Okay, so, when you're six, grilled cheese sandwiches are the most delicious things on earth. (They still are, but that's another topic.)
But. For whatever reason, when you're six, eating the crust on any sandwich is like trading a precious level 81 charizard on Pokemon Red for a freaking level two magikarp: It is not DONE!
Unless you have a super creative dad, who cuts off the crust from your grilled cheese, informs you that it is the best part of a sandwich (which is an absolute fact, if you've cooked it correctly and make sure the crusts are all buttery and crispy), and calls them 'sandwich bones.'
It was never a bother to make more of them, since he usually just ate the sandwich bits when we were overzealous about the sandwich bone aspects, but it was just one of those little, weird things that stuck.
...I think I asked him to make me a grilled cheese for lunch last summer, and he still cut off the crusts.
They were, of course, super delicious.
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.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Sunday, October 23, 2011
One of my Poems
A Sestina – Autumnal Regrets
Her forest littered with ghosts of leaves,
having no way to see or know
the pathways that, in sight, may
lead the wanderings from Spring to Fall,
she follows the ghostlines of dust-mote-beams of light
waiting for the light to hit her skin, and call forth the sun.
Blinded by the obscuring clouds who cover the sun,
she is aimless in the way she's taken her leave,
her steps resonate no noise, being light.
She stops to listen. No,
No noise of people, no sound for her fall,
and she struggles to stand, waiting for what may.
What, she wonders in half-murmer, may
follow the noise of a song unsung,
may carry the weight of those who fall,
may paint the trails of those who leave
no footstep or trace behind? Who is to know
what lies in the dark without a light?
"No, not a noise nor sound nor trill nor shadow nor ghost to light-
not a creature nor foul nor beast nor birdsong to carry! May
those who hear things as such in the forest know
what damns them as they step unheeded, no song
to carry the passage of those who leave!"
Ever-weep those ghosts who carry the fall.
And try as she might to outrun these spirits, she should fall
into piles of dust and worn time by the aching, dying grass, no light
to penetrate these perpetrated glooms, ghosts of trees among their own discarded leaves
with no reminder but faded color to call back to their time in May.
Body calloused and wracked with tremors of the touch of the son
of the winter, the herald of the dying-times, she can do nothing but know-
Know that the inevitable rebirth will wait until she is frozen, know
that for every trembling step she takes deeper into the fall
that warmth will only reach by the guiding hands of the Sun,
that not all that burns will bring a peaceful light,
that though her song will echo, there is no promise that they may
find any resonation among those that would cherish her, and leave.
To know these things, she carries the light of May,
waiting for the leave of the Autumn and the fall
of an unspoken echo, resounding her song.
Her forest littered with ghosts of leaves,
having no way to see or know
the pathways that, in sight, may
lead the wanderings from Spring to Fall,
she follows the ghostlines of dust-mote-beams of light
waiting for the light to hit her skin, and call forth the sun.
Blinded by the obscuring clouds who cover the sun,
she is aimless in the way she's taken her leave,
her steps resonate no noise, being light.
She stops to listen. No,
No noise of people, no sound for her fall,
and she struggles to stand, waiting for what may.
What, she wonders in half-murmer, may
follow the noise of a song unsung,
may carry the weight of those who fall,
may paint the trails of those who leave
no footstep or trace behind? Who is to know
what lies in the dark without a light?
"No, not a noise nor sound nor trill nor shadow nor ghost to light-
not a creature nor foul nor beast nor birdsong to carry! May
those who hear things as such in the forest know
what damns them as they step unheeded, no song
to carry the passage of those who leave!"
Ever-weep those ghosts who carry the fall.
And try as she might to outrun these spirits, she should fall
into piles of dust and worn time by the aching, dying grass, no light
to penetrate these perpetrated glooms, ghosts of trees among their own discarded leaves
with no reminder but faded color to call back to their time in May.
Body calloused and wracked with tremors of the touch of the son
of the winter, the herald of the dying-times, she can do nothing but know-
Know that the inevitable rebirth will wait until she is frozen, know
that for every trembling step she takes deeper into the fall
that warmth will only reach by the guiding hands of the Sun,
that not all that burns will bring a peaceful light,
that though her song will echo, there is no promise that they may
find any resonation among those that would cherish her, and leave.
To know these things, she carries the light of May,
waiting for the leave of the Autumn and the fall
of an unspoken echo, resounding her song.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
I cannot copy poem styles about food without getting hungry
I praise the sandwich bones for my father,
who leaned over the pan and inhaled the smoke
who taught slowly how to smell and feel
when something was ready, prepared
open for devouring, open for the teeth
to rend and tear and grind and devour
and to wash away with the cleansing and cold white
I praise the sandwich bones
because I see them sitting there and growing cold
separate and strange. Only ours.
The only way to make a clean plate
to wipe the world clean
I praise and loathe that cheese soup, the rum milk
the christmas nog and noise and voices through the kitchen
the hallow memories beset by snow and paper wrappers
by early morning and footprints in the white on the porch
by bells at dark midnight while we count stars in snowdrifs
I wonder where childhood took these things.
I praise the noise and bones of food and thought,
and spread them on the plate before me,
the white bleached and brown speckle crumbs
the cinnamon milk and then the cheese thick and spoon plastic
all over the kitchen
whispering that we were happy, right
that we were wide awake and waiting on edge
and the smells follow me
so, I linger and inhale
It is a childhood we will never have again,
the sandwich bones and warm kitchen,
as we sat on the edge of our chairs and counted
snowflakes and stars in flurry and wonder.
Sometimes I want to ask if he remembers these little things,
but I stay quiet;
Everything else had been forgotten-
We wipe the plates clean.
who leaned over the pan and inhaled the smoke
who taught slowly how to smell and feel
when something was ready, prepared
open for devouring, open for the teeth
to rend and tear and grind and devour
and to wash away with the cleansing and cold white
I praise the sandwich bones
because I see them sitting there and growing cold
separate and strange. Only ours.
The only way to make a clean plate
to wipe the world clean
I praise and loathe that cheese soup, the rum milk
the christmas nog and noise and voices through the kitchen
the hallow memories beset by snow and paper wrappers
by early morning and footprints in the white on the porch
by bells at dark midnight while we count stars in snowdrifs
I wonder where childhood took these things.
I praise the noise and bones of food and thought,
and spread them on the plate before me,
the white bleached and brown speckle crumbs
the cinnamon milk and then the cheese thick and spoon plastic
all over the kitchen
whispering that we were happy, right
that we were wide awake and waiting on edge
and the smells follow me
so, I linger and inhale
It is a childhood we will never have again,
the sandwich bones and warm kitchen,
as we sat on the edge of our chairs and counted
snowflakes and stars in flurry and wonder.
Sometimes I want to ask if he remembers these little things,
but I stay quiet;
Everything else had been forgotten-
We wipe the plates clean.
Week Eight 3
Er, honestly? Truthfully? I've been sticking too it about as much as a piece of paper sticks to a wall on it's own. It's been incredibly sporadic, and my motivation has been dwindlingly low all semester, and I'm not sure why. I am rather disappointed with myself, but I cannot truthfully find anything screaming at me to write recently- When I do, it feels more like work than something to enjoy, and it's like lying on a bed of nails some afternoons.
When I do want to write though, it's amazing- But that's been so little lately that the idea of forcing myself to sit down and work on things is just stressful. Sometimes a free-write helps, but it feels so damn constraining otherwise that every single little noise or distraction is like an absolute explosion in terms of distraction.
When I do want to write though, it's amazing- But that's been so little lately that the idea of forcing myself to sit down and work on things is just stressful. Sometimes a free-write helps, but it feels so damn constraining otherwise that every single little noise or distraction is like an absolute explosion in terms of distraction.
Blog Posts for Week Eight
1.Ruth Stone’s Winter I found exceptionally gorgeous and well written. The imagery was particularly evocative of a cold, particularly pressing series of memories. It was very tangible, real, human, and I think I appreciated it more than the others for the images it presented and the voice that carried it throughout. The theme is especially haunting, one of great loss and reflection on such, of remembering someone lost to one long ago.
Monday, October 10, 2011
I need to know,
In simple quiet terms from you,
From your voice and mouth and lips,
From your eyes when they are not so red,
Or perhaps from when you are not so tired as I am,
That I have not failed you.
There is a boulder of fear pressing between my shoulder blades
And every vertebrae aches with gravel and rock prying
Cracking them open into lean crevices while I wait knowing
That a strangers voice resounded louder than my own,
When I had sought to comfort, to love you so.
There is a fear there like animal hides on a long sharp fence
Fetid in hot summer and cold winters frozen
Sharp and musky, it bleeds into my skin,
The pigment tattoo ink echoing a lifetime of sorrys.
I cannot ask you now
Not tonight when the wounds are still fresh
When the muscle is still exposed
When the puss thickens still
I have to wait, wait, wait
Wait
For you to rise, my rock, from the sea-
Whatever tides come towards me I can bear them for the undertow
Just waiting quietly for the words to wash over
Fate to be sealed.
You have not spoken yet but I see your shoulders
Slumped and strange and heavy with burdens I don’t know how to approach
How to lift?
Do I treat them as ghosts walking down passageways?
Do I repell them as poltergeists?
Do I call them like lost loved ones so dear to me
Or do I let you carry them and gain strength?
I am afraid that when I step away you will not let me step back
I am afraid, that when I let you know even-eyed and quiet
That this is okay, this happens, we are all inevitably, fatefully and wretchedly human-
That you will shake your head
And prove me wrong.
In simple quiet terms from you,
From your voice and mouth and lips,
From your eyes when they are not so red,
Or perhaps from when you are not so tired as I am,
That I have not failed you.
There is a boulder of fear pressing between my shoulder blades
And every vertebrae aches with gravel and rock prying
Cracking them open into lean crevices while I wait knowing
That a strangers voice resounded louder than my own,
When I had sought to comfort, to love you so.
There is a fear there like animal hides on a long sharp fence
Fetid in hot summer and cold winters frozen
Sharp and musky, it bleeds into my skin,
The pigment tattoo ink echoing a lifetime of sorrys.
I cannot ask you now
Not tonight when the wounds are still fresh
When the muscle is still exposed
When the puss thickens still
I have to wait, wait, wait
Wait
For you to rise, my rock, from the sea-
Whatever tides come towards me I can bear them for the undertow
Just waiting quietly for the words to wash over
Fate to be sealed.
You have not spoken yet but I see your shoulders
Slumped and strange and heavy with burdens I don’t know how to approach
How to lift?
Do I treat them as ghosts walking down passageways?
Do I repell them as poltergeists?
Do I call them like lost loved ones so dear to me
Or do I let you carry them and gain strength?
I am afraid that when I step away you will not let me step back
I am afraid, that when I let you know even-eyed and quiet
That this is okay, this happens, we are all inevitably, fatefully and wretchedly human-
That you will shake your head
And prove me wrong.
I feel like I can hi-five the cosmos!
Honestly, though, I'm in such a spectacularly absurdly good mood that I had to share just about everywhere.
Posting some pretty awesome links for the week while I listen to stuff and sculpt this skeleton!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cq3l0kVMhI&feature=BFa&list=AVGxdCwVVULXdFtyvm8lQV38t6J2AewVJK&lf=list_related
Song I can't stop listening too!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCNYdHZpPH4
Disney Imagineers are awesome!
And that whole channel has some really neat stuff, yep. Go look at the universal halloween houses! Spookyfun!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nightmaresfearfactory/
And a whole gallery of people being horrified by something in a haunted house. It's kind've hysterical.
RIGHT! Actual writing, actual work..Onwards!
Keep moving forward!
Posting some pretty awesome links for the week while I listen to stuff and sculpt this skeleton!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3cq3l0kVMhI&feature=BFa&list=AVGxdCwVVULXdFtyvm8lQV38t6J2AewVJK&lf=list_related
Song I can't stop listening too!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCNYdHZpPH4
Disney Imagineers are awesome!
And that whole channel has some really neat stuff, yep. Go look at the universal halloween houses! Spookyfun!
http://www.flickr.com/photos/nightmaresfearfactory/
And a whole gallery of people being horrified by something in a haunted house. It's kind've hysterical.
RIGHT! Actual writing, actual work..Onwards!
Keep moving forward!
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