How did I get behind again?

I don't actually have anything today, I don't know, maybe my muse is on vacation. Here is a hysterically funny rhyming "rapping" comedian for your viewing pleasure until I get back in writing mode. Good thing I don't do this for a living!

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c4a43aff11

I got bored trying to write poetry

(so I wrote some random prose. No rhyme, no reason, just unfiltered brain to fingers)

“We were in the water. It was dark and I remember" [I remember!] the Christina Aguilera song pops into my head. Ugh. I was not a fighter at that moment. "I remember trying to swim, but it was so dark. I kept thinking how maybe if I drowned I’d be warm. I know I splashed about for a while longer, my head was getting very heavy and I couldn’t remember exactly which direction I was supposed to be swimming." [just keep swimming, just keep swimming] But I didn’t feel like Dory "and so I sort of paused. And that’s the end of the memory.”

“I see, and you don’t remember anything after that?”

“Well sure. I remember waking up in the hospital and I was totally freaked out. I remember ripping out the IVs and I guess one of them must have had me connected to a heart monitor because that flat lined. And I was confused, thinking that the flat line meant I was dying you know?”

“Mhmm. Do you know why you were, as you say, freaked out in the first place? When you woke up?”

“Well, hospitals kind of freak me out" [she’s a superfreak, superfreak] "in general. People… die in them.”

“Did you know someone who died in a hospital?”

“Hey doc, I gotta run" [and the bass keeps runnin’ runnin’ and runnin’ runnin’] "but we can keep revealing all my inner secrets next session okay? My insurance says I can have a few more.”

“That sounds fine.”

“Okay, sure thing doc, ciao.”

I had never been so glad to leave a session since the boating accident. I swear he doped the air vents or something. My brain felt like I was cracking out, turning my words into songs and the next thing I know I’m about to reveal that she died in her hospital with the doctor just watching. Damned doctors, they don’t really know what they’re doing I think. Or she wouldn’t have died.

I grabbed a bus to the grocery and picked up a giant steak, a loaf of bread, and some ice cream. The stock girl looked horrified by my cart so I threw in some frozen vegetables. My eating had really gone down the drain since her death. She didn’t cook so much as she magically put food together. I don’t think I ever actually saw her look in a cookbook, just threw stuff into pots and pans and we had dinner. No meat back in those days, I don’t enjoy it as much now, but I keep trying. The doc said eating meat again might help me move on. Mostly it just makes me nauseated.

I went to unlock the apartment door but it gave when I touched the door handle. I threw the bag to the side and reached for my gun. Damn! In the car. I grabbed the frozen steak, desperate times. I threw open the door and was all adrenaline ready to beat the crap out of whoever was in the place. I dropped the steak. I swayed. She turned around.

“A steak? Honey, I thought you were adapting to vegetarian meals.” She looked disappointed. “Well, that’s okay, I guess, well, I don’t know how to cook it, but if you really want it tonight you could just eat the vegetable dish as a side.”

Then I’m pretty sure I said something like, “Huh buh buh muh, wha?”

A second one today!

(for kicks I wrote a second one. I stole some lines from songs I was listening to on loop - haha - and then added a few of my own for giggles I guess, also to cement certain associations I was making. Anyway, it's not great, but shmeh. If you buy into biorhythms - I am undecided - I looked mine up and they are like shit right now, so I'm trying not to be too harsh on myself)

As if it makes a difference

You’re just as pretty as you can be –
I was getting myself into trouble.
You’ll miss me when I’m gone [maybe not]
Shut up shut up shut up
I fell for your lies [every time]
but I won’t let you trick me twice
Oh wait, you’re always right.
Learn to spell your accusations
[it’s not effective if you can’t spell the insult]
I won’t miss you [sorry]
because you just don’t matter anymore.

I have begun to pretend you never happened

(I have no real commentary on this. I think it sucks more than usual, so I might take the idea and some of the lines and reformat them. Or stick them into an exercise. I should get back to doing exercises, I think my poems were getting better there for a while...)

I have begun to pretend you never happened

It’s par for the course you know,
losing people because
I fuck things up I guess.
Sit in my messy room
no energy to clean, I
stare off into a distant land,
only I can see it.
Everything is perfect
in this imaginary land, and
I have begun to pretend
you never happened.

Maybe I should practise more

(here's a quick one. I'm trying to say something which inevitably makes my poems suck more. I don't know if that makes sense, but anyway. Here's a random one that's not very good and that I may actually edit one of these days...)

My clout is a print I pass around

Absurd affectations, I police my face.
Acting on the stage, wondering
who is the director?
I burn all my bridges to puzzle you –
my absurd affectations.
Bitterly cold with overcast skies,
but still too bright. I put on sunglasses
while I mince my words.
I smile with my teeth, button my coat.
My clout is a print I pass around:
strong and happy with pinstriped suit pants
and a form fitting t-shirt.
Absurd affectations,
You believe my amiability.

Nonsensicality X 2

(I'm hoping that you'll read this title and that will help convey the point of the nonsensicality. No, I have no idea where the hell this poem came from. I mean, besides my head.)

Boy, it is your fault that I am not making sense

Stare into space,
long day, I am beat.
Beaten? Beat-ment, beatly.
I am beatlier than you.
You snerk at my maze of word play.
Bulletin! I am hinting at something,
aiming to paint a clear picture
what I want.
These paltry tries shred at my reality,
minty-fresh sanity is pulled from my gut
a sword catered just to me.
Deny the pain and it subsides,
peachy keen dontcha know?
I ran my fingers along your back,
I totally fruck.
Razors of excitement
exceeding a tolerable degree.

(this second one doesn't make any more sense. Possibly it makes less sense. Maybe I shouldn't write when I haven't been to sleep all night. Damned insomnia)

Keep Laughing

I keep laughing at the nonsense,
paint my toes with glitter and dance around my room.
The giant moon bubble rises in my watery sky,
victorious insomnia -- I pace on eggshells.
Does UPS deliver on Christmas eve eve?
Would be you be so kind to send me a rainbow?
Sew it to my quilt to stop the tossing turning.
You jostle my sanity, I frown at your presence,
but urge you stay. I will create you a niche
in my origami world.
Imagined animosity hurts,
I keep laughing at the nonsense.

A couple... really, dear readers, COME BACK

(I swear, promise, really really am going to try my best to start updating this sucker regularly again. Anyway, with that in mind I have TWO new poems, yay?, written with the same base start of simple word association. The first one, as you can see, is seasonal, and the second... I keep trying, somewhat desperately, to put some of the emotions of dance into words. I don't know why, I guess I just want to be able to share some of it with people who aren't dancers, but really, it's just not possible. This does not seem to stop me from trying, so the second one is my attempt to give you a little glance into the world of dance, and the relations that happen between fellow dancers. Thanks for reading m'dears)

I don't know how to roast chestnuts

The ballerina dog ornament wears a tutu
Her tiara sparkles, shimmers in the tree lights
You raise your champagne flute and toast to the
holiday season filled with laughter, playing
freezing cold in the snow,
snuggling up warm by the fire.
I don’t know how to roast chestnuts,
grilled cheese sandwiches anyone?


Backstage Nerves

Backstage feeling jittery, little tremors
the black curtains looming ominous.
You come up the staircase to tread in the rosin,
play with the props to distract the nerves.
Come over to stand with me by the warm lights,
I adjust your costume… nervous habit.
You double-check my hooks and eyes,
we are a good team. I rub your shoulders a bit before
I start stretching myself [again!]
You hold my hands as I circle my ankles,
and whisper a little inside joke.
I have to suppress a giggle, and
the sour taste of nerves dissipates.
I hear the five-note cue from the symphony
and give you a wink and a smile before I go onstage –
to flirt with the audience.
To dance.

Random Prose

(Have I mentioned that prose scenes just pop into my head and I don't know why or how? This is another one like that. Enjoy?)


I took a deep breath before I knocked on her door. I could hear the passionate orchestra music through the door -- the CD she always plays when she's sad. The door opened and I could see the pain in her expression. She said nothing. I swallowed.
"I'm sorry." Still she said nothing. "I didn't lie."
She shifted her weight slightly to lean into her left hip. Her movements were always so graceful, I felt lost in watching her.
"I know." Her voice broke through, brought me back to focus. I looked up, but she was looking past me, the sadness replaced to an empty expression.
"I just…" I trailed off. There was no need to explain, she already knew. "I need you." I decided to change my course, try to get her back.
She uncrossed her arms and played with her rings, but she did not change her gaze. Looking beyond me, maybe to someplace happier.
"I'm sorry."
"It's too late." Her voice was tired.
"If I could have another shot-"
"It's too late."
"If you'd take another chance-"
"It's too late." She closed her eyes, her hands were still.
"I will hold on, I will wait."
In one graceful movement she stood back, inside her apartment again. "It's too late." She closed the door.
I stood a long time, my fingertips resting gently on the doorknob. I wondered what she had seen when she looked past me. Maybe, if I could understand that, I could get her back.

Poem to lure back any readership I might have had!

(holy crap! It's been a whole month. I've probably lost all my readership. Let's see if I can snag back some readers with this really random poem that popped into my head and demanded to be written down.)

Recreation of You
I love you better in the dark.
You’re more beautiful
when I can’t see you.
I make you up in my mind and
you are so perfect.
I love you better in writing.
You’re less annoying
when I don’t have to listen to you.
I read your words at my leisure and
they are so perfect.
I love you better in solitude.
You’re more perfect
when you’re not around.
I invent a brand new person
with your face, but perfect.

Surrender to the [almighty] Music

(hmm yeah, so I wasn't sure how to refine this and keep a sense of it being very raw and harsh. Hence it's raw and harsh, but I'm not sure it is as such in the way I wanted it to be... Ah well, it's midterms, no time to edit it right now!!!)

Surrender to the [almighty] Music
Bass lines beat hard
                  [head rush]
My heart gives in
to their rhythms.
Dance!
screams the DJ and
I bow down to
this primordial idol.
The lights cast weird shadows
                  [delirium]
and I am transfixed.
These luminous patterns dictate--
I mimic them in my movements.
Dance!
screams the DJ and
I obey this
omnipotent music-maker.
Sweat gleams on my skin
                  [fervent ecstasy]
damp hair in my eyes, manifestations
Of the desperation in the dancing.
Dance!
screams the DJ and
I surrender myself to
this absolute power.

Haste makes waste

(and this poem is waste. Well okay, maybe if I actually spent time on it, it wouldn't totally suck, but, well, I didn't, and I don't know if I will. So this is a sample of the truly raw, unedited crap that comes out of my head. Enjoy...? Oh yeah, and I'm not sure if I like the title either, hahaha)

You were...

You were my colour
bringing the greys to life --
crimson roses and inky skies,
rich brown chocolate ice cream
rainbow sprinkles.
My tears fall, colourless,
onto the white tissues.
You were my lifeline
bringing vibrancy to life --
the rhythm of the beat in my heart,
the warmth inside my soul,
the chills down my spine.
I sit motionless on the couch,
even breath seems difficult, painful.
It is cold in this bleak existence,
no colour in my black and white world.

I write openings a lot

(I like to write the opening scenes for stories and then abandon them. This one, however, I actually do have ideas for development... we shall see...)


I was too strung up to sleep. I used to feel this way sometimes when I was a Freedom user. Coming off the high was always so jittery -- that's how it felt after your death. I paced the streets, flicking the lid on my lighter. Open, close, open, close, forming a counter beat to my footsteps. It was dark that night, more than usual, as though nature were also mourning your death. And the streets seemed emptier… but I noticed people were also avoiding me. They had heard about your death -- maybe they knew I was ready to kill, that they would die if they interfered with this particular nighttime walk. I had no planned route, no goal destination when I set out, but I hit the spots we used to frequent and then I finally ended up at your grave. It was good of your parents to give you a funeral. I know there was tension, but they both cried and your dad shook my hand, and your mum kissed me on the cheek and hugged me. She held me so tightly that it was painful, not physically, just emotionally. I know I tried to say something consoling, but all I could do was lamely hug her back. I wore a dress for your funeral, I hope you know that.

I sat at your grave for a long time. I traced your name over and over, refusing to cry. Touching your grave gave me a sense of calm, but taking away my hand I felt highly strung again. I gripped your headstone as though maybe if I squeezed it hard enough it would spur your rebirth. And then I knew. A wave of calm came over me and I knew exactly what I needed to do. I kissed the cold stone, it would be the last time.

Still lesser?

(so, last time I was all "I promise something better soon" but since the Master's application has claimed its stake on my life and soul until 1 oct, I haven't really written anything great. So here's this little prose piece, it's sort of... lame? I dunno, I was trying to convey something, but I don't think I did a very good job. I may try again some other time)

Pumpkin Guts

It was raining outside when I drove to the store. I picked out the perfect pumpkin -- small, it would definitely be sweet. I drove home and the music on the radio made me feel weird -- I couldn't tell if I was happy or sad. I plopped the pumpkin on the counter and cut a hexagon around the stem. Normally I would cut it in half, but this time I felt it would be more gratifying to leave the pumpkin whole. I glanced at the melon baller on the counter, but instead plunged my hand inside the pumpkin and began pulling out handfuls of pumpkin guts. The goopy, stringy texture it left on my hand gave me creepy chills. Handful upon handful, pretty soon I started to laugh. I pulled out more of the stringy stuff and began to cry as well. And I stood there, crying and laughing and pulling out handfuls of orange goop until I was out of tears and laughter and the pumpkin guts were all out. I was empty and so was my pumpkin. I went outside to sit in the rain -- the pie could wait.

Lesser works

(I'm afraid I've been really busy trying to get everything done for my grad school application and have thus not had a chance to write anything new, so for now I'm giving you a lesser prose chunk and a poem I wrote my French class that is very forced because I made it rhyme. Since I rarely even rhyme English poetry, it was an interesting exercise. Anyway, I promise to write something better soon)

Chance Encounter in the Supermarket
"You don't want that."
"Excuse me?" I turned around to see a man my age looking concerned. Concerned about what, I wondered. I failed to see how my choices in the produce section bore any impact on his life.
"That particular zucchini squash."
"Oh? And why is that exactly?"
"Because I picked a better one before you arrived."
I looked at him trying to derive some meaning from what he was saying.
"If you come over tonight, I'll show you how to make an amazing zucchini squash dish."
"Is this some sort of joke?" I couldn't tell if he was trying to make a really bad pick up or if perhaps he had just wandered away from his institution.
"It's not a joke. I need to practise, and I get tired of trying to rate my own food. Plus the professors like when we can turn in feedback pertaining to our outside work."
"Rate your own food?"
"Yeah. It's hard for me to judge my own dishes. I mean, I want to like them, because I made them. At the same time, I can pretty much always sit there and think of way I could have, would have, should have tweaked the recipe and pretty soon I convince myself that it was a terrible dish. My professors say this is not an uncommon phenomenon."
"Professors?" I was sort of feeling like a demented parrot.
"I'm going to a culinary arts school. I actually moved here just for that reason."
I understood what he was saying, and I was able to relate that I knew about our culinary arts school -- best in the nation -- but I kept up the parrot routine. "Just moved here?"
"Yep, maybe a month ago, if that."
"Wow." Sometimes I amaze myself with the degree of insight in my statements.

Printemps
Le printemps – une renaissance :
une fête des fleurs,
un mélange d’odeurs ;
la beauté en abondance.
Écoutez au rouge-gorge qui pépie,
son chanson, après le silence longue,
est sucré comme une mangue,
et il m’assoupie.
Les petites fleurs, vraiment précaires,
s’efforcent contre la neige,
le soleil aident et déneiges,
la nature extraordinaire.
Encore, la froideur des nuits,
nous couvrit comme un manteau,
mais cette saison d’amour nouveau,
elle brille, elle reluit.

La Conduite

(this was for my French lit class - the easy one - if you can't read it but would like to, please do not internet translate it. Just leave a comment and I'll post an English version.)

Je conduis dans le noir,
des flaques d’illumination,
des lampes s’alignent dans la rue.
Au milieu, dans l’obscurité
je t’imagine dans le siège
à côté de moi.
Nous conduisons en silence.
Dans la lumière
mes fantaisies se brisent –
je sais que je suis seule.

Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.

J’allume la radio,
le son de la basse secoue la voiture.
J’ai des élancements dans la tête,
le rythme de la chanson.
Je frappe le bouton
et il n’y a que le son de la pluie.
J’essaie de me rappeler ton visage,
je t’imagine avec un air tendre
Mais, ma vision subit une mutation
tu souris d’un air narquois.

Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.

Je n’ai pas prêté l’attention,
J’ai presque tombé de la rue.
C’était capiteux,
Et je suis distraite de mes pensées [de toi].
Si je plongeais de la route,
Pleurerais-tu pour moi ?
Tu rends-tu compte que
t'avais tort ?
Saurais-tu que
tu me hantes pendant cette conduite ?

Ici, il n’y a que la confusion,
Mes pensées tourbillonnent, agitées.

Another Poetry and (very short) Prose

(So, the prose is actually longer, it's about 3 paragraphs, but I don't know that I like what I added. That's how my prose always are... I never know where to go next. I'd really like to do something with this other story where I have the opening, and a few random scenes that would follow (but not in order) but I have no actual plot, nor any idea where I want it to go. So anyway, here are a few sentences of a prose, and then a really random "poem" that I wrote)

Bikes

They rode around the estate on their bikes -- he with his wide-tire road bike and she with her street bike and basket on the handlebars. Occasionally, he would detour towards a tree to pluck a blossom and throw it in her basket. She laughed every time.

Helter Skelter

Helter skelter
your words swirl around me.
They float away from each other,
losing meaning with distance.
I debate grasping at them,
but there are so many of them,
and it might be a bit obvious…
I focus on your face, instead,
and hope your features will stay put
better than your words.
Close my eyes,
I cannot recall the details of you --
two eyes, one nose, one mouth
that seems to speak sans cesse.
If only you would actually SAY something.

Poetry and Prose in one posting!

(neither are exercises, I just wrote them, both are works in progress I think)

Grey Moods

Flat grey mists
crowd out the sun on my back
Manic depressive I thrive
on high highs and
the lowest lows
What to do with this in between…
this grey.

Tea at Her House

I failed a test once when I was in primary school. I remember walking home trying to figure out how I would tell my mother. I believe I said something to the effect of experiencing a need for revisionary practises. I thought it sounded pretty good, especially since I was six years old. But she saw right through me and I wasn't allowed any comics for two weeks. I was kind of feeling a similar apprehension as I walked up the steps to the house. As though I were about to be reviewed and found lacking -- failing. I rang the bell and could hear soft footsteps. She appeared in the doorway, her hair still damp, looking fresh in her sundress and no shoes. She smiled and opened the door to gesture me in. I wandered into the sun room and saw a pitcher of iced tea on the table.

"Please, sit, help yourself to a glass. I just need to put the fruit on a platter."
I sat and watched her move around the kitchen with a certain grace to her motions. She finally came back to the table with a platter of varying fruits.
"The mango and iced tea I think are a strange combination, but the strawberries seem to blend nicely with the taste."
"Mmm." I reached for a strawberry while she poured herself a glass of the tea. She sipped at it and watched me for a moment.
"So…"
"Yeah." I wanted to say something to help the conversation, but I never feel like I can quite get my brain together when I'm around her.
"I'm leaving tomorrow."
"Oh?" I chewed harder on my strawberry. Leaving?
"Yeah… for South America."
I began to choke. I'm pretty sure I swallowed strawberry into my lung. She sipped her tea and stared out the window.

The Dollar Bill

(sorry I haven't posted in quite a time, things have been kind of crazy in the real world. Anyway, I've actually started working on a real story, but then this scene sort of randomly popped into my head and it really doesn't fit in the story so I wrote it as its own little stand-alone scene)


The barista handed me my change without counting it back to me. I don't expect people to count back my change anymore -- they don't know how. I was shoving the dollar bill into my bag, no time to look for my wallet itself, when I noticed some cramped handwriting on one of the short edges. "Ce que je veux…" On the opposite short edge was "Ce que je veux dire…" I stopped short and the man behind me nearly ran into me.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" he shouted, nearly dumping his elaborate coffee drink all over me. I stepped out of his way and looked at the bill again. I wondered to myself how I had come to possess what was probably the sole piece of American currency upon which was written French words. I sipped at my green tea and then realised I was going to be late to meet him for lunch.

When I got to the restaurant, he was already seated. I strode past a busboy who glared at me. I don’t know why we had to meet at this restaurant -- the staff does not like me since I complained about the absence of tea on their menu. Still, I seated myself at the booth and looked at him.

"Hey."
"Hey."
"How are you?"
"Fine." Ce que je veux dire… "And you?"
"Great. I'm glad you're here."
I looked at him curiously. "Why wouldn't I have come?"
He seemed slightly unsure of himself. "Oh, I don't know. The last time we got together…" He trailed off.
"It's fine." Ce que je veux…
"Well, excellent." He sipped at his water. "We got a new department director at the University."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It's me."
"How excellent! Congratulations!" He beamed at me, and I had to smile.

"I can take your order whenever you're ready." The waitress glared at my paper cup of tea.
"I'd like to build my own omelette: egg whites only with spinach and swiss cheese."
The waitress turned me. "And for you?"
Ce que je veux…
"I'd like an English muffin, dry, and the seasonal fruit bowl."
"Anything to drink?" I glared at the waitress and she went away.

We talked for a while, even after the food came. Small chatter between bites. I picked at my food like I always do and so he finished before I did. After a time he looked at me, "Well?"
"Well?"
"I don't know, I figured it should be your turn to talk."
Ce que je veux dire…
He looked at me strangely. "What are you thinking?"
"Of my ce."
He blinked a couple times. "Of what?"
I pulled out the dollar bill and slid it over to him. "And since I got it, all I can wonder is, what is my ce? What do I want? What do I want to say?"
"I see."
"Do you?"
"Well, I don't know… it's a dollar bill. Someone wrote on it. It's not a big deal."
"Look, I don't believe in fate, you know that. But someone wrote on American currency. In French. I speak French. The dollar bill came to me because I was meeting you and you chose a restaurant that doesn't serve tea. And even these weird circumstances that caused the bill to come to me don't really matter. What matters is that I read it, and I've stopped to think now, what IS the ce that I want? What is the ce that I want to say?"

The waitress came back just then and looked at me as though I were speaking another language. I suppose I was in a way. She left the check and went away. He pulled out a calculator to figure out tip. The conversation was over.

Ce que je veux…. Ce que je veux dire…

At the Café

(I'm working on a couple different poetry pieces right now, but they're not really anything I'd post, they need a bit more work. So I wrote a prose thingy. I gave myself guidelines, just like a writing exercise. Since I made them up, they may not seem as important but they included: use present tense, use "I" and "you" as the main characters, include the line "I wonder if it really matters", reference a song. Anyway, it's okay, I guess, not my best...)

I agree to meet you at that little café on the corner by the bookstore. I wear pants because I know you like it when I wear dresses. I am early, unusual, so I get a table and drum my fingers on my water glass while I wait. You enter, smiling, and I smile back, wondering if you can see the strain. I do not rise to hug you, but wait for you to sit down. The waitress brings our menus. You talk while you read and I stare at the menu, not paying attention to the words – written or spoken. Finally the waitress returns; you get an elaborate salad and I order a side of vegetables. How healthy we are. You continue talking and I try to nod at the right places. I’m listening, of course, but am thinking of other things. Deep Blue Something plays in the background and for a moment I fantasise that I am Audrey Hepburn and you will kiss me in the rain and we will save a cat. Our food arrives and you busy yourself with your salad. I chew thoughtfully on a piece of broccoli and then comment on what you had been saying. You look at me, with that intensity you always have, and then begin talking again. I start in on a baby carrot. It seems that my chewing is fruitless; I give up and swallow the remnants with a gulp of water. You are still talking when I am halfway through my vegetables and I ask for the check. I am not certain how you finished your salad between words, sentences, paragraphs. We part ways and as I walk to the car, I wonder if I’ll see you again. I wonder if it really matters.

Summer Storms

(this one wasn't an exercise. I just sort of wrote it at random. I haven't edited it at all, which is probably why it vaguely sucks lol)

Electrifying

The rain starts – a summer storm,
splotches slowly darken the asphalt.
I take off my shoes and give in:
dancing in the rain.
The street is hot and I imagine
I can hear the droplets sizzling.
My cotton dress clings –
transparent as the downpour increases.
The temperature drops and
the sky darkens.
I shiver and realise
it would be safer to leave.
Begin walking but am drawn in,
the thunder so engaging.
I let the water droplets stream down
my neck and back – electrifying.
Lightning in the sky, beautiful,
but I know I should start running.
I am absorbed in the
danger and beauty of the summer storm.