't forget to be awesome

2010-10-02T20:23:00.001-04:00

I discovered the awesomeness that are the Vlogbrothers on YouTube (nutshell: Hank and John Green exchanging videoblogs since 2007) this summer, and in discovering the videos, I've discovered the community that has generated from it, of which I consider myself a part. We call ourselves nerdfighters; by definition we are made, instead of bones and tissues, of awesome, and we fight the forces of worldsuck (this being the amount of suck in the world) with our collective awesome might.
This is one representation of Nerdfighteria which, at the very least, hints at many of the things in the Nerdfighter-Vlogbrothers canon:

http://nerdfighters.ning.com/photo/nerdfighteria-4

One of the things in this canon is the phrase "don't forget to be awesome", often shortened to "d. f. t. b. a." I think we all need to remind ourselves not to forget to be awesome, even in little ways. It's important to be awesome.

A little while ago I discovered that the first vlogbrothers use of d.f.t.b.a. was in John's October 2nd, 2007 video:

I thought to myself: it'd be great to have a nerdfighter observance. There're plenty of nerdy holidays--May the 4th, Towel Day (which also falls on Geek Pride Day)--but there didn't seem to be one just for nerdfighters.

I thought: why not stick it on the anniversary of the first use of d.f.t.b.a.?

So I started to tell people about it: DFTBA Day, 2nd of October. Observe it as a day to be particularly awesome. One of my writing friends was particularly enthusiastic about it on her blog.

For myself, today was a pretty awesome day. I specifically wore a shirt of mine that, by its purchase, helped to decrease worldsuck in the Sudan; I adventured a little bit with some friends this morning; we put some stuff on our heads; we watched Doctor Who; and, even though schoolwork thwarted the attendance of the event, we planned on going to a dinner supported by the Latin American Organization on campus that was raising money for charity (even though we couldn't make it we're planning on donating some money anyway).

Reflecting on today, I thought, maybe we should do this next year, see if we can't get more people to observe DFTBA Day, and see how much we can lower worldsuck. Folks could do stuff as big as getting a group together to pitch in on a volunteer project in their town or raising money for a national or international volunteer project, or as small as taking some time out to catch up with friends and enjoy each other's awesomeness. Anything to be awesome and decrease worldsuck.

Consider it, and spread the word. I think it could be good.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

(note: for the heck of it I googled "day for awesome", and as it turns out there's an International Day of Awesomeness, proposed by none other than Kevin Lawver, the guy behind ficlets (que disfrute en paz) and ficly.)

For more info on Nerdfighters, check out this video, or any of the Vlogbrothers videos on YouTube.

Tango Training

2010-09-16T22:02:00.000-04:00

So, in my first few chaotic weeks, I've found a sort of solace in two things.
The first is practice.
The chapel where I've been practicing is a pretty little Tudor-style chapel, with an absolutely gorgeous German piano. I've already named this one: Ernst Sergei Blüthner.
Hey, it's a German piano, may as well have a German name.
I like my new teacher; does things differently than my other teacher back home, which is expected. But, we get along, I understand what he's telling me and I'm doing as best as I can to do what he's telling me, so I think once we really get into a rhythm it should be fantastic.
The second is tango.

http://www.smh.com.au/ffximage/2007/08/06/Tango_070806101419146_wideweb__300x375.jpg

One of the clubs I discovered even before coming to campus was a group for learning Argentine tango. I liked ballroom when we did it in gym class, plus I figured it'd be fun, so naturally I signed up.
Definitely living up to expectations. It's tough, but it's a whole lot of fun.
Not only that, but I think it'll be good for my paranoia.

http://meathaus.com/wp-content/images/paranoia_by_filthyluker.jpg
I usually blame that on physics.
I discovered very early on when taking physics that it makes me think (and therefore freak out) about the universe in general, which has in turn spiked my paranoia. As much as I love physics, I think that's been the one slight drawback.
With tango, I've discovered very, very quickly that the follow really has to follow the lead closely, and to really trust the lead to, say, not run you into a wall. This is very tough for me, partly because some of the paranoia makes it tough for me to trust folks sometimes, but mostly because I'm stubborn.
I've been stubborn in some capacity for as long as I can remember. I like to anticipate, I like to know what's going to happen, and what's happening. It's not that I need to have control, per se, but I do at least like being in the metaphorical loop.
When you're following in tango, though, you really can't control what your partner does.
And unless you learn to lead there's not a thing you can do about it.
I know I'm brand-new at this, but it's already been observed that I "back-lead", I wrongly anticipate what the lead's going to do. For most people first learning tango the remedy for this is to close their eyes.
I already have my eyes glued shut.
I just have trouble letting loose that restraint, that want to be in some sort of control. I think once I get over that hump, along with the leads correcting me in my back-leading tendencies, it'll get easier. Besides, I've seen how cool tango can be. It's fun, I like it, and I'm willing to work at it.

It's like a card my brother sent to me over the weekend:

(http://www.fridgedoorpdq.com/images/QC229C1.jpg)

Short Postcards

2010-09-08T23:07:00.000-04:00

Dearest Time,
Why must you be so limited? Why must you go by so fast?
Sincerely, me.

To Mr. William Smith:
Thank you for helping to start a fantastic college. It's only been two weeks and I absolutely adore it.
~ member of WS Class of 2014
ps- your statue on The Hill is quite stately, I must say.

Queridas Señoras W.,
Tengo que decirse: ¡Encontré a una amiga con ganas para español! Tiene muchas ganas, y creo que les gusta a ella. Está loca en las mejoras maneras posibles, y es divina. Debemos conocernos, creo, cenamos juntos o algo así.
¡Y! ¡Hay club de tango argentino! ¡Es fantástico!
abrazos,
~ graciela

To: Time
From: Me
Where have you gone, you slippery demon? What the heck??

Only Human

2010-09-08T22:54:00.003-04:00

Last summer, a local chamber music festival hosted master classes for music students in the area. My teacher and I decided it would be good performance experience, so I signed up and set to readying some pieces for critique.

I put in the necessary work, so naturally I felt prepared. I was confident; playing in front of people wasn’t something I found nerve-wracking anymore. I did my usual warm-up beforehand, a slow run-through of the three pieces I had prepared. Environment shock wasn’t a worry; I had played in the space before. Everything felt normal.

By my calculations it should’ve gone well.

Preparation can only take you so far, though.

About two or three beginner students were queued up to play before me. As it usually happens, the professor running the class overestimated how much time he had with the younger students, and took longer to get to me than I had expected. I had played with long stretches between my warm-up and performance before, I wasn’t too worried about the lapse. When it got to be my turn I mounted the stage, sat before the piano, and started to play the Bach I had prepared.

Sometimes one tiny hitch throws everything else off kilter.

I barely made it through the piece, having stumbled more times than I cared to count and in spots that should’ve been fine. The teacher gave some feedback, as expected in a master class, but most of it was basic stuff that would’ve normally appeared in the piece had I played it normally.

He then glanced at his watch and informed me we only had time for one other piece. This further upset my inner balance: I had prepared to play two other pieces, not to choose between them on the spot. Throw that on top of my mediocre performance and I was positively frazzled, I couldn’t focus. The second piece suffered the consequences.

By anyone’s standards, it was a disaster.

I’d never performed so poorly before. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, it just wasn’t. I felt terrible. Students are encouraged to stay for the entire class, but I was so disgusted I excused myself early and walked home. As I walked barefoot through my backyard I couldn’t help but feel sorry for myself. How could I’ve screwed up, and so badly? I picked my way up the driveway, trying to scrape some consolation together with little success. As I unlocked the back door music met my ears; we must’ve left the CD player on when we left. It was almost like somebody changed the track on purpose:

We’re only human, yes we are, only human so far…

Ukulele

2010-08-11T16:04:00.001-04:00

From the (new!) title of this blog one can surmise my primary instrument. But, after my mother recently half-jokingly suggested my brother or I pick up the ukulele, I've been googling how-to-play and tab sites, and seriously considering giving the ukulele a shot. It's a perky little instrument, it's kind of unusual, it's certainly easier to transport the instrument than transporting my current one, and from what I've been reading it's not all that hard to learn. Plus, I think it'd just be fun to try.

Two main roadblocks stand between me and "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", however. The first is that I don't have a ukulele as of yet. It probably goes without saying that learning to play an instrument without actually possessing that instrument is just a little bit difficult.

The second thing is that such instruments are completely and totally foreign to me.

Here's the thing: I'm a classically-trained pianist with about ten years experience. I can play the likes of Bach, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Chopin. When somebody sticks sheet music up for something jazzy or more of a popular song, though, it feels awkward for me to play, even after I look over the music and play through it a bunch of times. I know absolutely nothing about playing the ukulele, guitar, or anything remotely similar to these instruments. Hopefully it won't be too much trouble, though.

Impediments aside, though, I've been tracking down songs to learn at some point, including bits from…

April Smith and the Great Picture Show

Jason Mraz

Charlie McDonnell (aka charlieissocoollike)

And, it's probably mandatory that I learn this at some point.

Hopefully it'll work out so I can play at least play a little something. We'll see how that goes.

(EDIT: I wrote this post 27/7/10... since then I've received a uke for an early birthday present, and I can play a handful of chords and a couple tunes! Woo!!)

On Collaboration

2010-08-11T16:00:00.002-04:00

Writing is usually thought of as a solitary pursuit, and to a certain extent it is. One can't exactly write while carrying on a conversation, or in a restaurant among a bunch of people. However, it's something one can't do completely by oneself. One needs feedback, support, inspiration... and, after all, a writer needs readers! One should write for the sake of writing, but that writing's written for somebody to read.

I've come across a few good places to find feedback for my writing. Yes, blogging's alright, but it's tough to find wide readership if it's thrown out for the general internet population to happen upon. But, if work is put out for a narrower audience odds are someone's more likely to find it and appreciate it.

Way back when I discovered the writing site ficlets. The idea was to craft story bits, or just smaller writing pieces, between 64 and 1024 characters in length. It doesn't seem like a sufficient length to do anything significant, but it was impressive what people could conjure. The following is an old piece of mine:

Sigh.

It felt like only yesterday that we met.
Something just seemed to click.
We had the same sense of humor, could understand each other’s quirks.
I can’t recall when I’ve had such interesting conversation with someone (who is not related to me, that is).
(Then again, there are all those other similarities, so there is that possibility.)

Alas…

Alack…

There is so much we can’t see.

Words can only go so far, you know.

I’ve never seen your face.
I’ve never heard your laugh.
I’ve never seen a smile grace your lips.

We’re separated by an unseen barrier of time.
A wall of space.
A web of wires.

But I guess that’s what the imagination is for, isn’t it?

I can only guess what you look like.
What you sound like.
And you can do the same about me.
Our friendship linked by words.
If only we could finally meet.
If only to be friends.

But for now, as I type, I’ve decided:
For now, I can let my imagination satisfy me.

Because that’s what the imagination is for, isn’t it?
http://ficlets.ficly.com/stories/43467

Not only was it amazing what one could do in a short space, but the community was what truly astounded me. Most folks tried to look out for everyone else, giving feedback and otherwise supporting each other in their writerly endeavors. We were a very tight-knit community.... until AOL pulled the plug on the site in January of 2009.

One of the original developers of the site, Kevin Lawver, resurrected the idea in a new independent site, ficly. It's essentially the same idea, very short pieces, and again with some old ficlets vets and new recruits it's up and thriving.

In the interim between ficlets' death and ficly's birth I discovered Protagonize, a similar community without the character limit. It was intimidating at first, but after a slightly bumpy start I got right into it and I haven't looked back. The folks are great, the pieces are good, it's overall been a great experience.

Most recently, however, I've discovered the awesomeness that is local feedback. I've found a good support group in two friends from my English class and my physics teacher, of all people, who're all working on some project or other. We've deemed ourselves The Fellowship, and thus far I'd say we've been working very well together. We're looking over each others' projects, offering feedback on those projects, and overall support. We'll see if we can still work with three of us slightly sprawling at different schools next year.

Basically, I've found that while the actual act of writing's fairly solitary, the surrounding processes of support and communication shouldn't be so. Sounding boards are great.

Back to Basics

2010-05-29T20:51:00.000-04:00

Alright, so I've gone back to the first background I ever used for this blog, with the intention of probably updating it.

We'll see how that goes, though.

Why Can't We Compromise

2010-05-12T21:25:00.001-04:00

Why must we choose one way or the other?
Why can’t we compromise?
What if someone is torn between choices?
What if that person can’t decide?

Why must we choose one way or the other?
Why can’t we compromise?
Should (s)he not decide at all?
But what if (s)he wants to make a difference?

http://www.flickr.com/photos/44124372363@N01/2226577438/

Why must we choose one way or the other?
Why can’t we compromise?
Why must it be just “circle” or just “rectangle,”
If one equally agrees with both?
What if one is for the arch of the circle,
But also the straight path of the rectangle?

Why must we choose one way or the other?
Why can’t we compromise?
Why can’t there,
just for once,
be an oval?
- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ -
I rediscovered this little piece in my ficlets memorial, originally here.

Blankity Blankity Blank

2010-05-07T20:35:00.005-04:00

So: one of the handful of blogs I follow, my sweet old etcetera, does a fill-in-the-blank every Friday (which the blogger, the wonderful Annie Cristina, gets from a different blog with which I'm not familiar), and this week's intrigued me, seeing as it's about books.

I thought I'd share my answers:

1. My favorite book growing up was Zebra's Hiccups by David McKee. I think it might've been that my dad did the voices and fake hiccups very well.

2. The funniest book I've ever read was probably The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, as in the first one. Maybe it's because it's more recent, but that was the first book to make me laugh so hard that I actually had to put it down in a very, very long time. Such is life for an English student, most books of "literary merit" aren't particularly uplifting.

3. The one book that truly changed my life was Les Miserables. I don't know what it was, but there was just something about that book that really struck me.

4. If you're looking for a real "tear-jerker" you should probably read... Elie Wisel's Night, perhaps? I don't know, it certainly struck me hard. I don't really go looking for tear-jerking books all that often; the works we read for class are often depressing enough.

5. If I could meet any author living or dead I would want to meet either Roald Dahl or Mark Twain. Both are among my favorite authors, and I'd like to know how they wrote what they did; both just seem like interesting folks!

6. The next book on my "to read" list is a tough call. I'm deciding between 1984, Manhunt (on the Lincoln assassination), Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency, and perhaps poking around some graphic novels. One thing's for sure: if I keep up with reading this summer I'll definitely be frequenting the library... well, frequently.

7. If I was snowed into remote cabin in the woods and could only choose three books to bring with me I'd bring Hamlet, The Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and the unabridged Les Miserables. Hamlet would be interesting to look through a few times from different angles; The Ultimate Guide because, well, how else am I going to bring all five Hitchhiker's books?? And Les Mis because I like the way Hugo writes, it just takes a long time to digest. And, at well over 1500 pages, depending on the publisher, it is long, man.

The Hitchhiker's Guide: Radio vs. Print

2010-02-19T17:38:00.005-05:00

I've recently picked up The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy again in an attempt to actually finish out the series. Now, I'm more-or-less familiar with the way the story works out, to a certain extent, mostly because I've listened to a majority of the radio series. However, with Restaurant officially finished I've crossed the threshhold from radio-based to originally-book storylines.

Just to add a little context, the first Hitchhiker's storyline came out through a radio series in 1978; a second season/series aired in 1980. These two together form the events found in the pages of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and The Restaurant at the End of the Universe. The books were released in 1979 and 1980, respectively.

In the interim between the radio broadcasts and the books' publication, Adams tweaked the storyline a bit. Admittedly I was a bit nervous when I first heard that the radio and books weren't the same in all spots. Would it be possible to keep the stories straight? Would one potentially ruin the other?

Of course, as the case usually seems to be with Adams, it all works out for the better. While I love the radio medium, and all the creative insanity it allows, the first two Hitchhiker's series got rather jumbled rather quickly. After the revelation about the mice and Earth's purpose (I'll try not to give anything away) the story gets very confusing. It's difficult to keep track of who's where and when, how people get from point A to point B, and even what's going on at points A and B, and how point C fits into everything. And, at times, it almost lacks in comprehensible detail. Something might be explained, or not, and even the explanation doesn't make sense in the whole grand scheme of the inaptly-named Trilogy in Five (now Six) Parts.

I'd like to think Adams picked up on this as well, and he had a chance to reorganize the story a little bit. He expanded and developed certain parts that were working well, reshuffled the characters to give more of a believable sequence of events, and indeed reorganized and trimmed out parts of the plot. In other words, certain parts appear only in the book, and other parts appear only in the radio series. All in all, though, they shake out and join up to meet Life, the Universe, and Everything. It's like Adams' own description of history, as spoken by Ford Prefect: "History is never altered you see, it just fits together like a jigsaw."

As far as which I prefer: honestly, both are fairly equal in merit. On the one hand, I'm a purist and wholeheartedly support a work in its original medium. I love audio, and the voices fit perfectly with the characters. I know there was a movie that came out a few years back, but as far as I'm concerned the only Arthur Dent is Simon Jones, and the only Ford Prefect is Geoffrey McGivern. (to hear both more-or-less side by side, take a listen here)

On the other hand, the books are much more detailed, especially in visual nuances that are unfortunately impossible in an audio-exclusive medium. Besides, Adams just has a way of describing things in an offbeat, deadpan, occasionally sensitive, and overall epic manner.

[Zaphod's grandfather's] two small wispy-haired heads looked so ancient that
it seemed they might hold dim memories of the birth of the galaxies
themselves.

Arthur Dent was grappling with his consciousness the way one grapples
with a lost bar of soap in the bath.

Nevertheless, like every other parking lot in the Galaxy throughout the
entire history of parking lots, this parking lot smelled predominantly of
impatience.
I mean, where else would you find that sort of thing?
Ideally, I would mix the auditory awesomeness of the characters with the detail and description of the books, but as that's not exactly possible, I'm perfectly content with giving equal merit to both and with going between the two for froody satisfaction.

"It is said in death..."

2010-01-26T20:15:00.003-05:00

The first part of this was my response to a Daily Writing prompt: take the first line of a book, any book, and use it as the first line of some writing. The second part (starting with "It's an odd sensation...") I wrote out of boredom.

It is said that in death, all things become clear...

Who said that? Somebody dead?

Listen, death is very confusing. It sees no need to tear away the veil of ignorance as you take your last breaths, especially if someone else introduced you to death.

As I lay there, gasping my last, nothing but questions raced through my mind. What had I done to deserve this fate? Why such cruelty?

And when I did die, how would I be able to make that sucker pay for staining the neckline of my new dress?

It's an odd sensation, looking at your dead self. So-called out-of-body experiences have nothing on this. At first it was a bit confusing to grasp: Wait, so, that's me there... but wait, aren't I here? Like, here, here? That's supposed to be there, but that can't possibly be me, I'm... right... here... right?

I spun in circles with that one for quite some time until I finally convinced myself that I was me, and that body that looked like me was just coincidentally similar in features. I was where my thinking was, I told myself, and usually dead bodies can't think for themselves.

That partial detachment made it a bit easier to give in to my curiosity and examine my dead self. The pale face didn't hold too much expression, but the mouth was drawn in a little with worry, and the brow was still wrinkled in concern. I was thankful I didn't die with my eyes open, that would've royally freaked me out. For some reason I'd often been complimented on my neck; apparently there was something regal about it. I half-chuckled spitefully, "Nothing regal about a sliced-open neck, I can say that much." It turned my stomach to look at it, but my curiosity got the better of me: my assailant had taken a few surprisingly deep hacks at my trachea. Below these awfully raw incisions, which I'd decided were as precise as incisions executed by a drunk surgeon on a pogo stick with a rusty machete, now-dried blood laced what had been my collar bone and seeped into the neckline of the dress I was wearing.

And to think, I realized, I'd been trying to pick out a necklace before I died.

Dystopian Barbershop

2010-01-03T21:45:00.004-05:00

[to be done in a lively barbershop style. Regular text is the lead voice, anything in parentheses is the other three voices. All rhythm and harmony under the lead is done in typical barbershop "bops", "oohs", and "ahhs". Finger snaps are optional.]

A new world order's taken hold
(ooh, new order's taken hold)
Promised all they had hearts of gold
(bah bah, heart of gold!)

Took a little walk down the gov'ner's street,
And they took the power in a coup so neat.
Assured us all it was gonna be fine,
But then sent all our liberties to the bread line
(That bread, bread line!)

Made some big changes to the way we live
(Every night at eight they lock us in)
Everything is watched, that's no way to live.
(Oh no, no way to live)

Music ain't free, they say it just won't do,
So if they found us out, then we'd be through.
No more barbershop, ain't that a shame?
We got this dystopia to blame.
(Dystopian government we have to blame)

Waitin' and lookin', tryin' us to find,
(we're in hiding, trying us to find)
But just thus far to us they're blind
(Just like bats, they're just so blind).

We're hoping we can shake'm, keep ourselves alive
(Livin' and breathing, keep ourselves alive)
And keep the barbershop tradition buzzin in the hive
(Buzzin like bees, keepin' tradition alive)

- - - - - -

I asked for a random prompt, the supplier gave me "dystopian barber shop." I interpreted it to be "barbershop" as in the kind of quartet; this one was a thinker, lemme tell you.

I think this stands as proof as to why I shouldn't write "late" at night.

Random Apostrophic Letters from the Pianist

2009-12-12T09:16:00.004-05:00

A take off of a semi-feature on Robyn's blog...
- - - - -
Dear Connor,
It's been a while, I know. I want to continue your story, but you've been out of my head for a while. Please, will you come back? I really do miss you. You and this story of yours has been too enjoyable for you to stay out much longer. If you need a break, I understand, but can you at least assure me you'll come back sometime in the foreseeable future?
Missing you,
~g2

A telegram addressed to My Living Quarters:
Enough is enough. Stop. Upon my return this evening prepare for an intense excavation. Stop. Although I will be exhausted from my piano lesson no mercy will be shown. Stop.
You have been warned. Stop.

Querida amiga,
He pensado mucho en tí recientamente. Mientras sienta un poquitin raro en una parte de mi mente que estás con alguien, estoy alegre para tí. El es inteligente, maduro, y fuerte y franco en sus opiniones, y son buenas calidades, pienso. Las fallas solas que puedo encontrar en él: lleva casi demaciado negro, y a veces habla entre dientes. Pero, no son detalles enormes, creo. Espero que cosas pasen bien para ustedes. De todos modos digo que has escogido bien.
Siempre aquí,
~g2
PS: Yay for chances to use subjunctive! ^^

My dearest Oliver,
Thank you so much for helping me prepare everything: the competition a few weeks ago, my audition yesterday, and the other auditions to come. I'll certainly miss you next year, but I'll be close enough that I can come home to you easily.
Between you and The Piano Teacher I can't thank you enough. You two have been all too good to me.
Much love,
~g2

To: Gen. Nonsense
First, I've some disappointing news to report. I've done some digging, and I believe that majors are indeed higher than captains. I admit that it's a bit disheartening to think that Disaster, Third, and especially Distraction are all ahead of me... and to think! I'm the oldest in the rank! Ah well, it is what it is.
Second, as far as chronicling our group goes: I was thinking we could describe the members and then decide on various episodic adventures. We can brainstorm, yes?
Third: bink.
~Cpt. Obvious

Paulito & Nikki,
I just wanted to thank you guys for being such hoopy writing friends, and indeed hoopy friends in general. Distance may separate us three, but that has yet to be a real deterrent. I've missed talking with you two as of late, but I hope fate decides to allow our paths to cross again very, very soon.
Not panicking,
~g2

On Criticism

2009-12-07T20:29:00.003-05:00

I'm not usually one for rants, but with a competition in the not-too-distant past and my college auditions starting up this week (!!!) the subject's been on my mind, asking to be ranted about a bit. And that has been the subject of criticism.

Yes, almost everybody cringes at the word and others in its family (criticize, critic, critique, etc), but I'm pretty well used to it. I have to be, the arts and music especially are subject to such scrutiny.

Whatever the definition, I frankly don't mind it; for the most part it's advice that will help me improve my work, presented in a fairly nurturing way that doesn't label rough spots as FAILURES but as things to work on. Not only that, but more often than not the criticism is given by either a peer or someone who is more experienced than I in a particular area, usually the piano.

Two particular things bother me about criticism, though. Of course there would be something that bothered me about it, otherwise this wouldn't be a particularly good rant.

The first is its negative connotation. According to our good friend N. Webster, the first definition of "criticize" runs as follows:

"crit-i-cize: verb, 1: to consider the merits and demerits of and judge accordingly, evaluate."

[http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/criticize]

I think negative association in the media is to blame for this one. People often times are afraid of having their mistakes pointed out to them, myself included. Folks are also hesitant to point out mistakes to others, for fear of offending them somehow with the criticism. Criticism, while it does point out faults, does not mean that just because one bit needs some work the whole thing is a disaster. It's okay to both be criticized and to criticize...

...to an extent.

I'm hesitant with this because of the other bothersome point. Usually to properly evaluate/critique something, the critic needs equal, comparable, or greater experience in the evaluated field, preferably one of the latter two. Experience gives a critique merit; I'm more likely to give the comments of a piano conservatory professor a little more consideration than the comments of, say, a passing counter clerk with little classical music background. However, some people just slash through others' work without much experience in that particular work.

I automatically think back to our school's talent showcase last year on this subject. After I played, I scooted into the auditorium to see the rest of the acts with a handful of friends. Immediately behind us, however, was somebody who sounded like he was trained by Simon Cowell himself. From the time I sat down to the end of the show, I don't think The Critic had a single positive thing to say about any of the acts. I'm not saying The Critic didn't say anything positive; if TC did say something positive I didn't hear it.

What particularly irked me about this Critic was the tone, the tone of assumed omniscience. Most of the acts were musical groups, and while there's a large musical population in our school, I don't think this particular Critic is among that population. The trouble is, TC commented as if drawing inspiration from some Exhaustive Encyclopaedia of Musical Perfection. Just the condescending tone made me want to whip around and hiss, "then let's see you get up on stage and perform the song that you wrote in front of 70-some-odd people." Unless this person is some kind of closet prodigy with an infinite wealth of knowledge in music composition and performance, because of a lack of experience I honestly don't think The Critic had any right to assume this know-it-all role. It's fine to say why you like or don't like a particular work, but trying to sound like an authority just doesn't cut it.

The right to criticize authoritatively falls under the same rules as bragging rights, in my book: if you can't match it, top it, or offer any advice to improve it, you've no real right to criticize it.

The Traveler Returns

2009-11-07T21:04:00.003-05:00

Howdy all! I just got back from my insanely amazing trip 'round Europe, complete with pictures, commentary, temporal confusion (my body thinks it's three in the morning, but my brain hasn't a zarkin' clue as to location yet, much less time), a touch of aircraft-induced-dizziness (it got bumpy around Greenland), but a great sense of satisfaction.
Will I let you all in on what went down across the pond? Of course! That's what I promised, isn't it? However, all y'all are going to have to hang in some suspence for a while; I still have schoolwork and serious piano catch-up to contend with, as well as actually typing up the aforementioned commentary and loading in the previously-alluded-to pictures. These things take time, you know!
However, I will do my best to deliver as soon as I can!

DON'T PANIC: It's Just a War of the Worlds

2009-10-30T20:00:00.001-04:00

Turn back the clock to late October, 1938. Actor Orson Wells was lining up sci-fi radio plays for his Mercury Theater on the Air. He went through a few ideas, but none of them seemed to be working. Finally, somebody asked "How about this?" and pulled out the book War of the Worlds.
Wells was reluctant to adapt the work to the radio. Not because he was afraid of causing mass hysteria, but because he found the story "dull." The book had been around for 40 years, it had been adapted to several adventure stories and comic books by this time. Most people were familiar with this story, he thought. Finally he agreed to do it. But they had to update it before they went on the air.

Now, fast forward to 8 pm on Sunday, October 30th. A small number of radio listeners tuned into the Mercury Theater on the Air and heard the play's introduction, announcing that night's play as H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds. However, most people were tuned into the immensely popular Chase and Sanborn Hour, and missed the crucial intro. The first four minutes or so went well, but then at approximately 8:05, a rather unpopular singer came on the show. So people began to dial surf, and as it happened most people landed on the Mercury Theater on the Air first, already in progress. But when they landed on it, it sounded like a regular music show. Then, after a little musical interlude, a voice cut in: "We interrupt this program to bring you this news bullitin..."

Now, it should be mentioned at this point that news breaks were fairly new, and extremely frequent, in the late 1930's. Most news breaks at the time ran bullitins having to do with the Nazis, who had been slowly overtaking Europe. Naturally, Americans had been growing nervous about the Nazis, and there were only a few ways to get the news, radio often being the fastest.
The War of the Worlds news break reported that the Princeton Observatory had observed gas explosions on the surface of Mars at regular intervals, but the station would keep the audience updated should anything else be found. "And now back to the music of Raymond Roquello and His Orchestra."

Most people found this break to be a bit odd. Explosions on Mars? How strange. And who was this Raymond Roquello guy? Not really thinking much of it, folks sat back and relaxed again. But then about a minute later, another news break comes through: The Princeton Observatory had just reported the landing of a meteor in rural Grover's Mills, New Jersey, and had schedualed an interview with one of the Observatory's astronomers.

Now people were starting to get suspicious. What in the world was going on? Most people claimed they didn't believe the story too much, until they heard several "expert" opinions of the situation. The way the show was formatted, with the breaks over the music program, the authoritative commentary, made it sound completely legitament. Folks were lost inside the newscast.

Finally the update cut to a field report in Grover's Mills, where the meteor had landed. The reporter and an astronomer are describing the events unfolding before their eyes: the meteor had fallen away, revealing a metal pod definitely of alien origin. After a few tense moments, the pod begins to open, revealing a hideous slimy creature; muffled shouts could be heard in the background. Then, out of nowhere, the reporter begins to flip out: the creature has just vaporized knot of military personell.

The reporter's panic sounded completely real, and oddly familiar. A year before, many people had heard the now-immortal cry of "Oh, the humanity!" in response to the Hindenburg disaster. The actor playing the reporter had actually found a tape of this report and listened to it repeatedly, so he could get into the right frame of mind for the attack scene.
Seconds later, without warning, the field report cuts out. Soon after, it is reported that the pod has sprouted tree-high legs and was marching through the New Jersey countryside, crushing anything in its path. This is where people really started to panic, although they didn't think "We're being attacked by Martians." Their first thought was, "We're being attacked by Germans."

The show continued on in the same way, as a string of news reports come in announcing that more Martians were landing and slowly taking over New Jersey and surrounding areas, taking out armies with a poisonous gas. At one point later in the broadcast the news announcer dejectedly states that "everything [was] wiped out."

About 12 million say they got the joke. But the majority of the American public didn't. No one knows exactly how many people panicked that night. However, there are a few certain numbers: The Trenton police department receieved 200 calls in under two hours. The New York Times switchboards were inundated with 875 calls alone, which were mostly people wanting to know where they would be safest. A study conducted shortly after the broadcast found that some people reported they actually felt like they were choking, a handful claimed they saw a veil of smoke over Manhattan from the battle in nearby Jersey, and some swore they spotted a marching Martian pod or two.

After the broadcast, and learning of the mass hysteria, Orson Wells held a press conference, in which he said this:

"The War of the Worlds has no further significance than as the holiday offering
it was intended to be. We annaihilated the world before your very ears, and
utterly destroyed the CBS. You will be relieved, I hope, to learn that we didn't
mean it, and both institutions are open for business."

In short: It was all a joke. Wells expressed great surprise that such a familiar story could cause such panic when the format was changed up a bit. Unfortunately the public and the FCC didn't find the situation funny, the FCC so much so that the comissioner shortly thereafter labled Wells and his Mercury Theater on the Air as "radio terrorists."
As if that wasn't enough, events similar to this have happened twice since 1938: once in Quito, Ecuador, in 1949, and in our own Buffalo, NY, in 1968. The format was that of a regular DJ show on WKBW, with a interruption format very similar to the original 1938 broadcast. The outcome was very similar as well: the station received 2,000 calls, 47 newspapers nationally reported the incident, even a portion of the Canadian army was dispatched to the border bridges to fend off the Martian invadors.
People, by nature, are hard-wired to latch onto stories and to follow them through to the end. Unfortunately some miss the crucial beginnings and misinterpret the whole thing.

I think you ought to know...

2009-10-25T21:41:00.003-04:00

If you start to hear a whole lot of nothing coming from my direction, don't worry.

Or, if you're likely to skip the worry phase and go straight to the panic phase, I would recommend you follow this advice:

I haven't fallen off the edge of the earth....

... I haven't been overtaken by robots

... or anything of that sort.

No, I'm just going to be galavanting around Europe, specifically through Portugal, Spain, and a little bit of France, and hopefully with at least a small towel in tow.

I'll be back the first week of November, don't you worry. And when I do return, there will be photos. There will be commentary. And there will most likely be Spanish outbursts.

You have been warned.

Perhaps My Highest Compliment

2009-09-26T09:09:00.003-04:00

So there's a thread going on Protagonize called "My Name I Skate." It's a collection of altered, contorted, or otherwise tweaked Protagonists' pennames. I found them all very amusing, but I figured that, given the bizzare and lengthy complexity of my own penname, no one would try to take mine on.

And, as per usual when I think those sorts of things, I was proven wrong.

The perennially excellent Tasha Noble left me a message on my Protag profile a few days ago.
"Apologies in advance!" she began, "But I couldn't resist it. And it's very silly indeed." Naturally I had no idea what she was talking about, so I curiously clicked the included link, which led me to this:

Gee! to Lappy-Annie Stairland (E.S.A)
Gee! What a funny girl is Annie Stairland
Working for the Ecological Society
Of America, with her laptop-case in hand
She's never seen without it - loves it very much, you see.

At night she keeps her lappy in a lead-lined strong-box
In her bedside cabinet, and guarded by her dog
(A doberman-rottweiler cross whose name is Mr Cox)
Because of these precautions Annie sleeps like a log.

She keeps all her contacts in her 'lappy', and she would
Be completely lost without it so it never leaves her side
It's how she got her nickname, but I really think she should
Invest in a netbook, They're much easier to hide.

I couldn't believe it. I couldn't help but laugh aloud; it was so funny and so ingenious, and I still couldn't get over the fact that she'd somehow managed to tweak something out of my penname. Granted, the "g2" is supposed to be "g-squared," but she told me that it wouldn't of worked otherwise.

I found some of the other feedback:

"Wow Tasha, you really contorted g2's name into shape there. From now on we should call you Tasha: Lyrical Contortionist!Nice work, very funny."

"Even if the poem sucked, I would have had to give you an A+ for managing something out of the Irish Pianist's name. But such was not the case :D"

"wow, till I read Aryst0's comment I had no clue who this was about... but it's pretty fantastic.I'm in a public computer room at my college laughing away to this things. Pretty soon I'm gonna be getting looks.. if I'm not already. I don't exactly care. haha."

Naturally, I had to add my own two-cents:
"Okay, those two poems earlier made my morning, but this just made my whole zarkin' week, Tasha. It took a while to see it, but as soon as I did I had to laugh aloud. I have [no] clue how you did it, but boy you did it."

Somehow, in my mind, the hilarious contortion of my name ranks as probably the highest compliment I have ever received on Protag.

Thanks muchly Tasha.

SoP 56: An Experimental Poem

2009-08-27T14:04:00.003-04:00

Versed Interrogation, Pt 1.

I swear and I tell you, I’ve nothing to hide.

Then I guess it won’t matter if I stand close behind?

I guess not…
- – - – - – You falter, and s’piciously so…

Suspiciously? Me? That’s absurd! Oh dear, no!

Defensive we’re getting, a sure sign of guilt.
Your stories don’t match, alibi is not built
Most solidly. I think you’re caught in my snare.

What?! You are mad! You really do dare
To ’cuse me of such a crackpotted crime?!

If you wanna play tough, then I guess it is time
To toughen the insentive to tell the real truth.

Try me. I dare you. I can take it, forsooth.

We can do this most easy, but you ’fuse to obey,
And for your intractability, you pay.
- - - - -
I had this idea, but I really had no idea how it would work, and I can't really think of an "ending" of sorts just yet. Any and all constructive criticism and feedback, as well as suggestions as how to continue, would be greatly appreciated.

SoP 55: Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

2009-08-27T14:00:00.002-04:00

As far as my inspiration will go,
Right now I do beweep its dried-up state.
I wish that I had more to share and show,
But oh, alas, it’s all I have to date.

They call it Writer’s Block out on the street,
Although, to us, it’s torture, simply put,
lacking ideas to put upon the sheet
And when some do, they only get the foot.

Oh how I wish I could think of something
that’s worth the pianoman’s good reading time.
And hopef’ly into trash bin he won’t fling
this sorry s’cuse for verse and dreadful rhyme.

Please bear with me for one more couplet set.
Now you are done, seek refuge with your pet.
- - - - -
I wanted to enter a poetry challenge, but I couldn't think of anything at the time. So I wrote about not being able to think of anything. We writers are crazy like that.

SoP 54: Creative Rebel

2009-08-27T13:46:00.002-04:00

We’re not allowed to think outside the box,
Thinking at all is frowned upon out here.
Forget creating anything, no dear.
They only want us sitting there like rocks.

They keep all books under the keys and locks,
And try t’enstill pervasive sense of fear.
They cannot hold me down, my voice they’ll hear,
I’ll fight back verb’ly, muse’cly, ’til gun cocks.

Enclothed in Converse, jeans, a pen in hand,
signs of rebellion, ones that cause a stir
and ’tract attention, but it makes them heed.

451 has nothing on this land.
They’ll kill me off, but it won’t work, no sir.
’Cause on that fateful day, I will be freed.
- - - - -
Originally appeared on ficly, inspired a bit by FYM

SoP 53: Grey Eyes

2009-08-27T13:40:00.002-04:00

Vibrant, warm, cur'ous,
Enthusiasm abounds
In those living greys.
- - - - -
Cold, tired, judging
There's almost something sinister
In the Doctor's eyes.
- - - - -
'Loo's prompt made me think of a series that we're working on together entitled "Thank You For Encouraging My Lunacy," which you can find here.

SoP 52: The Dude and the Pickle

2009-08-27T13:39:00.001-04:00

In one fell swoop it came to my mind
And flatly refused to leave.
They're up to their old antics, guys,
And drive me to insan'ty.

I've dealt with flinging cutlery,
Which is fine. But hear:
Have you heard a thing so strange
a one sticking a pickle in ear?

Dear friends, I dare to kid you not
And I speak of truth-titutions.
But I say this and I think:
They'll think I belong in institution.

SoP 51: Engage

2009-08-27T13:33:00.002-04:00

It's very difficult
to engage
in conversation

When the other
won't speak:
Silent vexation
- - - - -
Guess where?

SoP 50: Records

2009-08-27T13:23:00.002-04:00

Just to make it clear,
For all intents and objects,
He's wrong, I was right.

He tried to dispute
My constant affirmations.
My reply: "Nu-uh"
- - - - -
Originally on 'Loo's Daily Writing

SoP 49: The Solo

2009-08-24T06:24:00.001-04:00

The barren sanctuary air
Is always eager
To hold a sound

And in the loft, beginning there,
A young voice sings out,
Quick gaining ground

Not overwhelming, nor too thin,
The voice, she's confident.
She knows what's needed.

The sanctuary carressed it,
Blissful and at rest.
He's interceded.

The voice, while comforting those there,
Gives thanks to her Lord
In a little prayer:

"You have always been b'side me here,
And for these people,
I show You're 'lso there."
-----
I'm not particularly pleased with this poem's result, the idea was
much better in my head. Quality (or lack thereof) aside, I thought
I'd tell you all that this was inspired by my first real solo at a
funeral last Friday.

SoP 48: "Birthday"

2009-08-22T13:28:00.000-04:00

Lennon & McCartney

- - - - -
I'm just sharing today.
Feliz cumpleaños a mí ^^

SoP 47: Inspiration, or Lack Thereof

2009-08-19T16:50:00.003-04:00

Under Construction, and Way Behind (And SoPs 45, 46)

2009-08-18T20:05:00.006-04:00

Alright folks. As you can see, I'm trying to further tweak the format so that there'll be not one, not two, but three columns! Unfortunately, I hit a snag. I'm trying to get some help on it, but most likely it's some silly little thing I did.

The other thing you've probably noticed (or, you will have once I mention it) is the severe lack of poetry. I know, I have a ton of days to make up, but I'll get to it! I will!

Actually, while we're at it:

SoP 45

Fatal mistakes they ruin us all
And just when we don't want them t'call
I shouldn't do't, but I let stuff slide.
Let's f'give and f'get, get this all aside.
- - - - -
And now, for your local weather:
Breezes be as light as feather
Perfect just for flying kites
That is, until, 10:10 tonight.

Tomorrow holds a bunch of things:
Hail strong enough to take off wings
of planes, dent trains and aut'mobiles
from here until the backwoods heeils.

Tornadoes come, the floods shall roar
With rains comin' 40 inches or more.
Hurricane Cindy, then snowstorms blow!
Don't think we've seen crazier weather a'fo'!

And then the frogs, they'll tumble down
Followed close, then by cats and hounds.
Then crazy storms, all hell breaks free!
But this weekend looks nice. Back t'you, Johnny.
- - - - -
That was SoP 46 there, in case you were wondering.

Phew! Two down, 10 to go!

SoP 44: "I Love a Piano" and Oliver (a haiku)

2009-08-07T19:32:00.003-04:00

I Love a Piano
Irving Berlin
(Sung by Michael Feinstein... the song starts at 32:55 if it's not already set there)

- - - - -
Oh, my sweet Ollie,
How you and I can both sing
With iv'ry, ebony!
- - - - -
I've written about my dear Oliver before, most recently here.

SoP 43: "Kerouac Tribute" and My Vengeful PC

2009-08-06T19:34:00.003-04:00

It's not a poem, exactly, but the way this was read made it sound insanely poetic. Take a listen and you'll see what I mean:

http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/programs/19970705/rafiles/970705_kerouac.ram

- - - - -

My comp is out to get me

I swear it really is.

The internet's the worst-est part

Here's the low-down biz:

It's spastic and sputters,

it's making ficly fail!

And I can't rant to anyone,

'cause twitter's in the pail!

Blocking me off from the rest of the world,

you think you can do that, comp?

I swear, I'll count 'till I'm blue;

I'm onto you, now stop!

- - - - -

The counting thing is originally from Hitchhiker's. I'm convinced it could be a way to temporarily stave off singularity and the A.I. takeover:

[Ford] started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentient
life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans
demonstrate their independence of computers.

Why yes, my internet is being more of a failure than usual, why do you ask?

(Note: twitter did come back up, and it's not just my comp that's failing with ficly)

SoP 42: "Poem 42" and Untitled

2009-08-04T19:45:00.006-04:00

'Poem 42'

e.e. cummings

n

OthI

n

g can

s

urPas

s

the m

y

SteR

y

of

s

tilLnes

s

- - - - -

For the Ultimate Question,

Odd is it's answer.

Rather odd, I'd

Think.

You know The Answer?

Take a

Wicked good look

Only at the beginning.

- - - - -

- - - - -

I had to do this for SoP 42. I had to.

SoP 41: "I want to tell you"

2009-08-03T21:37:00.000-04:00

I'm just sharing today. ^^
- - - - -
I Want to Tell You
George Harrison

SoP 40: "Geek in the Pink", "Life is Wonderful" and Gratitude Café

2009-08-02T09:00:00.001-04:00

Geek in the Pink
Jason Mraz

Life is Wonderful
Jason Mraz

- - - - -
I amble down the downtown street,
amid the crowd and noise,
Oh man, the stress, it's mounting here!
But then, a poster's voice:

Come down to Gratitude Café
for a pot of tea or joe
and 'preciate the life we have,
let time go real real slow

So I meandered down the street
to Gratitude Café
I was doubtful, with my tea,
But one sip, I must say
It warmed my soul and eased my mind,
The tea and a comfortable thought.
It took a while to dawn on me
But when it came, I 'nected dots:

I'm blessed with life and with this world,
Thanks for the daytime light;
I must give thanks for the sun and moon,
Obliged for darkened night.

The birds, the trees, the cityscape,
For peace and quiet, too.
But y'can't have those without others
Like din and noise, know you.

I finished the tea, stood myself up,
Sighed, smiled, and said:
"I'm ready now to face you world,
Thanks to Gratitude Café."
- - - - -

- - - - -
Yay for Jason Mraz concert! Bigger yay for catching up! Woo!!

SoP 39: "Vogon Poetry" and Bad Poetry

2009-08-01T21:01:00.002-04:00

a sampling of Vogon poetry
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz
as translated by Douglas Adams

Oh freddled gruntbuggly! Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits in a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee my foonting turlingdromes,
And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindle werdles,
For otherwise I will rend thee in the goberwarts with
My blurglecruncheons, see if I don't.
- - - - -
(Anybody passed out? Internally bleeding? No? Good. I'm no poet, as I've mentioned in the past, but I think the following's a bit of an improvment over the above.)
- - - - -
Bad poetry's
akin to torture.
It's understandable
if it's a new poet.
But a "seasoned" one?
It's cruel and unusual.

I'd cry out in anguish,
"Please! Spare us!"
but I restrain.

Maybe they'll have mercy?
Maybe it'll improve?

But why can't I shake the feeling
that it won't?

SoP 38: "Yesterday" & Scrambled Eggs

2009-08-01T20:43:00.004-04:00

Yesterday
Lennon & McCartney

- - - - -

(to the tune of the song above)

Scrambled Eggs

But my breakfast seems so far away,

Just because it all burned away,

Still, I believe in scrambled eggs.

Suddenly

It wasn't quite the egg it use-ly be,

There's a hunger hanging over me,

Those scrambled eggs burned suddenly.

Why'd it have to go?

I don't know,

I couldn't say.

I did something wrong,

Now I long for scrambled eggs...

Scrambled eggs,

Mornings were an easy game to play

Now it's time for me to throw away

Those scorched and burnt, those scrambled eggs.

Why'd it have to go?
I don't know,
I couldn't say.

I did something wrong,
Now I long for scrambled eggs...

Scrambled eggs,
Mornings were an easy game to play
Now it's time for me to throw away
Those scorched and burnt, those scrambled eggs.

- - - - -
- - - - -
- - - - -

Most Beatles and/or trivial-trivia fans know that the song "Yesterday" had the working title of "Scrambled Eggs." Whilst sitting in the park this afternoon with this song stuck in my head, I figured: "why not try working off of that?"

The poem ensued.

SoP 37: Nickname

2009-08-01T20:40:00.001-04:00

Just
a mesh of your first
name and last.
some just have a way
of sticking,
nicknames do.

SoP 36: I'm almost there!

2009-07-31T18:53:00.001-04:00

I'm almost done, I'm almost there!
I can't believe I even dared
to leave this thing for such a long time,
because making it up takes just as much time.
- - - - -
I know, it's short, but ah well. Here I keep going!

SoP 35: A Cup of Tea

2009-07-31T18:50:00.000-04:00

Go to with your coffee!
I'll stick with my tea.
Why do I like it?
Why, don't you ask me

Don't ask me why I
drink wet leaves, I like it.
I especially enjoy it when
With sugar I spike it.

So keep your sopped beans,
I'll stick with my leaves.
Now, leave me in peace,
I've a book to read.
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/16982592@N07/3454609845/in/set-72157606411855944/

SoP 34: Untitled

2009-07-31T17:35:00.002-04:00

ZIP
CRASH
BANG
CoNfUsIoN

Spit
Divi/sion
Mirrored
sAmE

Light
DARK
day
NiGhT
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/asheynasblackbook/3754432202/in/photostream/
- - - - -
Thanks Asheyna for the pic!

I had to do a random word poem, I had to.

SoP 33: The Stone Archway

2009-07-31T17:16:00.003-04:00

A stone archway
Maw spread before me
What could lay beyond that arch?
I take a chance to peer.

And what a sight lays before my eyes,
One of such great beauty!
A garden lush spread in the sun
With eager ivy climbing.

I sat, admiring its beauty
Beneath that great stone arch,
Beautiful as it was to me,
I heard a voice behind me sigh.

"If only there were creatures there,"
the voice moaned, oh-so-sad.
"There'd be a magic there that isn't there.
I'm certain there would be!"

I thought about it, sitting there,
and whole-heartly disagreed.
Can't a garden be beautiful
Without mythic creatures there?
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/darkliquid/3748218677/
- - - - -
Thanks darkliquid for the picture!

The last two lines are a variation on a quote I read recently: "Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?"

SoP 32: Sonnet

2009-07-31T17:08:00.003-04:00

Her face, 'twas all but hidden from my sight
Just behind that light and silken fan
The only thing I could behold: two eyes,
And oh! Most beautiful of all the land!

A wooded brown, but so alight with fire!
I could only dream up her 'gelic face.
Simply melting my heart of tempered iron,
She stole it then, just leaving want in place.

Hidden by that dark blue, black-laced fan,
She ran her fiery eyes over my form
Reduced to puddle I was, no more man,
Oh, f'only if those eyes turned not to scorn!

Alas, the prize that could never be mine:
The girl behind the fan whose eyes did shine.
- - - - -
http://www.flickr.com/photos/meladegypsie/486102928/
- - - - -
Another bit I originally did on a recent Daily Writing prompt

SoP 31: Song to a Cereal Box

2009-07-31T17:03:00.003-04:00

Cereal box, oh cereal box
Why've you inspired me so?
Cereal box, oh cereal box,
you 'spired me at the piano,

You demanded that a poem be writ
about you, box of wheat
or oats or something else, methinks
away your plea should beat.

Cereal box, oh cereal box,
Why've you inspired me so?
Cereal box, oh cereal box,
There! It's done! Now go!

SoP 30: The Sharp Tongue can Strike its Owner

2009-07-31T16:59:00.002-04:00

Words
are curious things
Interesting projectiles that can be
-----gently lobbed
-----forcefully thrown

The tongue
launches these words
hopefully acting with the mind to
-----soften them
-----sharpen slightly

But sometimes
the tongue just sharpens
without a thought from the mind
-----badly received
-----self-wounding

Regret
is an awful thing
it can scar the self, but
-----one learns
-----from mistakes

SoP: Historical Haiku

2009-07-29T22:09:00.001-04:00

Ludwig Beethoven:
Who else could compose such works
and not hear a thing?
------------
And such a dynamic composer, too. Early on his pieces were very lyrical, almost indistinguishable from Mozart shortly before him. But the change is very clear, becoming more stormy, more powerful, more romantic as his career went on.
Vhat?
--------
The above originally appeared here.

Huh. Not too bad for a half-asleep haiku, if I may say so...

SoP 28: Intentions

2009-07-26T21:05:00.003-04:00

I meant to write a poem or two.
I meant to write one about a poet,
I meant to write one using random words,
I even meant to write one about a cereal box.

I didn't intend to forget.
I didn't intend to let life barge in,
I didn't intend to drift away,
I certainly didn't mean to lose track of time.

I should get around to that.
I should get to those three poems,
I should get back into the swing of things,
I definitely should stop repeating myself over and over again.

SoP 25-27: The Judge, Fiction, Lines

2009-07-24T20:24:00.001-04:00

The Judge she comes in, how regal is she!
Against the blue lake & the sky, how she gleams!
She cuts 'cross water just like the knife
With her white and wood paneling, what a sight!
- - - - -
Some say they fall for characters,
The ones found 'tween the pages.
That's fine for them, but's not for me
I've thought this for 'vral ages

But friends! Aha! I wish I could
Meet some i find in books!
But one fair recent 'scovery
S'stronger than most, take a look:

Fairly calm, a right bright bloke
Often very witty
Rather 'venturesome he is,
Danger's regular-itty.

Hitching rides across the stars,
He and his bathrobed friend
T'the edge of the galaxy and back
And, indeed, universe's end.

I kind of wish I could jump in
And meet this guy, it's true,
And just hang out for a tiny spell
And 'scuss 'tell'gent shades of blue.
- - - - -
A line is a line,
Except when it isn't.
But when would that be?
We'll see

Lines can connect places
Link A with point B
Don't have to be straight,
As long a they meet.

But where do fit treelines?
Where's "A"? What's "B"?
And do they extend?
Where do they meet?

Streets, they are lines,
But where do they go?
Just 'round and 'round
Or they just stop.

A line is a line,
Except when it isn't
But when would that be?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~Never.
-----
Three poems in one shot. Hey, I have to catch up somehow, right?

Points for naming and/or finding the character's name in the second
poem (it's in there somewhere, I assure you).^^

SoP 24: Fue la chica

2009-07-22T18:18:00.004-04:00

pobre chico,
fuiste donde no querías ir
pero, fue esa chica.

Creo lo hiciste por la chica.

La vio, y la vi,
y luego te pidió si puedra ir.

Traté de decierti "no lo hagas,"
pero no me escuchó.

Lo hiciste,
No te gustó que hiciste, pero
lo hiciste.

Y creo que fue esa chica.
-----
Inspired by my cousin getting half-dragged onto an amusment park ride by a couple girls, one of which he'd noticed earlier that day.

100th post! As a celebratory move...

WOO!

And now, back to your irregulary scheduled blogging.

SoP 23: "Big Ol' World" and Appreciation

2009-07-19T18:43:00.005-04:00

Big Ol' World
Dusty Pas'cal

(picture quality's not that great, and my favorite version's on his CD "Home," but the video's at least got the song. That's all that matters, folks)
-----
I'm so far away from heaven I feel burning on my shoes,
An itchin for the heavenly land
Then I get to thinking, "but there's still so much to do"
"should go out'n get it while I can"

But it's like that xkcd,
The one with nature's splendor,
We're all so wired, don't you see,
We don't always 'preciate time tender.

And when I think of wires, I get all worried so,
The wires may us just one day bury
So let's just count to ten a time or two or mo'
And while we can see all that we can see.
- - - - -
(inspired by a Eloosive-spawned prompt a while back)
A singer-songwriter, xkcd, impending technological singularity/apocalypse, and philisophical wonderings, all in one poem? It can be done, my friends!

SoP 22: Ode to the origami flower on my desk

2009-07-17T22:09:00.001-04:00

Flow'r, you lay upon my desk
Soft white contrast with black
Your petals curl so luciously
Spinning round, then comin' back.

I might've folded you in pink
Or something more mundane
But in a fit o'artistic fervor
I made you crisp and plain.

Nothing more than white petals
Petals tipped with black
Comin' 'cross without much fuss
With boldness others lack.

SoP 21: "Your Catfish Friend" and A Letter

2009-07-16T19:54:00.006-04:00

Your Catfish Friend

by Richard Brautigan
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, "It's beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,"
I'd love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, "I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them."
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/oldflints/3539175858/
- - - - -
To send to you a writ letter,
Oh, how I wish I could!
Sometimes writing is better
With ink and flattened wood.

Alas! The distance, she is great
Between us, you and I.
You o'er in the Great Lakes State,
I o'er in Empi-ah.

I haven't heard from you, my friend,
In far too long a spell.
We need to talk sometime again,
We've many things to tell.

Te echo de menos, mon amigo,
To see your voice again!
To see that green typing, hey nonny lo!
You! Come talk! ¡Tú! ¡Ven!

SoP 20: Disbelief

2009-07-15T20:34:00.001-04:00

Disbelief
How's this possible?
I still can't believe it...
A five on my AP exam?
Impossible...
- - - - -
...But it's true. I have no idea how, but I got a 5 on my AP US History exam. I'm excited, don't get me wrong, but I have no clue as to how that happened, considering how I felt about the essays...

SoP 19: Wanted: Inspiration

2009-07-14T17:51:00.004-04:00

I'm putting out a newsprint ad
All across the nation
What I'm advertising for
Is some inspiration.

"Wanted: Inspiration
For I completely lack.
Inspiration's nece'ary
For poetry." Oh, ack!

How frustrating is this thing
Which ails my thinkings so!
It's hard to think up versey poems
When mind's as blank as snow.

I hope it soon comes back to me
my precious inspiration,
Or I think I will just go mad
with complete frustration

SoP 18: "Problems with Hurricanes" and A State of Constant Flux

2009-07-14T17:39:00.002-04:00

Problems with Hurricanes

Victor Hernández Cruz

A campesino looked at the air
And told me:
With hurricanes it's not the wind
or the noise or the water.
I'll tell you he said:
it's the mangoes, avocados
Green plantains and bananas
flying into town like projectiles.
How would your family
feel if they had to tell
The generations that you
got killed by a flying
Banana.
Death by drowning has honor
If the wind picked you up
and slammed you
Against a mountain boulder
This would not carry shame
But
to suffer a mango smashing
Your skull
or a plantain hitting your
Temple at 70 miles per hour
is the ultimate disgrace.
The campesino takes off his hat—
As a sign of respect
toward the fury of the wind
And says:
Don't worry about the noise
Don't worry about the water
Don't worry about the wind—
If you are going out
beware of mangoes
And all such beautiful
sweet things.
- - - - -
Cold
Snow
Shiver
Shovel

Wind
Rain
Scortch
Snow

Hot
Dry
Breezy
Heavenly

Crisp
Dry
Freezing
Begins

Take
cycle.

Now
mix
it
up.

Repeat.
- - - - -
How's that for writing devoid of any inspiration whatsoever?

SoP 17: Poemage is an utter fail today

2009-07-13T22:33:00.003-04:00

Summoning poemage
Is total fail
Not quite sure why,
this serves as my bail.

I needed something,
pref'rably with rhyme
To fill the void
Until some other time.
-----

SoP 16: "The Bonny Ship the Diamond" and The Mighty Pink Daffodil

2009-07-11T17:49:00.007-04:00

The Bonnie Ship the Diamond
Traditional Scotish folk song

- - - - -
(Just so I don't lose "points" for improper meter, I'm bolding the beats. To be sung to some generic sea-shanty type tune until I come up with something else. Inspired by Diary Entries From the Crew of the Pirate Ship the Pink Daffodil, by Eloosive et al)

Well I'll tell ye a tale of somethin' worse than blight
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil
Of a ship, she surely was a sight
Hey, ho, the pink daffodil

With sides and sails of a faint rose-peach
The mighty Pink Daffodil
She'll be lucky t'even make it to the beach
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil

Clear the ports and make a scene
For the mighty pink Daffodil;
She's nothing short of in'tresting,
Will she come to greatness? Doubt she will.

With Captain Bottoms at the front
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil
The way he leads is nothin' short of blunt
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil

He cocks his hat and yells quite a bit
On the mighty Pink Daffodil,
But he's never lost for a word or a quip
Hey, ho, the Pink Daffodil.

Clear the ports and make a scene,
Here comes the Pink Daffodil.
There're clouds of doubt to her life 'spect'ncy
But she pulls through, she always will.

-----

Yarg! Thar she is: The Pink Daffodil!

Well, an origami version, anyway. I couldn't find pink paper, so I used red, and tried to make it as pink as possible.

SoP: Time

2009-07-10T22:25:00.003-04:00

It's interesting how
when we seemingly have
MORE
time,
The more likely it is
that it
r
.u
..n
...s

~~~a
~~w
~a
y

from us.

Why is it that
in crunch time
we seem to be able
to create
MORE
time?

SoP 14: Driver's Ed & Paranoia

2009-07-09T22:17:00.005-04:00

If you live life as high as sequoias,
here's a course you might enjoy'ahs,
Good for both girls and the boy'ahs:
Driver's Ed and Paranoia.

One in the same, in both my eyes.
Don't sep'rate them, don't even try!
Just think, it'd be no fun to die
Because of th'unseen Other Guy.

On the side walks or 'hind the wheel
Always be prepared to yiel'
Don't you dare to on the road peal,
Or someone's life you just may steal.

Now, I hate paranoia, see,
But I don't wanna dee-eye-ee
Behind the wheel of a automobi'
So watch it for Other gee-why-ee.

If you live life as high as sequoias,
here's a course you might enjoy'ahs,
Good for both girls and the boy'ahs:
Driver's Ed and Paranoia.

SoP 13: Limericks!

2009-07-07T22:09:00.005-04:00

The Book of Nonsense, 10
Edward Lear
There was an Old Man in a tree,
Who was horribly bored by a Bee;
When they said, "Does it buzz?"
He replied, "Yes, it does!"
It's a regular brute of a Bee!"
-----
There once was a parrot named Bob
And he used to continually sob,
"Please notice me! Can't anyone see
That I just want corn on the cob!"
-----
Yay for off-the-cuff limericks! I haven't tackled one of these in quite some time.

SoP 12: "El Paso" and Another one Re: The Admirer

2009-07-06T22:44:00.004-04:00

El Paso
sung by Chris Thile

(Go to 52:02... that's where the song starts)

A pianist sat beneath a tree
atop a verdant hill
And passed her days writing away
letting her mind go where it will.

Now a phantom lived atop the tree
Where the pianist liked to be
And soon became smiten with what she'd written
"I think I'm in love," thought he.

But the phantom could not tell his love
Of his feelings strong
Without her sight knowing, without his face showing
Until an idea came along.

He knew she kept her writing book
Inside the olden tree
"I'll leave a not ehtere, my thoughts I will share."
He wrote, then waited to see.

The pianist she came very early next morn
And a curious sight she found:
She found her book, 'steand of in the nok
Opened up near rock on the soft ground.

She found a note scrawled on a page
"I thiink I'm in love!" it declared.
She came most suspicious. "I wonder who this is,"
For she was the only one there.

This continued for a few weeks more
Till the pianist cried, "enough!"
"If yourself you don't show, anonymity goes!"
"I'm tired of secrety stuff."

Then she wondered, "¿qué pasará?"
"Would the admirer lose the strong heart
If he couldnt stay 'non'mous? Did I sound too auton'mous?"
"No, this is right, in my heart."

Weeks later she sat in her tree
Upon a surly branch
When from up in the tree came a sight to see,
The phantom stood below with timid stance.

"Ive been your secret admirere,"
He said in a tone most shy.
"I had to profess, I tried to confess
my love for you," he sighed.

The pianist crossed her arms and smiled at him
A smile thick-laden with pity.
"You sure have some gumption. I make the assumption
YYou'd like to stay'n anonymity?"

The phantom nodded eagerly,
enamorous glint in his eye.
The pianist shook her head, and to herself she said,
"Least I know who those notes are by."
-----
I whipped this up late, I know the meter's off, but I had to write this in light of a revelation. Yes, the Admirer's finally revealed himself to me. I'm not only a technicality freak, I'm also a chiquita of my word. In "The Dangers of Loving an Imp" (SoP 7), I "threatened" (paraphrased) "Unless you give me some sort of clue to your identity, poof goes the anonymous option." So, because he i.d.'ed himself to me, I'll be nice and keep the option of anonymity for future commentage.

SoP 11

2009-07-06T17:23:00.001-04:00

To write poetry in the dark
Is to write poetry confused

The muttled noise
The lack of light
Shrouded in darkness
Is all sight, all sound

How to make sense of
It all?
How to escape?

Like a car on the highway,
All we can do
Is sit back,
Buckle up,
And hold on.

SoP 10: Star-Spangled Banner

2009-07-04T22:30:00.003-04:00

The Star-Spangled Banner
Francis Scott Key

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming;
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there;
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave!

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land,
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just.
And this be our motto— "In God is our trust; "
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.
- - - - -
No poem from me today... Happy Independence Day!

SoP 9: Untitled Haiku

2009-07-03T22:44:00.005-04:00

It is just my luck

We know so many people with

High awesome levels

- - - - -

I didn't have the energy to find a good poem today... ah well.

SoP 8: "The Road Not Taken" and Deep Traffic

2009-07-02T21:24:00.007-04:00

http://blogsergiofreire.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/yellow_wood.jpg
- - - - -
The Road Not Taken
~Robert Frost~

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

- - - - -

Deep Traffic

(sung to the tune of "Deep River")

Deep traffic, my home is a-cross five lanes

Deep traffic, Lord... I want to cross over the great highway.

Oh, don't you want to cross to the other side

Of that old stretch? But no one'll move aside.

Deep traffic, my him is a-cross five lanes

Deep traffic, Lord... I want to cross over the great highway.
- - - - -
I thought of this coming home from driver's ed this morning. It's short, but I rather like it.

SoP 7: "To His Coy Mistress" and The Danger of Loving an Imp

2009-07-01T15:57:00.004-04:00

To His Coy Mistress
Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart;
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
- - - - -
The Danger of Loving an Imp
Tis dangerous to love a slyish imp,
To strangers she is quite skeptic
And when she's a skeptic, the stranger is prone
To 'ceive blows most knavish, that's typic.

Inately s'picious, she gets quite confused
About her nameless admirer.
And when she's confused, you'd better watch out
For iminent impish-like fire.

With folk she don't know, whose i.d. stay mum
Under the veil "Anon'mous,"
She smirks a sly smirk, and says to herself,
"I've 'cided to be auton'mous...

"...And possibly wield my blog-running power
By ex-naying that shadowy shroud
And so my Admirer'd have to say something,
No longer 'hind the 'nonymous cloud."

And with a poised finger she almost did press
The button to cut off the choice,
And then she did think, "But what if the guy
Loses the courage, his voice?"

The impish girl thought, then with a sigh-shrug,
"I'll give it just one more small chance."
And so, Secret One, I say to you now,
To willingly show self's last chance.
- - - - -
To be frank, if a certain somebody (you know who you are) doesn't give me some kind of clue (blogger profile link, webpage/blog link), the option of comments-in-complete-anonymity's going adios, sianara, good-day-to-you-sir. I've been good enough to inadvertantly give a certain somebody a glimpse of my soul, I think I deserve the same.
- - - - -
I apologize for neglecting to post a poem yesterday, I simply didn't have time to whip anything up. Perhaps I'll double up one of these next days.

SoP 6: "Because I could not stop for Death" and For Lily and Ezra

2009-06-29T18:21:00.010-04:00

Because I could not stop for Death

~Emily Dickinson ~

Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – 'tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity –
- - - - -
For Lily and Ezra

These two strong twins, both young and brave, we mourn,
They taken 'fore their time to heav'n above
Unduly tried, but never showing scorn.
Inseprable were they, how much they loved

Each other, and their freedom fight as well,
Ne'er breaking loyalty to their just cause.
They freed the world from tyrany's dark Héll,
But didn't get to hear the world's applause.

Sweet Lily greatly burdened with the pains
Of going deep into the hid'ous fray;
Bold Ezra sought to carry on the strain
And for his sister cared up to that day.

For the Resistance they gave their young lives
So that the people, ideas, might s'rvive.
- - - - -
I borrowed the idea for this poem from Eloosive's Daily Writing prompt the other day. Lily and Ezra were the main protagonists in "Accursed Necklace," my one of my favorite ficlets collaborations with OrangeOreos (who can also be found here), which we transfered to Protagonize as well.

Geez. I can't say I've ever posted that many links in two sentences before. First time for everything, I suppose.

SoP 5: Ode to The Big Four

2009-06-28T14:47:00.007-04:00

I tried, and I tried, but I simply could not find a poem with epicness worthy of The Big Four in time. Ah well. Maybe I'll double up tomorrow.
-----
(Quick author's note: this might be one of those "you just had to be there" sorts of things, but this was written in honor of the four guys, who called themselves The Big Four, in my APUSH class this past year. The group was our in-class legend. As obnoxious as they could get, they made that class. Seriously.)

As much as I want to rebuke
I feel I must make this tribute
So here I am, with poem and lute:
An Ode to the great Big Four.

For I have made The great Connection
Even with all that perplexion
I must admit with slight affection
The greatness of Big Four.

The thoughts of them are quite strong
Winkleman is on the end a long
Way from the rest of the group that's strong,
The one-only Big Four.

Cunningham's stuck in the middle
Of shenanigins far from little
(Hold on a sec, must tune the fiddle
To continue with the Big Four)

Bruning's way out on the far left
Often okay, but I was bereft
When once he couldn't keep'n check
Th'antics of The Big Four.

It's difficult to 'scribe The Bird
Who was their "leader." It's too absurd
To try and 'scribe BirdDog with words
He who founded th'Big Four.

They take dominion of Period Nine
And though they drive me out of my mind
I must admit, they're one-of-a-kind,
The infamous Big Four.

So " 'liver the message" all around
Send it 'round with voice and sound
Of those who impress and confound,
Irreplaceable Big Four.

As much as I've plained, I sing the praises
Of the group of APUSH days-es
All the time the group amazes,
The singular Big Four.

I hope they prize the work I've done
Me and my committee of one
And three books, now don't poke fun
Especially you, Big Four.

For all the 'plaining that I've done,
And all of my poking fun
I just could not remain dead-mum
In extolling the Big Four.

And so, I close this ode of praises
And all that's left I want to say is
"This'll go down through the ages,
The legacy of the Big Four."
- - - - -
Postlude: Yes, The Big Four did see this. How? I wrote it on the front board before class one day. Not only did the class like it, but it had the Four's approval.

SoP 4: "Common Cold" and Elusive Eloosive

2009-06-27T00:00:00.002-04:00

Common Cold

Ogden Nash

Go hang yourself, you old M.D.!

You shall not sneer at me.

Pick up your hat and stethoscope,

Go wash your mouth with laundry soap;

I contemplate a joy exquisite

In not paying you for your visit.

I did not call you to be told

My malady is a common cold.

By pounding brow and swollen lip;

By fever's hot and scaly grip;

By those two red redundant eyes

That weep like woeful April skies;

By racking snuffle, snort, and sniff;

By handkerchief after handkerchief;

This cold you wave away as naught

Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!

Give ear, you scientific fossil!

Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;

The Cold of which researchers dream,

The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.

This honored system humbly holds

The Super-cold to end all colds;

The Cold Crusading for Democracy;

The Führer of the Streptococcracy.

Bacilli swarm within my portals

Such as were ne'er conceived by mortals,

But bred by scientists wise and hoary

In some Olympic laboratory;

Bacteria as large as mice,

With feet of fire and heads of ice

Who never interrupt for slumber

Their stamping elephantine rumba.

A common cold, gadzooks, forsooth!

Ah, yes. And Lincoln was jostled by Booth;

Don Juan was a budding gallant,

And Shakespeare's plays show signs of talent;

The Arctic winter is fairly coolish,

And your diagnosis is fairly foolish.

Oh what a derision history holds
For the man who belittled the Cold of Colds!

- - - - -

http://www.thinkgeek.com/images/products/additional/large/bc01_mega_giant_plush_microbes_cold.jpg

- - - - -

Elusive Eloosive,
Why say that you hide?
You show us your talent,
Not keep it inside.

Perhaps it's because

Right after you write,

You go off in seclusion;

But at least you don't bite.

- - - - -

It's not much, not the greatest, but I felt like doing this sort of thing today. Not quite sure why I stuck a poem about 'Loo in with a poem about the (un)common cold.... perhaps because his whole poetry nudge is contageous or something...

Maybe it's not the best idea to crack illness jokes in a time of an international pandemic, and when a late-night host got in a bit of trouble for a joke... then again, procrastination's not a good idea either, so the low-quality joke stays.

SoP 3: "Waiting for the Birdy" and You Have to Get Used to It

2009-06-26T11:54:00.000-04:00

Waiting for the Birdie
~Ogden Nash~

Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
I hate having my picture taken.
How can your family claim to love you
And then demand a picture of you?
The electric chair is a comfortable chair,
But I know an equally comfortless pair;
One is the dentist's, my good sirs,
And the other is the photographer's.
Oh, the fly in all domsetic ointments
Is affectionate people who make appointments
To have your teeth filled left and right,
Or your face reproduced in black and white.
You open the door and you enter the studio,
And you feel less cheerio than nudio.
The hard light shines like seventy suns,
And you know that your features are foolish ones.
The photographer says, Natural, please,
And you cross you knees and uncross your knees.
Like a duke in a high society chronicle
The camera glares at you through its monocle
And you feel ashamed of your best attire,
Your nose itches, your palms perspire,
Your muscles stiffen, and all the while
You smile and smile and smile and smile.
It's over; you weakly grope for the door;
It's not; the photographer wants one more.
And if this experience you survive,
Wait, just wait till the proofs arrive.
You look like a drawing by Thurber or Bab,
Or a gangster stretched on a marble slab.
All your dear ones, including your wife,
Say There he is, that's him to the life!
Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon,
But I hate having my picture taken.
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/slightlynorth/1912696929/
- - - - -
You Have to Get Used to It

When with my fam'ly,
It's extremely vital to
Be used to photos.

Seven cameras,
Half the family's clickin' 'way.
You get used to it.

It's a 'quired skill,
The ability to stand
Hours of pictures.

SoP 2: "I'm Nobody!" and Why Me?

2009-06-25T00:00:00.002-04:00

I'm Nobody!
~Emily Dickinson~

I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there's a pair of us?
Don't tell! they'd advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one's name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!
- - - - -

- - - - -
~Why Me?~
or, To the Admirer

Why me?
What is it that could
possibly
Endear someone to me
like this,
To cause one to
spiral
Into apparent smitten
bliss?

I might be able to
pinpoint
The qualities that draws
my friends,
But I'm not exactly
certain
That those qualities
translate
Between friends and
admirers.

I can turn a phrase with
decent success,
People tell me I can
sing,
I take to the ivories as a
fish to water.

But there's something not
clicking.
It's not making sense
to me.
Somethimes I need things
spelled out.

You declare how you love
me,
Would you be so
kind
As to count for me
the ways?

Summer of Poetry 1: "You, Reader," and SoP Introduction

2009-06-24T12:00:00.005-04:00

You, Reader
~Billy Collins~

I wonder how you are going to feel
when you find out
that I wrote this instead of you.
that it was I who got up early
to sit in the kitchen
and mention with a pen
the rain-soaked windows,
the ivy wallpaper,
and the goldfish circling in its bowl
Go ahead and turn aside,
bite your lip and tear out the page,
but, listen -- it was just a matter of time
before one of us happened
to notice the unlit candles
and the clock humming on the wall.
Plus, nothing happened that morning--
a song on the radio,
a car whistling along the road outside--
and I was only thinking
about the shakers of salt and pepper
that were standing side by side on a place mat.
I wondered if they had become friends
after all these years
or if they were still strangers to one another
like you and I
who manage to be known and unknown
to each other at the same time --
me at this table with a bowl of pears,
you leaning in a doorway somewhere
near some blue hydrangeas, reading this.
- - - - -

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mookio/2705873215/
- - - - -
Poetry's lines I used to not cross,
believing I only had a saccharine boss,

but now with some practice (and prodding from 'Loo)
I'm willing to try it... now, how 'bout you?

I'm taking 'spiration from poems that I read
over the summer, and I'd sure like t'see

what you all think, or take as spark.
Won't you share poems this season-not-dark?

Peek at Paintings

2009-06-19T15:18:00.008-04:00

Alright folks, get ready to tilt your heads in unison and appreciate fine art.

Back in the 50's, some people claimed that some abstract expressionist works, like those of Jackson Pollock, was Communist propaganda or something.

-tilts head slightly, mildly confused-

I don't know about you, but that up there doesn't exactly scream "COMMUNIST" at me.

My friend Watween, on her trip to the National Gallery in Washington, thought this painting looked like a friend of ours.

Because she'd also brought a voice recorder to document her trip, after describing the painting and deciding that this looked like our friend, she tried to talk "her" down from the hill. "While I must compliment you on your lovely hair bow, you're really gonna fall down into the ocean, and probably hit that tree on your way down," she admonished.

I agreed.

I've always liked this one:

It reminds me a bit of Hemingway's short story, "A Clean, Well-Lighted Place." Besides, it's just so neat-looking.

Now, here's something I don't get. How is it that this...

...is considered "brilliant," "genius," or even "art"? I think nearly anybody can do something like that. It's like taking a sheet of paper and hanging it in a museum, or composing a piano piece of four minutes, thirty-three seconds of silence (that's true, there's a piece called 4'33". Creative name, no?). Sure, some art can be done by us untalented masses, but... -tilts head until is nearly upside-down- I dunno, that's a bit of a stretch for me.

(This gallery is not liable for any art-appreciation-related neck injuries or discomfort)

Housekeeping

2009-06-14T15:01:00.003-04:00

Alright, just to keep all y'all informed:

- I'm planning a revamped look for this fine blog. Not quite sure what that revamp will entail, so I'm open to suggestions!

- After school gets let out, I'm going to go on another "poetry frenzy." As part of my AP English summer assignment, I'll be finding at least one poem a day. I'll share that poem here, and I'll write a poem of my own* as well. Two poems for the price of one! All summer long! Yay!

- I'm also going to step up my reading this summer, too. If I come across something really good I'll share it with you guys.

*quality not guarenteed.

The Hopeless Romantic

2009-06-11T21:18:00.005-04:00

Hopeless romantic's a bit of an oxymoron
How can a romantic be "hopeless"
If they see beauty in just about everything?
Or can entertain facets of an idea
For hours at a time?
Doesn't sound hopeless to me.

Of course, this attitude may lead
To the fall of these Great Gatsbys,
Pursuing beauty at the price of "reality."
But I think that if beauty is appreciated,
Little and insignificant as it may seem,
It's just worth it.
------
Can I help it if standing in the rain for the sake of standing in the rain inspired philisophical poetry?

Sonnet III: A Bit of Confusion

2009-06-10T09:29:00.005-04:00

I wonder who could this little sprite be,
This shy little creature of 'destine ways
Who wishes to make known esteem to me,
While hiding from me 'dentity, I'd say.

Upon two posts o'th's blog two marks were left
Declaring a kind of affection on me
The first a statement, the second a poem crafted
Will anything else follow? We'll just see.

Who is this Secret 'Mirer? D'like to know
The myst'ry and suspense is startin't wear
me out. I want this personn to self-show
I'd like to know who's showing me their care.

Oh, just a final question for this part:
What soul on earth'd give me their passioned heart?

Metaphors

2009-05-23T15:42:00.003-04:00

What is a metaphor?
What does it look like?
Does it have texture?
How does it smell?

What is a metaphor?
How do you extend it?
Can you take it in your hands,
And stretch it, like Silly Putty,
Molding and bending it to meet
Your needs?

What is a metaphor?
Is it our own brand of magic,
our own way of turning
one thing into another?
Is it an earth-bound sorcery
Enabling us to change a speck
into an island,
a man into a mountain,
a candle into a star?

(05-14-09)

Some Drawings

2009-05-12T21:17:00.009-04:00

Alright all, I wanted to share some drawings I did recently. I don't draw all that often, and the results can be mixed, but I rather liked these.

Most of the time my shading's pretty iffy, but this actually came out fairly decent. This teacup was just on the table, it looked nice, and I had pencil and paper. The above ensued.

Yes, that is a lamp and a set-up you'd probably find in an interrogation room. No, they don't have anything to do with each other. I was just bored, alright? Besides, I like it.

This I drew before math this morning. I'm not sure why, but I was thinking of Archi Teuthis, so I drew the squid; then during study hall I wrote the poem, which goes something like this:

Two bright, curious
eyes
Peering out of the
dark
Making sense of
the abyss
Comprehending
chaos
~
Ten long, lean
fingers
Reaching out into
nothing
Feeling the
intangible
Understanding
irregularity
~
One quick, creative
mind
Meandering into
imagination
Letting it wander in
surreal,
disjointed,
linear
brilliance

As of Late, Untitled

2009-05-05T22:07:00.003-04:00

Prologue
[the following is meant to be handwritten]

(haven't quite figured out the addressee yet)
Since humankind began making technological advances, technology has been growing at an exponential rate. Major breakthroughs have been occurring at smaller time intervals; we've been increasing our dependancy on computers; we've been working to create more advanced artificial intelligence. Because of all these advances, and their rate of advance, it is therefore inevitable that one day A.I., indeed, all technology, will surpass human comprehension.

As much as I support scientific endeavors, as I mysalf am an avid researcher, I strongly caution going forward with a recently proposed project intended to further the boundaries of A.I. and test the limits of the experimental quantum computer. Several past scientists, both amature and seasoned, have warned against a phenomenon known as technological singularity. I don't consider myself an expert on the subject, in fact I barely understand its details, but from what I do understand I can say that with the way things have been progressing, if this project is allowed to go forward, I only see grave consequences for the well-being of the human race.

I realize that obscurity gives my words little weight, but I beg that you reconsider supporting this project.

Marcus Kell Jay

-----

I think I should explain the inspiration for this one. Lately I've been kind of interested/freaked out by the possibility of a robot apocalypse/takeover. You may laugh, but think about it: technology's advancing so quickly (exponentially, in fact) that it'll soon be beyond our comprehension. We're developing A.I. that'll be able to surpass our intelligence. The whole concept of technological singularity. The First Rule of Robots (not to be confused with the First Law of Robots [yes, the two are different]), which is a robot will always turn against you (same applies to chimps, apparently).

I must mention: because this is a draft there'll be blank spaces, there'll be omissions, there'll be changes. Comments are appreciated!

A Possible Future "Free Your Mind" Segment

2009-05-04T21:31:00.003-04:00

Alright, there's a series on Protag. that I've been contributing to called "Free Your Mind." If you're a former Ficlets person (and I know you're out there), you'll probably recall the Ficlets Revolution series, and all the madness that ensued there. This is somewhat similar, except this one's a little less insane. But just a little.
Anyway, I had an idea for my reentrance into the story, I wanted to lay it on y'all, and this seemed to be the only real publication option at the moment. Keep in mind, this is a draft, so it's more-or-less annotated (for example, all the stuff in parentheses are either thoughts, underdeveloped ideas, or something that'll change once I think of a better way to phrase it). Everything is subject to change, and comments are highly appreciated!

Blue Skies
(Undetermined Person) looked up apprehensively at the looming church. Run-down as it was, it still stood majestically over the grey street. When they took over, try as they might, the Antagonists could not bring themselves to destroy it, nor the magnificent stained glass windows, nor mar it in any other way, inside or out. They may have frowned upon art and discouraged religion, but they knew where divine boundaries lay.
"I hope this is the right place," (U.P) muttered, pulling at the substancial wooden door. And I hope no Antagonists decide to show up, (s)he thought. His/her muffled footsteps rang through the high sanctuary ceiling, getting tangled up in the rafters. Specks of dust floated and danced lazily in the late afternoon sunbeams tinted by the stained glass. (more description of church possibly?) (U.P) was taken with the sanctuary; indeed, it had been a while since anyone had seen beauty of this magnitude. But the allegations seemed to be proving right: there was no one here. Was it a bluff, then?
A sound caught (U.P)'s ear. Quickly (s)he glanced up into the (second level/balcony level), but saw nothing. Unseen the sound continued; it sounded like singing:
Bist du bei mir,
geh' ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh',
zum Sterben undzu meiner Ruh.
Bist du bei mir,
geh' ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh
zum sterben undzu meiner Ruh.
Ach, wie vergnügt
wär' so mein Ende,
es drückten deine schönen Hände
mir die getreuen Augen zu!
Ach, wie vergnügt
wär' so mein Ende,
es drückten deine schönen Hände
mir die getreuen Augen zu!
Bist du bei mir,
Geh'ich mit Freuden
zum Sterben und zu meiner Ruh
zum sterben undzu meiner Ruh.
It's either a ghost or an angel, (U.P) thought, clearing his/her throat and continuing to meander through the pews.
After a few moments, the voice began again. It was a partially familiar tune, but the words seemed a bit different:
Blue skies smiled at me,
But nothin' but dark skies do I see.
Bluebirds used to sing songs,
But nothin' but blue sighs all day long.
Used t'see the sun,
Shinin' so bright,
Used t'see things
Goin' so right.
Notice all the days
Hurryin' by,
When you're on the run,
My how they fly.
Blue skies, most of them gone,
Seems nothin' but blue days from now on.
"Can't seem to sing anything cheerful, huh?" (U.P) called out into the sanctuary.
"At least it's something." (U.p) turned to look up into the (balcony) at a haggard, exhausted, emaciated, but half smirking Gwen. She walked along the edge towards the stairs. "Besides, it keeps up the story that this place is haunted.
------

NPM the Last: The Concession

2009-04-30T19:30:00.000-04:00

Eighteen Days ago I slighted my verse "skill"
And 'Loosive would not let it drop.
Impishly I 'gested that I write poems't kill
Expecting it to utterly go "flop."

Seeing as he prodded me into this "mess"
I thought it's only fair to say to Marc:
Now, I'm not one to most easily confess
To my own faults, but this has been a lark.

Thank you, 'Loo, for spurring me along to try
My hand at verse, to work upon my form,
Most importantly, for showing me that I
Don't stink at poetry, safe from my scorn.

I'm not aiming for those form points here
Just felt I had to write this way right now,
Had to say that 'Loo was right on this point here
And I was wrong (here's where you take a bow).

At this point, Marc, you are free to say that you
Had told me so, because you did do so.
I would not improve lest there was a poem'r two
I see now practice helped this poet's woe.

Here we have an odd sort poem from odd chiqueet
One you'll pro'lly never really get to meet.
One more couplet before this poem is through
And one more time I must say thanks to 'Loo.

NPM 20: The Poetaster

2009-04-30T19:12:00.005-04:00

The red-headed poetaster
Thought she wasn't worth a piastre
And before, if you as't'er
She'd say, "use it all as plaster."

She made herself reherse and reherse
To try and perfect her verse
To her surprise, it wasn't cursed,
Not destined for the herse.

So the red-headed poetaster
Is thinking much faster
Hold off on the making-plaster
Her poems just might be satisfat-er.
---
This poem was made possible by The Oxford Essential Thesaurus, The Oxford Essential Dictionary, Merriam-Webster's Rhyming Dictionary, www.merriam-webster.com, and The Highly Selective Dictionary for the Extraordinarily Literate.

I know, the rhythm's probably off, and some of the rhymes are really weird, but I'm one of those "I wish the world would just go away for a while" moods (in other words, I could care less at the moment). I would've done a pocket poem, as it's Poem in Your Pocket Day, but I just wasn't feeling in a pocket-ish mood, and I found the word "poetaster" so much more relevant at the moment.

NPM 19: I Cannot Write a Poem Today

2009-04-29T16:03:00.005-04:00

I cannot write a poem today
I've far too much to do
Should be illegal t'have this much
I think that I should sue.

I cannot write a poem today,
I'm much too busy, you see.
I'd write all day f'I had the choice,
But it cannot be.

I cannot write a poem today,
I say it with chagrin.
But wait a sec, this is a poem!
Oh man, I lied! I sin!

I guess I wrote a poem today,
Despite my busy life.
A bit of wit is always respite
From my daily strife.
---
Don't forget: tomorrow's Poem in Your Pocket Day! Carry one/some of your favorite poem(s) in your pocket!

NPM 18: Sonnet II (With Practice)

2009-04-28T16:46:00.002-04:00

They say that practice breeds perfection's kin
In music, words, painting, all sorts of art.
An unwrit order seems to state the sin
Of frowning 'pon one's 'parent lack of smarts.

I have been told my poetry is more
Than just a bunch of worthless sapiness.
Now, I've only done just about a score,
And some's been good, but of that worthiness?

It's odd what forcing of oneself can do
To visibly improve a bunch of junk.
But once you rise, you can fall again, too.
And frankly I don't want to once more flunk.

So practice does make perfect most the time;
I want to 'spute it, just not in this rhyme.
-----
I wanted to argue with Marc's comment on the previous poem purely for the sake of being impish... but... but.... I can't really argue in iabmic pentameter! -despairs-

NPM 17: The Man Who Sat on the Bench Everyday

2009-04-27T16:45:00.003-04:00

An man used to sit on a bench everyday
Not much to look at, had not much to say
'cept smile and send out a cheerful "good day,"
The man who sat on the bench everyday.

I remember I'd pass him 'bout every day,
That man who sat on the bench everyday,
And when it was nice, he'd call out to say,
"sure is a wonderful, beautiful day."
And I'd smile and nod, and go on my way,
Venturing through a difficult day.
But my spirits stayed up, and I have to say,
It's pro'lly because he Went out of his way
To try an make somebody's day
A little more bearable in some litle way.

I'd stop to say hi out on my own way
To the man who sat on the bench everyday.
But I noticed that nobody else ever stayed.
They must've been too busy with life to pay
Any mind to the man on the bench everyday.

I learned a great deal when I'd stop on my way
To talk to the man on the bench everyday.
I learned to appreciate all He has made
To love it and care for it in some way.

Then sadly he told me that he could not stay,
The man who sat on the bench everyday.
Gently he smiled and bid me good day,
And onto the bus he went on his way.

I often look out for him during the day,
The man who sat on the bench everyday,
But I realized that now he really did stay.
He's out and around, everywhere, everyday
Out on a park bench, just waiting to say
A friendly and kindly and hearty good day
To you as you go around on your way

So make sure that you try to repay
The kindness he tried to give out each day
And give to your fellows good day,
Like the man who sat on the bench everyday.

----
Note: I typed this up quick on an iTouch, and I didn't have time to fix grammar/spelling issues... and I still don't at the moment... typo-fixage will come at a later point.

NPM 16: A Change of Pace

2009-04-26T20:33:00.003-04:00

Note: I went to the Bonefish Grill with some family for dinner, and for whatever reason they cover their tables with paper. Kind of the way things were arranged I was inspired to write a poem semi-on the table. And it looked so neat I had to take a picture of it (aforementioned picture's forthcoming).
---
I needed a change
of pace
And we were out
and about
There was paper
on the table
And a pen
in my pocket
POETRY ENSUED
g2

NPM 15: How?

2009-04-25T07:29:00.005-04:00

How does poetry work?
How does it move us
With black dots
Forming letters,
Letters giving way
To words,
Words yielding
To lines?
Lines forming an idea.

How is it that short lines,

Some with rhyme,

Others with rhythm,

And others still without either,

Touch our hearts?

Make us think?

Make us feel things

We've never felt before,

Nor ever will feel the same way?

There's other forms of literature

Out there.

But here's what I find curious:

How does poetry

In 175 words

Do what prose does

In 175 lines

Or paragraphs

Or pages?

NPM 14: i can't think

2009-04-24T22:33:00.003-04:00

i can't think
it's too late
for my brain
to work.

can't function
dark is here
i simply can
not think.

the hour's come
i must rest
my weary mind.
relief.

---
yes, I did decide to go "e.e.cummings" on all y'all. Except I used punctuation. Bleh, gotta stop leaving these poems so late.

NPM 13: Procrastination

2009-04-23T21:44:00.005-04:00

Procrastination
Hate it with a pay-shun.
But today, no resist-ation
From the pull of procrastionation.

From the dawn of creation
Been no greater frustration
To go in the migration
With the strong procrastination.

Rather than elation
I feel no more than ick-sation.
I should be on probation
For today's procrastination.

Didn't have usual foc-ation.
There was no consolation.
I should be laiden with damnation
For today's procrastination.

I do no good with guilt-ation.
Along with its evaluation
My soul's begun disintigration
With today's procrastination.

So please forgive my lamentation
I just feel this deep sensation
I've yet be struck w/ greater mortification
Than the awful realization

Of procrastination.
---
I much too hard on myself, I know. Everyone makes mistakes, I know.
That doesn't stop me from hating it, though.

NPM 12: Do I Dare?

2009-04-23T19:51:00.004-04:00

Do I dare

Disturb the universe,

Question its mysterious ways,

Send a single ripple

To jostle its perfect alignments

If just for a moment?

Do I dare

Make a scene,

Raise my voice,

Make myself heard abover the crowd,

If only for a second?

Do I dare

Create something new,

Something the world has never seen

From the likes of a speck like me,

Insignificant as I am,

Even if I only present to darkness?

Do I dare

Disturb the universe,

Question its mysterious ways,

Send a single ripple

To jostle its perfect alignments

If just for a moment?

----

Alright, some of the formatting came out a little funky, what with the picture and all... but given the poem, I rather like it. ^^

NPM 11: Window Bench

2009-04-22T06:45:00.003-04:00

I sit and watch the world go by
From my window seat
A quiet corner of my room
It's really quite the treat.

The house's shadow's out in front
Bright early in the morn.
I sit and read, rest on the sill
Without the sun for scorn.

Sun comes 'round my side of house
Before he heads on down.
And through the trees, it's quite lovely
To see the sunset 'roun'.

My window bench's a right nice spot
To read, to sit, to chill.
With window open, the nice cool air
Sweeps o'er me and sill.

I sit and watch the world go by
From my window bench
It lets me perch above the world
And 'lows my mind't unclench.

NPM 10: Too Tired

2009-04-21T21:49:00.002-04:00

I'm much too tired;
I shouldn't write poems this late.
Bit late for that now.

NPM 9: Back to the Grind

2009-04-20T06:25:00.004-04:00

There once was a day we called "Mon"

Back to work, 'way from the sun.

I'd rather stay home,

But don't want to be 'lone.

Might's'well return to dane-mun.

----

Yay for word inversions and a residential imp!

NPM 8: I Almost Forgot!

2009-04-19T21:30:00.004-04:00

I almost forgot!

I need a poem for today!

This'll work, I guess.

They Just Get It

2009-04-19T06:47:00.002-04:00

It shouldn't come as too much surprise that I absolutely love my music and the music of others, classical especially. Unfortunately, I can't seem to find too many people my age with whom I can share this, because, frankly, the genre's intimidating. When young people, or any age people for that matter, think "classical music," they usually think tuxes, long gowns, everyone very serious and formal, but there's almost an air of exclusion. That only a set of a few chosen are able to listen to this music, and that there are certain standards to be upheld in the genre.

I have to say yes, there are certain standards that need to be upheld in the music. But classical music isn't just for snooty folks with cash to throw around; it's too beautiful to be exclusive! Likewise, there are certain standards and expectations which the musician has to meet. Yes, you have to practice a great deal, and yes, you have to be disciplined, and yes, you have to have a great love for what you do to be able to do it well. But I don't think enough growing musicians such as myself know, or understand, that you have to live life, too. Sure, you can spend twelve hours at the piano bench every day, doing technique until your fingers fall off, and come concert day you can play the piece perfectly, but if there's no emotion to show, no experience from which to draw, technique is next to worthless.

Consider these guys for a moment...

They're the 5 Browns. Five siblings, all play the piano, all went to Juliard, first time the school's had a whole family at one time. You've probably heard of them.
But have you ever heard them play? The top one's Flight of the Bumblebee; it's short in case you either want a snippet, or don't have the time/attention span to watch/listen to anything longer. The second one's Rhapsody in Blue, one of my favorites. The last one's an excerpt from The Firebird; it's a bit different than the others, but it's still awesome.

Yes, these guys are for real.
But not only are they real musicians, they're real people. They understand that this isn't, and shouldn't, be an exclusive art form; they get that you need to live to gain experience which you can give in a performance. In my mind, they just get it. Take a look at this, you'll get a sense of what I mean.

NPM 7: Sonnet I

2009-04-18T13:19:00.004-04:00

Ms Archi Teuthis Dux, the Chief Squid reigns
Around the writing site Protagonize
Composing pieces borderline insane
But ultimately beauty maximized

Creates detachedly straightforward prose
Or pieces that are downright strange at first
But if one takes the time to think, I s'pose,
It gives us something we unwit'ning thirst.

See, "We all go a little mad sometimes"
But I don't think we have enough'v't'n life.
The Chief Squid makes it part of normal times
Bizarre and strange occurr'nces are but trif(les)

For emph'sis on where odd'ty daily lies
I envy'r, praises to her I give rise
-----
My first sonnet-ific efforts (Shakespearean, specifically), dedicated to Archi_Teuthis, the Chief Squid of Protagonize.
A note on some of the crazy spellings: If fudging was good enough for Shakespeare, it's good enough for me. I have no compunction.

NPM 6: I Think That I Would Fall in Love

2009-04-17T05:31:00.005-04:00

I think that I would fall in love
If someone played for me
A song that he had writ himself
Math-e-mat-ic-ly

I think that I would fall in love
If he told me I
Should stop loving him the moment that
An end is reached for pi.

I also think I'd fall in love
If he spoke to me
Not with just the spoken word
But with those notes and keys.

But I think, most 'portantly,
I'd fall in love if he
Took me as the way I am
And loved me just for me.

He would not need smarts or skill
To capture my esteem.
Though it's nice, these things to have,
One can only dream.

I'd only ask of him to have
An open breezy mind
To give a chance, the things I like,
That satisfy my mind.

I would also try to do
That I ask of him.
It's only fair to do my part,
Not skirt around the rim.

If he's not one for 'Roque music
I hope he'd give it a try.
Likewise, if he liked a certain food
From it I'd pr'olly not shy.

I think that I would fall in love
If Fate blew love my way.
I'd only hope that once it came
With that love I'd stay.

NPM 5: Untitled

2009-04-16T20:54:00.003-04:00

You intrigue me
Yet I feel I hardly know you.

I know you through exchange of words
Of thoughts
Of ideas.
But that's it.

I wish I knew your face,
I wish I knew your voice,
But for now all I have to go on
Are your words.

I'm perfectly content with that,
But my curiousity is not.
It is, however,
Willing to be patient.

My curiosity can be content with words,
For now.
But it will persist.
It'll have to win out.
--------
In a roundabout way this was inspired by "Falling Slowly" from Once (this particular rendition happens to be one of my favorites).

NPM 4: Untitled

2009-04-15T09:23:00.004-04:00

(Inspired by one of Eloosive's Daily Writing Practices, which, in turn, was inspired by a piece by Protag's Archi Teuthis. Gotta love the creative-borrowing cycle)
Photo inspiration (as I can't find an embedding link): http://photography.nationalgeographic.com/photography/photo-of-the-day/green-window-pod.html
You also have to love the awesomeness that is National Geographic.

Aqua

Crackling paint cast in

Gentle morning sunlight

Slated window veiled in shadow

Pond'ring