Six-word Memoirs

This was the result of an interesting activity from Creative Writing class – we had to pick only six words to describe ourselves; needless to say, the class as a whole came up with some pretty witty descriptions. Here are a few of mine:

• Tried, then thought better of it.
• Anti-political; copy of ‘Communist Manefesto’ desired.
• Wrote things too interesting for words.
• I don’t know what to write.
• Too lazy to write something worthwhile.
• Tested the temperature – still got burned.
• I don’t know. What about you?
• Still waiting on that ‘final revolution.’

Rhyming Couplets

(Two-line brainfarts scrawled when I was supposed to be taking notes.)

• Flaxen cocoon, societal womb, are what you know, my dear.

Do you still pause and worry about what you’ve been missing here?

• The sparks trapped in embers outlive their cousins in the flame; 

they are the ones that drive back night and hope to live again. 

• To give one’s mind a gentle shake and hear thoughts slide in place

is to some an everlasting curse – for others, purely grace. 

•  Flashing, whirling, the colors spin

beckoning passers-by to join in.

•  To make thoughts of feeling, and make them fall in line

is a thing that anyone can do, if given enough time.

Dostoevsky once said “I am a sad man; I am a bitter man,” and I think truer words were never spoken – or if they were, then they’ve been forgotten for aeons. They’ve dissipated in this gelatin air that flows thick and viscous, ripe with inane intent and swamping the pathetic little molecules lost within it with heat. But that’s not exactly right – forgive me; I’d have to specify what exact molecules are being discussed. I cannot simply assume that you know what I know, or even that I know what I know.
What is ‘know?’ Know is knowledge, which is skills gained through experience – but does experience count when it’s borrowed from another, when you watch and look on from the dead, lifeless words of a textbook? Does experience count when it springs, fully-formed, from the waves of impulses in one’s brain matter? If so, then I have plenty of skills; skills crafted in a world purely of my own creation and therefore useless to the outside world. Who makes that world, anyway – who decided that we had to learn what came from their brain. Who writes the textbooks we carry around day in and day out – what can possibly be in those textbooks that we’ve got to learn them? What do I stand to gain by making my brain wire itself in such a way?
But look at me – I’m an American agreeing with a Russian man from the 19th century. That’s the initial subject here, the argument I was trying to support. What connection is there to be found? What could I possibly have in common with that writer? A particular pattern of electrical signals in synapses, maybe, or an overabundance of a certain neurotransmitter… that doesn’t make sense. Someone may tell me that the two of us think alike, but what would it even matter? By a coincidence, we had similar trains of thought brought on by chemical processes. Why try looking for inherent meaning in that?
Why must I argue that I believe what Dostoevsky believes? What is ‘belief?’ I hold a preposition to be true – I assume that it’s correct. But why is it correct – or more specifically why must I find it correct? Frankly, I don’t think people particularly care what I think is correct, so much as I say that I think it’s correct – after all, how many of the mentally ill have been allowed to live on our society once they admitted that they were ‘wrong?’ Too many for it to be a fluke, but enough to make sanity a farce.

Atavism 1

The rain poured down outside; each drop of water pummeled the sodden ground and made a soft tapping noise, followed by a small splash as another raindrop fell into the tiny puddle it left behind. A cold, wet wind blew and drove the liquid projectiles against the side of an abandoned, silent warehouse. Windows darkened, the squat gray box of a building resigned itself to its preordained soaking and stood peacefully, without creaking or shuddering in the face of the storm. The roof held up, though rain still managed to leak in through half-opened windows and pool in small lakes within the building.

Inside the cold, damp confines of the warehouse, shapes moved in the inky darkness and climbed over one another, scraping and clicking quietly to one another. The faint tapping of the rain on the roof and the eerie moaning of the wind melded with the chittering; a rhythmic drone was produced. A bright flash of lightening lit up the space momentarily, revealing antennae that flicked lazily and claws that scratched at tile and other living things. The cold burst of whitish light also brought the faces of the things into sharp focus; black eyes stared at the outside environment, devoid of expression and movement.

The buzzing shifted in pitch and rose up to something like a drawn-out wail as wicked, hardened mandibles folded in against the sudden clap of thunder that followed. The monstrous shapes pressed closer together, wishing for the fear to go away. It didn’t.

Why they were all here, none of them knew. Whatever sounds they made that cut like knives into the mindless buzzing couldn’t adequately describe the feeling that had drawn them here, the same feeling that nudged at some dark corner of them and assured them that things were fine now – they were here, in this place, although they knew not where it was or why they had come here. Seeking answers and comfort, they bunched together in the center of the building, huddling together for warmth and the reassurance that something else was here in the darkness.

The wail died down into a lower, collective moan and then broke apart into soft clicking sounds. Somewhere in the pile of armored bodies, a shrill keen of something akin to sorrow split the silence creeping in on it; a short scuffle broke out in the darkness. Something else cried out as well, this time out of pain instead of sadness, and both squeaking voices faded away. The group pressed closer until they were almost one body, feeling fused with feeling, flesh against flesh, fear and bewilderment too fresh and raw for words doled out equally between them all.

The rain kept on pouring down.

****

Orange and swollen, yet somehow more reassuring than the rain clouds it parted, the sun wearily trudged up into the sky. Stay beams of light found their way into the building and set to work drying up the scattered puddles inside; others scurried across the filthy ground and alighted on the ones who had sought refuge there. They were slumped together, silent and unmoving save for the stray flick of an antennae or the clicking of mouthparts.

A bird flew into the warehouse, its wings beating furiously and sounding impossibly loud in the stillness of the space. It landed on a nearby table and hopped across its top, beady black eyes bright as it scanned the wooden surface for food. Unbeknownst to the poor creature, another pair of black eyes also scanned that area for food – and found it.

Hissing, primal and high-pitched, alerted the bird to the danger just a second too late; a brown blur leapt onto the table and snatched the feathery form up. With mandibles that were seemingly unaccustomed to the activity, it tore into the small, plump body and wrestled the food back into its throat, and from there into its stomach. Meanwhile the table groaned under the unexpected addition of weight and finally sounded its death-knell, legs folding in and cracking in two.

The commotion brought the rest of the group out of their stupor. They surrounded the one who had already fed and chattered hungrily, the sound growing louder by the second – the smell of blood and the sight of small chucks of flesh were almost too much to bear. Though everything else might have been foreign to them, the lust for nourishment, for tearing into something and eating it, was as real as it could be. The one who was sated could dimly recognize this; hastily they cleaned their mandibles and turned from one of their fellow refugees to the other, as if looking for the food that it had just consumed.

One of them, further in the back and closer to the door, clicked and stalked over to a wall opposite the table – a scent had caught their attention. Six clawed, armored feet clattered against the floor and met the plaster of the other surface. Gripping it, they hoisted the football-shaped body up and up until they reached their intended goal: the bird’s nest, now unguarded and blissfully full of things that were white and hard and food.

One claw caught hold of the nest and yanked it back, sending the eggs flying. They crashed to the ground and cracked open, spilling clear and yellow fluid on the dirty surface. Before the one who had retrieved them could skitter over to the food, it had been smeared into a thin layer of inedible mess by the eager jaws of its fellows; angrily it hissed at them and was hissed at in return. This was not good. There had to be more food out here. Was that why they were here, for food?

Antennae clicked and the open space from which the first food had emerged grabbed their attention. An unspoken agreement was struck.

Rules of the Internet

9/12/2007 Michael “No one is safe, when I close my eyes” J. says:

1. Do not talk about /b/

2. DO NOT talk about /b/

3. We are Anonymous

4. Anonymous is legion

5. Anonymous never forgives

6. Anonymous can be horrible, senseless, uncaring monster

7. Anonymous is still able to deliver

8. There are no real rules about posting

9. There are no real rules about moderation either – enjoy your ban

10. If you enjoy any rival sites – DON’T

11. All your carefully picked arguments can easily be ignored

12. Anything you say can and will be used against you

13. Anything you say can and will be turned into something else – fixed

14. Do not argue with trolls – it means that they win

15. The harder you try the harder you will fail

16. If you fail in epic proportions, it may just become a winning failure

17. Every win fails eventually

18. Everything that can be labeled can be hated

19. The more you hate it the stronger it gets

20. Nothing is to be taken seriously

21. Original content is original only for a few seconds before getting old

22. Copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality

23. Copypasta is made to ruin every last bit of originality

24. Every repost is always a repost of a repost

25. Relation to the original topic decreases with every single post

26. Any topic can be easily turned into something totally unrelated

27. Always question a person’s sexual preferences without any real reason

28. Always question a person’s gender – just in case it’s really a man

29. In the internet all girls are men and all kids are undercover FBI agents

30. There are no girls on the internet

31. TITS or GTFO – the choice is yours

32. You must have pictures to prove your statement

33. Lurk more – it’s never enough

34. There is porn of it, no exceptions

35. If no porn is found at the moment, it will be made

36. There will always be more f***** up s*** than you just saw

37. You can not divide by zero (just because the calculator says so)

38. No real limits of any kind apply here – not even the sky

39. CAPSLOCK IS CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL

40. EVEN WITH CRUISE CONTROL YOU STILL HAVE TO STEER

41. Desu isn’t funny. Seriously guys. It’s worse than Chuck Norris jokes

42. Nothing is Sacred

43. The more beautiful and pure a thing is – the more satisfying it is to corrupt it

44. Even one positive comment about Japanese things can make you a weeaboo

45. When one sees a lion, one must get into the car

46. There is always furry porn of it

47. The pool is always closed

48. Do Not turn your back on Anonymous. Do not Betray Anonymous. Anonymous does not forget and neither should you. What Anonymous gives, Anonymous can take away. We control everything.

(This isn’t mine. Relax, people.)

Creative Writing Class, directed Freewrite - “Why did you do that?”

Why did you do that? That’s the great question, isn’t it? If we knew why, the how would come easier – or maybe not. One can do something without having a reason to do it, can’t they? I don’t think so. Take writing, for example; something that’s supposed to be prone to flights of fancy, to “it seemed like a good idea at the time” moments. I’m writing this piece because I have been directed to, and if I didn’t do it then I would be marked down as a non-precipitant, which would result in low grades in Creative Writing class, which would negatively affect my overall average, ergo affecting my chances of getting into a good college and, from there, a good job. It makes sense if you hazard it through, but if one looks at this entire train of thought from a distance – uses the ‘transitive postulate’ – it seems highly unlikely that choosing to not do one particular project in Creative Writing class would result in an inability to get and keep a job.

Now, why would I get a job? To pay for life’s expenses, of course. Why would I need to pay for life’s expenses? I’d have to do that because things required to stay alive, such as food, water, shelter, etc. cost money. No, that’s not the correct answer – I’ve only stated the question as an answer. Why must I pay for things to stay alive and happy? Answer – capitalism, I suppose. People affix charges to needed commodies in order to pay for their own expenses…but wait. That doesn’t solve my question either. If anything, I’ve come full-circle.

Product of the Proletariat

I’ve decided to attach a grandiose title to this newest post of mine; it serves more to focus my own thoughts than to capture the reader’s attention, though it does that as well, if I dare say so myself. Either way, four words precede this post – the same post that I should be writing right now. Instead, I’m explaining its presence…I’ll rectify this.

During my off periods today, I managed to get my grubby commoner paws on a copy of the works of Karl Marx, more specifically the Communist Manefesto. I won’t delude myself or you into believing that I am too fucking smart to live understood most of the ideas described, but I can vouch for myself and say that I grasped the concept of prolietariat/bourgeoisie struggle: that those who own property are forever supressing those who own nothing but their own skills, those less-wealthy souls who use those skills and work for wages. Whether that concept is true or not is a discussion best suited for the blog of someone who knows more than I do; I’ll simply explain my own resulting thoughts.

I own no property, which excludes me from the bourgeoisie, but I also do not have any marketable skills, which prevents me from being a member of the proletariat. One could argue that this conundrum is one that any adolescent finds themselves in until they finish their education and join the workforce – I won’t disprove that thought. I am mainly concerned with what I am now; I am trying to determine my place in this system. Let’s see…I consume resources – money is “sunk” into me, as it were – but produce a negligable amount of useful products. Sure, this bullshit philosophy I’m prone to spouting may be of some use to some, but I cannot open a philosophy store. What exactly would I sell, anyway – Kafka plush dolls? Nietzschian Ubermensch joint suppliments? Henry Miller condoms?

All frivolity aside, I believe I’ve found a suitable designation for myself: product. I am bought – paid for and kept alive by the money and goods my father and immediate family invest in me. Yes, perhaps I may prove to be of some use, the same way that a coat proves useful to its owner when it’s cold out. But does a coat go out and earn wages; does it trade its useful qualities for monetary gain? No – others do this, not the object itself. I feel as if I am part of the same class; as a teenager, I am nothing but an exceptionally expensive product. The materials I consume are required, mostly, for my upkeep, or else serve to enhance the experience of owning me. Accessories, in a way.

You might say that this is an inherently wrong idea, that it’s not normal nor correct for me to be entertaining these ideas - I’ll allow for the assumption that there’s someone actually interested in what I am saying (fat chance) who is reacting to this blognote in a predictable way (obese chance). I’ll simply say that pets, which are considered property, are treated the same way. Sometimes pets and livestock are out to work, but even then they are still owned and maintained by their “masters,” ie. owners.

I cannot place myself; days slide by, places slide by like the individual images in a roll of film – small snapshots of scenes and life that flicker by, blending together jerkily into motion, one smooth animation, life, except the soundtrack’s gone. There are just the plain events, without the added benefit of music, placeflashtimeflashfeeling – and it’s gone. Move to the next one, please; we’ve got a lot to process before the time’s up. This is a midnight showing; our theatres are packed. No preferences or commentary, and if the projector breaks – no refund. Just the screen; you could watch that if you like, but there won’t be anything playing for the next showing, and the next, and the next, and the next.

            I’ve slid into one of the blank frames on my roll of film; a cellophane hammock that doesn’t sag no matter how long I lay in it. There are plenty of these, I’ve read; they give the eyes a chance to rest between images, allow for the illusion of movement to persist. Without them, there’d be – what? The sensation of looking at one separate image after another? Disconnected scenes without a plot, without a connection to lend them additional meaning? I assume so. With these wonderful hammocks – resting places for one’s eyes – there’s a chance to unwind, prepare for the barrage of life and its scenes. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

There’s a snapshot of summer, green tires and minimum wage, nearly anyway – and then there’s fall right next to it, school and testing and tissue-paper-dead leaves. Poised on the cusp as I am, I can see them littering the streets; corpses with that gauzy crepe texture, sighing and skittering with every wisp of air. Adults, at least, have the sense to pick them up, it seems. Children just like to jump among them, crushing that crinkly webbing of dark orange. They crunch underfoot, or would if I dared step on them. I won’t, and I don’t rake my yard either. I don’t have a yard for the leaves to pile up in – all I own is a small nook and my own inner world, and even then I’m paying property tax for the two. The mortgage payments are due – filming’s expensive, and dreams even more so. I wonder how I’ll pay.

What is the space between two filled frames of film called? Is it even considered part of the film, or does it fly out of view, escaping nomenclature, lost in that window of approximation between one thing and the next? ‘What’s that there, between the scenes?’ ‘Oh, don’t worry about that, it’s just a scrap of space.’ We’ll leave that there for now – there are more important things to look for. We’ve got a lot of process, you know, and when the time runs out those scraps of stock will still be there. They’ll add up, and we’ll just go over it all when we get to it, review and try to edit out the worse parts.

If that’s the case, then I’m reviewing as we speak; I’m certainly not watching a roll of etched, stained cellophane get unwound, or wound, or cut, or burned – from my perspective, it doesn’t matter. I’m not the one running the projector; I’m just lounging about on the margins. It’s not like that matters, right?

What am I watching? It’s not noir, not melodrama, not comedy, not horror, even – it’s just a movie. Not even that; there’s no plot, no starring actors in lead roles, no sweeping scores by famous composers or cutting-edge special effects. No deus ex machinae, even – and what I would give for even one of those. Just give me something that makes sense, something I can walk away from feeling satisfied.

No preferences or commentary, and if the projector breaks – no refund.

That’s a pity. I’d like my money back – or whatever it was I was paying with – but no, what’s gone is gone, or done, really. Is there a difference? Not in this context, but it looks like my time’s up. I’ve got to step out of this and into another scene – we’ve got a lot to process, you know.

I don’t want to…

Drabble – Cat and Man

I wrote this on a whim in Creative Writing class – some of my friends might be able to identify the main character of this piece.

Not many residents of the unassuming apartment complex cared to rouse themselves at three o’clock in the morning; likewise, very few ventured to remain awake until this time in the morning as well. If anyone had cared to wander the dank, winding hallways and observe the doors that flanked either side, however, they would have discovered that someone was indeed awake, judging by the faint electronic glow leaking from underneath the battered, locked door; one steadfast tenant proved himself the exception to the rule. This man, not hated or exceptionally liked, had learned soon after moving into the small apartment that the chances of being called on or distracted at such an early hour were next to nil. Logically, he had decided to make the witching hours of each night his work hours, and he stuck to this rule with a tenacity that could only be described as obsessive.

As the digital analog clock on a nearby dresser proclaimed the time – 3:23 am, or roughly three o’clock in the afternoon in the People’s Republic of China –a frustrated sigh split the thick gauze of silence that had begun winding itself through the darkened room. Two steel-grey eyes ringed with blotchy purple circles narrowed and flicked downwards.

“Stop that. I’m trying to work.”

            In response, the small, bedraggled ball of fur tiptoeing across the carpet meowed and rubbed itself against the man’s pants leg, leaving a small patch of wetness in its wake; new to the apartment, it had been grudgingly taken in from a wet, cold life on the street and allowed to meander around the apartment until conditions outside were more favorable for it. Its gratitude, however, was surprisingly unwelcome.

With an irritated sigh, the lone tenant lightly nudged the kitten away from his chair and continued to balefully eye the lighted screen of his laptop computer. Next to the machine, a half-cup of black coffee rested on top of a short, handwritten letter and dissipated heat into the outside air; several sentence fragments tentatively poked out from under its circular base, slowly warping into unintelligible smears of graphite from the heat of the drink.

            Frank, it’d be wonderful if you

            didn’t come for Christmas and Jenn

            kill you to show up and visit for once?

            Oblivious to the slow degradation of the letter, the man – Frank – irritably eyed the screen and frowned, his eyes tracing along the jagged lines of the graph displayed on the glowing window. The thin red line was mentally converted to points of data and filed away in the man’s mind for future notice – when he noticed where the data ended, Frank couldn’t prevent himself from turning his head, glaring at the cracked plaster of the nearby wall with an annoyed expression. “Damnit.”

            The kitten – now hungry in addition to being soaked to the bone – took the momentary lapse in focus as an invitation and clambered up onto the tabletop, tracking a thin line of wet paw-prints across the various papers and notes scattered around the scratched, warped surface. Its back foot connected with the letter and it momentarily slipped, finally rubbing the sentences out into little  more than streaks of black on the thick lined paper. The remaining footprints made by that paw were tinged a light gray with pencil lead. Nearing the cup of coffee, the young cat’s whiskers curved forward and one small ear twitched; cautiously it dipped its head in and began lapping up the heated liquid.

            The sudden movement and quiet gulping sounds roused Frank from his frustrated stupor; with an irritated noise he reached out and picked up the offending feline by the scruff of its neck. “No, cat. Cats do not drink coffee.” When his big hands easily wrapped around the kitten’s small frame and felt ribs just below the wet coating of fur, he sighed. “What, are you hungry? Is that it?”

            A pitiful little mew came in response and the cat twisted around, venturing to lick Frank’s hand with a scratchy tongue slightly stained with the coffee it had consumed only a few moments before. A phlegm-filled rumble emerged from its chest as Frank stolidly rubbed under its chin.

“I guess that’s a yes.”

poem

O Freedom, thy mother of open sky!

Wherefore hast thine children flown?

Trapped on Earth reap they, with heavy sigh,

the bitter crop which hast been sown.

With prideful hearts came, from yonder star,

we, from the wide heavens, our souls untamed!

But how such pride is death-marked! Far

have we fallen, flames cooled, hearts lamed.

Cold fear doth runith through our veins, a shade

of the old spirit, our rightful hope!

Keepith some, the embers–they shalt not fade

and for aeons hence so shall we cope.

Until then we shall reach out from behind these bars

and dream of our lives among the stars.