I think I may have upset some guy outside of town. He was walking around talking to himself and I bumped into him, and he got a little irritaH͓͎̎̄e̙̗ͪ̽ͬ ̡͓͍̐ͨ̊̈͊̅w̢̡̤̳̮̣̦ͦ̌ͮ̚ͅh̵͍̫͍̩̲̬̣̊͐ͅo̘̺̎̾ͩ͗̍͢ ̵̺̜͌ͥ́r̶̥̈̉̓ư̟͚̝͇͉̬̖ͮ̅̈̚n̏̾̈ͪ̽̊̊̅҉̵̭̫̞͖͘s͎̙̳̼̗͔ͯͦ ͈͎̺̈ͤ̀r͍̙̪̗͇̞̍͗̑ͪͥ̑͒́͞ͅṵ̸͔ͤ̔ͩͬ̂ͥi̶̙̙̖͍̹ͦ̽n̠̠͚ͩ̀̀͢s̡̻̩͙̪͉͔͍̋͟ ͈̦̥͆
͎̩̟̱͇͕̓ͮͮw̵̧͓ͤ͂͑͑̆͛̐h̸̶͕̱̘̩̜̫̮ͣ̅̒ͬ̑̚͜ͅo̡̰̫̥̪̙̰̳ͯ͊̌ ̩̰ͣ̾ͪ̔̕b̸̪̩̱̈́̃̏͐̕r̛̒̾̔̔҉̹̱̠̟̯̰u̥͙͖͙̬̺͈̅͂ͩͮ̂͊ͪͦ͝ͅi̙̩̿͋s̢̡̰͇̭͚̱̤̤͍̎̓ͬ̍͟e̴̷̼͈͈͎̪̒͠s̸̪͆̂̈́̉ͨ̃̒ͬͨ̀ ̛͑͂̓ͮ͐̀̔҉̹̘͇͎̖͙͙̗͝b͓̖͚̝̳̙̬̻̿̽́l͖͖̩͚͊̕͞ë̢̡̢̯̣̤̱̼̱̈́ͪ̂̽e̳͎͚̜̫ͩ͂̂d̛̦͖̖͇̤̠͖̣͔ͯͬ͛̾͛s̘̠͈̙̦̖̦̑̔̇̍͗ͥ̕͠ ̮͕͕͔͌̿͌͝
̸̛̼̞͓̰̂ͣͪ̆ͦ̿̑̋h̨̔͆̇͂͐ͫͥ̚҉̣̪̤̖̬͎͖͟ͅe̲̭͕̝̤̪̤̝̥ͯ͆̀̅̈́̓ͭ̏͞ ̷͈͇̖̟̤̭̭̺ͣ̋w̷̘̝͇͚͚͒̍͗͒̔̆͊̀͢ḧ̡̼͕̮̝̠̣̕oͧ̿ͤ͏̹̹̘͇̻̤͚͕ ̙̯̳̒̓ͦ̐sͫ͗ͫͦ̚҉̦̝̤̭̖ͅc̱̜̺̫͒̈ͭ̋ͤ̽́r̺̩̣̐̈́ͤ̎̄͊̄͠e̷̖̼̖̳̥̝͍ͮ̐ͨ͑̊̃͟ą̸̞̗̒͂m̷̟̱͖̲͚ͪ̀̉͆ͨ͑ͨ͞s̴̡͕̳̮͉̔͌ͥ̌ͮͬ̎̐̔́ ̢̧̥̭̄̎̂̈̅͝l̘̮̯̮̟̿̈̌̔͂͜ȯ͇̪̺̞͚̥͗́͑̎̐ͩ͒͞s̶̺̦̮ͧ͒e̴̗̥͊̒͢͡sͤ̈́̔ͫ͏̗̤̤̲͙ ̎̽ͮ̽͝͏̴̳̱̘͎̠
͍͕̩̬̼̙̳ͧ̈ͧͤ̏͊̐h̸̷̞̭̮̥͌̈́́ͮe̟̭̠̣͋ͭ̔̏͘ͅ ̶̺͚̬̦̤̝͕͆ͮ̾̔̓́̄ͩ̃̀w̗̄͂͌́ͅh̨͙̼͎͂̏̂̀͌̒͞ͅo̢̗̳ͯ̽̿͋̏ͤ ̰̆ͦ̕l͕͍̳̰͔͈ͯ̎ͣͮ̿͜i̤͈̮̯̦̗ͩͥ͒͂ṡ̙̺͇̝̲͑͂̿̒ͤț̲̟͍̝͚̓̔̑͞ȩͮ̐̏̇̃͐͐̊҉̺̣͔n̰̭ͤ̽̐͂́̏s̶̢̻̭͙̤̟̻͈̾ͤͥ̉ ̫̣̠͍̥̹̠͚̞͗̉̊̍ͯ̒
̢͎͇̺̬̱͌ͤ̿ͫ ̩̘̳̤̮̅ͧ͆̈́͆ͅͅ
̨͓͍̪̗̰̪̻͕̥ͥ͛̎̊̓͛̑ŵ̢̠͎̔̊ͯ̇̀͠ͅå̤̟͓̻̬͓͔̐̋̉̑͠i͙̮͔͛́͟t̴̹͙͕̱͖̜̗̏̎ͯͮ̊͞s̷̢͙̭͎̟̳̞ͧ̿̅̌
All the world will be your enemy, Prince of a Thousand enemies. And when they catch you, they will kill you.
But first they must catch you; digger, listener, runner, Prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed.
-Richard Adams, Watership Down.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Rambling counts as writing, right?
Oh, apple juice. I am too sleep deprived to be functioning on any level plane of thought beyond 'Look I am wearing socks and they make my feet look like inchworms, teehee!'.
Rambling counts as writing, right? I'm sure it does somewhere because I haven't been keeping up with my writing schedule as much as I'd like too and it's making me terribly bothered. I don't like being dishonest with myself- I thought I'd be doing better than this but things have gotten really busy.
I think I may edit the whole damn thing to become more of an 'x' amount of words a week thing.
So, I went through and followed everyone's blogs and now feel absurdly self-concious. My god, they know I'm here, and they know I roleplay Disney characters when I have free-time, and if they've looked into that they know I write some weird, long stuff about them, or maybe they know I got rejected from the Disney College Program, or that I drink too much tea and like old book illustrations.
..And for whatever reason, as alarming as this partially is, I'm not too bothered.
I like stories, I like how I approach means to tell them differently. I like tea, I like cartooning, I like art. Hell, I like drawing people and animals and princesses. I like finding ways to use stories and art to teach people things.
And I like knowing that somehow I feel sharper at 11 PM at night without or with too much sleep all at once than I do at 7 am in the morning just waking up and stumbling through the world.
...And now I've got to do my essay, and I've got to look out for my email from Ned, because I am so pumped for the Tangled Fic Exchange.
I have stories to tell, damnit, and I will tell them however I want too.
Rambling counts as writing, right? I'm sure it does somewhere because I haven't been keeping up with my writing schedule as much as I'd like too and it's making me terribly bothered. I don't like being dishonest with myself- I thought I'd be doing better than this but things have gotten really busy.
I think I may edit the whole damn thing to become more of an 'x' amount of words a week thing.
So, I went through and followed everyone's blogs and now feel absurdly self-concious. My god, they know I'm here, and they know I roleplay Disney characters when I have free-time, and if they've looked into that they know I write some weird, long stuff about them, or maybe they know I got rejected from the Disney College Program, or that I drink too much tea and like old book illustrations.
..And for whatever reason, as alarming as this partially is, I'm not too bothered.
I like stories, I like how I approach means to tell them differently. I like tea, I like cartooning, I like art. Hell, I like drawing people and animals and princesses. I like finding ways to use stories and art to teach people things.
And I like knowing that somehow I feel sharper at 11 PM at night without or with too much sleep all at once than I do at 7 am in the morning just waking up and stumbling through the world.
...And now I've got to do my essay, and I've got to look out for my email from Ned, because I am so pumped for the Tangled Fic Exchange.
I have stories to tell, damnit, and I will tell them however I want too.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Fictional Biography
Miranda Wilkins, aged forty three, childless, unwed, has a strong fear of answering the phone. A man has been calling her for four months now and though she's said little of it, she had mentioned it to her friend, Candace Roberts, aged thirty nine and feeling it heavy on her shoulders. Candace married a man Miranda had desired back in school, but had never felt the courage to approach.
Candace had gone to college, Miranda had not. She did not feel cut out for that sort of thing, and had taken up a job checking files at a meat processing plant. It was good work, and though the men were a little harsher in their words than she cared for, they were at least honest men and hard working. They were the sort of men who managed to scrub off almost all of the blood from their hands before they went home. She noticed they tended to forget the little areas outside their wrists, because it looked like a bracelet from far away. She never said anything about it.
The man who had been calling her was getting on her nerves, edging her to paranoia and terror. She had installed a caller's identification machine to the phone, and did not answer when it was a number she did not know now, but sometimes it skipped that, or she forgot all her numbers, and answered anyway. The calls made he thoughts fuzzy, and she did not like being called honey. She did not have money to send the man, and she did not want to talk to him. She had told him so, but he continued on.
When Candace was told, she had worried that her friend was perhaps too alone in her house. She offered Miranda a job to babysit her youngest, but the boy did not like her very much, so she had refused.
Miranda was very much starting to worry the calls were getting closer, so she would lock her doors and shut the windows tight. Who knew who else he was calling?
One day he called at work, and asked for her boss. Then he asked for her coworkers.
She had hung up in a fit of tears. She didn't know this man, but he knew her.
He knew her far, far too well to find any solace in it.
The following week, Miranda left the meat processing factory, the town, and her home behind on a white bus headed to a hospital.
She did not return for a very long time. There were no phones there.
Candace had gone to college, Miranda had not. She did not feel cut out for that sort of thing, and had taken up a job checking files at a meat processing plant. It was good work, and though the men were a little harsher in their words than she cared for, they were at least honest men and hard working. They were the sort of men who managed to scrub off almost all of the blood from their hands before they went home. She noticed they tended to forget the little areas outside their wrists, because it looked like a bracelet from far away. She never said anything about it.
The man who had been calling her was getting on her nerves, edging her to paranoia and terror. She had installed a caller's identification machine to the phone, and did not answer when it was a number she did not know now, but sometimes it skipped that, or she forgot all her numbers, and answered anyway. The calls made he thoughts fuzzy, and she did not like being called honey. She did not have money to send the man, and she did not want to talk to him. She had told him so, but he continued on.
When Candace was told, she had worried that her friend was perhaps too alone in her house. She offered Miranda a job to babysit her youngest, but the boy did not like her very much, so she had refused.
Miranda was very much starting to worry the calls were getting closer, so she would lock her doors and shut the windows tight. Who knew who else he was calling?
One day he called at work, and asked for her boss. Then he asked for her coworkers.
She had hung up in a fit of tears. She didn't know this man, but he knew her.
He knew her far, far too well to find any solace in it.
The following week, Miranda left the meat processing factory, the town, and her home behind on a white bus headed to a hospital.
She did not return for a very long time. There were no phones there.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
I'm eavesdropping.
"At least someone believes me.."
"Did anybody not believe you?"
"I haven't told anybody. I'm pretty upset about it. I went to work today.. but I don't want to talk about work. I was pretty upset."
"How many times has he called you?"
"About five times. How did I handle it?"
"Well, you said you got pretty upset. I think you got pretty upset, really worried.."
"Did you still talk to him?"
"No, I hung up. He kept calling me honey and asking for money. He called Earl too.. He called Jerry.."
"How did they react? Did they get quiet, and not tell anyone either?"
"Yeah.."
"Did anybody not believe you?"
"I haven't told anybody. I'm pretty upset about it. I went to work today.. but I don't want to talk about work. I was pretty upset."
"How many times has he called you?"
"About five times. How did I handle it?"
"Well, you said you got pretty upset. I think you got pretty upset, really worried.."
"Did you still talk to him?"
"No, I hung up. He kept calling me honey and asking for money. He called Earl too.. He called Jerry.."
"How did they react? Did they get quiet, and not tell anyone either?"
"Yeah.."
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Word Association - Blog Week 2, Assignment 1
Noisy children brawling games
Word association exercise
---
The pit was dirty and dank, like most ravines tend to me in hallowed October evenings, overflowing with leaves and the junk casually dropped down by littering passerby, or people who wished to hide away secrets. Electronics and glass glittered against the natural debris, and the not so natural as footprints rained into the world like sudden storm clouds.
Fists were raised. There was no self conscious thought to the outside as voices, young and stark against the harsh winds rang through the trench. Molly shifted her weight, hands up in small fists, a bruise blossoming on her cheek. Andrea said if she could do this, if she were the David to their band, to take down the Goliath that was Courtney Wintermyre—Well… Andrea hadn’t explicitly said, but every knight won a maiden’s favor eventually, right? Even if they were both girls, a favor was a favor.
The dirt scuffed her shoes and her knees were scraped from running and falling- They’d wound up here fleeing. She was not proud of her sudden bolting from the confrontation, but they were here now and a circle had formed. It had been made official of officials, outside schoolyard constrictions and teachers gazes. Outside reassurance. Outside getting up again if she fell to hard.
She swallowed thick; this was the reality she had to prepare for. She watched as Courtney paraded her fists, leaves on her shoulders- She wouldn’t see them, for what giant notices their head in the clouds if they’ve been there all their lives?
The first punch flew and missed. Molly spun, arm aching from the effort, and stumbled to look back- She only saw Courtney for a split second, and that was all it took for to know it was over. Everything then turned into a swirl of peach and freckles, aimed directly at her nose, and her world held only the large, over-vocal crack, that resounded like a gunshot echoing the noise of a branch stepped on in the dark.
Andrea’s mother drove them home. The car smelled of old exhaust, dead cigarettes, and hamburger wrappers, and Molly had to concentrate out the windows to make out the blurs of colors and shapes going by. Everything spun and ached, but Andrea had rested her hand against hers along the way. Her heart hammered- She wasn’t sure if it was the mild concussion or her broken nose, or just the noise of an erratic heartbeat that wouldn’t leave her, but it let her smile all the same.
In the trench, leaves continued to fall across glass and wire. The dirt was scuffled and flecked with blood—But as the dirt carried some of Molly, she carried some of it along with her as well, down the long road home. She rode like a knight on horseback- Her maiden’s favor fluttering alongside her in the breeze.
Word association exercise
---
The pit was dirty and dank, like most ravines tend to me in hallowed October evenings, overflowing with leaves and the junk casually dropped down by littering passerby, or people who wished to hide away secrets. Electronics and glass glittered against the natural debris, and the not so natural as footprints rained into the world like sudden storm clouds.
Fists were raised. There was no self conscious thought to the outside as voices, young and stark against the harsh winds rang through the trench. Molly shifted her weight, hands up in small fists, a bruise blossoming on her cheek. Andrea said if she could do this, if she were the David to their band, to take down the Goliath that was Courtney Wintermyre—Well… Andrea hadn’t explicitly said, but every knight won a maiden’s favor eventually, right? Even if they were both girls, a favor was a favor.
The dirt scuffed her shoes and her knees were scraped from running and falling- They’d wound up here fleeing. She was not proud of her sudden bolting from the confrontation, but they were here now and a circle had formed. It had been made official of officials, outside schoolyard constrictions and teachers gazes. Outside reassurance. Outside getting up again if she fell to hard.
She swallowed thick; this was the reality she had to prepare for. She watched as Courtney paraded her fists, leaves on her shoulders- She wouldn’t see them, for what giant notices their head in the clouds if they’ve been there all their lives?
The first punch flew and missed. Molly spun, arm aching from the effort, and stumbled to look back- She only saw Courtney for a split second, and that was all it took for to know it was over. Everything then turned into a swirl of peach and freckles, aimed directly at her nose, and her world held only the large, over-vocal crack, that resounded like a gunshot echoing the noise of a branch stepped on in the dark.
Andrea’s mother drove them home. The car smelled of old exhaust, dead cigarettes, and hamburger wrappers, and Molly had to concentrate out the windows to make out the blurs of colors and shapes going by. Everything spun and ached, but Andrea had rested her hand against hers along the way. Her heart hammered- She wasn’t sure if it was the mild concussion or her broken nose, or just the noise of an erratic heartbeat that wouldn’t leave her, but it let her smile all the same.
In the trench, leaves continued to fall across glass and wire. The dirt was scuffled and flecked with blood—But as the dirt carried some of Molly, she carried some of it along with her as well, down the long road home. She rode like a knight on horseback- Her maiden’s favor fluttering alongside her in the breeze.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Fifteen Minute Writing Exercise 1 - Untitled
15 minute exercise that went in a radically different direction.
I may flesh this out later.
I may flesh this out later.
Sharing some actual writing: Horehound and Innocence
We were asked to bring in some writing we were proud of, and I figured I'd cross-post it here.
Horehound and Innocence: Children Will Be Children
by Michelle Barbieri 2010
Horehound and Innocence: Children Will Be Children
by Michelle Barbieri 2010
Writing Schedule
Well, I'm supposed to have a writing schedule drawn up for the next couple weeks of the semester. At least once a day, le-writing.
Since my Tues-Thurs are really full schedule-wise, there's less writing on those days. Hoping to get at least a two hours total in total a week. Bonus time when I finish homework, haha.
So, here goes:
Monday : 30 minutes, 3/10 minute sessions a day. This is a little lofty, but I don't have a damn thing to do Monday, so there we go.
Tuesday : 15 minutes, either between classes or after.
Wednesday : 15 minutes, same as Tuesday.
Thursday : 15 minutes, same as Wednesday.
Friday : 30 Minutes again!
Sat/Sunday : 45 minutes total. 3x15 minute sessions, or 15 3minute sessions, whatever.
I'll be documenting this with:
http://writeordie.com/
Ffff yesssss.
I'll take screenshots of each day of writing, then post the shot with whatever day's writing. I lied, probably not doing that.
This schedule will be starting Monday the 18th.
Yeaahhhhhh!
(I may get a head-start tonight, because my mom's visiting on Monday, but still. Rules are rules.)
Furthermore I'll be taking part in the Tangled Fanfiction Exchange starting the 22nd. That writing time will be documented, but not posted until the contest is over, because it's super-duper secret!
Since my Tues-Thurs are really full schedule-wise, there's less writing on those days. Hoping to get at least a two hours total in total a week. Bonus time when I finish homework, haha.
So, here goes:
Monday : 30 minutes, 3/10 minute sessions a day. This is a little lofty, but I don't have a damn thing to do Monday, so there we go.
Tuesday : 15 minutes, either between classes or after.
Wednesday : 15 minutes, same as Tuesday.
Thursday : 15 minutes, same as Wednesday.
Friday : 30 Minutes again!
Sat/Sunday : 45 minutes total. 3x15 minute sessions, or 15 3minute sessions, whatever.
I'll be documenting this with:
http://writeordie.com/
Ffff yesssss.
This schedule will be starting Monday the 18th.
Yeaahhhhhh!
(I may get a head-start tonight, because my mom's visiting on Monday, but still. Rules are rules.)
Furthermore I'll be taking part in the Tangled Fanfiction Exchange starting the 22nd. That writing time will be documented, but not posted until the contest is over, because it's super-duper secret!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
A Clamour of Bells - Blog Assignment 2+3
I have been told on more than one occasion my spirit is deemed generous. My empathy strikes like the noise of a bell, a gentle clamor that resounds echoing across the whole of my being, a sigh and song that resounds echoes and the sound of rain falling. My heart swings a pendulous hypnotists amulet-- it swayed across my eyes, lids heavy, drawing closed slowly, slowly, into a peaceful slumber--
And it swung faster with each and every heartbeat, blood rushing in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green meadows of the chaos of education and creation, tumbling to their feet to stand tall. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards...
And mine hung across, a banner fluttering in gentle-rain winds, revealing words that set my stomach whirling, like I'd spun in circles far too long, in a language different, strange, and foreign to my lips. Butterflies filled my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it now, like the weight of a child across a woman's back.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words drawn across the prairie winds of my heart? What impact did they bestow? Was it like lightning striking, glorious? Was it like a sunrise bringing light to a ceasefire? What hands had I extended outward now?
I swallowed, the lump thick in my throat-- I did not know, then, of the miles we would have to traverse...
And how many, many long stretches lie in between, of silence and quiet strangeness between friends. There were rough patches, awkward, bumbling arguments, long nights... But then, in that sobering, freeing moment?
I was not to know that the holes I had drawn us tumbling down into, from which we would have to mutually help one another, hand by hand by hand. I had no idea to me that this would cast us apart temporarily, like birds on a crossed breeze...
I had cast my banner into the unknown, bright white light of surrender, and waited for the messenger to bring back its olive branch.
We would find it, even if we struggled long in the process, across great seas of uncertainties. Even if we each had moved along thereafter, but for then, the words hung solid, rising like the peak of a mountain..
Ich liebe dich.
--
AN: I figured I'd do contrasting pieces of the same moment in time, a rather personal one, where once-upon-a-time I rather naively admitted some feelings I'd had for a friend that they hadn't felt back. The moment hands solid in memory as a sort've..Cataclyst to our still-friendship, one that could have well gone either way. This is, of course, only my point of view, and I've taken incredible poetic liscense too it: I remember it with a LOT more awkwardness, the noise of air conditioning, and the heat of the art-room-kiln in the background..
I, however, chose to leave those out to focus on the image of the card, the words, and emotion.
I'm thinking that, even if these don't fit the requirements for the assignment entirely, I'll positively keep these drafts. I like them, so, haha.
And it swung faster with each and every heartbeat, blood rushing in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green meadows of the chaos of education and creation, tumbling to their feet to stand tall. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards...
And mine hung across, a banner fluttering in gentle-rain winds, revealing words that set my stomach whirling, like I'd spun in circles far too long, in a language different, strange, and foreign to my lips. Butterflies filled my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it now, like the weight of a child across a woman's back.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words drawn across the prairie winds of my heart? What impact did they bestow? Was it like lightning striking, glorious? Was it like a sunrise bringing light to a ceasefire? What hands had I extended outward now?
I swallowed, the lump thick in my throat-- I did not know, then, of the miles we would have to traverse...
And how many, many long stretches lie in between, of silence and quiet strangeness between friends. There were rough patches, awkward, bumbling arguments, long nights... But then, in that sobering, freeing moment?
I was not to know that the holes I had drawn us tumbling down into, from which we would have to mutually help one another, hand by hand by hand. I had no idea to me that this would cast us apart temporarily, like birds on a crossed breeze...
I had cast my banner into the unknown, bright white light of surrender, and waited for the messenger to bring back its olive branch.
We would find it, even if we struggled long in the process, across great seas of uncertainties. Even if we each had moved along thereafter, but for then, the words hung solid, rising like the peak of a mountain..
Ich liebe dich.
--
AN: I figured I'd do contrasting pieces of the same moment in time, a rather personal one, where once-upon-a-time I rather naively admitted some feelings I'd had for a friend that they hadn't felt back. The moment hands solid in memory as a sort've..Cataclyst to our still-friendship, one that could have well gone either way. This is, of course, only my point of view, and I've taken incredible poetic liscense too it: I remember it with a LOT more awkwardness, the noise of air conditioning, and the heat of the art-room-kiln in the background..
I, however, chose to leave those out to focus on the image of the card, the words, and emotion.
I'm thinking that, even if these don't fit the requirements for the assignment entirely, I'll positively keep these drafts. I like them, so, haha.
A Striking of Steel - Blog Assignment 2+3
I have been told on more than one occasion my spirit is deemed too giving. My empathy strikes like an iron, hot and metallic with a clang that resounds and rocks like thunderclaps to the soles and toes. My heart swings a heavy pendulum razor-sharp across a convicted convicts rope, waiting--
And it swung harder with each and every weighted beat, resounding, blood pounding in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green fields of rough writing and revelations. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards..And mine hung across, a banner brazen to the sky, revealing words that churned my stomach in a language heavy, strange, and foreign to my mouth. Weight hung in my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it over trenches and mountains now.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words etched across in fire and iron? What weight did they carry in the long run? What cross had I wrought to bear this confession?
I swallowed hard-- I did not know, then, of the mountains we would have traverse...
And how many, many long and treacherous miles lie in between.
I was not to know that the trenches we had dug then and there in mutual silence and know, we would claw from, and stand distant away from one another for a while, staring into those jagged scars of land and self.
I had cast my banner into the unknown, watching the cloth with those solid, lead words sprawled across the blazing white of surrender, and waited alone for the enemy to come.
And it swung harder with each and every weighted beat, resounding, blood pounding in my ears as I stared up against the chalkboard, dusty green fields of rough writing and revelations. It was a project, a communal gathering of truth and self to be displayed on 5x6 postcards..And mine hung across, a banner brazen to the sky, revealing words that churned my stomach in a language heavy, strange, and foreign to my mouth. Weight hung in my stomach as I glanced over quietly, the many miles leftwards.
I had made the decision to place it out there-- And I would have to carry it over trenches and mountains now.
Ich liebe dich.
I looked over and wondered if they knew? Did they read the words etched across in fire and iron? What weight did they carry in the long run? What cross had I wrought to bear this confession?
I swallowed hard-- I did not know, then, of the mountains we would have traverse...
And how many, many long and treacherous miles lie in between.
I was not to know that the trenches we had dug then and there in mutual silence and know, we would claw from, and stand distant away from one another for a while, staring into those jagged scars of land and self.
I had cast my banner into the unknown, watching the cloth with those solid, lead words sprawled across the blazing white of surrender, and waited alone for the enemy to come.
Monday, September 12, 2011
A Creation Story* - Blog Assignment 1
*Or, if you don't believe in creationism, a radically unscientific approach to who I am as a writer, a person, and why I've set up this blog outside of the general class requirements saying I had to do so.
---
I'm fairly certain everything started with a fifth grade poetry unit and some dolphins, which, if you're like myself, you know are the worlds second most intelligent creatures, after mice. I absolutely do not intend to have this go back to any fifth grade poetry units, or dolphins anytime soon, so those among you who are Delfiniphobics are safe here.
As you can see, I'm a bit of an arse when I write about myself, and I like long words. I also enjoy poetry, innuendos, metaphors, terrible puns, wonderful puns, drawing, cartooning, writing terrible things happening to good people, and vice versa. I've been told my writing voice reflects on Margaret Atwood by a computer program, and Bradbury by someone I trust dearly, and 'Scary' by my own mother once in a while.
I believe in taking prompts like one would walk around a nest of angry hornets: Go any which way but straightforward. This presents a problem for some readers, and myself occasionally, as I'm stubborn, free-spirited, and apt to shrug my shoulders and ask why I cannot in fact write what I please.
My inner voice monologues, describes, and tackles things- We get along well, unless I'm trying to concentrate and my entire being wants to write about a comet hitting an island, at which point it becomes frustrating.
Outside of writing, I've got several varied interests. The 'about me' section to your left will link you to most of my little online hide-aways, and you'll probably notice I like pastel-colored-friendship-ponies, roleplaying through writing, Disney characters, science fiction, and cooking. I also have a fondness for superhero aprons, comic books, feminism, and combining the above three. I like to think of myself as a feminist and someone who works hard to understand people, but I'll be first to admit I do make mistakes occasionally. I work hard to try to understand, but I'm human, and miss some things occasionally.
This blog was started as something for class, and those assignments will be tagged as such ('blog assignment') and numbered in the title. I may also post some drabbles, flex my fingers across a keyboard occasionally, and write up some outside stuff- I haven't decided yet. I don't hesitate to mention that, frankly, whatever I write outside of class, and perhaps even inside of classes, will be absolutely uncensored, unless I choose not to post in, in which case you'd never know! Haha!
Sorry, my voice there switched to manic for a moment. I apologize; My stream of consciousness writings tend to have volatile moodshifts that can be alarming. Another warning.
The purpose (?) of this blog, is, I pray, to increase the..Futility? Narrative strength? Potency? (Heh.) Volume? Length? Shelf-life? Ability? Consistency? Output?
Any which one of those you pick, I suppose, would be the one this blog is geared for. Maybe it's geared for all of them. Maybe it's just going to be geared towards writing about giant squids.
Who knows? I haven't even started yet..!
---Michelle
---
I'm fairly certain everything started with a fifth grade poetry unit and some dolphins, which, if you're like myself, you know are the worlds second most intelligent creatures, after mice. I absolutely do not intend to have this go back to any fifth grade poetry units, or dolphins anytime soon, so those among you who are Delfiniphobics are safe here.
As you can see, I'm a bit of an arse when I write about myself, and I like long words. I also enjoy poetry, innuendos, metaphors, terrible puns, wonderful puns, drawing, cartooning, writing terrible things happening to good people, and vice versa. I've been told my writing voice reflects on Margaret Atwood by a computer program, and Bradbury by someone I trust dearly, and 'Scary' by my own mother once in a while.
I believe in taking prompts like one would walk around a nest of angry hornets: Go any which way but straightforward. This presents a problem for some readers, and myself occasionally, as I'm stubborn, free-spirited, and apt to shrug my shoulders and ask why I cannot in fact write what I please.
My inner voice monologues, describes, and tackles things- We get along well, unless I'm trying to concentrate and my entire being wants to write about a comet hitting an island, at which point it becomes frustrating.
Outside of writing, I've got several varied interests. The 'about me' section to your left will link you to most of my little online hide-aways, and you'll probably notice I like pastel-colored-friendship-ponies, roleplaying through writing, Disney characters, science fiction, and cooking. I also have a fondness for superhero aprons, comic books, feminism, and combining the above three. I like to think of myself as a feminist and someone who works hard to understand people, but I'll be first to admit I do make mistakes occasionally. I work hard to try to understand, but I'm human, and miss some things occasionally.
This blog was started as something for class, and those assignments will be tagged as such ('blog assignment') and numbered in the title. I may also post some drabbles, flex my fingers across a keyboard occasionally, and write up some outside stuff- I haven't decided yet. I don't hesitate to mention that, frankly, whatever I write outside of class, and perhaps even inside of classes, will be absolutely uncensored, unless I choose not to post in, in which case you'd never know! Haha!
Sorry, my voice there switched to manic for a moment. I apologize; My stream of consciousness writings tend to have volatile moodshifts that can be alarming. Another warning.
The purpose (?) of this blog, is, I pray, to increase the..Futility? Narrative strength? Potency? (Heh.) Volume? Length? Shelf-life? Ability? Consistency? Output?
Any which one of those you pick, I suppose, would be the one this blog is geared for. Maybe it's geared for all of them. Maybe it's just going to be geared towards writing about giant squids.
Who knows? I haven't even started yet..!
---Michelle
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