WRITING EXERCISE
Everything about me felt tired. I was sure that people could tell when they made a point of looking away from me. I got dragged into a methadone clinic and twice into churches. My car was full of unread Watchtowers and Narcotics Anonymous fliers. There was room for improvement. But I couldn't help feel that everyone I met was overreacting. I'd been dumped.
Showing posts with label Writing Exercises. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing Exercises. Show all posts
3.26.2009
3.24.2009
ON YOUTUBE
When you want to hear, or rip, a song that you just can't see yourself running into anywhere else without paying for it, Youtube has for the past 5 or more years (that's 150 years in internet time) been the go-to guy. But the legal bandwagon started by Viacom has all the higher quality material being taken out behind the shed and shot, leaving nothing but the shitty teenage covers and camera phone live recordings. Those don't make good mp3's (which is obviously the point). So you find yourself searching for your dream track, going several pages in and coming out sticky, but unsatisfied. And then, off to the right side, in related videos, you see it. You see that thing you were looking for, that one song that makes all this work worthwhile. It's attached to a Naruto or Bleach or Inu-Yasha video, but you don't care because the song is sure to be intact and album quality. As you click the link and it starts to load, an angelic chorus rings out, but you can't hear it because you're going to hell for theft and piracy. But for the next 4 minutes...it's worth it.
Always go for the AMV (anime music video).
When you want to hear, or rip, a song that you just can't see yourself running into anywhere else without paying for it, Youtube has for the past 5 or more years (that's 150 years in internet time) been the go-to guy. But the legal bandwagon started by Viacom has all the higher quality material being taken out behind the shed and shot, leaving nothing but the shitty teenage covers and camera phone live recordings. Those don't make good mp3's (which is obviously the point). So you find yourself searching for your dream track, going several pages in and coming out sticky, but unsatisfied. And then, off to the right side, in related videos, you see it. You see that thing you were looking for, that one song that makes all this work worthwhile. It's attached to a Naruto or Bleach or Inu-Yasha video, but you don't care because the song is sure to be intact and album quality. As you click the link and it starts to load, an angelic chorus rings out, but you can't hear it because you're going to hell for theft and piracy. But for the next 4 minutes...it's worth it.
Always go for the AMV (anime music video).
3.21.2009
I'M GOING TO MISS BATTLESTAR GALACTICA
Anyone with any sense will, also.
"These things, they will not hold water. They are like a boat, fired at from a tower. And we are like the crew that by the grace of god alone have escaped once again with only flesh wounds. But now we have to face the sea. I will not say "brave" it, because there's nothing brave about self-preservation. We will live if we want to badly enough. If only to see the edge of the earth as we fall off into that mythology." ~Tervel Andrews
Anyone with any sense will, also.
"These things, they will not hold water. They are like a boat, fired at from a tower. And we are like the crew that by the grace of god alone have escaped once again with only flesh wounds. But now we have to face the sea. I will not say "brave" it, because there's nothing brave about self-preservation. We will live if we want to badly enough. If only to see the edge of the earth as we fall off into that mythology." ~Tervel Andrews
3.01.2009
I SAID THIS TO A FRIEND, IN CHAT
"...and somewhere in this field of white noise, I will find a door into your dreams. I will creep under beds in your subconscious, planting seeds of doubt in your mind about your safety as you find yourself double-checking corners in your waking hours, aware that your house treats sound like a game. And when you finally get to a point when you dig out your old night light and check for weeping angels, I will take that small opportunity to scratch at your brain, violate your personal space, and make you do something you wish you hadn't."
"...and somewhere in this field of white noise, I will find a door into your dreams. I will creep under beds in your subconscious, planting seeds of doubt in your mind about your safety as you find yourself double-checking corners in your waking hours, aware that your house treats sound like a game. And when you finally get to a point when you dig out your old night light and check for weeping angels, I will take that small opportunity to scratch at your brain, violate your personal space, and make you do something you wish you hadn't."
1.31.2009
WRITING EXERCISE: EXPLODED MOMENT
I always smell my drinks at parties. This was something I'd learned through repeat near-misses over the years. With this in mind, I went out to the freezing garage and took from the bag of ice, filling my cup so I could end the night of substance abuse with a beer pong cup full of Sprite. Too selfish to care about the noise I made when people were sleeping all around the house, I'd just spent the last hour or more watching Youtube videos of spoken-word poets. Now it was too quiet, not easy to adjust to hardcore silence.
I set up in what was still the guest room the last time I was here, where a girl was sleeping deeply as possible without a breathing tube being necessary and plugged in my laptop, settling down on the clean carpet. The sleeping girl's bed turned out to be a massage table, skewed diagonal, hipster-intentional style. It was one of only three pieces of furniture in the room.
Keeping quiet while typing near a sleeping person is always a challenge, so it helps if you just don't care if they wake up. I didn't. I couldn't think of anything silent to do online while high, and I didn't have my notes with me, so I browsed My Documents and chose a rough, "stream of consciousness" draft I'd thrown together the night before about a dream I never had, about a girl I'd never meet:
With no expectations, just a sense of how appropriate it was for the dead to speak on the dead, I found myself running unfamiliar streets, running through doorways that led to places miles away, and being chased by my dead grandfather, head of a lion on his shoulders like it used to be when I had this recurring nightmare as a child. The difference was that he'd never been a prophet before, trying to force me to accept his foresight as universal law. Fuck that. That's what physics is for. Yet, out of deference to his memory and the clips of insight you always carry in dreams, I sat down "Indian style" on the floor. It was dirty, or maybe just dirt.
I always smell my drinks at parties. This was something I'd learned through repeat near-misses over the years. With this in mind, I went out to the freezing garage and took from the bag of ice, filling my cup so I could end the night of substance abuse with a beer pong cup full of Sprite. Too selfish to care about the noise I made when people were sleeping all around the house, I'd just spent the last hour or more watching Youtube videos of spoken-word poets. Now it was too quiet, not easy to adjust to hardcore silence.
I set up in what was still the guest room the last time I was here, where a girl was sleeping deeply as possible without a breathing tube being necessary and plugged in my laptop, settling down on the clean carpet. The sleeping girl's bed turned out to be a massage table, skewed diagonal, hipster-intentional style. It was one of only three pieces of furniture in the room.
Keeping quiet while typing near a sleeping person is always a challenge, so it helps if you just don't care if they wake up. I didn't. I couldn't think of anything silent to do online while high, and I didn't have my notes with me, so I browsed My Documents and chose a rough, "stream of consciousness" draft I'd thrown together the night before about a dream I never had, about a girl I'd never meet:
With no expectations, just a sense of how appropriate it was for the dead to speak on the dead, I found myself running unfamiliar streets, running through doorways that led to places miles away, and being chased by my dead grandfather, head of a lion on his shoulders like it used to be when I had this recurring nightmare as a child. The difference was that he'd never been a prophet before, trying to force me to accept his foresight as universal law. Fuck that. That's what physics is for. Yet, out of deference to his memory and the clips of insight you always carry in dreams, I sat down "Indian style" on the floor. It was dirty, or maybe just dirt.
1.28.2009
HIPSTERS
There are tribes made up of strings of genres, separated by commas, and willing to fight tooth and nailgun for their beliefs.
With true love based on trust funds, armies of exclusionist revolutionaries launch molotov cocktails made of PBR cans, hoping to keep the mainstream at bay.
All this war is chronicled on the blogs. See for yourself.
There are tribes made up of strings of genres, separated by commas, and willing to fight tooth and nailgun for their beliefs.
With true love based on trust funds, armies of exclusionist revolutionaries launch molotov cocktails made of PBR cans, hoping to keep the mainstream at bay.
All this war is chronicled on the blogs. See for yourself.
1.26.2009
WRITING EXERCISE (CONT'D)
A chinese restaurant owner puts the 23rd consecutive angry call on hold and goes to check, once again, if there are bugs in his kitchen. There aren't. He always gets an A on his health inspections, and his bleach, so concentrated that it's illegal outside the virology industry, is only sold on the black market. So what the fuck are people talking about when they say they found termites in their fortune cookies, causing words to be eaten away, changing the messages from fortunes to threats? At this point he would be willing to personally deliver to anyone calling him to place an order, even to the black neighborhoods.
This is not related to the other events. This is just shitty luck. But across town,...zombies.
A chinese restaurant owner puts the 23rd consecutive angry call on hold and goes to check, once again, if there are bugs in his kitchen. There aren't. He always gets an A on his health inspections, and his bleach, so concentrated that it's illegal outside the virology industry, is only sold on the black market. So what the fuck are people talking about when they say they found termites in their fortune cookies, causing words to be eaten away, changing the messages from fortunes to threats? At this point he would be willing to personally deliver to anyone calling him to place an order, even to the black neighborhoods.
This is not related to the other events. This is just shitty luck. But across town,...zombies.
1.25.2009
WRITING EXERCISE
Strings of beads break apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while an a life-long and career psychic in Reykjavik lights a candle and covers it with a lacquered skull, and asks it about what it means that she’s stopped dreaming. Even on the dangerous amounts of LSD she’s downed with her ice water, all she can hear is nothing. And this is the first time she’s feared the future.
A vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while a candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while a family of Shinto shrine keepers ascend to the highest mountainside in their region of Japan to divine the annual lunar forecasting, using the beads, strung on the hair of a goddess, and passed down through countless generations. As the eldest male rubs the beads in his hand, this god-hair twine snaps with a chalky sound and the beads that make their lives worth living are taken by gravity to the edge of the high stone stairway. And the fall.
A cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while a candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while strings of beads breaks apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a young Native American boy with no clue what to do with his life, and dreams that extend beyond the reservation, sets out on a vision quest, hoping to get signs and advice from his gods and ancestors. He does everything right, entering his trance and wandering into the desert, beyond the recent tracks of man, but nothing expected happens. He doesn’t see his future, his gods, his past, or the edge of the cliff he’s walking toward. All he sees is black.
A candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while strings of beads break apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a Satanic church prepares to start their Saturday mass, inverting a cross in the function room of the Catholic church they’re renting for the night as a sign of respect for their beliefs. They follow one another in prayer, then take communion of fresh goat blood, not knowing that they’ve all just been infected with rabies. They pop hallucinogenic mushrooms, partly to disrespect the premises, but mostly to prove they’re more fun than the stuck-up Satanists across town. And as they take effect, the congregation doesn’t feel any of the usual sensations associated with mushroom use. All they feel is an overwhelming urge to help people, because something bad is going to happen.
All these things are related, and thus can not be mentioned without one another. Seriously. Try to mention just one event. You can’t. You took a deep breath and it all poured into your head as one. All these things are related, and thus can not be mentioned without one another.
Strings of beads break apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while an a life-long and career psychic in Reykjavik lights a candle and covers it with a lacquered skull, and asks it about what it means that she’s stopped dreaming. Even on the dangerous amounts of LSD she’s downed with her ice water, all she can hear is nothing. And this is the first time she’s feared the future.
A vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while a candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while a family of Shinto shrine keepers ascend to the highest mountainside in their region of Japan to divine the annual lunar forecasting, using the beads, strung on the hair of a goddess, and passed down through countless generations. As the eldest male rubs the beads in his hand, this god-hair twine snaps with a chalky sound and the beads that make their lives worth living are taken by gravity to the edge of the high stone stairway. And the fall.
A cross is inverted to signal the start of mass in New England, while a candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while strings of beads breaks apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a young Native American boy with no clue what to do with his life, and dreams that extend beyond the reservation, sets out on a vision quest, hoping to get signs and advice from his gods and ancestors. He does everything right, entering his trance and wandering into the desert, beyond the recent tracks of man, but nothing expected happens. He doesn’t see his future, his gods, his past, or the edge of the cliff he’s walking toward. All he sees is black.
A candle flickers dully through the eyes of a skull in Iceland, while strings of beads break apart and fall down stone steps in Japan, while a vision quest leads a teenager to certain death in California, while a Satanic church prepares to start their Saturday mass, inverting a cross in the function room of the Catholic church they’re renting for the night as a sign of respect for their beliefs. They follow one another in prayer, then take communion of fresh goat blood, not knowing that they’ve all just been infected with rabies. They pop hallucinogenic mushrooms, partly to disrespect the premises, but mostly to prove they’re more fun than the stuck-up Satanists across town. And as they take effect, the congregation doesn’t feel any of the usual sensations associated with mushroom use. All they feel is an overwhelming urge to help people, because something bad is going to happen.
All these things are related, and thus can not be mentioned without one another. Seriously. Try to mention just one event. You can’t. You took a deep breath and it all poured into your head as one. All these things are related, and thus can not be mentioned without one another.
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