23 October 2010

Melt Into Me

Melt Into Me is a song I wrote 3 or 4 years ago that I could never figure out lyrics to. They came to me in the shower today.

Like drips from a faucet
my soul you can't stop it.
Metal and iron just can't hold me in.

Your hand in my palm
I will take you along
and we'll ride on sunshine until we begin.

I've traveled all lands
over sea and through sands
the world is an easel and I am Van Gogh

I'll fill you with color
if you'll be my lover
and they'll hang us in the Louvre next to each other.

I melt into you
and you'll melt into me too.
I melt into you
and you melt into me too.

I'll find a way to upload it so you can hear it.

I have a bunch of other stuff to post but I haven't had the time.

EDIT - you can hear it here.

13 October 2010

Writing Exercise - 10/13

Tim Wallach is getting around a lot - interviews with seemingly half the teams with managing vacancies. Fingers crossed that he and Logan White won't leave.

Playing ball on the grass
the flash

My balcony looks out upon the plaza. The flash of sunbeams beckons me and I step out. Twilight is night and soon the boys playing ball on the grass below will have to go home, defeated by nature's dark streak. A massive youth sends a fly ball toward my building. I can count the rotations of the little white sphere as it grows toward me like an extension of Jack's beanstalk, pushed by forces underneath. A small boy runs after it. The orb begins to fall, losing gas at its apex above me. I wave to it as it dives beneath. I hear the clicking of the boy's cleats below me followed by a massive thud - his shoulder stopped in its motion by the building's brick facade. I hear as he cripples down into a pile, whimpering but trying to keep from tearing up. He is below me and I cannot see his face but I know he is fighting the urge to run the water works. The infielders call him a faker and tell him to get up and throw the ball in. The massive kid is also massively slow, and only now rounds second base. The young outfielder struggles, his eyes probably have the image of red-mud bricks burnt into his retina - the last thing to pop into his peripheral vision before the collision.

I choose not to see how the play ends. I turn and re-enter my flat. I reach for a bottle of alcoholic cider and collapse on my futon, legs resting upon the coffee table, the remote calling my name to turn on the Food Network, Travel Channel, or ESPN. A magazine begging me to come to Scotland hides beneath my bottle.

I stand and walk to the kitchen to prepare a TV dinner.


Just finishing my application for a Fulbright English Teaching Assistantship in Norway.

Destressing tomorrow.

12 October 2010

Writing Exercise - 10/12

Stuffed in the Garbage
Against the Waves
Bulletin Board
Squawking Birds
Mindless Organism

I look out upon at the ground 45,000 feet alone with amazement.

Here goes nothing.

A slight twitch in my leg and I'm suddenly free-falling toward Earth, accelerating at 9.8 meters per second, screaming my voice into extinction. The gravity force pushes my body, I feel like I've been stuffed int the garbage compactor of heaven. At the same time I'm free to fly like so many squawking birds. In a second I'm liberated from all obligations, all limitations of the structured real world. I'm a mindless organism swimming in the the primordial jelly of all time. I am the hurricane winds performing the tango against the waves of the mighty seas. My heart is bruised. The waves cannot, or will not, match my dance. Suddenly the primordial jelly has become a weight-lifting competition in the upper realm of Latvia. Muscle-flexing Baltic flesh statues stand high above me like the forgotten Colossus of Rhodes and his distant cousins from the far north. I open my left eye and clouds float by. My right is in the shadows behind a 1980's Vietnamese take-out restaurant in Biloxi. The bulletin board inside offers the community a chance to learn about Indo-Chinese culture. The restaurant is empty.

My chute won't release.

11 October 2010

I must admit

I must admit I've been a hypocrite.

Before the semester I harped on and on about the laziness and conniving nature of college students who dodge work to play the system.

I feel like I must have cursed myself.

Here I am and I must have read about half of what I was assigned. It's another case of me biting off more than I can chew. With the Fulbright (Norway 2011 vennligst), DAAD (Münster 2011 bitte), ADG (I'm secretary and VP Finance), along with the basic work of everyday life, I find myself overwhelmed. And I'm ashamed.

I get such fulfillment when I actually do my assigned work and learn. But I am so distracted. I am addicted to the internet; my time on Sporcle outweighs my time with Sören Kierkegaard.

I let my distractions overcome me. I manage my time poorly. I'll end up with a high GPA but will get my report card having learned far less than I could have.

And that's a bummer.


Meanwhile, the Giants beat the Braves. As Molly Knight says, we Dodger fans went 3 for 3 in the Wheel of Misfortune. The Yanks, Phils, and Giants all advanced to their respective league championship series. And here I am, forced to root for Philadelphia.


Worst Case Scenario

I don't know what I'll do if the Giants win the World Series.

Writing Exercise - 10/11

First, check out MSTI's Offseason Dodgers plan. Interesting read - can't say it's realistic or that I agree with everything, but interesting it most definitely is...

For The Record
Auctioning it off
Two Halves

"For the record, he hit me first."

"There is no record here, Dale. This is not a court of law. My justice system works independently. You do not have the right to remain silent, nor does anything 'for the record' matter to me. What matters is that you and Clark here created a scene. This was not just a squabble between two siblings. This is a true incident, and I'm not your parents so we're not dealing with it that way either. On the contrary, we're going to do this by the book, bringing the two halves together to assess the situation. I've heard your statements over and over again. It's time to lay down the punishments. By my honor under this great flag, in this great country, justice will be served. You are not free to just do what you like. You cannot just hit each other in my school. If you want to be a rule-breaking anarchist you can move up to Toronto. But as long as we're here at Buffalo Public High School #118 and I have the job of assistant principal, I will administer the coordination and execution of justice. I'm taking your silliness and auctioning it off. We mean business here, gentlemen. Time to act like it. You'll both get week's detention during lunch, spent in my office. And your parents will be asked to handle this mess too. This extends home. Now what do you have to say to that?"

"Yeah, but for the record, he hit me first."

10 October 2010

Writing Exercise - 10/10

I'll try to these one a day for as long as I can.

55 Minutes
Cold Comfort
Courage and Tenacity

We've been backed up near this rail depot or three days. The situation has allowed us to demonstrate levels of courage and tenacity even we didn't know we were capable of. The way things are going, neither will the world.

The Ukrainian winter is miserable. There is no love in this frozen wasteland. Perhaps the only cold comfort allotted by this terrible region is the fuchsia and gold of the dawn, beautiful colors that rain down from the heavens on this otherwise miserable place. This lasts for 5 minutes. The other 55 minutes of the 5am hour consists of me praying I don't end up with a mortar shell as a hat.

Our white fatigues are hardly a disguise worth having. Those bastards out there just shell the hell out of this whole place. They figure we're a small lump out there in the white blanket - they'll flatten us yet.

Clark is whimpering in his sleep. A nightmare has taken custody of his mind. It's a shame his drams have to reflect our real life. He is reliving his high school graduation, a high school graduation he never attended, receiving a diploma he doesn't have. He whispers his mother's name. Tears in his slumber freeze on his cheek. The long winter is only longer until we're dead. The other option is rescue. We are dead.

09 October 2010

Writing Exercise - 10/9

Pick a ticket
A white hunter
Mental collapse
Pea Soup

The small Mexican woman had come to pick a ticket for passage on a train to anywhere, wrapped in her shawl so that her shining green eyes pierced through, like the light of a supernova, so bright yet so lifeless. Those eyes had no future.

She remembered the events of the past week, the horrific fates of her sisters she had narrowly avoided. Esmeralda was kicked by a donkey on Monday and lay in a bed, her mind incapable of clarity of thought. Her sister Gloria was assaulted by a complete mental collapse, the sight of her dearest elder sister as a vegetable with nary a cultivator was just too much. Clara, the youngest sister, managed to choke on a grape, perhaps her mind set on her two unfortunate sisters and not her own mastication. With Clara gone, Gloria without her mind, and Esmeralda simply a shell of herself, the young woman was overwhelmed.

She had a dream where a white hunter, lean but rigid, met her on a train and promised to take her with him to the Amazon to hunt jaguars. She woke up in a sweat, her hair still a mess, her dress stained with the pea soup from the previous night's dinner that she couldn't force into Gloria's mouth. The ghost of Clara was in the house, she knew it, perhaps hiding behind a pillar or shelf. Clara would want her to get out.

Poor Marielle needed liberation.

08 October 2010

Writing Exercise - 10/8

As I can no longer watch the Reds choke away game 2 in Philadelphia, I felt I'd share a writing exercise I learned my freshman year from the Teaching Fellow I had for English 110.

Typically this is done in a small group, though it works alone as well. First you find a random text, anything from a Tolstoy masterpiece to whatever magazine is currently serving as this month's bathroom meeting. I chose Sören Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, the 2008 version from Wilder Publications and A & D Publishings. I opened in to a random page (64-65) and started picking out words I liked.

When you do this with a group you can all peruse your texts and pick three words (or phrases) each. Since I'm alone I just went ahead and chose ten. Once the group has their words everyone pools them together...


Those are my ten.

Now I set my phone timer to ten minutes and write as much as I can (by hand - no typing) until time is up. The topic is open. The only rules being the necessary inclusion of the ten (or however many the group has) words or phrases. It's a great exercise because it forces you to think on your feet and write off the top of your head, spontaneously. Your writing won't be your best and errors are okay. It's interesting to see where the creative mind will run with ten words and how others will fly off in different directions with their pieces.

As soon as ten minutes have passed, each member of the group shares. Here's what I wrote, no revisions:

The venue for such a clash of enemies was perfect. A battleground strewn with the littered souls of pink ribbons and those balloons that didn't quite make it. If this conflict had been foretold by the ancients on the side of a Grecian Urn or in a massive epic poem, we would have laughed. No one could be that cruel - so inhumane. There isn't a single solitary soul on this planet who could be as vile and abhorrent, capable of creating catastrophe and destroying lives, like those our ancestors predicted, those they warned us about.

There is no laughing now. Just repressed hatred.

The Jeanene Karen Vilchus bridal shower is the setting of our story - an awful story with pure rancor and a detestable soul beneath such as blissful outer skin. The bridesmaids are envious. The future Mrs. Richard Kenyon Clark has on her hands quite the catch, a young entrepreneur, handsome, about to become very wealthy, and the apple of Tanya Diana Klebold's and Victoria Ellen Rosenbloom's and Carrisa Tina Guayamar's eyes, not to mention the bane of Cyndie Josephine Cya's and Chelsea Hannah Broom's existences. The bridesmaids from Hell. All insulted by Jeanene's audacity in marrying Richard, all fueled by want, all bitter, all taking pleasure in their loathing passive-aggressiveness against their ugly, no-good, fat-assed, cellulite-infected, chicken-footed, cankled, fake haired BFF Jeanene. Ugh....

Like I said - lots of fun, not my best writing, but it's practice. The most important thing for a writer to do is simply write.