Thoughts on The Pink Institution

there is never a real end. leaves us swaying back and forth on the edge     cliff. 

post-modernism a     fragment      a creation of disunity     is     the    theme of PI 

little book [thoughts]   picture of a hanging pig 

compilation of poems, pictures, physical disarray of text

 lovely, what a lovely read about lives worse off than the less fortunate. 

they them who grow and multiply in their misery,

 miserable     in     their    wealth    they   are  but short stories  

Po-Mo poem on second story

Ring-ing

Bells are ringing

Memories    are riots. They roar.

He      dreams     white

Blow                        out                                        smoke

Jeans soaked stuck to shaky ankles

Can I ask a, never thought I, will you?

Drip

drip

drip         his form          pouring

Drip Drop Rain

Hello?                    Gonna be late.            Why?

Like a shadow, someone lingers behind that line

Doubt  chokesaroundhisthroat

Run   SPLASH     Run SPLASH   

Knockknockknock

I               do        not            do           I

Write it, fix it. Write some more, fix some more. Keep writing until you don't need to fix anymore.

I found an interesting interview in which Hemingway speaks briefly about revision. This is what he had to say:

Interviewer: How much rewriting do you do?
Hemingway: It depends. I rewrote the ending of Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, 39 times before I was satisfied.
Interviewer: Was there some technical problem there? What was it that had stumped you?
Hemingway: Getting the words right.
(Ernest Hemingway, "The Art of Fiction," The Paris ReviewInterview, 1956)

 39 times!!! I can imagine what he meant by "getting the words right." Haven't you ever felt like you wanted a section you've written to be formated in a specific and perfect way? To get close to something like that, I guess we do have to reread and reexamine our work. Revision is playing with words. We arrange them one way and then decided to move/add/dispose of some pieces so it fits into what we the creators deem to be excellent. 

Revise, it's healthy writing.

There was a discussion in one of my lit classes about perfection. Nothing is ever perfect. Everything is in a state of change. That's what we call progress, most of the time. Writing is the same way. Nothing we write is permanent in the state that it is in. Change is always going to happen, and it should, because keeping things moving can stimulate creativity and bring about new ideas.
It is the laziness of not wanting to think or analyze our writing that might make us hesitant about going back and really looking at our work. To revise is to spend a good amount of time just thinking over what really needs to be said, how to say it best, and what details work/doesn't work, to say the least.
Revision is what makes a writer a healthy writer. Keep at it, having an intimate relationship with your work is a good thing. :)

Spring is officially here!

Spring is here, and with it comes warmer weather, I hope. So, I picked out a poem by one of my many favorite authors, William Blake to share. Hope you guys like it as much as I do. 

To Spring 

William Blake

O thou with dewy locks, who lookest down 
Through the clear windows of the morning, turn 
Thine angel eyes upon our western isle, 
Which in full choir hails thy approach, O Spring! 

The hills tell one another, and the listening 
Valleys hear; all our longing eyes are turn'd 
Up to thy bright pavilions: issue forth 
And let thy holy feet visit our clime! 

Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds 
Kiss thy perfumed garments; let us taste 
Thy morn and evening breath; scatter thy pearls 
Upon our lovesick land that mourns for thee. 

O deck her forth with thy fair fingers; pour 
Thy soft kisses on her bosom; and put 
Thy golden crown upon her languish'd head, 
Whose modest tresses are bound up for thee. 

Revisions.... :|

Revisions are necessary, for me at least. My first drafts are just dumped information into a semi-organized form. The next time I look over it I clean up the mess. (And it tends to be a big mess). I use the second and third revisions to incorporate details and expand on the main topics I threw down on paper. Then the last couple of revisions are to filter out unnecessary words, punctuation marks, etc.

Bottom line:
Revisions are annoying but useful. We go through the torute of clawing at our own work but the final draft is worth the aggrevation. Good Luck with your endeavors. :)

5 Stories Told and Waiting to Be Written

5 Stories told within the last 3 days

·         My friend got so frustrated that he punched the wall. His hand got swollen and we spent the rest of the night at the ER.

·         I spent four hours in this goddamn kitchen cooking for (secret identity) and this is all *** have to say? Next time stuff some of those already made chicken nuggets in the microwave to keep **** from starving.

·         The “tornado” on Saturday blew half the things on my balcony out onto the streets. My barbeque grill toppled over. I guess we won’t be grilling hamburgers any time soon.

·         I call out to my sister from my room into the hall. “Can I get the number for the pizza guy please?” (I get a txt from her instead) “You can’t just come over here to tell me? You sent the wrong number anyway! Wait, you’re missing a number too.”  I ended up walking over to get the delivery papers out of the drawer.

·         I was going through my ipod looking for a song to listen to with my friend to pass some time before class. “Oh, this is such a great song. I love it.”  We sit back to listen. A minute into the song and I had to change it. “God, that was getting annoying.” My friend just looks at me like I belong in a hospital not a university.

5 Stories I hope to write

·         Family Memoirs (My grandmother’s story and my mom’s story especially)

·         Historical Fiction –there are so many events that have occurred in our generation.  

·         YA Fiction—just for fun and more importantly to raise awareness of the dramatic increase in Teenage Depression and Suicide. They are not getting the attention they deserve.

·         General Fiction

·         I’ve always wanted to write a really complex and twisted Sherlock Holmes type story. I love the idea of a good police case that needs the brains of a brilliant but misunderstood person (Man or woman).

Poem 1 and 2 Original and Revisions

POEM 1 ORIGINAL: 

Poetry is…

A heater

in the wild winds of winter

to warm the frozen skin

on my toes,

melt my icy numb limbs.

It tenderly blows out endearments.

The poet’s voice is fire,  

language, the  passion,

 playing its part as the savior,

raising its burning silver sword,

gallantly battling bitter rigidity and

expressionless chaos.

Then all at once it

stops unfalteringly as

I read the final couplet.

And

in creeps the crawling cold air.

REVISION: 

Poetry is…

A fireplace  

in the wild winds of winter

to warm the frozen skin

on my toes, as I curl them

towards the crackling sparks

of gypsy shades.

Poetry melts icy numb limbs

that minutes ago treaded through

white winter showers.

The poet’s voice is like

a dragon’s flaming breath

that ignites the village

living within the creases of

the firewood resting on the very top

of the iron-gated pile. 

Language is a gallant hero

playing  its part as the savior,

raising its burning silver sword,

boldly battling bitter rigidity and

expressionless destruction of a deathly season.

Then all at once it

stops unfalteringly as

I read the final couplet.

The ashy end approached too soon .

And

in creeps the crawling cold air.

POEM #2 

ORIGINAL:

Dead End

His letters

scattered

abandoned,

calamity all ‘round

the wooden glacial home:

A desk.

The ink, like

Drops of gloom,

Blotted,

Resting on his life,

spreading

expanding the shadows,

over what little clarity

remains.

The letters

folded,

forgotten,

forbidden,

enclose the depth of

isolation

in his wooden home.

REVISION:

Dead End

Letters,

scattered,

 like one thousand puzzle pieces,

abandoned,

like a child left in a basket under a note.

Calamity all ‘round

the wooden glacial home:

A desk.

The ink,

drops of blotted gloom,

it spreads,

expanding the shadows,

that reach with determined claws,

ravenous for

what little clarity

remains on

virgin pages.

The toxic stench of the uncapped ebony liquid,

stretch into the flared nostrils of a disgraced man

whose creations were scandalous black holes.  

His letters will remain, atop

the tomb shaped desk,

folded,

forbidden,

forgotten. 

Another Favorite Author

Now I know we were supposed to choose one, but I could not decide between George Gordon, Lord Byron, and Mr. John Keats. It is interesting to know that Keats and Gordon were rivals. Keats had a dislike for Gordon and Gordon for Keats, at least when Keats was still alive. This is what Keats had to say on Gordon, 'You speak of Lord Byron and me - There is this great difference between us.He describes what he sees - I describe what I imagine - Mine is the hardest task.' John Keats in a letter to his brother George, September 1819. 

Here are the sites for the two of them: http://englishhistory.net/byron/contents.html
My favorite poem by Lord Byron is When We Two Parted. I LOVE that poem. 

http://englishhistory.net/keats/contents.html
I had already posted my favorite piece of work by Keats which was an Ode on Melancholy. 

Sing Along

Why not? Hope it will cheer the spirits, after getting a phone call  and txt saying all classes are NOT canceled.

Ode on Melancholy

John Keats

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose.

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globèd peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave.

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung. **Keats shows us here how we cannot experience and enjoy the pleasure of joy without feeling the hardship and suffering of despair and gloom. I love that idea! Think about it. <333

About Me etc.

I love to read. I love to write. My imagination runs free most of the time. I find something to write about when I allow myself to wander. To me, the imagination is a writer's best friend.

 In books, I prefer fictional stories, especially historical fiction. My own writing is all fiction. I've been busy writing a few novels that are just waiting to be published. I can dream, can't I?  
 I fairly enjoy writing poetry because of its power to bring forth unparalleled emotions and images in as little as a few lines. Free style works best, I think, because there really are no rules to follow.

My favorite author is Jane Austen. Her books were the reason I began taking writing seriously.
Here is one of many sites: http://www.austen.com/
Though many people might only see her work as simple and romantic, she has subtly embedded many controversial concepts within her works. It's daring, brilliant, and quite educational.