true dat

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye

-margaret atwood

17

1. i cannot stop watching arrested development. even though i find the third season a little outrageous, i just can't. stop. watching. ah. ha. ha. yes. even when things start out weird they always end up being hilarious.

2. the closer i get to leaving Hampshire, the more I'm afraid that I'm not making the right decision.

3. i am fascinated by the way people talk. let me interview you. and i'm discovering how easy it is to splice interviews and make them seem different than they are. I'd be a good member of the media.

4. this semester has made me rethink a lot of my previous perceptions. personal, intellectual, artistic. everything. i am very grateful.

5. my already short attention span is shortening.

6. my anti-depressants give me night sweats. which are probably one of the most miserable physical things i've ever experienced. you wake up sticky and shivering and damp. it's gross.

7. i think too much.

8. i have very low self-confidence which is often expressed in a very obnoxious way. i'm working on this.

9. i think people are generally nice, it just depends on your own mood if you perceive them as such.

10. i get very nervous talking to people i don't know, but i love it when people introduce themselves to me just because. it gives me faith in humanity.

11. i wish i were more verbally articulate.

12. i am constantly making lists (physical and mental ones) of ways to improve myself and make myself more interesting. it's almost compulsive. i feel like i have to know everything, have read every book, seen every film, know about every issue and each item i cross off my list is one more step towards perfection. which is of course bullshit but it's how my mind works.

13. i am slowly slowly slowly regaining confidence in my creative writing skills. it's fragile, and it has been shattered again a few times a long the way, but it's still there- a little whisper of talent.

14. i get jealous very easily but i never let anyone know. my jealousy stems from feelings of inadequacy and mediocrity.

15. my greatest fear is mediocrity.

16. i feel really good right now. it's amazing what a good discussions about the controversy over genetically modified crops can do for one's outlook.

17. i am going to finish this paper in 5. . .4 . . .3 . . .2. . . NOW!

One Art

by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day.  Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel.  None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch.  And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones.  And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

---Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

 -- Elizabeth Bishop

essentials?

halloween

was a happy one.
I'm so glad my heat just turned on.
I am a bit fried.
Like the ravioli at saga tonight. fried ravioli?? you might as well just eat a mozarella stick.

13:6.
Old habits die hard. : )
but, hey, I like myself, I like my ways, I am working away, I am happy. That's all that matters.

play this song when I die

youth

My second short screenwriting exercise for my screenwriting class.
Obviously, it is based on people I know. They are just acting even more freakishly than usual.
Youth culture fascinates me.


EXT. NIGHT
The sound of gravel crunching. The camera follows a pair of wobbling, one-size-too-small red high heels encasing a pair of pudgy ankles as they teeter-totter their way up a gravel path. The sound of thumping music fades in from off-screen. The heels wobble up the steps of a wooden wraparound porch. They stop on the doormat which reads “BEWARE.” With the camera still on the feet only, we see a chubby hand with fire-engine red fingernails reach down and scratch the back of the right ankle. The figure straightens up and rings the doorbell.

Cut to INT. NIGHT
Loud dance music thumping through a spacious two-story house full of people. The camera lingers in the dimly-lit front room. Furniture has been pushed aside to create a makeshift dance floor. Shadowy figures are dancing, undulating, illuminated only by the glow sticks around their arms and necks and one girl’s shimmering disco-ball earrings.

The sound of the doorbell ringing is barely audible over the music.

GIRL(off-screen, screeching): J.P.! The door!

(doorbell rings again)

GIRL: J.P.! Get the damn door!

A tall, glow-sticked seventeen-year-old boy with shaggy hair and a beer in one hand breaks away from the dancing and moves towards the front door.

Cut to a flash of the red high heels on the door mat. The door opens.

J.P.’s face illuminated by the porch light, somewhat confused.

J.P.: Um, can I help you?

The high-heeled figure is finally revealed to be a short, chubby girl dressed as a devilled-egg. White trash bag with a yellow construction paper yolk pinned to her stomach, the red heels, red devil horns perched on top of her head, red lipstick and drawn on exaggerated black brows, and clutching a red plastic pitchfork in one hand. In the other hand she holds a white rat.

DEVILLED-EGG GIRL (meekly): I heard this was the costume party?

J.P.: Why do you have a . . . rodent?

DEVILLED-EGG GIRL: His name’s Al. He’s hungry.

J.P.: Come one.

J.P. and the Devilled-Egg girl step back inside. The camera follows them across the dance floor, weaving in and our of the crowd, through a pair of double doors, and into a brightly lit kitchen. Hannah, the girl with the disco-ball earrings, follows them. The camera scans the counters which are littered with empty liquor bottles, beer cans, half-guzzled hard lemonades, empty cereal bowls, dented pizza boxes, other party remnants. At the kitchen table four people sit playing scrabble. Hannah moves to stand over the table, looking down at the board.

HANNAH: I don’t think “goatwife” is a word.

Caroline, wearing a black slip and a coonskin cap, doesn’t turn away from the game.

CAROLINE: Shut the fuck up, Hannah.

J.P.: Are there any Apple Jacks left?

Caroline, still not turning away from the board, shoves the box of Apple Jacks into Hannah’s hands.

HANNAH: Um, thanks. (She hands the Apple Jacks to J.P. who proceeds to attempt to feed them to the rat.)

CAROLINE (muttering): Whore.

Camera glides away from the kitchen, through a hallway full of various couples in various stages of mating, through a screen door, and then outside onto the back porch where handsome, dark-haired boy, Dean, stands on a patio chair reciting Emily Dickinson before a small crowd of drunk party-goers. He wears a cardboard Burger King crown on his head.

DEAN (oratorically): We never know how high we are/ Till we are called to rise;/And then if we are true to plan/Our statures touch the skies!

Cut to close up shot of a boy (around nineteen)- Oli- gazing imperiously up at Dean, smoking a cigarette, eyebrows raised.

Cut back to Dean.

DEAN: The heroism we recite/Would be a daily thing . . .

Dean’s recitation overlaps a shot of Oli exhaling a trail of smoke rings.

back to . . .
DEAN:...Did not ourselves the cubits warp/ For fear to be a king. . . . Thank you.

A few people applause and holler. Dean sweeps off his Burger King crown and bows majestically.

Cut back to close up of. . .

OLI (with a slight drawl and a throaty smoker’s growl): My ma used to read me Emily Dickinson. Read it a helluva lot better than you.

Oli puff-puffs on his cigarette.
Dean sits down across from him.

DEAN: Your ma makes gingerbread houses for a living, right?

OLI: Yep.

DEAN: Couldn’t make it as a poet, eh? Was reduced to reciting her son bedtime poetry?

Oli, his face perfectly serene, puts his cigarette out on Dean’s forearm.

DEAN (high-pitched, jerking his arm back and massaging it): Jesus!

OLI: Oops.

Oli tosses the cigarette butt over his shoulder. The camera follows its arc. It lands in a girl’s lap. She picks it up, studies it, then turns away from her group of giggly friends to look over at Dean and Oli. She turns around to face them, straddling her chair.

GIRL: Got another one?

Dean saunters over to her. Pulls a pack from his back pocket. Grins as he hands her a cigarette and lights it for her.

DEAN: What’s your name?

GIRL: Gretchen.

DEAN: I want you.

Gretchen’s gaze moves over to a group of people standing on the corner of the patio, passing around a joint. Close up of Gretchen’s face as she exhales a stream of smoke.

GRETCHEN: My boyfriend’s that goofy-lookin’ one over there. The little one next to the tiki torch.

Their conversation fades out as the camera glides over to Gretchen’s boyfriend, Casey. He is short -- shorter than the tiki torch-- and wears tight cut-off shorts, a camouflage baseball cap, and no shirt. He is showing off his tattoos: the anarchy symbol on one hip and the outline of the state of Louisiana on the other. He speaks to the group in general.

CASEY: I’m gonna go train-hopping in about two weeks. Need to break it off with that bitch over there. (He slugs the boy next to him in the shoulder and chuckles) Wanna buy her off me?

There are hearty laughs all around that are suddenly disrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Everyone stops talking mid-sentence. The music thumps for a few more measures but then is abruptly shut off. Utter silence.

The camera begins to wind it’s way back through the house. Passing over Oli, frozen with a cigarette half-way to his mouth. Past the kissing couples in the hallway, through the kitchen where the scrabble players have finally been jerked away from their game. Through the double doors and onto the dance floor, where the confused dancers have stopped mid cha-cha. We see Hannah and J.P., frozen mid-slow dance, arms around each other. Close up on their petrified faces. The camera follows their gaze down to the floor. A trail of blood on the hardwood. The white rat’s dead, twitching body. Pan out to reveal Caroline, holding a bloody Swiss army knife.

CAROLINE: Sorry. I just can’t stand rodents.

She wipes the knife on her skirt. The girl dressed as a devilled-egg let’s out a pathetic moan (“Al!”) and faints.

Music resumes.

Fade to black.

freeze fears the toes: a semi-love song

teach me your magic
(please please oh please)
there’s nothing i’d like better.
teach me the mysteries of the world
and how to knit a sweater.

teach me how your kisses
touch the intangible soul
and let me trace your neck
where your constellations make a mole.

let me connect your dots
and learn to trace your frown
and only let me sing you songs
when there’s nobody else around

teach me how your puzzle
fits together to make a heart
and let me work the jigsaw
let me be your missing part

teach me how your eyelids
draw maps with just a blink.
and teach me how follow them
‘cause I know less than I think.

teach me how your key
fits just-so into my lock
(it’s such a strange sensation
like re-learning how to walk)

and teach me how your parentheses
always form a smile
for just one paragraph of yours
i’d walk so many miles

you fascinate me!

Our children may be like apathetic fish. Except that apathetic fish don't play the guitar.
(Kurt Vonnegut)




All writing is pigshit.
(Artaud)



The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.
(George Bernard Shaw)



My loathings are simple: stupidity, oppression, crime, cruelty, soft music.
(Vladimir Nabakov)



At some point, the monster takes over.
(Thom Yorke)



I no longer limit myself.
(Karlheinz Stockhausen)

i see so many

little boys I wanna marry

pity party

but i just can't shake this off.

shake

shake

shake

shake it

like a

salt shaker.

LICE

a screenwriting exercise for my screenwriter as a social critic class.

INT. DAY

Girl, OONA, sits at her vanity table in a rolling chair, brushing her long mane of goldenbrown curls. Smiling at herself in the mirror. She holds a handful of curls up to her nose and takes a deep whiff. She looks, to the average observer, like she should be in a hair commercial. In fact, she once was. She is watching it right now.

OONA spins in her chair, swirling around to face the television. We see Oona appear on screen, flipping and twirling her hair sexily. She is holding up a bottle of shampoo and the television screen reads: “GREEN TEA SHAMPOO- guaranteed to make your hair more lustrous, livelier, and sexier in just three shampoos or less!” Ooona beams a dazzling smile to her smiling television counterpart. Cut to . . . 

INT. of a darkened bedroom.

The mild light from a street lamp filters in through the window, the only source of illumination. We hear OONA’S ragged breathing. She tosses and turns in the sheets. We can just make out her silhouette and the streetlamp softly illuminates her long, gorgeous mane of golden-blonde curls. 

OONA is still for a moment- silence- and then there is an abrupt scratching sound. She is scratching her scalp. Pause. She scratches again. Pause. Again. Pause. Scratch. Pause. Vigorous scratch. Scratch, scratch, scratchscratchscratch! Her scratching becomes vicious. Suddenly she hurls herself out of bed, slams on the light switch, and scratches her scalp with furiously, twisting and shaking her head in agony.

CLOSE UP on OONA’s face, her eyes wide, her hair in disarray, her mouth open in a silent scream. 

Montage Sequence: 

CUT TO . . . extreme close up of what appears to be an insect crawling across a tight rope. . . camera pulls back to reveal that the insect is nestled in a nest of damp blonde hair. . . camera pulls back further and more of the bugs can be seen crawling around, weaving in and out of the strands of hair. They are approximately the size of red ants. Camera pulls back further to reveal that the infested scalp belongs to OONA, who is hanging her head upside down over the bathtub, two gigantic bottles of “DE-LICE Shampoo” next to her. She pours a handful of shampoo onto her scalp and begins to wash . . . 

CUT TO . . . Ooona standing in front of the mirror, working a fine-toothed comb intently through her hair.

Close up on the comb: it is covered with crawling louse.

CUT TO. . . Oona scratching in line at the grocery store, in the back of her Comparative Literature 101 class, while driving her car . .. scratching with a spaghetti server. . . rubbing her head against the bark of a juniper tree. . . 

She is in complete agony. She can’t stop itching.

Close up of Oona running her fingers through her hair, a shower of bugs fall out. 

Cut to . . . Oona slathering her hair in vaseline. 

Cut to . . . Oona attempting to get the greasy vaseline residue out of her hair with flour.

Cut to . . . Oona sitting on the sofa, watching television, her hair covered in mayonnaise beneath a clear shower cap.

Cut to . . . Oona with standing over the sink shaking her head. Camera swirls into the sink, which is positively crawling with louse. Oona looks up, sees her own reflection in the mirror. Beings to faint. . . 

Cut to. . . Oona sprawled spread-eagle on the floor surrounded by all her failed remedies. She is unconscious, and begins twitching while she begins to dream. . . 

The camera circles around Oona’s head, and out of her halo of curls lines of louse begin crawling out, arranged in single-file lines like soldiers. Their ranks grow larger and larger. The louse themselves grow larger and larger, until they would be obvious to the naked eye, as large as small scarab beetles, perhaps. The louse began to infest other people.

Shot of the louse crawling into a woman’s hair as she sleeps, infiltrating the scalps of a class of pre-schoolers during nap time, sneaking over the back of a sofa and onto a man’s head as he watches television. 

Cut to . . . eight separate split-screen shots of various people itching, scratching, and trying to rid themselves of the head lice. Sounds of vigorous scratching. A few person’s scalps start to bleed they are scratching so furiously. 

A newspaper spins into view with the headline “LICE EPIDEMIC STRIKES NATION: ‘SUPER LOUSE’ APPEAR UNSTOPPABLE”.

Cut to. . . EXT. suburban neighborhood. Complete chaos. Residents are running wild in the streets, scratching, tearing their hair out, rolling around on the ground. One man tries sticking his head under a lawn mower to rid himself of his agony. The louse (now the size of small rodents) continuing to swell in numbers. The camera spins and spins until . . .  

Oona abruptly sits up, breathing hard. It was just a dream. 

She gets up hurriedly and runs to the kitchen. 

The sound of scissors. 

We see locks of her hair and they fall around her feet. Curl after curl. Bodies of dead louse are visible within the strands.

The camera slowly rises up. Her head is covered only with random clumps of hair. She continues cutting closer and closer to the scalp until finally all that remains is a fine layer of golden stubble. 

She lets the scissors fall to the floor. 

Cut to Oona sitting on the couch, vacantly staring at the television. She is re-watching her shampoo commercial. She holds a lock of severed hair in her hand.

Tears are streaming down her face. 

Somber music plays. 

Fade to black. 

The sound of scratching. 

 

when I grow up

i want to be mrs. robinson

manifest destiny & the imperialism of the heart

two at a time

two for a dime

a rhyme for a kind glance

a penny for a second chance

i'll kiss your knees

if you promise to please

be my beekeeper

my honeymaker

my pollinator

my fornicator

my in-between

my up and down

my guide around town

my Cinderella frown

my teeter totter

my wishing well

my visit to Heaven

my sweet taste of Hell

i'll read you like my favorite book

and keep you in my favorite nook

I am a fish on your goldsilver hook

I am the tourist who doesn't know where to look

tease me 

please me

twist and turn

jive and squirm

let's snuggle like worms

and sleep like logs

and eat like hogs

(i'll drink your soul

with a swirly straw)

and one or two

it's all you you you

& one two three

i am me me me 

& two three four

give me more more more

my heart keeps expanding

to fit every particle

of you 

within it.

18:9

I will regret this sooner or later.
I already have, actually.
And yet I continue to inflict this awful form of self-punishment!
hehe

Brandon O'Miciah Burns

Virgo

Accomplishments: Being the biggest inside joke EVER. Having a big weiner. Taught me how to do Hindu squats. Longest time taken to make a turkey sandwich.

Cons: confusing as fuck. Al Burns. crybaby. Wears tool pants.

Tidbits: collects Pez containers. Is secretly into bestiality.

Eric Apollo Benick

Saggitaurius

Accomplishments: poet. having a nice fluffy ghetto booty. playing sexy music while kissing sternums.

Cons: has an insatiable desire to be more unique than anyone else. relentlessly pretentious hipster.

Tidbits: is probably gay. has a tatto of Proust on his left buttock.

Sean Thompson

Scorpio

Accomplishments: Being extraordinarily dumb. Toe rubbing.

Cons: he's really into gnarwhal.

Tidbits: he reminds me of an adorably retarted puppy. I think he might be holding his balls in this picture.

Stephen Curry

Gemini

Accomplishments: His penis is really as big as the beer can penis. SRSLY. trombone player in the Tower of Power!

Cons: he once described my skins as being as "soft as Crisco". what the hell. Was also into Tool.

Tidbits: can do a mean Scooby-Doo dance. Is flexible enough to give himself fellatio.

Thomas Anderson

Accomplishments: INCREDIBLE DRUMMER. beat boxing. planet tuning forks. good at giving sensual hugs.

Cons: too short. In more ways than one.

Tidbits: He gave me a copy of his cd, Capital Fresh. This one song consists of nothing but a jungle boogie beat and a girl making orgasm sounds for four minutes.

Oliver "Stoned to the Bone" Brian O'Hanlon

yep, I went there.

Accomplishments: the line "it said take a left at the next fork in the road/i saw two spoons and knife". soft lips. giving my brother perpetual shit. Nicknamed my cat "the roof lion".

Cons: his mouth tastes gross.

Tidbits: He likes Winnie-the-Pooh and baby angels.

Nick Holt aka "The Stallion"

Leo

Accomplishments: having no cartlidge in his nose. being endowed with, uh, stallion-like sexual apparatus. being arrested more times than I've read Ishmael.

Cons: he doesn't like PDA.

Tidbits: His mother was a lioness. Hence the mane. J.P. is secretly gay for him. Nick Holt is secretly gay for Oli. LOVE TRIANGLE

Sam Phillips

Aquarian

Accomplishments: Eloquence. The most extensive music taste EVER. "fact fiction friction"

Cons: Too skinny, even for my taste.

Tidbits: bred of conservative baptists and a goldminer. Is kind of girly and I kind of like it.

Benjamin "Fancy Pants" Goldsmith

Scorpio

Accomplishments: Gorgeous Jew nose. playing the theremin! good with his fingers.

Cons: too short. again, in more ways than one.

Tidbits: pierced nipple!!

Heath Ledger as the Joker.

I FUCKING WISH.

The mistake. But there are no mistakes. Only lessons.




Dan Brown
Sign Gemini-Taurus Cusp
Pros: he's a tiger; he may be the most beautiful on here


just look at those brown eyes.
Cons: playa playa playa

isn't he just fuckin' adorable?




yep. i never thought i would be such a mistakedy girl.
but he is awfully smart.
and another scorpio!

The Constitution

This blawg shall be a chronicle of my adventures, encounters, and experiences at Hampshire College. 

This blahg shall be a place for photos, philosophical musings, stories, interesting links, reflections, lists, poetry, interesting historical facts, ponderings, mazes, knock-knock jokes, rhymes, words, blurbs, and other assorted flotsam and jetsam. 

This bulog shall be a place of peace, where we agree to disagree and are open to the perspective's of others.

This blog has no leader. It embraces anarchy. 

This blog is a dumpster dive, full of treasures and trash alike. 

This blog is not final or firm, everything written and expressed is subject to change. 

This blog is interdisciplinary. 

This blog will be ballin'. 

enjoy. be happy. read. love. live. DANCE MUTHA FUCKERS DANCE.