you know my body
is small
and we are brief.
you know this place
is fragile
and fake.
you arrived instead
for your own invention,
woke up to take
your body lightly
to lay with death
wrapped breath-close
against your sleep.
6/10/09
Sunday, June 21, 2009
tortilla knife
1. Funk Soul Brother
My Funk Soul Brother
is the girl I was in sixth grade when secretly
I loved that song.
My family does not use the words
Funk.
Soul. or
Brother.
in my father's house
He would say-- you are white;
race comes from the father,
as if I did not wear my mother's skin
awkwardly to her family reunions
Where he and I always sat apart-together.
You don't want to be
your fat aunts, alcoholic uncles, pregnant fourteen-year-old cousin
You don't want to be
Unemployed with bars on your windows, tattooed from eyelid to toe
I heard what he did not say:
You do not want to be Mexican.
You do not want to be poor.
And I didn't want to be like them.
But my Funk Soul Brother asked him
Do I want to be like you?
I wear my skin awkwardly
to any new social function
where the question unfailingly comes
within the first hour.
If they look like me
I answer, “My mother's parents are from Mexico and my father's grandparents are from Italy”
I am afraid of their assumptions
that I share their culture
that I speak Spanish
If they are white,
I just say I am half of each.
yuckso', a Chinese word (why not)
skin between bamboo layers
“neither here nor there.”
Race comes from the father.
Sometimes my mother objected quietly,
but usually she stayed silent
as my cousins' house on Christmas morning
Silent like the Spanish that her parents
never taught their ten children
Silent like the Spanish I never learned.
In school, I chose French instead.
He said it is more complex and impressive.
Where was my Funk Soul Brother?
This hidden affinity I harbored
that could never check the “Hispanic” box
But daringly encouraged me
to at least check
“Other.”
2. The Edge of This World
Stellato.
the Italian word for knife--
my last name
a blade on which I lost my balance one day,
staring half blank and half afraid
at the woman who had just pronounced my name
“Stellato” like “tortilla.”
I did not correct her.
I, tortilla and knife,
could not accept a Mexican national identity
that blames its raped indigenous mother,
could not accept the Chicano movement's alignment with her
and reject the conquesting father,
My dad
Race comes from the father.
whose body suffered
from two years of frozen pizza dinners
from our two-room apartment
he gave me the bedroom so I could study at night
slept on the living room floor
whose body suffered
for two years of private school
So that I would not have to be poor
So I would not have to be Mexican
like my silent mother
from whose own body I awoke
onto the edge of this world.
My Funk Soul Brother
is the girl I was in sixth grade when secretly
I loved that song.
My family does not use the words
Funk.
Soul. or
Brother.
in my father's house
He would say-- you are white;
race comes from the father,
as if I did not wear my mother's skin
awkwardly to her family reunions
Where he and I always sat apart-together.
You don't want to be
your fat aunts, alcoholic uncles, pregnant fourteen-year-old cousin
You don't want to be
Unemployed with bars on your windows, tattooed from eyelid to toe
I heard what he did not say:
You do not want to be Mexican.
You do not want to be poor.
And I didn't want to be like them.
But my Funk Soul Brother asked him
Do I want to be like you?
I wear my skin awkwardly
to any new social function
where the question unfailingly comes
within the first hour.
If they look like me
I answer, “My mother's parents are from Mexico and my father's grandparents are from Italy”
I am afraid of their assumptions
that I share their culture
that I speak Spanish
If they are white,
I just say I am half of each.
yuckso', a Chinese word (why not)
skin between bamboo layers
“neither here nor there.”
Race comes from the father.
Sometimes my mother objected quietly,
but usually she stayed silent
as my cousins' house on Christmas morning
Silent like the Spanish that her parents
never taught their ten children
Silent like the Spanish I never learned.
In school, I chose French instead.
He said it is more complex and impressive.
Where was my Funk Soul Brother?
This hidden affinity I harbored
that could never check the “Hispanic” box
But daringly encouraged me
to at least check
“Other.”
2. The Edge of This World
Stellato.
the Italian word for knife--
my last name
a blade on which I lost my balance one day,
staring half blank and half afraid
at the woman who had just pronounced my name
“Stellato” like “tortilla.”
I did not correct her.
I, tortilla and knife,
could not accept a Mexican national identity
that blames its raped indigenous mother,
could not accept the Chicano movement's alignment with her
and reject the conquesting father,
My dad
Race comes from the father.
whose body suffered
from two years of frozen pizza dinners
from our two-room apartment
he gave me the bedroom so I could study at night
slept on the living room floor
whose body suffered
for two years of private school
So that I would not have to be poor
So I would not have to be Mexican
like my silent mother
from whose own body I awoke
onto the edge of this world.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
catharsis
(trying something new...)
The last number I see is 9:33. That is the last number to light up the bars of the cage, before the locks fail. The locks on my clock fail and time escapes, and then it shoots to my computer and breaks the little clock in there too. The numbers on the display turn to ash and fade. Time pulls itself out of the big wall clock downstairs, and the clock's hands droop pathetically, deprived of their stolen spark. Time is springing itself free from our prisons.
Your childhood bites you in the face, and your future melts like ice in the sun. The separation between events is failing. Your plans for tomorrow become your memories of yesterday and all the neat little boxes in your day planner turn to soup. All events and all possibilities occur at once, blurred together in a single tiny moment that never ends. There are no more ends and no more beginnings. Time has escaped our grasp and now hides in the shadows, recovering from the million tiny cuts left by the gears and hands of the ticking clocks. Time hides in the shadows and watches our stolen plastic world crumble under its own weight. Our deathgrip on reality is failing.
The last number I see is 9:33. That is the last number to light up the bars of the cage, before the locks fail. The locks on my clock fail and time escapes, and then it shoots to my computer and breaks the little clock in there too. The numbers on the display turn to ash and fade. Time pulls itself out of the big wall clock downstairs, and the clock's hands droop pathetically, deprived of their stolen spark. Time is springing itself free from our prisons.
Your childhood bites you in the face, and your future melts like ice in the sun. The separation between events is failing. Your plans for tomorrow become your memories of yesterday and all the neat little boxes in your day planner turn to soup. All events and all possibilities occur at once, blurred together in a single tiny moment that never ends. There are no more ends and no more beginnings. Time has escaped our grasp and now hides in the shadows, recovering from the million tiny cuts left by the gears and hands of the ticking clocks. Time hides in the shadows and watches our stolen plastic world crumble under its own weight. Our deathgrip on reality is failing.
Friday, January 4, 2008
scoles's long windy poem about nothing
(for the record, let's say this is a parody piece)
You know sometimes,
when I'm sitting in a particularly bad lecture, and the professor is stumbling all around,
confusing himself, getting trapped in his own semantics,
I stop listening to the words
and listen instead to the silence between them.
When the professor stops for a moment, his voice switched off
I listen to the hum of the ventilation fan
the building breathing.
I listen as the silence
and the gentle hums
say everything the professor cannot.
I am the inconvenient light.
I am the inconvenient ray of brilliant, beautiful, golden sunlight crossing the page of your glossy magazine and making it hard to read.
you're welcome.
I am the inconvenient light falling on your pretense,
your self-consciousness, your fear of failure.
I am the ender of illusions and the ender of words.
I am the heat of every. individual. molecule. humming and swarming
around your
fearful
face.
because YOU are clinging to your clutter and your routines and your mirrors and your past so tightly that I don't think you can even see tomorrow.
YOU, who can't get over yourself, YOU, who writes the same poem every day, lives the same pattern every day,
because the idea of letting go,
of being -
here?
and now?
you can't stand on your toes like that.
you back away from the precipice, the challenge, the pregnant promise of the unknown.
I am the light, baby, I'm here to melt your little ice kingdom.
It's all over. Your shitty ego-walls, your plastic ideology, your habits,
they are all MELTING now, right now, there they go,
they're gone.
Oh, my god. What's left of you?
Anything?
When I, the sun, when the SUN turns his eyes on you and the plastic pretenses burn off and melt away, what is left inside?
When I, the sun, when the SUN immolates yesterday and outlaws tomorrow, when you stand before me, naked, your whole being, in one moment -
When I, the sun, when the SUN shatters your mirrors and makes introspection an impossibility, when you turned inside-out and your deepest secrets fly out to meet the stars, what do those stars see?
I hope they see something new. Something worth remembering.
I hope the stars DON'T see a Facebook photo album. I hope they DON'T see a list of favorite TV shows and a pithy quote from Henry David Thoreau. I hope they DON'T see a list of New Year's resolutions that never got filled. I hope they don't see a college transcript. I hope, hope, hope that these are not the things that define you.
I am here to unlock you, to melt the prison walls,
to cut away the stones that you have been laying DAY by DAY to protect you
from yourself.
I am a prophet.
Human words and human worlds crumple
before my eyes like paper, ladies and gentlemen.
that's all they are, cheap illusions printed on paper,
clumsily imagined.
i use Tolstoy for tissues
and I wipe my ass with the Book of Revelations, ladies and gentlemen.
They're all the same, shitty words,
and anything that can be put in words,
anything that be written out on paper,
this is what I really what you to understand, ladies and gentlemen,
anything that can be put in words on paper
deserves to BURN.
because Truth, ladies and gentlemen,
I mean the kind with a capital T,
can never be forced onto paper.
No, Truth with a capital T is laughing, LAUGHING at us as we try to pin its shadows to a page with our pens.
Truth with a capital T is the fire that destroys paper,
destroys our paper ideologies and our pretentious false metaphors.
Truth is the ashes left from your last failed poetry project.
Truth is the silence that reigns supreme once you shut your stupid obnoxious mouth
and show a little respect
for everything
you will never know.
You know sometimes,
when I'm sitting in a particularly bad lecture, and the professor is stumbling all around,
confusing himself, getting trapped in his own semantics,
I stop listening to the words
and listen instead to the silence between them.
When the professor stops for a moment, his voice switched off
I listen to the hum of the ventilation fan
the building breathing.
I listen as the silence
and the gentle hums
say everything the professor cannot.
I am the inconvenient light.
I am the inconvenient ray of brilliant, beautiful, golden sunlight crossing the page of your glossy magazine and making it hard to read.
you're welcome.
I am the inconvenient light falling on your pretense,
your self-consciousness, your fear of failure.
I am the ender of illusions and the ender of words.
I am the heat of every. individual. molecule. humming and swarming
around your
fearful
face.
because YOU are clinging to your clutter and your routines and your mirrors and your past so tightly that I don't think you can even see tomorrow.
YOU, who can't get over yourself, YOU, who writes the same poem every day, lives the same pattern every day,
because the idea of letting go,
of being -
here?
and now?
you can't stand on your toes like that.
you back away from the precipice, the challenge, the pregnant promise of the unknown.
I am the light, baby, I'm here to melt your little ice kingdom.
It's all over. Your shitty ego-walls, your plastic ideology, your habits,
they are all MELTING now, right now, there they go,
they're gone.
Oh, my god. What's left of you?
Anything?
When I, the sun, when the SUN turns his eyes on you and the plastic pretenses burn off and melt away, what is left inside?
When I, the sun, when the SUN immolates yesterday and outlaws tomorrow, when you stand before me, naked, your whole being, in one moment -
When I, the sun, when the SUN shatters your mirrors and makes introspection an impossibility, when you turned inside-out and your deepest secrets fly out to meet the stars, what do those stars see?
I hope they see something new. Something worth remembering.
I hope the stars DON'T see a Facebook photo album. I hope they DON'T see a list of favorite TV shows and a pithy quote from Henry David Thoreau. I hope they DON'T see a list of New Year's resolutions that never got filled. I hope they don't see a college transcript. I hope, hope, hope that these are not the things that define you.
I am here to unlock you, to melt the prison walls,
to cut away the stones that you have been laying DAY by DAY to protect you
from yourself.
I am a prophet.
Human words and human worlds crumple
before my eyes like paper, ladies and gentlemen.
that's all they are, cheap illusions printed on paper,
clumsily imagined.
i use Tolstoy for tissues
and I wipe my ass with the Book of Revelations, ladies and gentlemen.
They're all the same, shitty words,
and anything that can be put in words,
anything that be written out on paper,
this is what I really what you to understand, ladies and gentlemen,
anything that can be put in words on paper
deserves to BURN.
because Truth, ladies and gentlemen,
I mean the kind with a capital T,
can never be forced onto paper.
No, Truth with a capital T is laughing, LAUGHING at us as we try to pin its shadows to a page with our pens.
Truth with a capital T is the fire that destroys paper,
destroys our paper ideologies and our pretentious false metaphors.
Truth is the ashes left from your last failed poetry project.
Truth is the silence that reigns supreme once you shut your stupid obnoxious mouth
and show a little respect
for everything
you will never know.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Non-Linear Growth Zone
i like chris' idea from the comment on the post below. so whenever a poem inspiration comes to us, we should post it, and then people could respond if inspired.
(from a google search for "linear thought bad"):
"Non-linear writing, he says, is nearly the entire history of writing before Nietzsche. Linear thought is a reduction of history, just one way that this style of writing exaggerates reality. We can see how Nietzsche’s monologue style of writing would be preferred, since it is more faithful to exposing the prejudice of linear-writing. Monologues are part of the “de-sedimenting” of linear-writing. We are re-reading the past according to a “different organization of space.” Science, it must be noted, is inherently linear, stuffy, and prejudiced. Scientific writing has its own “onto-theology” and its style of writing itself says a great deal about how it views reality. This incompetence of science is likewise an incompetence of philosophy. Derrida says, “Because we are beginning write differently, we must begin to re-read differently.” Science, like declarative and omni-expounding writing styles, is thus an “infinitst theology,” which are “always logocentric.” The suggestion is that scientific-writing would be more faithful to reality if it were more ”Nietzschean”, although Derrida does not explicitly say this. And Derrida is calling for an end to these more false styles of writing, which is why he uses apocalyptic words like “eschatological” and so on."
(from a google search for "linear thought bad"):
"Non-linear writing, he says, is nearly the entire history of writing before Nietzsche. Linear thought is a reduction of history, just one way that this style of writing exaggerates reality. We can see how Nietzsche’s monologue style of writing would be preferred, since it is more faithful to exposing the prejudice of linear-writing. Monologues are part of the “de-sedimenting” of linear-writing. We are re-reading the past according to a “different organization of space.” Science, it must be noted, is inherently linear, stuffy, and prejudiced. Scientific writing has its own “onto-theology” and its style of writing itself says a great deal about how it views reality. This incompetence of science is likewise an incompetence of philosophy. Derrida says, “Because we are beginning write differently, we must begin to re-read differently.” Science, like declarative and omni-expounding writing styles, is thus an “infinitst theology,” which are “always logocentric.” The suggestion is that scientific-writing would be more faithful to reality if it were more ”Nietzschean”, although Derrida does not explicitly say this. And Derrida is calling for an end to these more false styles of writing, which is why he uses apocalyptic words like “eschatological” and so on."
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
my assignment: mock spoken word poem
pending of chris' completion of his own assignment, here's another idea to work on :)
write a mock spoken word poem. guildelines included but not required or limited to:
a spoken-wordish rhythm
overtly sexual metaphors or references
overtly sexual metaphors or references related to nature
some kind of liberal agenda or point (this could be taking the opposite political direction in your mock poem)
some description of how big your dreams/mouth/etc are
again, these are just ideas for your mock spoken word poem. i guess the key is that it can be read like a spoken word piece.
write a mock spoken word poem. guildelines included but not required or limited to:
a spoken-wordish rhythm
overtly sexual metaphors or references
overtly sexual metaphors or references related to nature
some kind of liberal agenda or point (this could be taking the opposite political direction in your mock poem)
some description of how big your dreams/mouth/etc are
again, these are just ideas for your mock spoken word poem. i guess the key is that it can be read like a spoken word piece.
Monday, December 24, 2007
my attempt
Sunset Magazine, cover story "Backyard Zen: the Happy Gardener in You"
carrot seeds
trowel
orange Crocs
"The Joy Of Gardening," hardcover
foam kneepads
sun hat
sunblock, s.p.f. 30
heavy gloves
Aspirin, 50 ct.
carrot seeds
carrot seeds
carrot seeds
Aspirin, 50 ct.
"Definitive Guide to Garden Pests," 3rd edition, paperback
chicken wire, 20 yds.
3' wooden stakes, 4
carrot seeds
"Gardening for Dummies"
chicken wire, 80 yds.
3' wooden stakes, 20
burlap sacks, 100
garden hoe
scuffle hoe
shovel
soil thermometer
hand pruners
bow rake
blue Crocs
fertilizer, organic, 50 lbs.
sunglasses
carrot seeds
"Rabbit-Proof Fence" DVD
pliers
steel wire, 100 ft.
rat poison, 1 box
weed killer, 1 liter
RETURN ITEM: "Rabbit-Proof Fence" DVD
carrot seeds
rat poison, 24 boxes
weed killer, 2 gallons with hand pump
carrot seeds
DIRECT PAY CONTRACTOR SERVICE: Andy's Rodent Control
sunblock, s.p.f. 50
Yard-Master 40hp 3-in-1 ride-on mower
tiller attachment for Yard-Master 40hp 3-in-1 ride-on mower
pollen masks, box of 10
pruning saw
weed killer, 2 gallons with hand pump
weed killer, 2 gallons with hand pump
weed killer, 2 gallons with hand pump
carrots
Sunday, December 23, 2007
this was hard. i pondered it for days. result:
A Week in Receipts
loaf of wonder bread, wheat
bag of hot cheetos
bagel bites
frozen pizza
can of sprite
castrol motor oil
tampons
lottery ticket
string cheese, five sticks
milk
loaf of wonder bread, wheat
lean cuisine microwave dinner
dove shampoo
lottery ticket
champagne, 24 bottles
flip flops
surf board wax
sun tan lotion
travel neck-support pillow
postage stamps
"aloha, hawaii" postcards
ferrari logo keychain
leopard print car seat covers
automobile-fitted sub-woofers
sirius satellite radio
GPS navigation unit
i-phone
diamond ring
diamond earings
victoria's secret catalougue
Absolutely Givenchy perfume
curtains, purple, seven sets
silk king-sized comforter and sheets, lavender
bag of hot cheetos
bagel bites
string cheese, five sticks
can of sprite
loaf of wonder bread, wheat
bag of hot cheetos
bagel bites
frozen pizza
can of sprite
castrol motor oil
tampons
lottery ticket
string cheese, five sticks
milk
loaf of wonder bread, wheat
lean cuisine microwave dinner
dove shampoo
lottery ticket
champagne, 24 bottles
flip flops
surf board wax
sun tan lotion
travel neck-support pillow
postage stamps
"aloha, hawaii" postcards
ferrari logo keychain
leopard print car seat covers
automobile-fitted sub-woofers
sirius satellite radio
GPS navigation unit
i-phone
diamond ring
diamond earings
victoria's secret catalougue
Absolutely Givenchy perfume
curtains, purple, seven sets
silk king-sized comforter and sheets, lavender
bag of hot cheetos
bagel bites
string cheese, five sticks
can of sprite
Thursday, December 20, 2007
ASSIGNMENT THREE
Write a receipt poem.
This may be out of order for me to do (since all of the assignment twos are not in), but I have never been a patient person (which may seem quite hypocritical after my comment about the "well..." post), and yesterday I found a funny receipt that reminded me of one of the better poems I have ever heard live.
http://indiefeedpp.libsyn.com/index.php?post_id=241771# (click on the "pod" button at the top and download the .mp3, ignore the babble at the end)
(Or just click here)
I was tempted to write a receipt poem myself and pass of the idea as my own, but the little voice in my head said it would be disengenuous (the voice does not know how to spell, it is only a voice after all), so I figured I would send this out as inspiration and put forth a call for imitation.
(more parenthesis)
(chris)
This may be out of order for me to do (since all of the assignment twos are not in), but I have never been a patient person (which may seem quite hypocritical after my comment about the "well..." post), and yesterday I found a funny receipt that reminded me of one of the better poems I have ever heard live.
http://indiefeedpp.libsyn.com/index.php?post_id=241771# (click on the "pod" button at the top and download the .mp3, ignore the babble at the end)
(Or just click here)
I was tempted to write a receipt poem myself and pass of the idea as my own, but the little voice in my head said it would be disengenuous (the voice does not know how to spell, it is only a voice after all), so I figured I would send this out as inspiration and put forth a call for imitation.
(more parenthesis)
(chris)
Monday, December 17, 2007
New uses of my free time
A number of phrases:
1) "the caprices of the 405."
The first thing that came to mind when I saw this assignment was this simple phrase I saw in a book of essays I was reading a week ago. One of these essays was about how a kid from Inglewood had to catch a bus to get to a good school on the other end of L.A. I love the phrase because it very succinctly puts how a citizen can view something partially of his own creation as capricious. Quality.
2) related phrases: "the luxuriant growth of objects" and "America's remarkable ability to sustain demand"
These come from a couple of economics texts that I have been reading, and the assumptions behind these two phrases are incredible. The first makes huge (but realistic) assumptions about the things that underpin our economic growth, and the second, speaks of our supposed savior from a horrible recession. They just reminded me that the way in which so many people write about our world is frightening.... I will refrain from any further ranting at this point (it very much digresses from poetry).
3) Actual poetry. Perhaps my favorite poem of all time:
1) "the caprices of the 405."
The first thing that came to mind when I saw this assignment was this simple phrase I saw in a book of essays I was reading a week ago. One of these essays was about how a kid from Inglewood had to catch a bus to get to a good school on the other end of L.A. I love the phrase because it very succinctly puts how a citizen can view something partially of his own creation as capricious. Quality.
2) related phrases: "the luxuriant growth of objects" and "America's remarkable ability to sustain demand"
These come from a couple of economics texts that I have been reading, and the assumptions behind these two phrases are incredible. The first makes huge (but realistic) assumptions about the things that underpin our economic growth, and the second, speaks of our supposed savior from a horrible recession. They just reminded me that the way in which so many people write about our world is frightening.... I will refrain from any further ranting at this point (it very much digresses from poetry).
3) Actual poetry. Perhaps my favorite poem of all time:
Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of mankind is man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast;
In doubt his mind and body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks to little, or too much;
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.
The proper study of mankind is man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the stoic's pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or beast;
In doubt his mind and body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas'ning but to err;
Alike in ignorance, his reason such,
Whether he thinks to little, or too much;
Chaos of thought and passion, all confus'd;
Still by himself, abus'd or disabus'd;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl'd;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.
Brian, I am pretty sure I have sent this to you before, but I supposed I would put it out again, as it still sums up many of my ponderings about mankind. So many great little adjectives in there, perhaps a few too many, but I still love it.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Apocalypse
I'll go with one word that I really like, and then a couple of related passages.
Apocalypse comes directly from the Greek word apokalupsis, and literally means revelation, usually in reference to a final day of judgment. An "apocalypse" is a revelation at the end of the world, or a prophecy of such a revelation. In popular usage, though, apocalypse usually takes on a simpler meaning: "the end of the world as we know it."
The word we should be using is eschaton, which really does mean "the end of the world" or "climax of history" or "the day on which the apocalypse occurs" or "the day at the end of time." The complete phrase is apokalupsis eschaton, "the revelation at the end of an age."
Pretty cool, right?
Here's my favorite part: apokalupsis comes from the Greek verb apokalyptein, "to uncover or unveil." And (according to Wikipedia) the most literal translation of apokalupsis is not "the revelation," but "the lifting of the veil."
So when we talk about the apocalypse, the end of the world, we're talking about the lifting of the veil. Isn't that poetic?
Yeah, it's only because we swapped apokalupsis for eschaton that we have this poetic mistranslation, but still, it's a description with some merit: when this age (say the age of humans, or the age of life on earth) ends, it's the lifting of the veil - the end of an illusion or the waking from a dream.
That's probably a lot more etymology than anyone wants, so how about some cool apocalyptic passages:
These two are from The Road, a new post-apocalyptic novel by Cormac McCarthy. The two characters, a father and his young son, are just barely alive after a nuclear war killed everything. No plants, no animals, no blue skies, no sunsets - the world has become an empty gray waste that's always cloudy and always cold.
Apocalypse comes directly from the Greek word apokalupsis, and literally means revelation, usually in reference to a final day of judgment. An "apocalypse" is a revelation at the end of the world, or a prophecy of such a revelation. In popular usage, though, apocalypse usually takes on a simpler meaning: "the end of the world as we know it."
The word we should be using is eschaton, which really does mean "the end of the world" or "climax of history" or "the day on which the apocalypse occurs" or "the day at the end of time." The complete phrase is apokalupsis eschaton, "the revelation at the end of an age."
Pretty cool, right?
Here's my favorite part: apokalupsis comes from the Greek verb apokalyptein, "to uncover or unveil." And (according to Wikipedia) the most literal translation of apokalupsis is not "the revelation," but "the lifting of the veil."
So when we talk about the apocalypse, the end of the world, we're talking about the lifting of the veil. Isn't that poetic?
Yeah, it's only because we swapped apokalupsis for eschaton that we have this poetic mistranslation, but still, it's a description with some merit: when this age (say the age of humans, or the age of life on earth) ends, it's the lifting of the veil - the end of an illusion or the waking from a dream.
That's probably a lot more etymology than anyone wants, so how about some cool apocalyptic passages:
These two are from The Road, a new post-apocalyptic novel by Cormac McCarthy. The two characters, a father and his young son, are just barely alive after a nuclear war killed everything. No plants, no animals, no blue skies, no sunsets - the world has become an empty gray waste that's always cloudy and always cold.
"He lay listening to the water drip in the woods. Bedrock, this. The cold and the silence. The ashes of the late world carried on the bleak and temporal winds to and fro in the void. Carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from its shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief. If only my heart were stone." (11)
I admire the way McCarthy abuses the crap out of standard grammar. I think there are only two complete sentences in that paragraph. But his language is so solid - lots of heavy words, everything is strong and balanced - that the fragments don't bother me at all. Instead of a fluid narrative, that flows like a ribbon, he's serving up little chunks of language like gravel. But you still get a good sense of rhythm - "carried forth and scattered and carried forth again" has a back and forth, soft-to-hard-to-soft kind of swishiness that I like a lot, and the paragraph as a whole has a consistent slow cadence.
"They sat there in silence with their hands outheld to the flames. He tried to think of something to say but he could not. He'd had this feeling before, beyond the numbness and the cold despair. The world shrinking down about a raw core of parsible entities. The names of things slowly following those things into oblivion. Colors. The names of birds. Things to eat. Finally the names of things one believed to be true. More fragile than he would have thought. How much was gone already? The sacred idiom shorn of its referents and so of its reality. Drawing down like something trying to preserve heat. In time to wink out forever." (88-9)
I just like the idea of the entire world melting away. Once the physical stuff is gone, your memory of all those things begins to fade. The physical world was destroyed by a war and now the man's mental image of that world is rotting away to nothing. I especially like the final image, "Drawing down like something to preserve heat." The man's body fights to keep warm in the cold, and his mind fights to maintain the memories of life, warmth, color, and meaning in the empty gray wasteland, but both are going to lose to the cold eventually.
A slightly happier view of the (human) apocalypse, from Sara Teasdale:
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
[...]
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
I just like the idea of the entire world melting away. Once the physical stuff is gone, your memory of all those things begins to fade. The physical world was destroyed by a war and now the man's mental image of that world is rotting away to nothing. I especially like the final image, "Drawing down like something to preserve heat." The man's body fights to keep warm in the cold, and his mind fights to maintain the memories of life, warmth, color, and meaning in the empty gray wasteland, but both are going to lose to the cold eventually.
A slightly happier view of the (human) apocalypse, from Sara Teasdale:
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
[...]
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
A passage I really like
"i carry your heart" by ee cummings
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
i really like the way he put the words together, i guess. simple words. and i like the way that he starts out by saying "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) as a simple fact and then at the end he is describing the deepest secret, and it turns out to be the aforementioned phrase. slick, ee.
That might have been too long. so here's a shorter passage. Whitman, this time. i know it didn't have to be poetry, but this was the only stuff i could think of, unless you wanted to hear me rant about the amazing lyrics of Jesse Lacey from Brand New (the band i am obsessed with).
A child said, *What is the grass?* fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff
woven.
So, i really like this mostly because i think my disposition is grass, too.
Okay, sweet.
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate,my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
i really like the way he put the words together, i guess. simple words. and i like the way that he starts out by saying "i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart) as a simple fact and then at the end he is describing the deepest secret, and it turns out to be the aforementioned phrase. slick, ee.
That might have been too long. so here's a shorter passage. Whitman, this time. i know it didn't have to be poetry, but this was the only stuff i could think of, unless you wanted to hear me rant about the amazing lyrics of Jesse Lacey from Brand New (the band i am obsessed with).
A child said, *What is the grass?* fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is, any more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff
woven.
So, i really like this mostly because i think my disposition is grass, too.
Okay, sweet.
Monday, December 10, 2007
ASSIGNMENT TWO
This one is easy!
Post some words that you really like. Could be a passage from a book, a quote from a song, a poem, a blurb on the back of a cereal box, whatever. Some words that you like.
AND, if you can, please add a few lines at the end describing why you like these words so much.
OH NO MY POEM IS LATE
Late.
A late poem,
past the midnight hour.
Is there an earthquake?
Bob Dylan reincarnation?
Caffeine pills,
distort the lateness,
26 maladjusted chickens.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Veggie Pizza
Veggie Pizza
The only time I smoked the marijuana,
I got really outrageously high.
And the strongest sensation I can remember
(apart from not being able to remember anything)
was how badly I missed veggie pizza.
Now you can't really say that I had the munchies,
because i didn't want to consuuume the pizza, per se.
But the memory of that soft Wilbur Dining crust
and perfectly layered gooey cheese,
topped with all kinds of yummy steamed (NOT ROASTED) veggies,
soaked in about an eighth of a bottle of Tapatio--
made me devastatingly homesick.
Unreality, I noticed, was pretty interesting, and not all bad.
But the fact that it would not give me veggie pizza,
which I knew to be the most perfect Platonic form in the whole wide real world,
was severely disappointing.
And that is how i became homesick for veggie pizza,
which i now eat every chance i get,
and thank the whole wide real universe for giving me
that one perfect Platonic form of all that is good and tasty.
Advice on being cliché
a.k.a. 4 greeting cards combined into one poem:
To find your spirit anew
Look for a place to grow
That will be your new home.
They will be your muses.
Think about what confounds you,
Those thoughts will be your reasons.
Do what you love in life,
Money won’t make you happy.
Live each day to its fullest,
Because it could be your last.
Floating through the forest.
Life is full of new trees,
New flowers left to land on.
ok i'll go first
this is a sure-fire winner:
i like rabbits
they have these ears
that... you know, they're soft.
rabbit ear is a soft ear
soft floffy wuff-ear
i had a rabbit named Peter
fed him lettuce
then one day the lettuce
left him upside down
like one of those turtles
after mario jumps on its head
goodbye, Peter
I liked your ears
and sorry
about that lettuce
i like rabbits
they have these ears
that... you know, they're soft.
rabbit ear is a soft ear
soft floffy wuff-ear
i had a rabbit named Peter
fed him lettuce
then one day the lettuce
left him upside down
like one of those turtles
after mario jumps on its head
goodbye, Peter
I liked your ears
and sorry
about that lettuce
Saturday, December 8, 2007
ASSIGNMENT NUMBER ONE
Ahhh, here we go.
Laugh a little, embarrass yourself a little, grow a little.
ASSIGNMENT NUMBER ONE, due SUNDAY at 11:59 p.m. P.S.T. (unless there's another power outage), is to write something that you honestly believe is bad. Humiliate and offend yourself.
Go!
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