"The server understood the request, but is refusing to fulfill it."
This was an error message I got today while trying to log in to Twitter. When I hit the back button to try again, it took me to my home page, already signed in. It was really weird, but I thought it was interesting that the server sounds like it has free will and can just do whatever it feels like.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Junkyard Quote 3, Post 3, Week 12
"It's better than a fortune cookie."
I'm sure most of you remember this from last week, but I really like it. Because, in the end, what's better than a fortune cookie? Nothing. It's a little dessert with a mystery person telling you something nice. You don't have to thank them. You don't have to say anything back. You just eat a cookie and bask in fortune's glow.
I'm sure most of you remember this from last week, but I really like it. Because, in the end, what's better than a fortune cookie? Nothing. It's a little dessert with a mystery person telling you something nice. You don't have to thank them. You don't have to say anything back. You just eat a cookie and bask in fortune's glow.
Junkyard Quote 2, Post 2, Week 12
"Hairy-assed Jesus"
This quote came up in my CNF course today. A classmate had written about changing a tire. In the piece, he mentions how his pants fell down and he showed the world his hairy ass. Later in the story, he calls the lug wrench a "disproportionate crucifix," which made him a hairy-assed Jesus.
This quote came up in my CNF course today. A classmate had written about changing a tire. In the piece, he mentions how his pants fell down and he showed the world his hairy ass. Later in the story, he calls the lug wrench a "disproportionate crucifix," which made him a hairy-assed Jesus.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Junkyard Quote 1, Post 1, Week 12
"I'm a tree hugger, but I'm a leaf crusher."
I was talking about how most of my poems lately had been about nature, and a friend of mine called me a tree hugger. So I said this in reference to one of my pieces (which will probably be my free entry this week).
I was talking about how most of my poems lately had been about nature, and a friend of mine called me a tree hugger. So I said this in reference to one of my pieces (which will probably be my free entry this week).
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Sign Inventory, Post 10, Week 11
Self-Portrait as a Moment in 1963
Jake York
Supper's late, and my mother sprawls
before the console, half-watching Gunsmoke,
Alabama History spread before her,
though school's almost out for summer
and the chicken's almost fried
to that perfect crisp. Then it's over,
credits stamped over final stills,
and the show gives way to news,
a minute of film from Birmingham,
not an hour south, where police
are turning dogs on kids as young
as she, spraying them with hoses
until they fall, the water she isn't watching
curling like smoke in the air.
My grandmother flicks the switch
and they're gone. They eat
in quiet, each cutting a breast
or thigh into steam, forking
beans or macaroni until
the plates' blank faces shine again.
This is years before
she'd meet my father, before
I'd come to that table,
that food, that room.
There's a silence here
I want to scratch away
so I can see what's underneath,
what they don't recall.
I want to turn someone's head,
my grandfather's, maybe, or my mother's,
back toward the TV, where
the tube's still fading,
the ghost of that scene
on the edge of that room.
I want someone there to see
and remember, so I can leave
and go back into the future,
not history. Not yet.
-This poem uses the scene of the police spraying the kids with fire hoses to symbolize something bigger that the family isn't talking about (hence shutting off the TV). Once the television is off, though, there still remains the ghost of the image on the screen, just like whatever it is they're not saying stays in their heads.
-York uses the word "that" quite a bit in this piece. He uses it to bring specificity to the scene as well as to relate to the reader with general concepts. Specificity example: "the ghost of that scene / on the edge of that room." Generalization example: "and the chicken's almost fried / to that perfect crisp."
- It is interesting that he chose to call this a self-portrait, although he is not actually in the scene. He wants to be a part of it so that he can manipulate the details to get more out of it, but he can't. I would have to do much more research to offer an explanation for this, but I still thought it was worth bringing up.
Jake York
Supper's late, and my mother sprawls
before the console, half-watching Gunsmoke,
Alabama History spread before her,
though school's almost out for summer
and the chicken's almost fried
to that perfect crisp. Then it's over,
credits stamped over final stills,
and the show gives way to news,
a minute of film from Birmingham,
not an hour south, where police
are turning dogs on kids as young
as she, spraying them with hoses
until they fall, the water she isn't watching
curling like smoke in the air.
My grandmother flicks the switch
and they're gone. They eat
in quiet, each cutting a breast
or thigh into steam, forking
beans or macaroni until
the plates' blank faces shine again.
This is years before
she'd meet my father, before
I'd come to that table,
that food, that room.
There's a silence here
I want to scratch away
so I can see what's underneath,
what they don't recall.
I want to turn someone's head,
my grandfather's, maybe, or my mother's,
back toward the TV, where
the tube's still fading,
the ghost of that scene
on the edge of that room.
I want someone there to see
and remember, so I can leave
and go back into the future,
not history. Not yet.
-This poem uses the scene of the police spraying the kids with fire hoses to symbolize something bigger that the family isn't talking about (hence shutting off the TV). Once the television is off, though, there still remains the ghost of the image on the screen, just like whatever it is they're not saying stays in their heads.
-York uses the word "that" quite a bit in this piece. He uses it to bring specificity to the scene as well as to relate to the reader with general concepts. Specificity example: "the ghost of that scene / on the edge of that room." Generalization example: "and the chicken's almost fried / to that perfect crisp."
- It is interesting that he chose to call this a self-portrait, although he is not actually in the scene. He wants to be a part of it so that he can manipulate the details to get more out of it, but he can't. I would have to do much more research to offer an explanation for this, but I still thought it was worth bringing up.
Improv 2, Post 9, Week 11
To a Poor Old Woman
William Carlos Williams
William Carlos Williams
munching a plum on the street a paper bag of them in her hand They taste good to her They taste good to her. They taste good to her You can see it by the way she gives herself to the one half sucked out in her hand Comforted a solace of ripe plums seeming to fill the air They taste good to her
To a Sweet Old Dog
Casey LaRue
chewing his leg on
the floor his fluffy tail
wrapped around his body
It feels good to him
It feels good
to him. It feels
good to him
You can see it by
the way he licks his nose
and smiles at me
when he takes a break to breathe
Relieved
a peace of flealess fur
seeming to speak through his eyes
It feels good to him
Improv 1, Post 8, Week 11
Narcissus incomparabilis
Jake York
Lean down, lean down
while the light's abducted,
its last skirts caught
then torn through the trees.
Keep your own eye still
so no one catches you.
When it's gone, it's everywhere--
air a memory of light,
incident turned ambient,
and it never takes long
for this nacre to grow
over each absence or intruder
and become the world.
Lean down now,
creel of starlight and mood,
and reflect again
your inherited light.
World may ripple--
pearl scale, pebble, bone--
behind all memory,
may ghost you, stranger,
where you don't belong.
But lean down now,
as memory hardens
its incomparable light.
Don't let the sun
set on you again.
Caladium bicolor
Casey LaRue
Lie to me, lie to me
while your shape's endearing
like someone's hand reaching
for their own sagging heart.
Keep your leaves to yourself,
your own hand reaching for your heart.
When you're here, you spread like paint,
your deceptive name
brushing my skin,
and it never takes long
for someone to know they've touched you,
all your toxic parts
sitting undisturbed
while my cells are on fire.
Lie to me now,
fox and rabbit leaf,
and let your endearing shapes
lure someone else.
Georgia will turn redder
as the cooling clay soothes the skin,
but lie to me now,
as beauty ignites curiosity,
stretching my fingers to you again.
Jake York
Lean down, lean down
while the light's abducted,
its last skirts caught
then torn through the trees.
Keep your own eye still
so no one catches you.
When it's gone, it's everywhere--
air a memory of light,
incident turned ambient,
and it never takes long
for this nacre to grow
over each absence or intruder
and become the world.
Lean down now,
creel of starlight and mood,
and reflect again
your inherited light.
World may ripple--
pearl scale, pebble, bone--
behind all memory,
may ghost you, stranger,
where you don't belong.
But lean down now,
as memory hardens
its incomparable light.
Don't let the sun
set on you again.
Caladium bicolor
Casey LaRue
Lie to me, lie to me
while your shape's endearing
like someone's hand reaching
for their own sagging heart.
Keep your leaves to yourself,
your own hand reaching for your heart.
When you're here, you spread like paint,
your deceptive name
brushing my skin,
and it never takes long
for someone to know they've touched you,
all your toxic parts
sitting undisturbed
while my cells are on fire.
Lie to me now,
fox and rabbit leaf,
and let your endearing shapes
lure someone else.
Georgia will turn redder
as the cooling clay soothes the skin,
but lie to me now,
as beauty ignites curiosity,
stretching my fingers to you again.
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