Fish over Bridge over Water

[Disclaimer: this is not poetry; it is nostalgic head vomit that seemed relevant to this class. That is all.]

The swing of the road when you take it too fast--
just a little
too fast.

Louder music, because it's getting
sucked out the open window because you're letting
in the sun you're letting
in the seeds you're letting
in your allergies because sometimes
it feels(so damn) good to itch.

Paper that prints
just as it should:
Front, only. Ready to read. Ready to turn in.
Navigate the hours, and you've got any seat in
the world, in the building
In the six, seven circles or
curls that I'm thinking of when I get lunch,
When I've never been hungrier or happier
When my hands sweat and fidgeted and rubbed
at the desks I drew on
My pictures, My papers
my stomach, sick
with nerves, with humility, with arrogance, with love
God, what a cocktail
I was in love
but not with you--arrogant, remember?
I was in love with what
you did to me
how it scared me
how it thrilled me
how you didn't even know
because it wasn't about you (remember, arrogance)
it was skin
and wood
and concrete (spit) concrete
I see deer here, too
but there was something exciting about seeing them there. Context,
context. Here it is nature; there it was myth. Short, cropped
brown fur like the day you showed up headless
beautiful, but headless
I laughed because I was terrified
and you were uncanny and--

look,
I've meant to talk about a time and place, but
I've wound up talking about you again.

--I can't believe how much I changed, then. Forced to change, forced myself to change, so something inside could keep living in thrall, dizzy and spin. You can fuck yourself up plenty without drugs, without anything at all, if you just know how to play tricks. Think twice. Once for the truth; once again for play.

Interrupting Prose (moo)

I am hesitant to post this here, as it doesn't belong here. But I was touching it up for my creative writing class, and I figure it's not too far off the road from where my head's at now.
This is something I have wanted to say lately, but this is the only way I can say it without epic failing. :\ Um, yay fiction.

"Repeat after me, verbatim."

"No." I could not; not in a million years, not anymore, at least, and he was poorly misinformed to think that I could. It was neither flattery nor scholarly encouragement; it was not even an attempt to shame me into compliance, for I was already as docile as a well-kept finch. No, it was simply a mistake on his part, an honest one. But he had not been the first to make it, and so I was not quite as forgiving as I should have been.

"Excuse me?" His smooth pace along the stage hitched.

"Excuse me." I grabbed my coat and fled from that place.


~


Throughout the day, I imagine and forget many things. Sometimes, this makes it difficult to discern things that have happened from things I have thought happened. The differences are very obvious at first. First, I am walking. Then, I am imagining you beside me. I know I am imagining it because I would not be able to keep such a pace if you had really been there.

But perhaps I hear the bell tower; perhaps I am late for class. And if I walk just a bit faster, then all things will be confused: later, when I throw my coat onto my bed, I will think of you, and how fast I had to walk to keep up with you, and the things I have done and the things I have not will be too similar, and I will be too tired to care much in differentiating them.

And it will not really matter, anyway, whether you were there because of a meeting or because I'd gotten bored on the long walk home and decided to put you there. We talked, and I felt better; that is all I will really want to remember, anyways.

You were very beautiful to me then, though I do not believe this to be objectively true. You seem to me many things--a horse, a bull, a gawkish bird--but you are vary rarely a man, and even then, you do not seem very much of one. I mean no insult by this. I do not say that you are an ugly horse, or an ugly bull; and as for the bird, there is a certainly a charm about its gawkishness. Is it wrong that I think of a cow's muzzle mumbling over the grass when I talk to you? I mean simply that I see you as all these things before I see you as a man. Which is perfectly fine, really--you are much more interesting to me in these sorts of shapes.

What would you be to me as a man? Nothing. Ah, let's not talk about it--I am passing the bell tower and I do not want to think about it with that great grandfather so close by. He would laugh to hear the theories I've made, the shapes you've been. You would laugh, too--laugh yourself right away. No, I don't know that you'd laugh. But I've never asked. And I won't; it's not the sort of thing you ask of a person, not in public, not to their face. If it must leave the lips at all, it is the sort of thing I should whisper to the back of your neck. Then you would not even know what to do with it, and you could not imagine how pleased that would make me.

But look how much time I have wasted talking about things I cannot say--we are almost at my house, and one of us will be leaving soon. I suppose I shouldn't say it like that; it sounds as if one of is will be dying. I will not be, sir. And you--well, you have no business with death, though you certainly enjoy circling the drain. Do you live there, I wonder? Between my sink and the underworld, which is just beneath the garbage disposal, of course.

What a strange thing you are; what a strange living you must make there. I don't think I've seen you work an honest day in your life, despite the job you've held for, what--ten, fifteen years? (I've no idea, because remember, these are the questions we didn't ask--questions of time, questions of shape.) You enjoyed that job far too much for it to have been honest work. No, there was nothing honest about it. Honesty hurts. Honesty is the safe word; honesty is release. There was nothing honest about the way you relished every one of those days. Those are the workings of a lie; and lies are the workings of a game. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I shake my keys from my pocket. All these years, and you couldn't tell me until I got to my front door? The light was on and I was being waited on. You mumbled something before bolting off to your meeting, or around the corner; somewhere away from my redirected attention.

I did not say goodbye or otherwise acknowledge your leave taking. I have already broken enough rules of the game; I am an impulsive and therefore clumsy player. But I'm getting better. Not as good as you, of course. I sometimes wonder if you have ceased being a player and become some part of the game itself. But no, I don't think so; I'm more inclined to believe that I'm just becoming a better player myself.

3: Mice and Cats and Dogs

"uh oh."

I have a horrifying amount of stuff to do today, and it'll be worse tomorrow, so let's see if I can get some messy thoughts out while I have a touch of time and my Faure cd (found it :3). I don't have a topic readily in mind, so I'm just going to cruise through my notebook and talk about whatever I've written (or drawn) in class. I'll add pictures or links later. Maybe.

Let's work backwards. In the most recent class (and yes, I know that will not apply after tomorrow's class), we watched a cartoon of Dixie & Pixie and Mr. Jinks. It was strange and amusing to watch the two small mice leading the mammoth sized dog (by comparison) by a rope that I question whether or not they could have even lifted. Someone mentioned in class an interesting thing: in these cartoons, you rarely see cats and dogs working together against mice, or even cats and dogs working against a dog. As we've seen in both Tom and Jerry and Dixie and Pixie, the dog is often on the side of the mouse, the smallest (but, perhaps, most persuasive) on a dog's list of "Things I Could Most Certainly Eat if I Wanted to."

But there's something peculiar about these relationships and characterizations. In Pixie and Dixie, the twin hound stands upright, and in a sense, does come to the mice as an equal, willing to help them because has his own beef with the cat. But the first African Lion Hound (Rhodesian Ridgeback, today) is bought and owned; his relationship with the mice is more one of manipulation, one of use. Even in the Tom and Jerry episode we watched awhile, the dog was a big large fellow, but sleeping for most of their antics. He did not scheme on his own; he did not really do anything more than react as either side needed him to, like a lit fuse. There is something in these cartoons that mice and, yes, even their enemies, cats, have--but that the dogs are made to lack.

I wrote down an interesting exchange from the Dixie & Pixie episode (which I'm glad I did, because I can't find it on youtube). This is when Mr. Jinks approaches the first hound, fists pumping:

Mr. Jinks: Stand up and fight like a man!
Dog: Can't I just lie down and die like a dog?

And a bit off to the side, I know Micky Mouse belongs to a more anthromorphized universe--but it's Pluto at his beck and call, and not a cat, no? They are used in these cartoons, like a quirky tool or contraption. A means of transmitting an effect. And, in this way, a bit paper-ish, I suppose.

So we're back to this idea of cat people and dog people; cats are seen as more independent, and dogs as dependent. We tend to like independent things, because that is what we fancy ourselves to be. But surrounding yourself by what seems, what is advertised as independent and individual does not necessarily make you so--on the contrary, it seems as if such a frenetic sort of collecting would render you dependent on these things, these images, these symbols-of-things-that-are-not.


As for Mr. Murrcat, I am becoming increasingly more suspicious of editor and biographer interjections. They make it feel as if the story has a frame, which is another thing I do not like in my stories. They seek to explain themselves (or excuse others), as if it is not enough that their voice exists in all the spaces between their story. I am largely fine with the way that Murr and Kreisler interrupt each other--they, at least, are from the same universe. But I feel nothing but irritation when the editor or biographer feels he must push his nose between my pages and print some greater part of himself into the book as well. I had a professor who banned the use of "I" in essays, as he considered them superfluous; if you are writing an essay, it is assumed that what you say is what you believe, or, at least, what you mean to say. Don't speak crap, and you won't have to justify it with "I think" or "I feel" concessions, was the general idea behind the rule.

But then, I must amend an earlier statement--are not Murr, Kreisler, and their respective editor and biographer all from the same universe, all from the same book? I suppose. Technically. But they pull so far out of it that it can hardly count, I feel. And cannot a certain time be a certain place? Are they not worlds apart in this manner? But, then, I suppose you will say that to the reader of the entire book, it is all past; it is, still, all the same universe. Well, I say poo-poo on you. I do not need the editor/biographers little notes to further accentuate the difference, the distance, by purporting to be real. Do not want, my good sir.

2: Teh Lulz:

I do it fur dem.

I am fond of lolspeak. Which, I suppose, is a branch off of internet speak in general. But I don’t like all the mutations that happen on the interwebs—so this blog will be one about my likes and dislikes in that subject, because I’m curious as to what’s the discerning factor between what I like and what I do not.

I started getting into using internet shorthands in junior high, back when AOL Instant Messaging (AIM) was the hottest thing since pie. I was its Pavlovian little pet—I swung back to the screen when I heard that distinctive ding (not all that different from my response to plurk these days), or the creak of a door opening (the sound when someone signed on) or slamming closed (when someone logged off). The sound of a door opening and then closing moments later could mean two things: 1) that the person was just checking to see who was online (or if a specific person was online). Or, the more sinister 2) The person had signed on, then immediately clicked the “invisible” button so they could talk to some people while avoiding others. The whole “I can see you when you’re online” is realistic, in the sense that irl, you have to wait until you see someone before you can talk to them (unless you know they’re standing behind a very tall biscuit or some silly business like that). But it’s adding an element of the real world that, frankly, seems out of place (out of context?) on the interwebs—especially with the addition of the invisible/hide/appear offline function on these kinds of things. Any real world element brought into a screen comes with real world expectations, often, expectations that don’t apply in the interwebs. If someone takes a long time to respond, is their internet being slow? Are they reluctant to answer? Are they reluctant to talk to you? Irl, you have facial expressions to go off of; via telephone, you might even get a telling “ummm…”

But often times, the internet doesn’t come with any of these contextual markers. So we start playing games—like the file of a crime, we lay out facts about friendships and conversations on the table, trying to match up shapes and patterns. Make our own, sometimes. Like writing stories. Sneaky, smirking, but ultimately false, stories. The internet is a dangerous place for those of us who like to read into holes.

But to get back to the subject: I do use lolspeak irl. Mostly “lol,” occasionally a “rofl” here and there, if appropriate. I use them because I like how they sound, and how they look in my head—they’re associated with certain images that link up with the situation. I don’t consider ‘lol’ a replacement for laughing out loud so much as I consider it something you’d find under the latter in a thesaurus—similar in meaning, but not identical.

I say “teh” instead of “the,” and often replace S’s with Z’s when I speak(and write). But not all the time—only when it fits. I associate these mutations primarily with lolcats—so when I say them, it’s to invoke that context. It is sometimes like saying “I imagine this situation is of the sort a lolcat would find itself in.” Sometimes. Other times, it’s just a friendly allusion—a connection point, like when I use lines from Eddie Izzard skits (love that man), or pick up phrases from South Park episodes. Most of my conversations with my sister are riddled with these phrases, allusions—it’s like donning a skin or a costume; borrowing some thunder for the space of a sentence.

To an extent, I wonder if this is how the royal society in The Tomcat Murr uses the French language; learning it enough to make a sound, an in—a badge that says, “look, I’m on the inside, too. All these jokes are my jokes. All these things are my things, too. I belong—I speak the language of affluence.”

What are we to call this language of screens, then? The language of the well-read amateur? Of the editor? The builder? The changer? There is this sort of frenetic construction or compounding activity that I think of when I imagine the more populated (and successful?) places on the internet—wikipedia, facebook, 4chan.

There are certain internet mutations of language that I do not use, however. I do not like them. There is no sense behind them—no context. No reason to use them; a cat (or a rat, for that matter) does not search for scraps at an empty table in an abandoned house.

I’ll try to finish this thought later tonight or later in the week—but for now, I have to down some narsty antibiotics.

Nautiloons is

Thoroughly disheartened.

Times like this, I wonder if I didn't use up all the happiness (and all the stress) allotted to my lifetime in just the last two years; and now I've got nothing to go on but spittle and dust.

1:Unpalatables

[That is, things I can barely stand to talk about because, quite frankly, they gross me out.]

The year before I came to Western, I volunteered at an animal shelter in the area. I spent most of my time in the cat room, because they're quieter but fussier, and like to spill water and overturn litter boxes. Fun times. I never got clawed or bitten by a cat, though I have been scratched (mostly by jumpers) and nommed. Nothing too serious—a couple of band aids each time. My worst battle wound (lulz) came from a grey tabby named Sonny, who was an absolute sweetie pie, and I considered adopting. Anywho, he gashed my arm with his back foot when jumping down out of his cage one day. That one actually did bleed pretty bad, and I've still got a neat little scar from it. No biggie. Fine and groovy.

Until I heard about toxo. D:

Goddammit, cats.

Not cool--not cool.

I don’t like parasites; the idea or image at this point. I don’t like what a parasite is, in relation to me—what is does to me and my relations. Fuck off, flea—I’m not your world, and I’ve got a perfectly chummy relationship with mine that I don’t need you to interrupt. Parasites are still unpalatable to me in every form (even neopets form). If I had some sort of internal issue with my guts and whatnot, I could see medicine fixing it. Sure. I could see machines fixing it. Awesome. But parasites? No. Off. Now.

But what does off mean?

Say Gerald is a lethargic brooding character who, in the afternoons, scrawls poetry with one pale hand as he balances the weight of his body against the table. When he went for a walk with Louisette, she said she fancied him; he leaned against a tree and said he was short of breath and a bit dizzy. Louisette found this physical expression of his emotional response quite sexy. The whole town begins to shiver with talk of the enigmatic Gerald, who writes poetry in the afternoon with one slender, pale hand and wanders like one too heavy for this world. A marriage is arranged between himself and Louisette. Giddy and elated at having seemingly pulled this man from myth, his bride-to-be goes out of town for a couple months to make arrangements and whatnots until the wedding.

Gerald has a mess of hookworms in his gut. In the time between his engagement and his marriage, he manages to accidentally takes some Albendazole and cure (which seems an odd word here, but I’ll use it anyway) himself of his mess of worms. When Louisette returns, he walks up to the carriage with a bounce in his step. He helps her out with a pink and healthy hand. Although he is pleased to see her, pretty face that she is, he does not sway or claim a shortness of breath all evening. Perhaps he's even given up poetry, because he suddenly has the energy to do so much else. Louisette feels rebuffed. In the drawing room, Louisette fixes her eyes on Gerald and says, in a perplexed voice, “You are not yourself today.”

But what does this mean now? How much of Gerald’s character has been anemia and weakness, how much of Gerald, as Louisette and the town have known him, has been [the effects of] a bug? If she knew what it would take to get the old Gerald back, would she drop worms down his throat as he slept? What does she love, then? I will not say either or; I will not say she must love either Gerald or the parasite, because even if she does not fancy Gerald without the parasite, she also doesn’t fancy the parasite without Gerald, on account of ew.

I get a very ugly feeling when Master Abraham begins thinking of what use he can put Murr to, if his friend’s suspicions about the cat’s talents (or “clever tricks”) are true. It scrawls a very menacing image in my brain. What it cannot bend, it breaks—in this case, the enchantment of Abraham’s character. Although mysterious and weird in his ways, there is a certainty in his actions that I happily attributed to a sort of old and endearing wisdom. But this moment of fiendishness on page 78, when he imagines how easily he could squeeze a profit from his poor tomcat—it is as off-putting and disillusioning as when Murr succumbs to his cattishness and eats the fish head intended for Mina. Perhaps, as Jesse8162 suggests, the man and his cat are not so different. Still--I cannot help but prefer Murr to Abraham. I would like to say it is for more than the reason that he is a cat and Abraham is not, but I'm not sure that it is. If Abraham, by teaching Murr, has imprinted something of himself on the cat, then it is what exists in the places where there was no transfer that make Murr more endearing than his master.

Nostalgic Mimi

New things, old things; I'm glad there's a place where they both exist, sometimes.

Because no matter how good you get, you're just you: halved. A very clean, empty home, walls scoured to unstable matchsticks.

That, or there is another.

In these places where you forget, someone else will remember, and rise up to pay the tab; and in places of free space and wide windows, you will push out and touch, as only you know how to touch. This is not the same house by night and day; but it's always alive, always full, always living, speaking, ambling, rambling. And that's all that matters, right? Functionality. Or, at least, the appearance of it.

Am I being horridly sentimental if I say no? Maybe this is just a problem of appearances. I'm jiffy fine with metal and gears and silver cords, but this thing that I can't put my finger on--dnw. That's the problem, really. I can't seem to get my claws in it. It's like chain mail, except ten times more tantalizing on the outside (and chain mail is pretty exciting on its own, so that's saying something). This is very different from what I've done and what, I suspect, I will do after this is all over. Acid washed papers and thin, metal pins; that's where I'm headed from here.

But then, maybe I'm looking at this the wrong way. Yes, it still functions. Of course, it still functions. But it does change. There is movement. One day, someone does up the front with a little blue awning and some wall sconces; the next day, the awning and lights are gone, and a ruddy old bench sits out on the porch (which wasn't there yesterday, either--they're very busy, and very particular about themselves and their things). And some days, the bench and porch stay longer than they should. I am supposed to see this as good. But it all seems rather moldy to me. It is--but I am not terribly thrilled with this. It cannot escape this state--it cannot do, which means it cannot play. It undoes and forgets in a way that I cannot quite bring myself to forgive.

I don't get it. Peeryud.
But that's what studying's for, no? Back to the books, I guess.

A Blog

[This is one.]

Moar to come.