One Man

One man stands in the forest, full of trees. The dying horizon is falling. Its colors are changing and so is my mind. I thought I was right. But I am wrong. The sun is setting. The trees are bending, the cold breeze, blowing. The only thoughts here are my own. And so it goes...

Course Reflection

This course has been extremely helpful for me as a writer. I felt relatively free to explore writing and to try other styles. For instance, the Ulipo movement was very interesting and I really enjoyed the attempt at restraint based writing in this class as well as in others classes. My classmates are extremely talented and that forced me to raise my level of writing as well. I looked forward to our presenting my/our zines with each other either through simply reading them on our own or by performing them in class. It was through that sharing that I was able to observe their personalities and styles.

The moment I feared the most was the reading at Woodland Pattern. But as it grew near I began to think of it as an opportunity to share myself, my work with others, for good or ill. It made perfect sense. I don’t want to write in a vacuum. I write because it has to get out of me and go anywhere, somewhere. I don’t know what it’s like to get high from any drug and I’ve never been drunk. But after the Woodland Pattern reading I felt so alive. I had so much energy tingled through me that I’ve never experienced before. I could feel that energy in my arms and in my heart. It wasn’t a typical rush but rather a sensation that felt more spiritual. I loved it so much that I want to do it again! So thank you for the opportunity! I’m very blessed to have taken this class with you as an instructor and with all of my classmates. I felt like I really belonged in this class. Too bad it’s over.

Reading 2

Boswell Books held a reading on November 20, 2012 for Lilly Goren, coeditor of Women and the White House: Gender, Popular Culture, and Presidential Politics. Goren’s reading was a very thought provoking take on modern American politics. The reading that she focused on was her interpretation of how Americans were “primed to some degree, by presentations by African-American men and women in Hollywood films and television.” She claimed that Americans adjusted to the idea of an African-American as our current president by seeing Morgan Freeman, as well as others, in films first. Whatever her political theories, what I enjoyed most was her elegant reading style. Her tempo was simple and smooth which made paying attention to her easy.

            I thought her claims to be highly interesting but ultimately not enough for me to read any of her work in the future. But her voice had the ability to be smooth and soft while reciting her book. It must be said that the book seemed very accessible and didn’t veer to far into verbose academic writing. As for seeing a person live versus reading their work is understandably a different experience. It appears that most authors seem so very ordinary like a next-door neighbor. Well, at least Goren does. Also, I find it difficult to sit still for too long and I become shifty and then I lose focus. So after half and hour I was ready to leave. But, the most important aspect that I took from both readings is the fact that I need/want to be a part of this literary community. I’m excited for future readings. What ideas are waiting to be shared with me? How will that open me up as a reader and a writer?

Reading 1

Boswell Books held a reading for Paul Salsini’s latest book, The Temptation of Father Lorenzo, on November 19, 2012. The small audience mainly consisted of an older generation of Salsini admirers and a few students. Salsini’s lineage stems from a village in Florence, Italy and it was while visiting a relative in a Tuscan village that interesting stories from World War II were shared with him. It was these stories of amazing story of bravery of these villagers that Salsini wanted explore in all of his Tuscan themed books. The Temptation of Father Lorenzo is an extension of those revelations. The book became a series of short stories that revolve around previously established characters from the Salsini’s previous Tuscan Trilogy. Interestingly, Salsini wrote this book as a response to the past trilogies character’s that called to him. He even joked that “I couldn’t get them out of my head.” He often wondered what they were up to as if the actually existed in the present day. In the end, it was interesting to hear Salsini expound on the past lives of the Italian villagers during this period.

For the first few minuets of Salsini’s introduction I was distracted. What took my focus was his uncanny resemblance to the actor John Houseman. Once I got over that detail I was able to focus on his opening announcements. Salsini’s voice was an uninteresting monotone that was hard to connect to. Nevertheless, I observed that he certainly takes great care of the relationships that he has with his characters. Other than that positive aspect of his working method, his reading didn’t intrigue me. I felt that his stories belonged to an older generation. Superficially, I didn’t connect to his work because he didn’t fascinate me with his style and his characters seemed bland. Now, one aspect to his live performance that I quickly recognized was that there seems to be a technique to reading that keeps people engaged. He doesn’t have that technique. Certainly the man is gifted as a writer but not so much as a speaker. He’s not very entertaining and maybe that’s not the point to a reading. But then again, maybe it is? Needless to say, I won’t be reading any of his work any time soon.

The Taste of Noise.

It’s difficult for me to read at home. I have to have silence and little distraction in order to concentrate. But in my house there’s the TV and it’s accompanying library of movies that call to me. What about the wife and son? They’re tough to overlook with her inquiries and his jumping solidly onto the floor every few minutes. There are the neighbors who love to howl beneath our floor when listening to raging techno music. So I try to spend some time reading and writing in pseudo-solitude at the library. Generally, that’s a place that’s kept silent. But not right now. There’s an alarm shrieking that I’m desperately trying to ignore. My silence has been shattered.

I watched with interest when the little Asian man viewed the door that said “Emergency Exit Only.” He inspected the door hesitantly, touched the handle lightly with his thin fingers to ensure no alarms would sound. Nothing happened. Then he forcefully pushed the door open. In that last moment before the alarm went I off, I too thought as he did, that he’d made it through without setting it off. But when he took his first step through the door is when the alarm went off catching us both off guard. As it rang, he came back in and swiftly pulled the door shut tightly hoping that the sound would stop. Then he searched the entire door for a switch or a trigger to kill the sound. After he was unable to locate any device to halt the noise he ran away.  He left me sitting here listening to this noise. 

Bookface

She seemed larger than I remember. She grew to be a giant. I remember her small frame, blonde hair, and sharp nose that fit her foreignness so elegantly. Maybe the prettiest nose I’ve ever seen on a woman? But now her giant body cast large shadows on the wall and obscured the light that was behind her back. Why was she wearing an old blue nightgown that belonged to my grandmother? Suddenly, there was a shift and she became normal size and I was reduced to a small phantom. She looked older now. She never once spoke to me. And maybe if she did her heavy words would pin me to the floor. She kept her distance and never looked me in the eye.

         But I desired to speak to her or write a note and lay it near the lamp for her to read. If I wrote the words down they would’ve said, “You have so much to offer like a black hole.” But I never did. I wondered who the child was that sat in the corner. There were intricate hoses and tracheotomy tubes protruding from the boy’s nose. They appeared advanced and were grey in tone with strange fluids flowing through their slender lumen. I never understood what exactly was going on but I was there again near her and that felt peaceful

Constraint

I’ve always found my dreams to be very interesting. I’m communicating fears or hopes within them. How do I/we come up with some of the images or language that is expressed in dreams? I’d like to use my dreams as a constraint for the next project. I might view them in the style of New Criticism or maybe not. Then again I like the idea of taking other associations into account. I’m still uncertain. I am thinking of the dream that I had last night and what it meant. I’ve never been one for social media, especially Facebook, but looked at the site recently and it rekindled my memories. But it was all too easy to do. To “see” people you haven’t visited in years all I have to do is look them up on my computer. I could see them, their kids, and what kind of lifestyle they lead. No mystery, it was figured out in a matter of minutes. Running into an old friend at the Outpost? Boring. Anyway, all of that relates to my dreams. Somehow, my dreams connected Facebook with elaborate tracheotomy tubes