[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in
GVSU Writing Club's LiveJournal:
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|Wednesday, June 28th, 2006|
She watched him move across the floor, the moonlight through the blinds striping the sweat on his lean and muscled chest. The sound of him zipping up his fly seemed to echo across the room, bouncing along the off-white walls, over the tattered lampshades, to finally burry in the sheets lying heavy with perspiration along her naked body. She waited until the bathroom door had been shut and the light turned on inside to look around. It was another room she didn't recognize. A pair of boxer-briefs, grey in the ambient light, lay discarded on the floor next to the bed. They looked small to her, like the undergarment of a young boy. And really they are, she thought to herself. They all are really just young and simple boys. That's what had attracted her; the boyish frame. The lean and thin muscle that you see when there's no fat on his body and the muscle has no choice but to stand out. And dressed all in clothes that looked like they belonged on someone even younger, tight to the body and emblazoned with band names, catch-phrases, random designs printed under the guise of originality and stamped on t-shirts en masse. Chains and tattoos, piercings. It was like Halloween every day, with little boys dressed up in costume and playing at life like they were men.
The bathroom door opened quietly and she pretended to be asleep again, watching through a slit eye. He crept out and began looking around the bed, his figure moving gracefully in a sillouette. Stopping near to where she lay, he bent down and retrieved the briefs from the floor. She saw for a brief instant his hair fall to his eyes in the slow flutter of frail color-treated strands. She realized laying there that the sheet covered only the lower half of her, and suddenly felt exposed... though not exposed in the sense that she was shamed, but the way she might feel if a young child caught her getting out of the shower. He stood there beside her for a moment, blocking the light from the window. She breathed deeply, letting her diaphragm raise her breasts up towards him, the nipples erect and belying the calm and heavy drowse she feigned with her body. She wondered if he were looking at her lying there. If perhaps he were thinking of waking her and playing with her again. She pictured herself lying in the strange bed, the sheets an almost-blue in the pale light, making her body appear white and marble. She pictured a glass case around her, invisibly hinged on one side and open to the night air streaming in through the window. She saw him reach over and softly shut the case, heard it click shut with a tiny metallic sound, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Against her will, she opened her eyes wide with a breath, finding the room empty, and the bathroom dark again. She pulled the sheets up over her torso and listened dumbly as water began to run in the sink. She knew he would now ease the window open and quickly climb down the fire-escape and pad his sneakers off into the night.
She closed her eyes again as the faintly painted walls of the room seemed to be thrown back and she felt suddenly alone. She pictured him running off into the night, running off to find his bed were he would quickly sleep and dream of nothing. She thought of herself again laying there in the glass box, white against the sheets in the moonlight like a porcelain doll wrapped in tissue. She saw a doll then, the doll her mother had owned and wrapped in white and placed in the china cabinet to be looked at but never touched. The doll had always looked so lonely to her there in her glass cage, and many nights when everyone slept and the moonlight seeped in through the blinds, she had crept to the cabinet to take the doll down. And every night she was greeted with the same blank and perfect face. The same white skin, the same sad and tearless eyes.
She got up slowly and stiffly from the bed. She turned off the light in the bathroom, shut the window there and returned to the heavy sheets. She tucked them tightly around her then, feeling suddenly cold in the fading moonlight. Her eyes looked up and out, not focusing, not moving. She lay there motionless until the last ray of light had faded from the window, shrouding the room in darkness. There in the enveloping and solitary night, she passed into sleep unknowingly, dreaming of hands reaching out to grasp her, and falling slowly away.
|Friday, April 7th, 2006|
ok here's a good one for you guys.
I am a playwright and am in the process of writing a peice and have a question on one of my characters.
In my play i have a charector who is the figment of another character's imagination (i.e. tyler durden of fight club, or mother movies like the machinest). In a story with a character like this do you guys think that the imagined character is limited in knowledge to what the person who is the "host" knows? That is to say is the imagined character allowed to know something that the person who is imagining them already knows?
It seems obvious to me that they can't know something that he doesn't already know but then again if you think of the movie Fight Club, Tyler Durden knows tons of stuff that ed norton's character doesn't know. The whole soap thing, all sorts of stuff. So I am kind of stuck on this issue.
Also, if you think that she/they can't know something he doesn't already know, can you think of any way i can get around that rule to make it appear that she knows something he doesn't.
Thanks guys and gals!
|Monday, March 13th, 2006|
This morning, I woke up, and I saw that flower on my bedpost. And I remembered back... how long ago was it? I'm so bad with time, with remembering, you know that. I remembered back when you gave me that flower. You had let go of my hand and picked it on the edge of whatever path or road we were on and you made me carry it all the way back. Not that I really minded much... actually I can remember getting a big kick out of putting it behind my ear like a pen or pencil, but you didn't seem to find it as funny as I did. And I remember later when we were lying in my bed, you pressing down on top of me with your gentle warmth running along my body and your legs intertwined with mine, you discovered it there on my ear and took it out and stretched up to begin weaving it around the top of my bedpost. And I remember taking advantage of your position, running my hands carefully under the soft folds of your shirt, running along the boundaries formed by your bra, taking all that I was to not leap over them, but still sending you those kind of tickling chills that raise the bumps along your skin and make you pull away but never far enough away that you weren't begging for more. And you did pull away and laugh like you did so much then, and it always seemed like the laugh meant something more, that there was a tension struggling desperately to be released there, and you would pull away and laugh, but I would come after you, always after you, building it right back up, running along those lines, finding openings and not taking them, making you beg for that which in desperation you would then beg to release.
And the flower stayed there and looked on, looked on as we tumbled and wrestled and fought together in those delicate dances of love and tension. It looked on me in later nights where I would think of you and smile and sleep to dream you. It looked on me in later nights still, spent restless with a tearstained pillowcase and wet sheets. It looked on in the cold nights after those, the quiet nights, the somber ones. And this morning I woke up, and I saw that flower on my bedpost. And I remembered what it meant so very long ago, or what seemed like so very long ago, remembered why it was there and who it was. I remembered how its entire life was changed that day you picked it out of its little forest and I wore it home and you threaded it around my bedpost. And as I looked at the flower, I realized it had wilted a long time ago. It had died clinging there with its stem knotted around the post and slowly its colors had faded, but I had never noticed. So I reached up and tried to take it off, tried to unthread it, but it had dried to a tough yellow stem, cracking but stubborn. And it took me a good little while to get it off from there, pushing and pulling, trying to take out the knot but finding it impossible. In death it had become more solid there, like a fossil of a giant beast finally falling to something greater than itself and hardening in death, hardening to a solid stone forever changed from the living bones, and marrow, and skin. And finally, after I gave it so much attention, after I pushed and pulled it and picked it at, I wore its stubbornness down, and it fell all to pieces. Like not one single part of the stem, but the entire flower had given up all at the same time and it fell to so many pieces off the post, yellowed flakes of stem and petals falling silently down, down. And I got up and cleaned them up as best I could, vacuuming and sweeping till I thought all the little pieces were gone. But I never could get them all. And some nights I can still feel a couple of them poking into my legs, or sometimes in my navel in the morning, and sometimes even at the top of my ear where that flower had rested so long ago, or what seemed like so long ago. And some nights, they pick and poke at me and I can't sleep with them there and I'm restless again. But most nights, and more and more so, I just brush them off and go back to sleep.
|Sunday, February 26th, 2006|
Buddy Wakefield in K-Zoo on Tuesday!
Kalamazoo Poetry Slam
& Poets Anonymous
@ PAPA PETE’S
Tuesday, Feb 28th
It's been a few years since Buddy Wakefield has graced a stage in Kalamazoo; if you haven't seen this wonderful man perform, you owe it to yourself to catch this show.
There will be an open-mic before Buddy's feature for those of you who need to get the verse out.
AND you won't want to miss the official public announcement of the Kalamazoo Poetry Slam's NEW VENUE!!
Yes, I know, and I ain't tellin' yet. You'll just have to be there.
BUDDY WAKEFIELD is the 2005 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion. He is also the 2004 Individual World Poetry Slam Champion thanks to the support of anthropologist and producer Norman Lear. Born in Shreveport, LA, mostly raised in Baytown, TX, now claiming Seattle, WA home. In the spring of 2001 Buddy left his position as the executive assistant at a biomedical firm in Gig Harbor, WA, sold or gave away all he owned and moved into the small, mobile town of Honda Civic to tour every major poetry venue in America and Canada through August of 2003. He is currently landed in Seattle as the manager and co-founder of The Bullhorn Collective (an agency made up of 30 of the highest ranking Slam Poets and most accomplished performance poets in the world). Buddy successfully defended his World Championship title at the 2004 International Poetry Festival in Rotterdam, Netherlands against the national champs from seven European countries, and has been featured on HBO's Def Poetry Jam, CBC, NPR and the BBC. Wakefield is also the 2003 Seattle Poetry Grand Slam Champion, the proud brother of Princess Sandy Beasley, and was voted Favorite Poet at the 2002 Midwest Poet's Choice Awards as well as Best Featured Slam Poet 2001-`03, Arizona. His work has been used to win national collegiate forensics competitions and is published internationally. Buddy, a Board of Directors member with Youth Speaks Seattle, is known for delivering raw, rounded, high vibration performances of humor and heart while shifting social paradigms and assaulting cross-cultural barriers through powerful accounts of release.
502 S Burdick St
Kalamazoo, MI 49007
$3 (18 & up, unless accompanied by parent)
For more info. contact: Tracey Smith 269-324-1672
or go to www.kzooslam.org
For Kzoo Slam CD's & other cool poetry stuff check out: http://www.thewordsmithpress.com/
Pass this message on to a friend.
See ya at the slam.
Come see a DAMNED good poet w/ me. I work a mid-shift on Tuesday, so I'll be at work till about 6:30 and arriving at the venue at approximatly 7:30, as from GR to Kzoo it does take approximatly an hour.
|Tuesday, January 31st, 2006|
All of this endless reflection and introspection gets on my nerves sometimes. It's like, what can't I be myself and be happy with that and have others be happy with that.
And I could keep going on and on here in that quasi-valleygirl bullshit and look at it after about a page and a half and then delete it all later. Find the clock has spun 30 minutes forward.
Take that last line, delete it. Re-type it as "there's 30 minutes of my life I'll never get back."
Change the "my" to "your" and the "I'll" to "you'll" to obscure who it's referencing, when I know nobody's fooled.
Space it away from the rest of the document to make it seem overly important and give it some feel of finality, like a sack of bricks thudding on the ground.
There's 30 minutes of your life you'll never get back.
Then beak into some overly poetic monologue exactly the same as all the ones before it, because in every one, I'm sitting in a chair in the dark, staring at a computer screen, typing softly to not wake anybody up, feeling like I'm completely lost.
Then, take the prose I've finally come up with, re-read it like I'm obsessive compulsive and throw it through two different spell checkers because I'm secretly the worst speller in the world and making a spelling error would be the end of my quasi-emo overly-aesthetic reputation for being "deep".
Resolve never again to use the prefix "quasi" with a dash before words, and also to stop stringing words together to make adjectives seem more complex like "overly-aesthetic".
Be sure to make the two words their own sentences to make them dramatic. Rewrite "control" to make it read like the key actually spells it. Look at the control key while I'm spelling it to make sure I got it right.
Then start a poem with the word "backspace". In my mind, fantasize that somewhere, someone will realize that backspace is the last button you press before deleting everything and starting over new, and then apply that metaphor to the rest of the poem and to my life as a whole.
Simultaneously realize that no one would be able to see that far into things, a handful of people if that actually read my poetry, divide that by a couple to find the number that care, and multiply that by 0 to get how many really get it or want to get it.
Make sure to put that "handful of people" bit into my actual journal entry to construct a flimsy denial and also fish for comments.
Push the idea back down in my head that every time I disallow comments, it's to boost the probability that someone will comment when comments are allowed. Also use denial to plaster over the fact many people could be laughing at me for writing shit like this.
Title the entry something ambiguous like "process" and be sure to not capitalize it.
Consider writing a poem about this very subject but layering it so far in metaphor that nobody would ever suspect it referenced this at all. Scrap the idea.
Think it would be fitting to end a poem that way with "scrap the idea". Also, begin to think that writing "it would be fitting to end a poem that way" and then ending the prose containing the statement with the line "scrap the idea" would not only be poetic, but ironic (be sure to say ironic, even though I haven't figured out if it is ironic or not... instead rely on other people's ability to call anything ironic and glance past it), and not only come through with that "loaded-with-a-blank" sack-of-bricks ending line, but most importantly stroke my narcissist complex by implying that even my words of prose are indeed poetry.
Be sure to use two of those something-something adjectives, the word "indeed", and be sure to call it "my narcissist complex" instead of "my narcissism" in the closing lines. Also, make them very long and thus difficult to understand without re-reading them multiple times.
Pretend someone gives a damn.
Cop a plea for sympathy.
Scrap the idea.
|Monday, January 2nd, 2006|
that wave rushes and overtakes
the boundary between
what we knew was the ocean
and what we thought was the beach
not this time
not this speech
not this slurred silent syllable
quivering rapid to a tongue's reach
there are causalities
caught somewhere in-between
and if you look really really hard
you might just be able
to loose sight of me
|Saturday, September 24th, 2005|
My new art
So as some people know, i have been hard at work on my newest art project.
My newest art project has been doing stencil work of various famous people, bands, and other things and painting it on different things.
Coming up this week is the grand valley renaissance festival festival on campus. I will be having a booth there where i will be selling these peices and offerning my services to do custom work for people.
I will do just about anything or any person provided i can get a good picture of them to work off of.
I am offering this to the lj community to have first dibs of the work or of any of these.
We can get literally any color (although some specalized colors cost more money for us to purchase.
We will do any of the ones we show here plus many more we will have at the booth this saturday and sunday specalized in any color scheme you would like.
These are all sprayed on vynil records, but we will spray on virtually any surface you would like from side packs and backpacks, breifcases, binders, cardboard, tables, skin, anything.
Records and stencils range usually from $10-$15 depending on complexity of stencil, amount of colors, and what not.
if your interested in one of these or want a custom one or one of these with your own colors or whatno let me know.
please note that i have been having problems with my digital camera so some of these pics (not the records) are blurry and the colors are a bit off. if you want to see the actual records i can show you on my time or you can show up to the booth next week.
Click the picture to enter the gallery of all the records
If the picture doesnt work, click this link
|Saturday, September 17th, 2005|
Since I was unable to make it to the into. meeting, are they still going to send out the meeting times to everyone who was on last year's email list?
|Friday, September 16th, 2005|
Bill Shakespere's Hamlet will be performed in the Louie Armstrong Theater here on the Grand Valley campus during the month of October. I am in it and you should all come see the performance as it is quite increadible. It is one of the rare times to see one of the greatest works of theater ever to be written performed on stage. Equity actor Paul Riopelle from the Grand Rapids area does an increadible job at portraying Hamlet. Please try to make it to one of these performances to support our theater program and have an enjoyful time.
Tickets and more information can be found at the ticket booth inside the Performing Arts Center (PAC) in between the Kirkof building and Lake Superior Hall.
The dates and times are as follows:
Friday 9/30: 7:30 p.m.
Saturday 10/1: 2:00 p.m.
Saturday 10/1: 7:30 p.m.
Sunday 10/2: 2:00 p.m.
Thursday 10/6: 7:30 p.m.
Friday 10/7: 7:30 p.m.
Saturday 10/8: 2:00 p.m.
Saturday 10/8: 7:30 p.m.
Sunday 10/9: 2:00 p.m.
Any questions? feel free to comment to me and i will answer promptly.
|Thursday, September 8th, 2005|
does anyone have a small tent that i could borrow and use for my booth at the shakespeare fest? I thought we had one but it fell through. We need like a dining fly or somthing akin to that, not the camping type.any help will be more than greatly appreciated.
|Tuesday, August 30th, 2005|
ok so for all you iTunes users out there. I recieved an iTunes $15 gift card as a present however there is one small problem. I do not have a computer of my own so i can not use it. I am looking for someone who uses iTunes that would be willing to take it off my hands. If you dont know what it is, it is a card with $15 on it that you can use torwards the purchase of stuff off of iTunes.
please comment if interested
|Saturday, August 13th, 2005|
I want to tell you that you are like morning dew on leaves. That you are the evenstar in my sky. That knowing you are happy both kills me and brings to life the fire in these ropelike veins. I want to tell you that you betray me with every breath you take. and that I betray myself by loving you all the more with every breath I take. Current Mood: melancholy
|Sunday, July 3rd, 2005|
so much hate...
Just as was written in black books of dread,
the end of the world came in green and then red.
Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat.
The year is drawing to a close,
though it's hardly as simple as that.
The blackness of the night surrounds
the distant souls of stars now found
and the darkness of the fading day
makes light the path from which I stray.
The pieces of my shattered life
are ash upon the frozen ground
with ever less reason to fight foreward on
instead to fade without a sound.
In the clearing at the end of the path
The snow floats gently from a winter sky
Never more to find the peace he had
The old stray cat lays down to die
|Friday, July 1st, 2005|
not my best work; not even close, but i still like it.
"Fill in the blank", she says, "and tell me: I am ________"
I want to tell you that you are everything;
that you are not just a blank to be filled in like so much tabula rasa
that you are the universe -- so many things and yet so much blank space between
like the light years of vast nothingness from the sun to Alpha Centauri.
I want to tell you that you are a black hole for my thoughts which can not escape you.
That you breathe like the universe breathes; long and slow expanding outwards until you can do so no more
before inhaling and drawing everything back to you, becoming a singularity from whence a new universe will be born.
I want to tell you that your eyes are nebulas giving birth to stars so beautiful I can not look away,
but so hard to penetrate that all my hopes are shattered against their surface.
i'm considering a part two to the above which would focus instead of on universal themes (haha), upon mythology/history.
a few lines i've come up with so far:
I want to tell you that you are beautiful like sculptures of perfect Greek godesses
who moved over the waters like you did over me. Like perfect Greek goddesses broken and worn by man and time, still perfect by virtue of their memory.
If i were to write said poem in a coffee house, i'd probably incorporate a theme containing the line:
I want to tell you that you are a contradiction in terms,
like that kid who says he's a vegan for his health,
and then lights up another cigarette. Current Mood: amused
|Tuesday, June 28th, 2005|
Insomnia....just alittle something I threw together.
My Love (To Whom It May Concern)
(To whom it may concern,)
I'm so lucky to have you in my life.
(I wish I'd never met you.)
I'm happier than I've ever been.
(I'm miserable because of you.)
When I'm with you, I feel alive.
(You kill me, my god how you kill me.)
I love you so much.
(Why can't I just hate you?)
I hope we'll be together forever.
(I never want to see you again.)
(I'll never forgive you,)
(Me) Current Mood: sleepy
|Monday, June 20th, 2005|
I wrote this poem a long time ago and posted it to my own journal, neglecting to put it here. So, now it's here. I do quote RENT in one of the stanzas, yes it's intentional.
She is here with me now
I fear no longer
Pale skin shimmering in the moonlight
and my breathing comes in short gasps
The scent of her hair lingers in my nose
Desperately I hold onto it, let it permeate my lungs
and marinate in my soul knowing it will be gone with the very next breath
Her eyes pierce through the frail flesh of my body and into my even more fragile soul which screams
I should tell you I should tell you I -- I should tell you I have always. . .
but your eyes break the contact with mine before
my soul can finish and bring these words from my heart to my lips.
Lips which desire nothing greater than to intertwine with your own, to loose the tempest within if only for but a moment,
to drink of your soul and be sated for a time.
The words from your lips flow into my ears and I hang on each syllable as if it is the very last. . . because someday, it will be.
I don't like the word soul. It's the right word, but the wrong sound, I considered animus but really that's just too many syllables to be seriously considered. God the word soul is cliche, there needs to be a better term, or I need to think harder to find it.
|Thursday, May 19th, 2005|
Loosing Close Friends
It wasn't worth this.
Had I known that dating you,
and falling for you,
and holding you,
and loving you,
would have cost me a multi-year friendship
I never would have done it.
And yes, I know that neither of us could have foreseen it.
But, you should know that that is of no consolation.
Had I known how things were going to end --
that you would think me the worlds biggest ass for all the things I said, and
that I would think you a bitch and player for all the daggers you plunged into my back. . .
I would have been content to remain friends and have you yet in my life.
Unfortunatly we had to hook up,
and you had to respect my wishes not to tell me about other men,
and I had to wait until it was too late to tell you how I felt.
You should know that
I agree with you now
about us being doomed
we wouldn't have been right together.
You always off on assignment for whatever newspaper or mag you'd be writing for
me always shut up in my study working on books and waiting for your return because, you inspire me to write love poems
we both know I write horrible love poems Current Mood: restless
|Saturday, April 2nd, 2005|
a new poem written last night. . . as yet untitled
Right now you are with someone else,
his name is the same as mine and he's
falling himself into your bed.
Right now you are wrapping your legs around him,
and he's penetrating you, and you are
making love or like or
whatever the fuck it is you are calling it these days.
And I -- I am sitting here at
some nameless bar,
some Mulligan's, some Billy's,
someplace where I can drown myself in alcohol
Old Style -- a bitter beer for a bitter memory
A myriad of questions burn through my brain
it's "how could you?"
it's "why him?"
it's "why me?"
it's "why not me?"
But the questions are moot.
They won't bring you back, and I don't want you back.
All that's left is to congratulate you.
Well played. . . well played
you played me well; I never suspected a thing.
Congratulations, and may God have mercy on your soul,
you free loving hippie piece of shit!
On second thought, fuck that;
I hope he doesn't. Current Mood: pissed off
|Thursday, March 31st, 2005|
click the metal martyr
naked camera sweating gold
set the f'stop quick and cold
black and white and blurred and old
molded framed inside a dream
somewhere in-between these walls it seems
peaceful paparazzi now
my soul is yours for free
for the taking finder's fee
wake me up though when you do
and leave my shoes alone this time
'cause I just washed the grime off of
their blackened souls and you I know wanted
to run away in them to feel
the way that you already do and find
all that you already knew you
chalked up to a quiet denial
now show the
smile and feel it heavy there
remember where you left it dying
foaming at the mouth
you headed south for that embittered winter
and wondered how much time elapsed
and out of breath your pride collapsed
and basked forevermore fatigued
so nevermore quoth me
|Wednesday, March 9th, 2005|
Haven't been to write club in the past couple of weeks, i've been busy/sick....
I think i'll share this little free write I did the other night. Its kind of...I dunno, I have mixed feelings about it. I like the content but not really the style yet. It came difficultly like the writing equivilent of throwing up...It seems more lyrical then poetic, maybe kind of prose-ish...not sure what it is exactly. But i've talked enough about it...here it is.( Forget/RememberCollapse ) Current Mood: amused