ABOUT
Hello! I'm an art/film student and I currently reside in California. This is pretty much a notebook or corkboard to bounce ideas off of. Feel free to comment on any entry. Specific emails can be directed to archaelin@yahoo.com.A THOUGHT
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Sunday, October 15, 2006
FLASH!
So recently I've discovered the unique challenge and brain-twisting fun that is FLASH FICTION. Not the visual poetry you make with the program Flash, but short pieces of fictional prose. For example, a "Drabble" is an exactly 100-word piece. There are other terms for different lengths of pieces, I suggest you look it up on Wikipedia or something of the like.
One think that did catch my eye was 55 Fiction: a short story in 55 words, no more, no less. OOOh! A challenge!
So here are a few albeit crappy 55Fic pieces, but 55Fic nonetheless... revel in their crappiness!
And I just realized the big theme of DEATH. o_O;;
Oops, didn't mean to sound depressed or anything. I'm actually oddly bouncy tonight. ^^;;
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Donnie was a reckless kid. He always went barreling and screaming down the gutters at the side of the street, clay wheels scraping against the sidewalk. Sparks went flying all down the hill and a long, red skid mark of paint left over the crest. His son died the same way, sliding under a truck.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
"Hold me," she said. He complied, hands easing around to grip. His eyes drifted elsewhere. "Tight, now. Don't ever let me go..." He slipped away and left her. And she fell. He returned to find her still and dead with hammer in hand, chair upturned and son's small handprint swinging precariously from a half-in nail.
One think that did catch my eye was 55 Fiction: a short story in 55 words, no more, no less. OOOh! A challenge!
So here are a few albeit crappy 55Fic pieces, but 55Fic nonetheless... revel in their crappiness!
And I just realized the big theme of DEATH. o_O;;
Oops, didn't mean to sound depressed or anything. I'm actually oddly bouncy tonight. ^^;;
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Donnie was a reckless kid. He always went barreling and screaming down the gutters at the side of the street, clay wheels scraping against the sidewalk. Sparks went flying all down the hill and a long, red skid mark of paint left over the crest. His son died the same way, sliding under a truck.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
"Hold me," she said. He complied, hands easing around to grip. His eyes drifted elsewhere. "Tight, now. Don't ever let me go..." He slipped away and left her. And she fell. He returned to find her still and dead with hammer in hand, chair upturned and son's small handprint swinging precariously from a half-in nail.
Saturday, October 14, 2006
what a dump
Poetry dump for this week.
I've been searching around the web like a bloodhound for zines and other little publications. I'll check my poetry and prose contacts to see if they've got any advice... it would be pretty sweet if I could get some of my little literary love-children out into the published world, even if it is in a little sidestreet zine or review. an e-zine is even a possibility, but i really want to see these on paper!! I shall keep searching... no rush, a lot of them have submission deadlines later in the winter anyway... we shall see...
In other news, here's a little poetry dump from this week. Actually, it's more like the last day... or so... ok, maybe just the last hour.
The first is an experiment with prose-poetry. Inspired by... my own existance? No title yet, but that can be easily remedied.
The second is... weird. NO I did not intend to write it about sex... it just kind of... happened. Not until I read the finished piece did I notice the connotations. I was actually just pushing my hands together really tightly and that's what I felt... but hey, you can interpret it how you so desire...
Third is actually from last week. Nothing to say about it really...
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Life is sitting alone in dimly lit rooms, pretending that you know someone loves you. The sonorous clack of mechanized keys beneath your fingers, all industrial and smooth, synchopates between the seductive slides of la garota de ipanema. It juxtaposes your own dusty breath against the latin mug and steam. Your words reflect a want, a deep sensuality that draws in all nerves and emotions. See you. Taste you. Smell you. The world doesn't go on outside this room. There is no world outside, so you make your own with the letters and spaces. Hear you: Listening to post-modern jazz and writing love letters to magazines. Touch you. Feel you. Be you. This is your life. You define it, you are it. Love it and pretend someone loves you.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Slide
Sidle up sideways and hook yourself in
the friction pushes back, grab hold
and rock.
Roll with it.
Lock on.
We are fused
from the heat.
Molecules intertwined
you sink into me.
It's a sticky awesomeness
we can't overcome.
There is no Force to undo us.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Nightvision
The monsters among us
are the ones we know best
away from the sun
where it sets in the West:
a flash in the eye,
a nefarious spark;
remember--
we all look the same in the dark.
I've been searching around the web like a bloodhound for zines and other little publications. I'll check my poetry and prose contacts to see if they've got any advice... it would be pretty sweet if I could get some of my little literary love-children out into the published world, even if it is in a little sidestreet zine or review. an e-zine is even a possibility, but i really want to see these on paper!! I shall keep searching... no rush, a lot of them have submission deadlines later in the winter anyway... we shall see...
In other news, here's a little poetry dump from this week. Actually, it's more like the last day... or so... ok, maybe just the last hour.
The first is an experiment with prose-poetry. Inspired by... my own existance? No title yet, but that can be easily remedied.
The second is... weird. NO I did not intend to write it about sex... it just kind of... happened. Not until I read the finished piece did I notice the connotations. I was actually just pushing my hands together really tightly and that's what I felt... but hey, you can interpret it how you so desire...
Third is actually from last week. Nothing to say about it really...
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Life is sitting alone in dimly lit rooms, pretending that you know someone loves you. The sonorous clack of mechanized keys beneath your fingers, all industrial and smooth, synchopates between the seductive slides of la garota de ipanema. It juxtaposes your own dusty breath against the latin mug and steam. Your words reflect a want, a deep sensuality that draws in all nerves and emotions. See you. Taste you. Smell you. The world doesn't go on outside this room. There is no world outside, so you make your own with the letters and spaces. Hear you: Listening to post-modern jazz and writing love letters to magazines. Touch you. Feel you. Be you. This is your life. You define it, you are it. Love it and pretend someone loves you.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Slide
Sidle up sideways and hook yourself in
the friction pushes back, grab hold
and rock.
Roll with it.
Lock on.
We are fused
from the heat.
Molecules intertwined
you sink into me.
It's a sticky awesomeness
we can't overcome.
There is no Force to undo us.
= + = + = + = + = + = + = + = + =
Nightvision
The monsters among us
are the ones we know best
away from the sun
where it sets in the West:
a flash in the eye,
a nefarious spark;
remember--
we all look the same in the dark.
2 Comments:
-
At 10/15/2006,
Ellie said...
-
Whew! There's a lot in this post, Alessandra, and it's difficult for me to leave a comment expressing all my feelings regarding your poetry!
First, all three of these are amazing. I'm so proud of you for going out there and searching for a zine, too... you should defintely try to get them published! And if you find a good one, let me know! I'd like to enter in some of mine, too.
Second, I like your "Nightvision" poem best. Short, simple, and very thought-provoking.
Third, I really liked your first work-- the prose one. Very interesting.
Fourth, I like how you described "sex"... but in a way that could also be describing other things. You wouldn't just read it and be like, "sex". I dunno. You know what I mean! -
At 10/15/2006,
Adraea said...
-
I agree that Nightvision is amazing - the end line really cements it all. The prose is also cool, juxtaposing and all. I like the wordy-fluidness of it, like a naration. and most of all:
IT'S ALIVE!
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Dinnerplates and Cashmere
AH! RESURRECTION OF THE POETRY!
So... I wrote this after dinner tonight. The moon was absolutely HUGE and a pale papery color. It looked like an old stained paper coaster. You know, like you put under glasses on wooden tables... anyway. No title as of yet. My cashmere sweater is pleasantly autumnal and fuzzy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The moon is dinnerplate-big and I'm wearing cashmere.
They say, "Hey Lucy, where your diamonds?"
But I'm wearing pearls
and they creep beneath my skin.
I am a tender oyster membrane and my name isn't even Lucy.
I feel like a mother.
But I'm still young and have got my own who I don't even see.
I don't like small children.
Or maybe I do.
I'm so indecisive.
And that's if someone will take me.
Imagine that the stars were linked to the trees
and reined by the wind.
Any time a breath moved a leaf, they'd jingle at the end of their chains.
A happy little dog dancing around his post.
It only looks like a dance, he's really pulling away.
Or maybe snapping at a fly.
If I could understand animal nature.
Why do they howl at the moon?
Maybe it feels like home.
So... I wrote this after dinner tonight. The moon was absolutely HUGE and a pale papery color. It looked like an old stained paper coaster. You know, like you put under glasses on wooden tables... anyway. No title as of yet. My cashmere sweater is pleasantly autumnal and fuzzy.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The moon is dinnerplate-big and I'm wearing cashmere.
They say, "Hey Lucy, where your diamonds?"
But I'm wearing pearls
and they creep beneath my skin.
I am a tender oyster membrane and my name isn't even Lucy.
I feel like a mother.
But I'm still young and have got my own who I don't even see.
I don't like small children.
Or maybe I do.
I'm so indecisive.
And that's if someone will take me.
Imagine that the stars were linked to the trees
and reined by the wind.
Any time a breath moved a leaf, they'd jingle at the end of their chains.
A happy little dog dancing around his post.
It only looks like a dance, he's really pulling away.
Or maybe snapping at a fly.
If I could understand animal nature.
Why do they howl at the moon?
Maybe it feels like home.
1 Comments:
Thou did not knowest of Drabbles...
Thou art a knavish fiend indeed.
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